Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3) Page 5

  He looked across at the bullet-pocked masonry of her grave. ‘Very much in her own way,’ he said with a smile.

  One occasion in particular came back to him, a spin around Monoprix when he was about eight. Having brilliantly finessed sneaking an extra jar of Nutella into her basket, he’d then suffered a miniature crisis of conscience. ‘Mama,’ he’d asked. ‘Is God really real?’ ‘Well, Paul,’ she’d said, putting the jar back on the shelf – she had of course spotted his legerdemain – ‘some people think of it like this. You may as well believe He is real because if you don’t, you would miss out on an awful lot of things if it turns out He is.’ Pascal’s Wager for the under-tens. At the time, it had made a sort of sense to young Paul Darac. It was only some years down the line that he realised it didn’t work and that his mother, a maths teacher after all, was holding back more precise propositions on the subject until he was older. Darac looked past Martin and gave Bonbon a beckoning nod. ‘So… you’ve all made statements, Papa?’

  ‘That young Officer Flaco took them. Impressive girl.’

  ‘She’s that and more.’

  ‘Chloë.’

  ‘Yvonne.’

  ‘Not her name; her scent.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Too floral for her but I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Just as well.’

  ‘Aniseed twist, monsieur?’ Bonbon said, rejoining them. ‘Useful in cases of shock.’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks. We all are, in fact. Even Sophie, my sister. I tell you, a soufflé collapses and she has to be practically sedated but turn the family plot into a shooting gallery and she sails right on through.’

  ‘Remarkable, monsieur.’

  ‘And speaking of remarkable, Paul, what about Julie? Wasn’t what she did fantastic?’

  ‘It was. It was also fantastically reckless.’

  Martin gave a brisk nod. ‘Ah, yes, of course. Reckless. She could have killed herself trying to help but let’s just forget that.’ He exhaled deeply. ‘So what now?’

  ‘We know who the shooter was, Papa, but as yet, we’ve no idea why he wanted to…’ The point ran off into a siding as a new thought rolled in. ‘I’ve been guilty of making a bit of an assumption here, haven’t I?’

  Bonbon nodded. ‘Just a bit, chief.’

  ‘What assumption?’ Martin said.

  ‘That as a homicide detective, I was the likely target. I’ve arrived here at ten o’clock in the morning every 27 February for over twenty years. The shooter, I reasoned, must have known that. He therefore also knew that for some minutes, his target would be standing still, absorbed, unprepared, and almost certainly unarmed. A perfect time for a hit. That was my thinking, anyway.’

  Martin’s face creased in a sort of perplexed admiration. ‘What a job you do.’ He waved the thought away. ‘What’s the problem with that conclusion?’

  ‘There isn’t one. But there are other possible scenarios, are there not?’

  ‘Such as?’

  Seeing the difficulty of the situation, Bonbon intervened. ‘Monsieur Darac – please don’t infer anything critical in this but do you know of anyone who might want you dead, for instance?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Think.’

  ‘Who, for example?’

  ‘I don’t know, monsieur. A business rival?’

  ‘No, no. The perfume industry can be a cut-throat business but I’ve never made any real enemies.’

  Bonbon gave his boss a questioning look. And got the nod. ‘Well then, perhaps a spurned lover?’

  ‘What is this? No! Emphatically not.’

  ‘Or perhaps the target was another member of your party?’

  ‘You’ll be saying that Paul’s Aunt Sophie has a contract out on her next.’

  ‘Papa.’ The look was as neutral as his son could manage. ‘Carl Auguste Halevy. Does that name mean anything to you? Think before you answer.’

  Martin thought about it. ‘No. I have never heard that name. He was the man, I take it? The would-be assassin.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘No. Never heard of him. Look, might not the shooting have been just a random act? Perhaps this Halevy was a lunatic.’

  ‘It can’t be ruled out,’ Bonbon said. ‘But it’s the least likely scenario.’

  Officer Yvonne Flaco joined them. Plump as a pony and with a scowling mien, Flaco radiated strength, diligence and toughness. And apparently, Chloë.

  ‘Witness statements, Captain,’ she said, handing them over. ‘This is what you gave me on the phone, these are by various members of your party, and finally, these are from people who were in the vicinity at the time.’

  ‘Quick work, Flak.’

  ‘That’s because there are so few of them. There are two significant things, though.’ She tapped the topmost statement with the tip of an unvarnished nail. ‘Madame Lécame, who walks her dog past the cemetery a couple of times a day, says that the shooter appeared to be parked here most of yesterday. And he was here this morning when the cemetery opened at eight o’clock.’

  ‘Was he?’ Darac put his hands on his hips and stared at the ground. ‘You didn’t happen to get anything on the other mourner, did you? The man in the black coat who ran off?’

  ‘That’s the second thing.’ Flaco handed him a poly bag containing a folded sheet of printed paper. ‘A uniform picked this up just over there. It must have dropped out of a pocket when he fell.’

  ‘Look at this, Bonbon.’

  The paper was a current account statement for the Crédit Bal-Med bank dated 23 September 2003. The account holder’s name was one Sylvie Galvin, and it showed a deposit made mid-month of €400,000 as a cheque from the same bank.

  Bonbon’s eyebrows rose. ‘Four hundred grand? Lovely.’

  ‘Why would a man be carrying around someone else’s eight-year-old bank statement?’

  He intended the question for Bonbon but Martin spoke up. ‘Perhaps he didn’t realise it was in his pocket. I only wear this suit once in a blue moon. For funerals and so on.’

  ‘You could have something there.’

  ‘Anyway, I must be getting back. Will you be joining us, Paul? We’ll all be at the house.’

  ‘I’m not sure. There’s a lot to do, still. I’ve detailed a couple of the armed protection unit to keep an eye on you, by the way.’

  ‘That’s not necessary, surely?’

  ‘Almost certainly not.’

  Martin didn’t hide his exasperation. ‘How long will they be around, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Only for a few days. But you won’t notice them much.’

  ‘Well… if you insist.’

  Business finally over, Darac fils looked his father in the eye and nodded. ‘Right.’

  ‘So.’

  Further nods. Glances at feet.

  Bonbon caught Flaco’s eye, inclining his head toward the cemetery. The pair took their leave.

  Darac shook his head, admitting defeat. ‘Ah, there’s just too much to say.’

  ‘Yes there is. Absolutely. But look… come to dinner soon. So you can meet Julie properly.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. Soon.’

  ‘What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Darac wasn’t used to being pressured like this by his father.

  ‘Or the weekend. I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘Yes… alright.’

  ‘Good.’

  Their crime-scene overalls making a forlorn rustling sound, the two men embraced for some moments and then went their separate ways.

  Darac joined Bonbon and Flaco at the baroque angel grave. The occupant’s name was almost lost among verses of scripture but he found it and read it out. ‘SYLVIE MARIE GALVIN. BORN 1 SEPTEMBER 1984; DIED 19 APRIL 2008.’ Twenty-three at her death, he reflected. His mother had been ten years older. And that had been no age to die. ‘Any thoughts?’

  ‘No reference to her family, notice,’ Bonbon said. A photo
roundel showed a sad-looking, fleshy-faced young woman with small, deep-set eyes. ‘Doesn’t look like a girl who has four hundred grand in the bank, does she? Maybe the photo was taken before.’

  Flaco took another look at the bank statement. ‘She was nineteen when she received the sum. An inheritance? She may have needed it, by the look of things. The account was only a few hundred euros in credit at the start of the month. Not much to live on.’

  ‘She could have had other accounts as well.’ Bonbon checked out the address on the statement. Appartements Solferino, Les Moulins, was not one of Nice’s more exclusive residences. ‘Scratch that.’

  Darac pursed his lips. ‘So what’s the story? What do you think, Flak?’

  ‘Just on the age of the statement, like your papa said, people often do leave things in clothes they don’t usually wear. But what was the man doing with it in the first place?’

  ‘Quite. And look at how elaborate and expensive this grave is. Yet Sylvie seems to be the sole occupant.’

  ‘A mausoleum for one.’ Bonbon’s police armband slipped down his skinny sleeve. ‘It is unusual.’

  ‘And another thing. Why was he here, the man in the coat?’

  ‘Well, to visit the departed.’ Bonbon absently pulled his armband back up.

  ‘Why now? It’s neither the birthday nor the anniversary of the death of this Sylvie Galvin.’

  Flaco evidently didn’t understand the objection. ‘Does it need to be a special occasion to visit a grave here? Back in Guadeloupe, we often do it.’

  Darac indicated the bouquet. ‘That’s quite something for a casual visit.’

  ‘It’s quite some grave,’ Bonbon said.

  ‘Yet the man had no idea where it was. I saw him walk through the cemetery gates, stop at the very first grave, check out the inscription, then turn to the next. Two hundred or however many graves it is later, he finally found the one he was looking for.’

  Bonbon pulled his rubber-band mouth into an upside-down U. ‘So he’s a visitor. From afar, possibly. Literally a distant relative?’

  ‘Maybe. Think of the significance of the shooter turning up here not at five minutes to ten this morning – the time, as I say, my party has been gathering for the last twenty plus years – but two whole hours earlier. And he was here most of yesterday. What does that suggest?’

  Raul Ormans’ large, patrician head appeared under the angel’s wing. ‘It suggests a degree of corroboration with my own findings.’ He set down an evidence case. ‘When you look at the nature of the weapon used, the ammunition, the trajectories and everything else, it’s difficult to arrive at any conclusion but this: the man standing here wasn’t caught in your line of fire; you were caught in his. Or rather, you were the backstop to it. He was the target, happily. Happily for the Daracs of this world, that is.’

  Darac made an affirming sound in his throat. ‘Agreed. It was the man in the coat the shooter was waiting for. He knew he was coming, he just didn’t know when, exactly.’

  Flaco nodded her tightly corn-rowed head. ‘And it explains why he fired from where he did. If you’d been his target, Captain, he would have secreted himself somewhere he could get a much closer shot.’

  ‘Succinctly put,’ Ormans said, heading back to his van. ‘Later.’

  Bonbon’s foxy eyes were following trails. ‘He wasn’t winged as he got away, was he? The man in the coat, I mean. If he was, he’ll be seeking medical help.’

  Flaco pointed toward a pedestrian gate set in the rear wall. ‘He went out that way. Dr Mpensa’s team examined his route all the way and a bit beyond. They didn’t find a single drop of blood.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Hands on hips, Darac stared at the ground. ‘So let’s reframe our original question. Why was the apparently clean Monsieur Carl Auguste Halevy shooting at the man in the black coat? And who is that individual? It may still be a matter of life and death that we find him even though it was Halevy who wound up being killed.’

  Flaco’s scowl deepened. ‘He might contact us, surely? To report that someone just tried to kill him.’

  Once again, Bonbon’s armband decided it had had enough of the high life. ‘Depends, Flak, doesn’t it?’ he said, unconsciously pushing it back up. ‘On just why Halevy was shooting at him.’

  ‘If the man reports in – great,’ Darac said. ‘But we’re not relying on it.’

  ‘It’s a pity no one got a good look at him, Captain.’

  ‘I know someone who may have – an old lady I was talking to before this all started.’

  He gave Flaco a description and told her the quickest way to get to La Belle Vue, where the old lady had said she was living.

  ‘I’ll go over there now. How many apartments in the building?’

  ‘About thirty or so. If you find her and she can describe him, ask Astrid to follow it up with a sketch.’

  ‘Right, Captain.’

  Darac’s mobile rang. ‘It’s Perand. Hang on, Flak, I’ll put it on speaker.’

  The three of them attuned their ears to a voice that was the aural equivalent of scrawled handwriting.

  ‘Yeah, Lieutenant Granot’s asked me to tell you Madame Halevy’s up to being interviewed and he’s gone off to do it.’

  ‘I’ll call him in a second. We’ve got developments here.’ Darac outlined them. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve had Foch on the line about your guitar.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No leads – excuse the pun. So unless the outstanding CCTV footage shows something, it’s not looking good on that score. Every instrument shop and pawnbroker in the area has flyers, though. And they’re emailing the details nationwide.’

  ‘Good. Thanks for that, Perand.’

  Darac ended the call wondering if he’d seen the last of his first really good guitar. But he had more pressing matters to attend to. Selecting camera mode, he aimed his mobile at Sylvie’s roundel photograph. No one had the heart to say ‘smile’.

  7

  Madame Yvette Halevy was a slender, bitter-faced blonde with a style of grieving all her own.

  ‘Carl was a waste of space.’ She took a deep drag on her Gauloise. ‘Oh, I don’t mean he was incompetent. He did well enough in his job. But it’s typical of him that he would wind up… like this.’ She gave the air an offhanded slap. ‘Typical.’

  The apartment was a well-appointed duplex in Cagnessur-Mer with an uninterrupted view of the château at Haut-de-Cagnes. A simple crenelated box surmounted by a flag-festooned tower, the château had the look of a toy fort.

  ‘Madame,’ Granot said, scarcely able to conceal his incredulity, ‘I don’t think you understand the situation. Your husband tried to murder someone. In the coldest of cold blood. And then in fleeing the scene, he was killed in a car crash. He’s dead, madame.’

  ‘Haven’t I just identified his body? Idiot.’

  Whether Madame was referring to her husband or to him, Granot wasn’t sure. ‘Alright, let’s start with the shooting.’

  ‘Pah.’

  ‘The shooting, madame.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why he did it.’

  ‘Did your husband have any enemies? Can you think of anyone he might have wanted out of the way?’

  ‘What part of “I can’t imagine why he did it” didn’t you understand?’

  ‘This attitude isn’t helping, madame.’

  Another deep drag. ‘Carl had no enemies. He wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’

  ‘Does the name Sylvie Galvin mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  He handed Madame Halevy his mobile.

  ‘There’s a face to stuff food into. Who’s this – your daughter?’

  Granot’s jowly chops reddened. ‘It’s Mademoiselle Galvin. Do you recognise her?’

  She handed it back. ‘Never seen her.’

  Granot continued with a description of the man in the black coat.

  ‘It could be anyone.’

  ‘This man, the man your husband
shot at…’ The possibility he was entertaining seemed remote to him but he had to pursue it. ‘Is he your lover? Your husband found out and decided to act?’

  A deeper drag. ‘I don’t do lovers, monsieur.’ She stubbed out her cigarette emphatically, as if the prospect of it rekindling was a clear and present danger. ‘And they don’t do me.’

  ‘About the gun he used…’

  The interview dragged on for ten further fruitless minutes.

  ‘Right, that’s that,’ she said at the end of it. ‘Are you driving back into Nice, now, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you can give me a lift. I need to make the funeral arrangements.’

  8

  Laure loved her new guitar. It was ballsy and loud and it played like a dream. She banged out a few low-end riffs, then started exploring its upper register in a series of keening screeches.

  Despite the warning to visitors, her door opened.

  ‘Laure!’ Her stepmother’s screams were no match for the Gibson. ‘Turn! That! Down!’

  Laure eyeballed her, cranking up the volume a notch before sliding a huge chord down the neck of the instrument. Buried in the stacks of equipment, an idling amplifier hummed a tense undertone to the silence that followed. It was the stepmother who finally spoke, placing her words across the chasm between them with the contained precision of a tightrope walker.

  ‘When you are making your… music, would you please wear your headphones.’

  ‘Take your plastic tits and get out of my room.’

  ‘I said when you are making your—’

  ‘Listen, I was living in this house before my father even met you. Fuck off!’

  The woman flew at her, slapping and kicking. But she was no match for Laure. In less time than it took to say ‘top of the range’, she was bundled out into the hall and dumped on to her backside. Picking herself up, she did two things she’d vowed she never would. She called out: ‘Wait until your father gets home!’ And then she burst into tears.

  9

  The extraordinary events of the past twenty-four hours had persuaded Commissaire Agnès Dantier to bring the monthly case review meeting forward by a day. Darac arrived back at the Caserne just as it was about to get underway. He could hear the lively mix of banter, argument and jokes in the squad room from well down the corridor – the ‘storm before the lull’, Agnès had once dubbed it. The buzz dropped to a murmur as he walked in.