Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3) Read online

  ‘Something I said?’

  Scanning faces, he exchanged a look with Frankie of such meaningfulness that the rest of the room seemed to disappear momentarily. But it was Erica who got up to embrace him.

  ‘I leave you alone for five minutes.’ Her eyes misting, she removed a flower petal fragment from the collar of his jacket. ‘Thank God you’re alright.’

  As the simmer gradually went back up to a boil, Max Perand turned to Flaco.

  ‘This is supposed to be a police station, no? Not a fucking…’ A suitable comparison evaded him. ‘He’s already had the boss practically weeping down the phone, they say.’ He thought it politic not to mention that ‘they’ was Adèle Rousade, resident rumour-monger at the Caserne. ‘And Frankie Lejeune was the same, apparently.’

  Flaco stared at him, saying nothing.

  ‘Sickening,’ Perand persisted. ‘Don’t you think?’

  Flaco decided to play, after all. ‘He’s got a lot of faults, hasn’t he, the captain? A hot temper being just one of them.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  She continued as if explaining something to a child. ‘But because he’s warm-hearted, supportive—’

  Two positives were enough for Perand. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’

  ‘Because he’s those things and more, some people actually like him. And they’re relieved he wasn’t shot dead today.’

  ‘Flak – he was shot at by accident.’

  ‘Shot at while standing at his mother’s graveside.’

  ‘He wasn’t the target, alright?’

  Flaco’s withering stare was a potent corrective. But Perand wasn’t finished. ‘Anybody could have been hit. I could have if I’d been there.’

  The stare was Flaco’s last word on the matter.

  Perand threw up his hands. ‘Alright, I’ll burst out crying and give him a kiss. How’s that?’

  Drawing up a chair behind him, Drug Squad Head Captain Jean-Pierre ‘Armani’ Tardelli flicked the saggy neck of Perand’s Down by Law T-shirt. ‘If you want to go gay, Maxie, you’ll have to dress better than this.’

  ‘Funny, Captain. Very funny.’

  Granot and Bonbon were the last to arrive, taking seats next to Frankie. Agnès was sitting at the head of the room, a stack of folders on the desk in front of her. Slipping out of her shoes, she unclamped her reading specs from her ash-blond bob and called the meeting to order.

  ‘Alright, everyone, we’ll start with…’ She made a moue. ‘Your stolen guitar, Paul. Perand – where are we with this?’

  ‘The good people over at Foch have pushed the boat out for us but as yet they haven’t come up with anything.’ He detailed the measures being taken. ‘Lartou, you’ve got something, right?’

  Crime scene co-ordinator Jean-Jacques ‘Lartou’ Lartigue nodded his shaved head. ‘We should be receiving a DVD from the Mairie. There was a software issue with one of the security cameras in Place Masséna but they’re almost there, they say.’

  ‘Let’s hope something comes of it. So on to the death at the carnival that kicked off this drama.’ Agnès opened the file. ‘The deceased is one Michel Fouste, fifty-five, who lived alone. Worked in construction. When he did work, that is. A conviction for assault in December 2009 seems to relate to a history of alcohol abuse that goes back many years. He was drunk again at the Parade of Lights. Initial concerns that the death may not have been accidental proved unfounded under further examination.’ She looked up from the sheet. ‘The verdict is going to be accidental death, isn’t it?’

  There were no gainsayers. Agnès set the file aside and opened the next one, initiating a discussion about the man who had pursued Fouste though the crowd. It was agreed that he should be interviewed, were he to come forward. Under the circumstances, there seemed no necessity to mount a search.

  ‘Just a quick note on the future of Carnival itself.’ Agnès skimmed a release from the committee office. ‘Tomorrow afternoon’s Parade of Flowers is going ahead… as are the remaining two Parades of Light next week. The final night firework display and the Burning of the King are also going ahead as planned.’ She grinned knowingly, a look that suited her feline features. ‘Surprise, surprise.’

  Half an hour or so later, Agnès’s stack of case files was down to just one. The mood in the room changed as she drew it toward her. ‘I think we all know what happened earlier today. Would you take us through it, Paul?’

  Supported by witness statements and other evidence, he recounted the incident and outlined progress in the investigation.

  ‘So where do we go from here?’ Agnès said.

  ‘I’ve requested details on Sylvie Galvin, the occupant of the grave in question. The man in the black coat who was being shot at obviously knew her – he had an old bank statement of hers in his pocket. So he’s possibly a relative; perhaps a close one and therefore findable. We’ve got one eyewitness description. Were you able to get hold of Astrid, Flak?’

  ‘Yes – she should have interviewed the old lady by now.’

  ‘So with any luck we’ll have an image of the man shortly.’ Darac ran a hand through his hair. ‘The bank statement aspect is intriguing, isn’t it?’ He gave Agnès a look. ‘I’d like us to look into that. On the shooter side of things, I interviewed some of Halevy’s work colleagues on the way in. They’re dumbfounded.’

  ‘Friends are always dumbfounded.’ Armani clasped his large, tanned hands together behind his head and leaned back in his chair. ‘Wives are dumbfounded, husbands – everybody.’

  ‘Sure, but from their accounts, Halevy does come across as an unremarkable sort of guy. Nervous, almost timid.’

  ‘He did own a pistol,’ Frankie said, her silk-soft contralto making gun ownership sound an appealing hobby. ‘And he did fire it. Repeatedly.’

  Agnès nodded. ‘When timid characters crack, they often do so spectacularly.’

  Granot gave a phlegm-rattling chortle. ‘Maybe he mistook the man in the coat for his wife.’

  A ripple of laughter ran around the room.

  ‘Okay – anything else on this at the moment?’

  A couple of other initiatives were proposed and approved and the briefing drew to a close. Darac exchanged a few words with Frankie and then turned to the usual suspects.

  ‘Coffee, Granot? I certainly need one.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘Bonbon?’

  ‘I don’t know. They say it gives you funny ideas.’

  Once in his office, Darac made straight for his beloved Gaggia espresso machine and set to work.

  ‘Madame Yvette Halevy…’ Granot’s expression was a sort of awestruck bemusement as he flopped onto his usual seat by the door. ‘I’ve been at this for thirty years and I’ve never come across anyone like her. I told you I dropped her off at that funeral directors’ on Avenue du Ray, Contes Frères, after our little chat?’

  ‘You made it live, mate,’ Bonbon said, turning a chair around.

  ‘You’ll never guess the last thing she said to me before she got out of the car.’

  Bonbon’s elastic band of a mouth stretched into an even wider grin.

  ‘What are you doing next weekend, big boy?’

  ‘Better than that. She said, “Do you think Messieurs Contes would dress Carl’s body in an Olympique de Marseille football strip for the burial?” I said, “I’m sure they would.” She said, “Good. He was a Monaco fan.”’

  Granot’s laugh rumbled under Bonbon’s breathless squeak.

  ‘Ker-tishhhh!’ Darac managed not to spill any of the freshly ground Delta Diamante he was measuring into the filter holders. ‘Ai, ai, ai.’

  It was only after he’d recovered that Bonbon noticed a cardboard-backed envelope sitting on the desk. Darac’s name was written on it in a distinctive hand.

  ‘Chief? Astrid has already left her handiwork, look.’

  ‘Shit. I should have looked in here before the meeting.’ Enveloped in a cloud of savoury sweetness, Darac cast only the quickest glance over his sh
oulder – nothing interrupted the sacrament of the bean. ‘Why didn’t she email me a photo? Check it out, will you, Bonbon?’

  Bonbon got to his feet and opened the envelope. ‘Okay, there are two sketches… and a note.’ He laid the drawings side by side on the desk. ‘Look at these, Granot.’

  Words of protest accompanying a medley of effortful sounds, the big man hauled himself off his chair.

  ‘Read out the note,’ Darac said.

  ‘She writes: Hi Darac, just got back from Vence. As you’re always saying, it’s probably nothing, but check out these masterpieces.’

  Granot gave an approving little grunt. ‘Love her confidence.’

  ‘The note continues: Sorry I couldn’t email them but my server was down. They look a million times better in the flesh, anyway. The one marked “A” I did with an eyewitness at the Parade of Lights the other night. It’s of the guy you called the chaser – the one with the goatee who made off into the night. Now look at “B”, which I’ve just drawn with the help of the old lady you met at the cemetery. A charming old soul, isn’t she? Bird fancier. She and her husband used to attract goldfinches to their hibiscus, she told me. Ah, sweet. Except they trapped them and ate the poor little things.’

  ‘Astrid a vegetarian?’ Granot said, bemused.

  ‘Go on, Bonbon.’

  ‘Anyway, look carefully at that second sketch. The man is clean-shaven but apart from that, he looks the same as the first guy, no? Note the basic topography of the faces and especially the eyes. The only real difference is the goatee. Anyway, I’m late for my dance class so – later. By the way, I’m glad you didn’t get shot, Darac.’ Bonbon couldn’t resist chuckling. ‘And then she signs off: Kisses, Astrid.’

  ‘Kisses, is it?’ Granot ran an eye over the two drawings. ‘I never get that.’

  ‘I’m more of a “with cordial regards” man, myself.’ Bonbon’s words emerged in a distracted monotone as he compared the two images. ‘Hm… Both have the same puddingy face, don’t they? Puddingy with little currants for eyes.’

  ‘You’re making me hungry.’

  Still looking, Bonbon stepped back a couple of paces. ‘I’m with Astrid. These likenesses… are alike.’

  Darac took in the sketches as he handed out the coffees. ‘Yes, they are alike. Very.’

  Another thought struck him. ‘Take a look at this.’ He brought up Sylvie Galvin’s grave photo on his mobile. ‘What do you think? Father and daughter? Could be, couldn’t they?’

  ‘They could. Easily.’

  Darac parked his backside on the desk. ‘First, I had no idea how many shots had been fired at the scene. Then, it turns out I saw this guy both at the parade and in the cemetery. I just didn’t register what he looked like.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think much of my skills as a witness.’

  ‘You didn’t see him head on, either time,’ Bonbon said. ‘And people don’t actually look at everything they see, anyway.’

  Granot nodded. ‘People see what they expect to see. Like I see what’s coming next.’

  ‘If what you’re seeing is someone going to have another chat with Madame Halevy, you’ve got it in one.’

  ‘Sweet Mary… So you’re thinking what? Carl Halevy might have been a mate of the guy that went under the float…’ Fingers clicking flabbily together, Granot searched for the name.

  ‘Michel Fouste,’ Bonbon said.

  ‘Fouste, yes. And perhaps Halevy didn’t share the view that the man with the deep-set eyes’ – he indicated the sketches – ‘was innocent of his death. He reckons he did push the man. So he digs out his old pistol and kills him out of revenge. Or tries to.’

  ‘No, I’m not thinking that.’ Darac took a sip of espresso. ‘The timing doesn’t work, does it? Halevy took up station at the cemetery hours before Fouste did his swan dive under the float.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Granot gave his temple a reproving tap. ‘He did.’

  ‘So it’s not Carl Halevy’s connection with Fouste we need to establish; it’s his connection with Astrid’s guy. That’s why we need to talk to good old Madame H. again. We need to show her these drawings.’

  ‘And there’s the last of the CCTV footage from the parade, the camera they were having trouble with,’ Granot said. ‘There might be a usable shot of the man in that. A nice frontal view.’

  ‘Don’t count on it. This guy seems to have a sixth sense for security cameras.’

  ‘Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’ Bonbon looked unconvinced. ‘Astrid’s man being in the cemetery as well as at the parade?’

  ‘Half of Nice was at the parade,’ Darac said.

  His black desk phone rang – an internal call. He leaned back and picked it up.

  ‘Adèle Rousade here, Captain. I’ve got the first bit of info you wanted. Shall I give it to you now or do you want to wait for the rest?’

  ‘Let’s have it now. Just a second.’ He smothered the mouthpiece for a moment. ‘Sylvie info.’ He picked up a pen. ‘Go ahead, Adèle.’

  ‘Okay. Sylvie Marie Galvin born 1 September 1984 to Karen Marie Galvin.’

  Darac sensed trouble. ‘Got the father’s name there?’

  ‘Not known.’

  ‘Not known,’ he repeated to the others.

  ‘The mother’s occupation is listed as “various”. She gave up the baby immediately. Sylvie was brought up at the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy, Vallauris. Mother died in May ’87. Road accident. Sylvie left the convent in September 2002. That’s it. I’ll let you know the rest when I have it.’

  ‘Thanks, Adèle.’

  Granot’s forehead furrowed like a beach on a retreating tide. ‘Bad break, that – father not known.’

  ‘He knew who he was though, didn’t he?’ Darac drained his espresso. ‘He found her grave. Eventually.’

  Bonbon gave a little nod. ‘“Not known” often means not declared, doesn’t it? So we’ll just go through her mother to find him.’

  ‘Not possible. She’s dead.’ The floor was a rich source of inspiration for Darac. He stared at a worn patch next to his chair. ‘So where are we? An estranged – let’s say he is the father – an estranged father sets out to find his long unacknowledged daughter Sylvie, perhaps for reasons connected with the €400,000 he’d somehow discovered she’d come into. Sporting a goatee, he goes to the Parade of Lights. A drunk, Michel Fouste, barges into him as he barged into a lot of other people. Words pass between them. He pursues Fouste to have it out with him but the crowd delays him. Just as he catches up with him, Fouste falls to his death. Our man beats a hasty retreat. We don’t know at what point he discovered that Sylvie had died, but the next day, without the goatee, he buys the biggest bouquet he can carry and goes to the cemetery to pay his respects. Whereupon he’s shot at by a seemingly respectable accounts manager named Carl Halevy, who was waiting for him for the purpose.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘What the hell is this about?’

  Granot gave a little grunt. ‘Whatever it is, that €400,000 is at the heart of it.’

  ‘It’s likely. But whether it is or not, we’ve got to find this guy.’ Darac beamed at the others. ‘Right – who wants to show the drawings to Madame Halevy?’

  10

  Two entry violations in one day.

  ‘I’m trying to work here!’ Laure slotted a printed circuit board into an effects box she was building. ‘Jesus!’

  Trampling anything in his way, the man made a beeline for her. In one action, he yanked off her cans, grabbed the arms of her chair and spun it around to face him. Still holding on to the arms, he brought his livid face down to meet hers.

  ‘You will never, ever, talk to Elise like you did earlier. And you will never lay your hands on her again. Do you understand?’

  Laure burned with rage. She was holding a screwdriver. But she knew her limitations. And she knew his.

  ‘Let go.’ Pushing hard against the floor, she tried to force the chair back. No go. ‘I want to get on with my work.’

  ‘Work?�
� His eyes were bulging. ‘You call farting around in this pit all day work?’

  Laure stared right back at him. ‘Yes.’

  The music for her latest composition was staved-out on her laptop. He grabbed the computer, thick fingers pressing several keys at once, scrambling the last couple of bars.

  ‘I’ll tell you what this is.’ He tossed the laptop back onto her desk. ‘It is shit! That is what it is.’

  ‘Be careful with that. You paid good money for it. And it’s not shit. Now go away. I need to finish it.’

  ‘Need to, do you? There’s a need? A necessity? People are depending on it?’

  ‘I’ve got to hand it in later or I’ll fail my course. You wouldn’t like that, would you?’

  ‘This is your last warning, Laure.’

  In his eyes, the blade of anger was beginning to retract.

  ‘Or you’ll do what? Beat me up? That would look good in the papers. Or on TV.’

  He released the arms of the chair, shoving it back.

  ‘Get back to your… work.’ He turned but he took no further step. Propped against the wall was an instrument he’d never seen in her room before. But he’d seen an image of it somewhere else. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That? We call it a guitar.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  Sliding on her headphones, she looked him steadily in the eyes. ‘It fell off the back of a lorry.’

  Telonne stared, incredulous. When he spoke, the words emerged in slow motion. ‘You committed a crime? In front of thousands of spectators, and God knows how many more watching on TV? And with your father sitting in the place of honour not twenty metres away?’

  She smiled. ‘Don’t you know it “comes out better on a stolen guitar”? I thought you were supposed to be down with the kids?’

  He took a step nearer. ‘You stupid little bitch.’