Impure Blood Read online

  At last, it was time for a break. Her bare feet made little unsticking sounds as she picked them up from the lino-tiled floor and slipped on her slingbacks. Taking a CD from a drawer, she collected her things and went out into the corridor. The jewel case was destined for a clear poly pocket attached to her door. Darac had given her the disc, Out To Lunch!, some years ago. At least she’d found some use for it.

  The place was quieter than usual; most of her team was still out investigating what Frènes the public prosecutor had earlier referred to as a ‘crisis of hideous proportions’ brewing downtown. Some crisis. Darac would have rung again if there had been a real problem. Agnès knew there would be many things she would miss about her life in the Brigade Criminelle but having to put up with Frènes would not be one of them.

  Charvet, the duty officer, was talking on the phone as she signed out so their usual dialogue – ‘off to Bistro Étoile, back in forty-five minutes’ – took the form of a mime.

  Bzzzzzzzut!

  A set of double doors opened and Agnès walked through on to the top landing of an outside staircase. The sun hitting her like a flamethrower, she lowered her shades and descended the single flight into the compound. The steps were bad news for her back but she managed them without the support of the metal handrail. It was a good job too – it would be too hot to touch.

  One of several Police Nationale outfits occupying the site, the Brigade Criminelle’s Building D stood no more than twenty metres from the main gate. Casually acknowledging the salute of the uniform on guard duty, Agnès walked around the barrier and headed for the street, the Rue de Roquebillière. Before she reached it, a battered Citroën came up alongside her and braked to a sharp stop. At the wheel was a deranged-looking crackhead. His passenger, a hollow-cheeked blonde, looked equally wired. The driver rolled his window. Agnès leaned in.

  ‘Top marks for the get-up, Armani. But do you have to drive like a junkie as well?’

  Captain Jean-Pierre ‘Armani’ Tardelli grinned but it quickly faded as he turned his attention back to the street.

  ‘They’ve strayed a bit off the tourist trail, haven’t they?’

  A couple of bronzed young backpackers were standing by the far kerb. Arms pointing in various directions, their faces were hidden behind a folding map.

  ‘It’s not your lucky day, guys.’ Armani gave Agnès an authoritative nod. ‘Users.’

  She stared more intently at them.

  ‘What – you can tell that from their knees?’

  ‘Look at the footwear. Sandals and socks? They must be on something.’

  The map lowered to reveal a pair of shiny, clean-cut faces.

  ‘They look as if they’re on vacation from Bible college,’ Agnès said. ‘But if it makes you feel any happier, I’m going that way so I’ll have a word with them.’

  Armani turned to his passenger and winked.

  ‘Another bust down the drain.’ Before anyone could reply, he floored the pedal and powered away down the Rue de Roquebillière.

  Agnès’s conviction about the youngsters only deepened as she crossed the street. In an accent she assessed as southern hemisphere English, she heard the boy say:

  ‘The place opposite? It’s called the Caserne Auvare. It’s a cop shop.’

  ‘If that’s a cop shop, imagine what the prisons around here are like.’

  ‘Cop shop’ – Agnès loved that. And she could see the shiny ones’ point. The Caserne Auvare wasn’t exactly the Hotel Negresco. Behind its perimeter wall, thirteen two-storey barrack-like buildings were aligned in strict parallel rows. Four equally severe three-storey structures were laid out across the road.

  ‘If you’re lost, I can help,’ she said in perfect English.

  ‘Oh, we’re not lost, thanks.’ The girl was almost offhand about it. ‘Just decided to explore off-piste for a bit.’

  ‘That way, you discover the real city.’

  ‘If reality interests you, you should take a look at the plaque.’ Agnès pointed back at the Caserne. ‘On the wall outside the… cop shop.’

  Unimpressed by Agnès’s instant grasp of the idiom, the couple nevertheless followed her pointing finger.

  ‘Next to the entrance on the right, there.’

  ‘Oh yes, got it,’ the girl said.

  The boy turned to Agnès.

  ‘One slight problem. Not that hot on the old French.’

  ‘No, no, you’ll be fine – it’s not written in old French.’

  The girl gave him a derisory look.

  ‘What my genius boyfriend is trying to say is we can’t speak French. At all.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, what it says is that in August 1942, the Caserne was used to detain Jews rounded up by local police. Over five hundred were eventually deported to a holding camp near Paris. From there, the end of the line was Auschwitz.’ Agnès gave them a smile. ‘I hope that is real enough for you? Bye.’

  ‘Uh… yes,’ the boy said, wrong-footed. ‘It is.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ The girl nodded. ‘Thanks, Madame.’

  Agnès had gone only a couple of paces when her mobile rang. It was Granot.

  ‘Boss? I’m over at the morgue with Lycée Principal André Volpini. He’s just formally identified the Rue Verbier body as that of Emil Florian – a teacher on his staff, as the man’s papers indicated.’

  ‘Good.’

  Granot’s voice took on a more solemn tone.

  ‘So is it all set for the Monaco briefing?’

  ‘It is and I’ve wangled you an invitation to the reception afterwards, as well.’

  ‘Yes!’

  Gleeful enthusiasm? Agnès hadn’t thought the big man capable of it. But there was a time and a place.

  ‘I take it you’re ringing from the car park, Granot?’

  ‘Not… as such, no.’

  ‘What do the morgue guidelines say? “Respect and reverence and at all times.”’

  ‘But I might meet the Badger.’ Granot’s words were carried on a rising tide of excitement. ‘Or even the Cannibal. In the flesh!’

  ‘Cannibals and flesh isn’t really helping, Granot.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But I’ll tell you this: if I do get to meet any of my heroes over in Monaco, I’ll show respect and reverence, then. Big time.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Thanks for this, boss.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Just don’t forget to pick up my father.’

  ‘Forget? It’ll be an honour.’

  ‘Better get to it, there isn’t much time.’

  ‘We’ll make it.’

  It was an upbeat note on which to end the call. But as Agnès crossed the street towards Bistro Étoile, a different feeling came over her. For the third time in as many days, she felt as if someone was watching her. Unwilling to show her hand, she didn’t turn around but maintained her stride, glancing in the windows of every parked car and shop window she passed. The reflections proving inconclusive, she was left with little alternative. She took several more easy paces and then spun around, the suddenness of the move paining her back. There was no one. Not a soul. After thirty-plus years on the force, I’ve started imagining things, she thought to herself. I really must let this thing go.

  It didn’t occur to her that she should have trusted her first instinct.

  3.08 PM

  He had lost interest in the temperature now. It wasn’t the display’s fault. It was that he’d been promised something really interesting to look at, instead. The most interesting and exciting thing in the world, in fact – the Tour de France. The blond one had promised it and then taken it away. Taken it away because he’d been stupid. He should have stuck to just one blink. One blink for yes; two for no. But he’d got overexcited. He’d blinked repeatedly to show just how much he wanted to see it. To see once again something that was part of him. The road winding ever onwards and up. 21.2? Forget it.

  It was at the end of his son’s previous visit that he’d told him about the TV.<
br />
  ‘They don’t usually allow it but I twisted their arms. I’ll be seeing you, Papa. Or rather, you’ll be seeing me.’

  Some hopes now.

  He could hear voices in the next room. The short one had just come on duty. The short one and his favourite, the fat one. Voices louder. Blurs, smells. They were here. Now was his chance.

  The short one’s face.

  ‘Hello, my dear. And how are we?’

  She had a touch like a forklift truck. His pillows shook as she swung the metal notes case away from the bed end. How are we? How am I supposed to know how you are? Stupid cow. They’re nearly all stupid cows. They talk to me as if I’m a child. And they don’t really care. That’s the thing. Angels? They could be executioners, just as easily. Processing what was in front of them. All except for the fat one.

  Here she was.

  ‘Just checking to see if your mouth is any less sore. Is that alright with you?’

  He blinked once.

  ‘I’m going to loosen the tube holder plate first.’

  Her fingers were under his nose, the plate was loosened. She smiled at him. He tried to speak. But it was impossible to make even a sound. The smell of salve.

  Ask me. Ask me if I want the TV again. Ask me if I want it. I’ll blink just once.

  ‘Yes, it’s doing better. That’s good, isn’t it?’

  He blinked once.

  The short one had finished updating his notes. The pillow shook.

  Ask me about the TV.

  ‘I’ll just tighten it again.’

  Ask me.

  ‘Right we’re just going to check to see if you have any other sore places,’ the short one said. ‘Important you don’t get bed sores, isn’t it? Isn’t it?’

  He blinked once.

  Ask me.

  ‘That’s the way.’

  For God’s sake, ask me.

  They took the sheet off him. The short one dropped her voice.

  ‘So he didn’t want the TV after all, then? Typical. People get these ideas.’

  The fat one looked at him and smiled before the examination began.

  When the pair finally left, it was 21.2 degrees in the room.

  21.2, yes.

  Perhaps it might change later.

  4.05 PM

  Heading back to the Caserne Auvare from the crime scene, Darac radioed in for a progress summary on Hamid Toulé and the lookalike cousins Slimane Bahtoum and Mansoor Narooq. Each had made a brief initial statement. The feeling was that Toulé knew all about Slimane’s post-facto exchange with Mansoor but that it wouldn’t be easy to shake his story to the contrary. The cousins themselves maintained that they had consulted no one else before making the switch, nor had they informed anyone subsequently that they had done so. A series of background checks had been started on all three of them.

  Once back in Building D, Darac headed straight for the ground-floor office of Jean-Jacques ‘Lartou’ Lartigue. A strongly built West African with a curiously delicate voice, the scene-of-crime officer had CCTV footage from Rue Verbier cued up and ready to play.

  ‘Okay – what have you got, Lartou?’

  Lartigue hit the button.

  ‘As you know, Captain, there’s no coverage of the area outside the prayer room itself. This is from the west-facing camera – the one trained on the marketplace. There’s nothing of interest until the old woman with the trolley comes into view just… here, look. This is the Before The Incident shot, you might say. Before you ask how I know she’s our suspect, I’ll show you the After footage from the other camera, shortly.’

  She looked exactly as Darac had imagined her: a squat, prune-mouthed pug of a woman wearing a print shift dress.

  ‘How old is she, would you say, Lartou? Seventy?’

  ‘Yes, about that. A little older perhaps.’

  She waddled out of shot. The screen went blank.

  ‘I’ve scoured the frames for anything else of interest – nothing. I’ll put in the other disc.’

  ‘So there was no shot of her reaching into the trolley and throwing a spent syringe on to the street, then?’

  ‘One with her full name and address on it? Forensics haven’t found one, Captain.’

  The disc began to play.

  ‘Disappointing field of view. We’re well beyond the Basilique – practically in Jean Médecin.’

  ‘Yes, there’s about a hundred-metre gap. Here she comes, look.’

  Wild-eyed, mouthing off, gesturing – the woman was still a picture of furious indignation.

  ‘Look at her.’ Darac almost laughed. ‘Once again, the world has lived down to her expectations, hasn’t it? She’s the one, alright. Can you get a decent still print of her from one of the earlier frames?’

  ‘Already done.’ He handed it over. ‘Want me to fly it?’

  ‘Looks pretty good – yes, go for it. Any sign of Florian yet?’

  ‘More than a sign.’ He put in a third disc. ‘From the camera pointing east again. Watch frame right but don’t blink – he’s only in shot for a few seconds.’

  The man came into view.

  ‘Jogging… not looking around… looks to be running towards something rather than away from it. Play it again.’

  Darac watched the sequence five times. Nothing leaped out at him.

  ‘Want a shot of Florian to fly as well?’ Lartigue said.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll get on with it.’

  ‘And obviously, it would be useful to know what he was doing before he arrived on Rue Verbier. Do you think you could look at footage from any cameras there may be on Avenue Jean Médecin itself? And you might be able to pick out where the old woman went, also.’

  Lartou blew out his baby-plump cheeks.

  ‘That would take a long, long time. And the coverage would be far from comprehensive.’

  ‘Well, look – get the thing going and I’ll see what I can do resources-wise.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Darac gave Lartigue a pat on his bulky shoulder as he rose. ‘Now I’m going to have another chat with our friendly neighbourhood Muslims.’

  Once in his office, he made straight for the filing cabinets lining the side wall. His beloved Gaggia espresso machine lived on the corner stack. Before the desk sat a man wearing a long white agbada.

  ‘Hope you haven’t been waiting long?’

  Metal rattled against metal as the man angrily shook an arm. His chaperone needed elsewhere, Monsieur Hamid Toulé had been left handcuffed to Darac’s radiator.

  ‘It was either that or the cells. And it’s nicer here.’ For a couple of beats, the air-con made a sound like lead pellets hitting an oil drum. ‘Marginally.’ Darac unlocked the filing cabinet and took out a packet of coffee beans. ‘And they did leave you one hand free.’

  ‘I was promised water. You people have no undestanding. None!’

  ‘You should have been left some.’ Darac turned to see that a cup had been set down next to Toulé’s chair. But it was untouched. ‘Ah. That’s your unclean hand, isn’t it? Sorry, Monsieur. That was thoughtless of us.’ He went over to him. ‘I don’t think we need these any more.’ A suspicious look was his reward for releasing Toulé’s right hand. ‘I’ll just put them away, and then what would you say to a coffee?’

  The man took three sips of water.

  ‘Where is the lawyer?’

  On Darac’s battle-scarred old desk, a framed photo of Angeline shuddered as he jerked open a drawer. He dropped in the cuffs and rammed it shut.

  ‘Take two,’ he said, repositioning the photo. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘No. What I would like is a lawyer.’

  ‘You’re being questioned under caution, monsieur – you’re not under arrest, as such.’

  Darac measured out the beans into the grinder and hit the power button. Toulé waited for it to stop before going on.

  ‘Then arrest me. I want a lawyer. Here. Now.’

  Darac couldn’t blame Toulé for mistrusting the
police. But a lawyer wouldn’t help him in the way he probably envisaged. He needed a lesson in French law.

  ‘Let’s say I do put you under arrest, monsieur – here’s what that would mean.’ As Darac began to outline one arcane procedure, he carried on with another – the making of a perfect espresso. ‘This case was initiated by a public prosecutor rather than by an examining magistrate. In that circumstance, anyone placed under arrest is entitled to see a lawyer for thirty minutes. The purpose of that meeting is to acquaint detainees with their rights and to outline the legal situation in which they find themselves. The lawyer is entitled neither to read their case dossier nor to be present during questioning, which is conducted anywhere the investigating officer sees fit and without the use of recording devices. Detainees may be held initially without charge for forty-eight hours. This may be extended to ninety-six on the authority of the public prosecutor. Clear, Monsieur Toulé?’

  ‘I am clear that as a system, it is utterly barbaric.’

  ‘It is by no means perfect but let me tell you something about our barbaric system. In certain other countries, guilty parties get away with serious crimes every day precisely because a lawyer is allowed to sit next to them during questioning.’

  Toulé seemed unconvinced.

  ‘And think of this – the more money a client has, the smarter the lawyer he can hire. What that means in practice is that if you’re rich, you stand a far better chance of cheating justice. You think that’s a better system?’

  Drawing wisps of beard through his long fingers, Toulé fell into a contemplative silence.

  ‘Neither system is satisfactory,’ he said at length.

  Darac continued, with the man for another five minutes before he reached the conclusion that there was no compelling reason to hold him.

  ‘Alright, Monsieur Toulé – when is your next prayer service?’

  Wearing an expression of deep suspicion, Toulé glanced at his watch. A Rolex, Darac noticed.

  ‘Today, it is five forty-two.’

  ‘I’m going to release you so you can attend it. But I’m going to formally caution you that should you further mislead or obstruct this police investigation, or seek to do so with any inquiry in the future, you will be charged.’