Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3) Page 7

  ‘I am not stupid. Nobody saw me. And you weren’t sitting in the place of honour, Papa. You’re not mayor yet. You’re not even on the council.’

  Shaking his sleek, alpha-plus head, Jacques Telonne turned slowly on his heel and, without giving it another glance, walked past the guitar and out of the room.

  11

  ‘Do I have to go?’

  Agnès Dantier made a show of pinching herself. ‘No, I’m not dreaming.’ She gave Darac a look over her reading glasses. ‘You sound five years old.’

  ‘I want to see the material, obviously. It’s just that I’d rather do it when all the brass have gone.’

  ‘Meeting Room A,’ she said, pleasantly. ‘Five minutes.’

  He lingered.

  Sighing slightly, Agnès looked up from her file.

  ‘Room A,’ he nodded. ‘Five minutes.’

  Darac ran into Bonbon in the corridor. ‘How did you find Madame Halevy?’

  ‘I must say Granot’s got a knack with women. He rubs them all up the wrong way.’

  They walked through the open door into Darac’s office.

  ‘Whereas you—’

  ‘Exactly – I know how to draw a woman out.’ A stained and sticky crumple of paper emerged from his pocket. ‘Kola Kube?’

  ‘From the stall in Cours Saleya?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘In that case…’ Darac took one. ‘So what did your masterful approach elicit from Madame?’

  ‘Nothing. She didn’t recognise the man in either version of the drawing. But she didn’t bite my head off or anything.’

  ‘A triumph, Bonbon.’

  ‘She didn’t know the guy – what could I do? Anyway, I’ve had the drawings scanned for the late unlamented Carl’s friends and associates. Maybe they’ll come up trumps.’

  ‘Indeed. Meanwhile, we’ve got a movie to watch.’

  ‘The missing Masséna CCTV footage?’

  ‘The same. Frènes is joining us.’

  Bonbon’s foxy grin disappeared. ‘What for?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  A good crowd had assembled in Meeting Room A. Showing on a flat-screen TV the size of a billiard table, the movie ran for a full forty-five minutes before Agnès called, ‘Cut’.

  Sitting next to her, Public Prosecutor Jules Frènes looked put out, momentarily. A small man with a big ego, he saw it as his role to call any shots that were going. But this wasn’t the moment, it seemed, for indignation. The puckered pout gave way to an expansive smile as he stood. ‘Thank you, Commissaire. That, I think, completes our picture of what happened yesterday evening. There can be no doubt whatsoever that the unfortunate Michel Fouste did not meet his death at the hand of another, but rather at his own hand reaching too often for the bottle. Other images, too, are revealing…’

  Sitting on the end of the back row, Darac shrugged at Frankie. All the extra footage had achieved was to underline how Fouste had met his death. Astrid’s sketches remained the best likenesses they had of the chaser, the man whom Carl Halevy had tried to assassinate the following day. A secondary let-down was that there had been no sequence showing Darac’s guitar being snatched.

  As Frènes droned on, Darac ran an appraising eye over Jacques Telonne. Paying full attention during the screening itself, he looked relaxed now, reacting to Frènes’s points with nods and little affirming noises. Now and again, a white-out smile shone through the tan. A true politician.

  After more sycophantic bleatings, Frènes’s speech finally reached its climax.

  ‘And I think that we, representing as we do the twin organs of law and order in the city, can look forward with confidence to a time of unparalleled co-operation with the Mairie, should, as I fervently hope, the next municipal elections return our guest to the city council where, as the law demands, the election of mayor shall be its first task. I should like to conclude…’

  ‘With a song,’ Darac said, not quite under his breath, to Frankie.

  Frènes ploughed on. ‘I should like to conclude with the observation that Monsieur Telonne has always been a friend of the Palais de Justice and it’s a true mark of his commitment that he has come in person to examine this footage with us this evening.’

  The man raised both hands palms outwards. It was nothing.

  ‘Would you like to say a few words, monsieur?’

  ‘No, no.’ He stood. ‘However…’

  Five minutes later, the man’s speech ended on a crowd-pleasing note – a promise to help fight ‘in any way I can’ the European Court’s intention to bring French police practices into line with the rest of the continent. In particular, it seemed Telonne abhorred the move to abolish the practice of questioning suspects without the presence of ‘interfering lawyers’ in cases initiated by public prosecutors. ‘Ours, my friends,’ he’d said, ‘is a system not to abolish but to cherish. It is a system which prevents more wrongdoers from falling through the net of justice than any other.’

  On the last point, Darac had to admit Telonne was probably right. But the system only worked as advertised if the right kind of officer was asking the questions.

  ‘That was different,’ Armani said, as the meeting broke up. ‘Couldn’t Agnès D have just emailed the footage to Telonne? What’s she up to?’

  ‘Buttering him up?’ Perand said. ‘Maybe it’s Telonne who’s going to build the new Caserne. Maybe she’s angling for bigger offices or something.’

  ‘Frènes only showed up because he knew Telonne was coming. Wankers. Both of them.’

  Telonne intercepted Darac at the door. ‘Captain,’ he said, his eyes following Frankie’s fulsome figure out of the room. ‘I hear nothing but good reports of you. One of the highest clearance rates in the country, I understand.’

  A mechanical grab might just have shaken Darac’s hand with more firmness.

  ‘Thank you.’

  White-out. The hand still pumping.

  ‘And I’m reliably informed that on her retirement, you are favoured to succeed Madame Dantier as the next commissaire of the Brigade.’

  Darac smiled. So that was Agnès’s game in inviting Telonne, was it? She was feathering her protégé’s nest with the possible next mayor of the city. Darac needed friends in high places. But he would rather snuggle up to a rattlesnake than Monsieur Jacques Telonne.

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps.’

  As Telonne at last released Darac’s hand, Agnès joined them.

  ‘Paul certainly did a splendid job as acting commissaire a little while ago. Didn’t he, Monsieur Frènes?’

  ‘In a sense, he did,’ Frènes said. ‘Quite remarkable.’

  Weasel words. Darac had zero respect for Frènes and the feeling was mutual.

  ‘Well, if you’ll forgive me, monsieur.’

  ‘Of course, Captain. Your case load is heavy, I’m sure.’

  ‘And part of that case load is the guitar stolen from the parade,’ Agnès said. ‘No help from today’s CCTV, unfortunately.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Telonne said. ‘I suppose you are not devoting too many resources to the theft. Particularly after what happened at the cemetery earlier.’ The look was solicitous. ‘I was so very sorry to hear about that.’

  ‘Thank you. As for the guitar – we’re giving it the works. It’s mine, you see.’

  ‘Yours, but…?’ Suave was out. Panic, in. ‘I thought it belonged to some kid… One of the youth orchestra musicians, I mean.’

  ‘I just lent it to him for the occasion.’

  ‘Uh… Do you… are you getting anywhere with the search?’

  ‘Are you alright, monsieur?’ Frènes asked.

  ‘Of course! I am just concerned that the captain’s own instrument should have been the one taken.’ He turned back to Darac. ‘Are you near a resolution?’

  ‘Not yet but it’s very early days. There’s a lot we can do.’

  ‘Such as? I’ll… need to know these things. If I’m elected.’

  ‘May we walk and talk, monsieur? I need to get
back to my office.’

  ‘Of course.’

  As if pulled by a hidden force, Frènes began to move, too. Agnès came between them. ‘Monsieur – if you would wait a moment, there’s a matter I need to discuss with you.’

  ‘But…’ As sullen as a grounded teenager, Frènes watched his new best friend set off without him. ‘Oh, very well.’

  For all his outward gloss, Telonne walked with a heavy, flat-footed step, Darac noticed. A legacy, perhaps, of his early days as a labourer on the building sites from which he rose to run one of the largest property development companies in the area.

  ‘You say there’s a lot you can do, Captain?’

  By the time they had reached his office, Darac had outlined several methods of recovering a stolen object. They paused at his door.

  ‘And which of those approaches will you try first?’

  ‘The amnesty – no questions asked if the instrument is left in some appropriate place.’

  Granot and Bonbon were in conversation further down the corridor. Darac gave them a beckoning nod.

  ‘Presumably, Captain, you would choose somewhere where there’s CCTV – or have officers posted?’

  ‘No, no. We don’t even do that when we have a weapons amnesty, monsieur. Amnesty means just what it says.’ With scant acknowledgement to Telonne, Granot and Bonbon passed behind Darac into the office. ‘Well, now I really must—’

  ‘Indeed. Thank you.’ Telonne extended his hand. ‘Gentlemen.’

  One of Darac’s desk phones rang, cutting the handshake short.

  As Telonne walked flat-footedly away, Darac went to take the call.

  ‘Records here, Captain. I’ve got the rest of that Sylvie Galvin info you wanted.’

  ‘Go for it, Adèle.’ He wrote down the details as she went through them, and then asked, ‘A couple more things: her employment record?’

  ‘Low-paid shop work. Never did anything else.’

  ‘And Sylvie continued to work after September 2003?’

  ‘Uh… yes she did. Full time.’

  He wrote down the last couple of places she worked – both supermarkets. ‘Her address at the time of her death?’ She gave it. Darac hesitated. ‘Appartements Solferino? Sure?’

  ‘That’s what it says here.’

  ‘Okay.’ He noted the address. ‘And finally, the cause of death?’

  ‘It just says NCL.’

  ‘NCL – what’s that?’

  ‘Am I a doctor? Dunno.’

  ‘I’ll find out. Thank you, Adèle.’

  Darac sat back in his chair, his brow lowering.

  ‘What?’ Granot said, reading the signs.

  ‘Okay, you’re a full-time shelf stacker living in modest-stroke-shithole accommodation and you come into €400,000. Would you still be doing both of those things five years later?’

  Bonbon chuckled at the thought. ‘Only if the cash had gone as easily as it came.’

  ‘Following money.’ Darac gave Granot a look. ‘This means you.’

  The big man knew his worth as a paper trail chaser. ‘Naturally, but I won’t be able to follow anything until the bank opens in the morning.’

  ‘I’ve got Sylvie’s bank statement,’ Bonbon said, ‘when you want it. The one found at the cemetery.’

  Darac glanced at his watch and, as if by the power of suggestion, felt all in, suddenly. ‘Look, I’m tired and we can’t do much more on this at the moment, can we?’ He opened his notebook and folded out a page. ‘So how are you fixed for tomorrow – much on?’

  The trio discussed their schedules and put together a rough plan.

  ‘See you tomorrow, guys.’

  Darac stayed put.

  ‘You’re not leaving,’ Bonbon said. ‘I’m a detective, I notice these things.’

  ‘Just going to put up some new stuff on the guitar theft.’

  ‘The amnesty route?’

  ‘You never know. It might work.’

  12

  Laure stabbed the C# key repeatedly. Nothing in her headphones. No power light. ‘Fuck.’

  She tried the simple stuff first, examining the leads, sockets, switches. The problem was more complex. ‘Fucking power supply… Piece of shit!’

  The door banged open. The third violation of the day. But already fired up, she was ready for him this time. Whipping off her headphones, she stood. ‘Now try and trap me in my chair.’

  Telonne came no closer. Darac’s guitar lay on its back on the floor between them. ‘I want every hair and fingerprint cleaned off that. I want you to do the same to the case. Then I want you to put one inside the other and leave it outside this door.’

  Crossing her arms, she rocked her body weight on to one side. ‘And why should I do that?’

  ‘Because, Laure, we have a window of opportunity to get it back to its rightful owner.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘And do you know who that person is?’

  ‘Why should I care who the previous owner was?’

  Her father sneered. ‘Previous owner.’

  ‘Listen, it was you that taught me that if I wanted anything in life, I should go out and grab it. I did.’

  ‘You listen. That guitar belongs to a police officer. But not just any police officer. Oh no. Paul Darac is his name. A captain in the Brigade Criminelle. A clever fucking hotshot with all the resources in the world at his disposal! What do you think of that?’

  Laure couldn’t help it. She started to laugh. She, the daughter of the man tipped to become the next mayor of the city, had put him in deep shit with none other than his cause célèbre – the police. She had never known anything so funny. And she would probably have kept on laughing but for the look she finally saw in her father’s face. It wasn’t the eyeballs-out fury she was used to. He looked calm.

  ‘I said this was your last chance, Laure, and I mean it. If you don’t do as I say, you will get nothing further from me. Ever. We’ve had enough. I’ve had enough. You’ve got an hour.’

  He closed the door behind him.

  Laure stomped toward the guitar and grabbed it by the neck. Ideas crowded in. She could smash it and put the pieces in the case. How would this bastard flic like getting it back then? How would her father like it? What would that do to his campaign? She held the guitar above her head, shaping to dash it against the wall. But she stopped short. The plan was no good. Her father was bound to check the thing over before he took it.

  ‘Fuck!’

  And then she had a much better idea.

  13

  The events of the day were playing like a movie in Darac’s head as he threaded his way through the thrumming tangle of the old town, the Babazouk. Home was an apartment in Place St Sépulcre, a flagstoned courtyard squeezed into its outer edge. A car-free zone closed to non-residents, the Place had a buzzy, al fresco life of its own for most of the year. On a sharp, moonlit evening when no one was around, it had the look of a Chirico cityscape – an empty space full of sinister possibilities.

  But there was nothing at all sinister about the figure who emerged from the shadows toward him. Coming together by the carved stone well head in the centre of the Place, they kissed in greeting. For some moments, the woman held on to him.

  ‘You’ve heard, then, Suzanne?’

  ‘It was on the Nice-Matin website. With photos.’ She gave a disdainful shake of the head. ‘They don’t call these people news hounds for nothing.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Setting his weight back against the well head, he ran his hand along the cold curve of its rim. ‘You know, I’ve never noticed before but this thing wouldn’t look out of place in a cemetery, would it?’

  ‘It’s the day you’ve had, sweetie. Everything will look different tomorrow.’ She zipped up her coat. ‘Right, my patients will be wondering where I am. Actually, they won’t, but let’s think positively.’

  ‘Just quickly – I’ve got a medical question. What is NCL?’

  ‘NCL…’ Suzanne searched the roofline for an answer. ‘Non-s
omething, something… No. I don’t think I’ve ever come across it. Sorry.’

  ‘I’m going to talk to one of our people shortly so don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Ciao.’

  ‘Ciao, bella.’

  They clasped hands in farewell, and turned to go their separate ways. But Darac paused as a stray thought wandered into his head and out of his mouth.

  ‘Are you a believer, Suzanne?’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘God. Life after death – all that.’

  ‘Good God, no.’

  Darac laughed and continued on his way.

  His roof terrace overlooked the Babazouk side of the apartment house. Even on a cool evening, it was his habit to sit out for a while before going to bed. Rising sounds and smells connected him to the street life below, yet underlined his separation from it. For reasons he couldn’t explain, it was a feeling he loved. With a long, slow beer and a couple of long, slow tunes, the roof terrace wind-down was one of his favourite things in the world.

  Tonight though, he had a couple of calls to make first.

  ‘Papa?’

  The family debating society sounded to be going strong chez Darac Père.

  ‘Paul, we’re all doing well here. You?’

  ‘Fine, yes.’

  ‘Thanks for the message you left. It was such a relief to hear those bullets weren’t intended for us.’

  ‘Absolutely. Uh… you mentioned dinner. How does Friday sound? But here – I’ll cook.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Papa, I would have bet a million euros on you saying that. Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘Becoming predictable in my old age. Thank you, it would be lovely.’

  Glad to be ending the conversation on a positive note, Darac rang another number straight away.

  ‘Professor Bianchi’s office.’

  ‘Patricia? Deanna hasn’t gone home yet, has she? She was expecting me to call.’

  ‘No, Captain, she’s here.’ He heard Patricia announce him. ‘She’s coming. Despite everything that happened, I must say I enjoyed meeting your father earlier. Just like you, isn’t he?’

  ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘We haven’t,’ she said, the smile evident in her voice even on the phone. ‘Here’s the professor.’