Impure Blood Page 5

‘Thank you. We have indeed been fortunate in your appointment to this case, Captain.’

  Bridges built, it was down to business. Darac fixed him with a look.

  ‘I hope you will continue to feel that you have been fortunate if it transpires that one of your congregation is guilty of murder.’ He deliberately didn’t name Emil Florian: the press and TV might be talking to Asiz later.

  As if marking the change in temperature of the interview, Monsieur Asiz’s eyebrows rose, slightly. His smile, though, did not fade.

  ‘That proposition is destined to remain untested. Although it would make no epistemological sense to state that one of the congregation could not have killed the man, I am nevertheless certain that none of them actually did.’

  ‘As a cleric, it is perhaps natural that you would put faith before reason, monsieur.’

  Asiz reacted with a sort of amused relish.

  ‘I am impressed at the precision with which you express your assumptions. But you will see at least some reason in the timing, surely? We are hardly likely to jeopardise our improved standing at the Mairie by murdering a visitor, albeit an uninvited one.’

  ‘Unplanned murders occur, Monsieur Asiz. All the time. As to timing, what’s to say there isn’t a renegade in your ranks?’ Darac’s gaze fell on the leader of the outdoor congregation, Hamid Toulé. Sitting away from the others, the man’s eyes were closed, his lips moving silently. ‘That’s possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘In practice, it is quite impossible, Captain.’

  ‘I understand that after you learned of the death, you asked everyone to stay behind to talk to us.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Was everyone able to comply with your request?’

  ‘They were.’

  Darac nodded, pursing his lips.

  ‘According to the statement you made to Lieutenant Busquet, you were in this room at the time of the incident?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘So you neither saw what happened outside nor even knew who was there.’

  Asiz registered the hit with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘It is true that I can’t strictly vouch for those who were worshipping outside – you will have to see Monsieur Toulé about that. But for those who were in here, yes, everyone remained.’

  The interview lasted for another five minutes. At the end of it, Darac had learned nothing further. But he had come to one tentative conclusion – he’d decided that the imam’s genial demeanour was genuine enough. But he felt he couldn’t entirely trust him, nevertheless.

  Darac turned to Emil Florian’s next-mat neighbour, Slimane Bahtoum. Wearing cargo trousers and a plain white T-shirt, the young man was sweating profusely as Darac took him to one side.

  ‘Over here, please.’

  Raising eyebrows that ran in an unbroken line, the boy seemed anxious to talk.

  ‘I didn’t touch the man on my right – the man who died – at any point, Monsieur,’ he said, as if countering an accusation to the contrary. ‘I will take a lie detector test, have my fingerprints taken, give a DNA sample – anything.’

  In the background, Darac saw Imam Asiz watching them as he maintained what must have been a somewhat absent-minded conversation with another member of the congregation.

  ‘Thank you for volunteering for all those tests, Monsieur Bahtoum.’

  ‘Anything to help. And I’m “Slim” to my friends.’

  ‘However, polygraph tests are inadmissible in law; clean fingerprints tend not to register on cloth materials such as the dead man was wearing; and there are any number of reasons why your DNA may not have found its way on to his person.’

  ‘But I swear, I didn’t… do anything.’

  Darac was put in minde of a line in Shakespeare. The one about somebody protesting their innocence too much. The boy was hiding something, he felt sure.

  ‘Relax, no one is accusing you of anything.’

  ‘No. Sure. Sorry.’

  ‘I know you’ve already shown it but I’d like to see your ID card, please.’

  ‘Sure.’ Squeezing his hand into the thigh pocket of his cargo trousers, he extricated his wallet, took out the card and handed it to Darac. An apple for the teacher.

  Slimane’s photo matched the face, and the address agreed with the one he’d given to Bonbon – the boy lived in an apartment block no more than a ten-minute tram ride away.

  ‘A lot of pockets you’ve got there.’ Darac handed back the card. ‘A lot of pockets and most of them crammed with stuff.’

  The boy’s large brown eyes narrowed warily.

  ‘Yes, I know I put too much in them.’

  ‘It’s tempting with cargos – I do the same.’

  Slimane managed a smile as he squeezed his wallet back into the pocket. ‘My mother is always telling me off for it. “You’re not a donkey,” she says.’

  ‘But if I knew beforehand that I was going to be kneeling and prostrating myself repeatedly, I would make sure I wore something looser.’ Darac looked into the boy’s increasingly anxious eyes. ‘Like almost everyone else here.’

  ‘It is our duty as Muslims to pray five times a day…’ The voice was East African-accented and it faded in from stage left. ‘…Our personal comfort while doing so is not what is important. I am Hamid Toulé. I was leading the outdoor congregation at the time of the tragedy.’

  ‘You have exceptionally sharp ears, monsieur.’ Darac couldn’t disguise his irritation that at least part of his exchange with Slimane had been overheard. ‘I’ll come to you later.’ He indicated with a shepherding arm that he required Toulé to step away. ‘Please.’

  ‘It’s just that Slimane here has been very traumatised by what happened and I didn’t…’

  ‘Later.’

  Seve Sevran slid in between them.

  ‘Just step over there, please, monsieur. I know you’ve had to wait for some time already but the Captain will get to you soon.’

  Toulé exchanged a reinforcing look with the boy and then withdrew. After a few paces, Darac called Sevran back.

  ‘I’ll get to him shortly,’ he said, under his breath. ‘But first I’m going to take Slimane outside. Watch how they react in here, alright?’

  ‘Watching is what I do.’

  ‘Pay particular attention to the imam, and Messieurs Toulé and the man who was next to Slimane – Ibdouz. Obviously, if any of them try to make a mobile call, prevent them.’

  ‘Anything else? I am on my own in here.’

  ‘This from the man who served in Djibouti, Chad – all over Africa?’

  ‘And a lot of good that did me.’

  ‘I could get someone else in here but I’d rather have you. Alright?’

  Sevran still looked unhappy but he shrugged assent.

  ‘Okay, that’s all,’ Darac said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He turned to Slimane Bahtoum. ‘Let’s go outside for a moment.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a bit stuffy in here, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘After you.’

  ‘Uh… okay.’

  As they put on their shoes in the vestibule, Darac could already hear representations being made to Sevran. ‘Where are they going?’ ‘What is he doing with him?’ ‘The boy hasn’t done anything wrong.’ Following Slimane on to the pavement, Darac scanned the street for the TV news crew. Luckily they had gone.

  Without warning, he clamped a hand around Slimane’s forearm from behind. Shocked, the boy didn’t try to turn or free himself. Darac dropped his voice.

  ‘Okay, Slim, your minders can’t prompt you out here. You’re on your own.’

  As Darac squeezed a little, droplets of sweat from the boy’s arm melted into one and began seeping between his fingers.

  ‘Listen, Captain, I haven’t—’

  ‘No, you listen. And listen carefully. It wasn’t you, was it? It wasn’t you who was praying next to the dead man in your too-tight cargos.’

  Feeling energy moving through the boy
’s body, Darac grabbed his other arm.

  ‘Yes, it was me, captain.’ The voice came out in a tremulous whimper. Whatever Slimane Bahtoum was, it was obvious he was unused to skirmishes with the law. ‘Who else would it be?’

  ‘That’s why you were so eager to be tested to prove you hadn’t touched the murdered man. Of course you hadn’t. Because you were not here at the time, were you?’

  ‘I was. Ask anyone. Let me go.’

  Across the street, one or two of the detained onlookers had started to pay attention to them.

  ‘Ask anyone? Alright – see those people gathered together on the opposite side of the street? The ones talking to the officers? They’re doing that because they saw the whole thing. Shall we go over there and see if any of them recognises you?’

  He felt the boy’s body flex as he gave him a slight push.

  ‘Ask anyone in the congregation, I meant. The man praying on my other side – Anthar Abdouz. Ibdouz, I mean! Anthar Ibdouz. Ask him.’

  ‘You don’t want to meet the people opposite because you know none of them saw you earlier.’

  ‘No!’

  Behind the onlookers, the two CCTV cameras stood as blind sentinels over the scene. They gave Darac an idea.

  ‘Alright, forget the crowd. We have better witnesses. See those CCTV cameras?’

  He let Slimane think about it for a moment.

  ‘We’ve reviewed the tapes and they prove conclusively that it was someone else praying next to the dead man.’

  Spotting that Officer Yvonne Flaco had finally finished questioning the onlookers, Darac gave her a beckoning nod.

  ‘Look, I’ll make it easy for you. You’re sitting at home or you’re out with your girlfriend or whatever when you get a call on your mobile – a mobile I’m going to have examined in a minute, by the way…’

  ‘Examine it! There’s nothing there!’

  ‘Deleting entries on a phone’s call history doesn’t really delete them, Slim. And we have other ways of finding out who called you. Whoever it was – maybe it was your brother or just someone who looks like you – had a favour to ask. A big one. Because he was the one praying next to the man who was killed.’

  ‘No. And it was that old woman! She did it.’

  ‘Describe her.’

  ‘Old. Short. Ugly.’

  ‘You were waiting for that one, weren’t you?’

  ‘No. I saw her do it.’

  ‘But I think you people have been watching too many James Bond movies. A Rosa Klebb type with a dagger wedged in her trolley? No, no. It was your associate who murdered the man.’

  Darac didn’t believe it, necessarily. But putting the frighteners on the kid was a good place to start.

  ‘It wasn’t!’

  Flaco joined them, unclipping her cuffs as her eyes met Darac’s. He shook his head.

  ‘That makes you an accessory to murder. Twelve years in prison at least.’

  ‘It was the… woman.’

  ‘Alright, let’s say your associate is innocent. Why the call to you? Because he knows he’s the more likely suspect. Maybe he’s got a police record and we know you haven’t. Yet. “The police won’t care. They’ll fit me up for the murder,” he says.’

  ‘No, it didn’t happen. I was here all the time. Next to the dead man.’

  The boy’s head dropped. He started to weep.

  ‘Look, I admire your loyalty…’

  From out of left field, a shape streaked across the pavement towards them. Shouts. A swell of noise from the crowd. Warnings. The shape didn’t stop. Flaco drew her automatic and with two hands, pointed it at the target. More warnings. The shape was a young man, older than Slimane but resembling him. He called out something in Arabic.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ Darac released his hold on the young man. As officers swarmed all around them, the pair embraced. Darac couldn’t understand the words that percolated through Slimane’s tears but their meaning seemed clear.

  There was an onrush of sound behind him. Pursued by Jacques Sevran, Hamid Toulé and several others had come running out of the prayer room. The spectacle stopped them as if they’d hit an invisible wall. In their wake came Imam Asiz. He seemed mystified at what had happened. Darac made an instant decision.

  ‘Okay, everyone – listen. Slimane here and his… brother…?’

  ‘Cousin,’ the older boy said, his voice heavy with defiance.

  ‘Cousin. That means you share some DNA, by the way. Name?’

  No response.

  Darac’s expression hardened.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Narooq. Mansoor Narooq.’

  ‘Thank you. So Slimane and Mansoor have just earned a trip to the Caserne Auvare where they will face charges.’

  Darac nodded to a couple of burly uniforms. As they cuffed the boys and led them away, he gave Seve Sevran a questioning look. The man shook his head – no one in the prayer room had made or taken a call. That was one plus, at least.

  His expression lacking any trace of its customary humour, Darac turned to the congregation.

  ‘Alright, an exchange has taken place here. For reasons yet to be determined, one cousin swapped places with the other. It’s difficult to believe that none of you was aware of the subterfuge.’ He pulled Anthar Ibdouz out of the sea of faces. ‘You, monsieur?’

  ‘I never paid any attention to who was next to me.’ He absently scratched his damp cleavage. ‘I am sorry. And until this moment, it never occurred to me that such an exchange could have happened. Besides, I’ve only seen the boy, or boys, on a few occasions and never together until this moment. Even standing there, it’s difficult to tell them apart.’

  If Ibdouz wasn’t telling the truth, he was a skilled liar. Further questioning was necessary but for the moment, Darac was inclined to believe him.

  ‘This is quite, quite wrong, Captain.’ Hamid Toulé raised an admonishing finger as he stepped forward. ‘Such accusations are completely without foundation…’

  For a second time, Darac wondered whether it was Toulé, and not the imam, who was the true leader of the congregation. He knew something about the switch, Darac felt certain.

  ‘They smack of a repressive—’

  ‘You, Monsieur, will also go to the Caserne. To answer questions in a more formal setting.’

  ‘That is impossible. It will soon be time for our next—’

  ‘You can pray in the cells. Flaco – take him. No cuffs.’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  All eyes were on the young black woman as she stepped forward. Short but powerfully built, Flaco didn’t need her don’t even think of messing with me face to convince Toulé that if he didn’t move under his own steam, she would do it for him. She gave him the look anyway.

  ‘But it is twenty-seven times more effective to pray in congregation,’ Toulé protested as he walked away. ‘Twenty-seven times!’

  Darac had to fight a strong impulse to say that he didn’t care if it was two hundred and seventy times more effective. He was investigating a murder. And he wasn’t being told the whole truth.

  ‘Alright,’ he said, looking into the eyes of Imam Asiz. ‘Let’s start again, shall we?’

  3.03 PM

  Another sheaf of reports completed, Commissaire Agnès Dantier tossed her reading glasses on to her desk and said a silent alleluia. After six straight hours, she was tired, she was hungry and worst of all, her back felt like a broken deckchair.

  Closing her eyes, she interlocked her fingers palms-outwards and slowly extended her arms out in front of her. Then, maintaining the hold, she raised them, and tentatively at first, began reaching up to the ceiling. Five minutes spent on this now, she told herself, would pay dividends later.

  Short and slight with wide-set hazel eyes, prominent cheek bones and a small, pointed chin, Agnès had a distinctly feline look. On a good day, she could have passed for a decade younger than her fifty-three years. And if she had wanted to, she could have continued working until she reached sixty. But
it wasn’t just on days like this that she felt ready to retire. She’d cleared enough paperwork to last two lifetimes.

  A ringing desk phone brought a premature end to the stretch routine.

  ‘Yes, Candice.’

  ‘Commissaire, I have Squadron Chief Barbusse of the Gendarmerie for you.’

  ‘Oh… Better put him on.’ A click signalled the connection. ‘Chief Barbusse.’ Agnès was already stifling a yawn. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Joel, please. I was just looking down the list of those accepting invitations to the Tour de France security briefing in Monaco shortly and I notice there’s no tick against the name of one Commissaire Dantier.’

  ‘Probably because I decided not to attend.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Tour needs the local Gendarmerie to be represented, obviously. It needs the CRS. It needs the Garde Républicaine. It needs the Police Munici—’ no holding back the yawn now, ‘…Municipale. Excuse me. But unless the riders are planning to strangle each other as they pedal along the Boulevard des Anglais or something, it doesn’t need a representative of the local Brigade Criminelle, does it?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, no. But wouldn’t you like to be there? Afterwards, there’s a reception. You might meet one of the Greats – Hinault or Eddy Merckx. Or perhaps even Lance Armstrong. He’s riding again this year, you know.’

  And I might meet one Joel Barbusse, Agnès thought – something she was anxious to avoid since the last occasion. But there was an easy way out.

  ‘Oh… very well. Tick my name.’

  ‘Excellent. Don’t forget to ring the Centre de Congrès to confirm. And be quick about it – it starts in just over an hour.’

  ‘Must fly, now. Bye, Barbusse.’

  She hung up and blew a kiss at a photo hanging on the wall next to her desk. There would be a Commissaire Dantier attending the briefing but it would not be her; it would be her father, Vincent. Failing eyesight meant he would need a chaperone, but, still active at eighty-eight and a fan of most sports, he would welcome the opportunity. In any case, he would do anything for his Agnès, the cute little tomboy who had eventually followed him into the police. Followed him all the way to the rank of commissaire.

  She made three quick calls: the first to her father; the second to his preferred chaperone, Roland Granot; and the third to the Centre de Congrès. Five minutes was all it took to set up the whole thing.