Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3) Page 8

  ‘Darac. It’s been quite a day for you.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘And are you alright? Don’t just say “yeah, yeah” like you usually do.’

  ‘In that case, I don’t know what to say to you. Except, what’s NCL?’

  ‘NCL?’ Deanna’s tobacco-rasped voice lost all its playfulness. ‘There isn’t anything you’ve been keeping from me, is there?’

  ‘Lots of things, I should imagine. What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m just a bit distracted here. Why do you want to know about NCL?’

  ‘It’s cited as the COD of a young woman we’re interested in. I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘Ah. And you’ve never heard of the Internet, either?’

  ‘The Internet doesn’t talk back. Especially at your level.’

  ‘You have recovered the situation nicely. NCL stands for neuronal ceroid lipofuscinosis. It’s a condition in which excessive lipopigments form in body tissues, with inevitable and horrible consequences.’

  ‘Excessive pigment? Doesn’t sound all that drastic.’

  ‘It’s one hundred per cent fatal. So now you know, you can stop wasting my time.’

  ‘That’s my Deanna. Why the wobble just now? Did you think I’d contracted it? I’m touched.’

  ‘Nobody contracts NCL. It’s an inherited condition.’

  ‘Inherited?’ Darac stared at the floor. ‘It’s rare, I take it?’

  ‘I couldn’t give you the incidence percentage off the top of my head – which you probably could get on the Internet, by the way – but it’s very, very low.’

  ‘Alright, someone has NCL. Where do they go for treatment?’

  ‘Just one place – the Hôpital de la Timone in Marseille.’

  14

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  The man was seventy years of age, grey around the temples, and grey everywhere else. Officer Max Perand checked his notebook and tried again.

  ‘But you’ve been living in this block since February 2002, monsieur. Right?’

  A shrug.

  ‘You have. And you’ve been living in this actual apartment since January 2006. Mademoiselle Sylvie Galvin lived directly opposite you’ – he made a hooking motion with his thumb – ‘for over two years.’

  The man scratched his scrotum. Perand, who wasn’t above such moves in public himself, suddenly realised how unsavoury it looked.

  ‘So?’

  ‘You must have known her.’

  ‘I knew her but I didn’t know her, if you know what I mean.’

  Perand stared away down the corridor for a moment. ‘I am going to arrest you, Monsieur Pilart, for obstructing an officer in the course of his duty—’

  ‘That is shit! That is a load of—’

  ‘Unless!’

  The shout echoed around the peeling plasterwork. Two or three doors opened. Heads appeared.

  ‘Unless you start co-operating.’ Perand was aware of the heads suddenly. They shot back in. ‘Now, tell me all you know about Mademoiselle Sylvie Galvin.’

  By the time Perand left Appartements Solferino, he had learned little of real value but some things had emerged. It seemed Sylvie Galvin had occupied the polite, reserved, shy, withdrawn band of the personality spectrum. She was described variously as ‘fat’, ‘big’, ‘obese’, ‘solid’. Yet she was sometimes ‘weak’, ‘sickly’ and even ‘frail’. Sylvie had never spoken of family or friends. No one gave any credence to the idea that she could have come into money. And no one recognised Astrid’s drawings of the man who visited her grave and was almost assassinated for his trouble.

  * * *

  Flaco fared little better at the two Megaprix supermarkets Sylvie had worked in latterly. The flustered HR manager’s dossier on the young woman characterised a ‘willing and honest but limited and unconfident employee’. Frequent absences for ill health also counted against her, he confided. The manager was, of course, ‘devastated’ to hear of her death. Fellow checkout staff remembered her as a sad, mousy woman who nobody felt they knew.

  None of her erstwhile colleagues could envisage Sylvie having come into money. And although some noted the resemblance between the man in Astrid’s sketches and Sylvie herself, none had ever seen him or could recall her ever mentioning such a person.

  * * *

  Part place of worship, part going concern, the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy in Vallauris was an impressive set-up. While he waited for the mother superior to appear for the promised interview, Bonbon’s tour of the winery, apiary, and garden furniture workshop proved interesting and instructive. It also gave him an idea about Sylvie Galvin.

  He was just about to be shown the kitchen garden when, in a brisk crunching of gravel, a Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up smartly behind him. At the wheel was a sharp-featured woman with a weather-beaten complexion.

  ‘Ah, here’s Mother Anne now.’

  Following the introductions, the convent’s senior bride of Christ dismissed Bonbon’s guide and took over the role herself. He wasted little time in getting down to brass tacks.

  ‘Reverend Mother, apart from its principle activities, this is a highly productive, well-to-do institution, is it not?’

  ‘I am happy to say that it is. But I thought the purpose of our meeting was to discuss Sylvie?’

  ‘Bear with me, if you please. Mademoiselle Galvin lived very humbly, yet we know a considerable sum of money was paid into her current account five years before she died in 2008.’

  If it was news to the Mother Superior, she didn’t show it. ‘I see.’

  ‘From talking to a couple of the sisters here, I understand Sylvie was a dear soul.’

  Mother Anne’s smile was a thing of lofty forbearance. ‘Lieutenant Busquet, all souls are dear to God.’

  Bonbon, entering his twenty-first year in the Brigade, reflected that God must be a particularly forgiving deity. ‘I’ll rephrase that. I meant that Sylvie was a very pleasant and dutiful girl when she was here.’

  ‘She was, indeed.’

  ‘And that makes me wonder if, having come into the fortune I mentioned earlier, Sylvie may have given that sum away. Perhaps to you, Reverend Mother. To your convent, I mean.’

  Mother Anne’s attention was drawn to a novice hoeing by the far wall.

  ‘Sister Teresa, remember to nip the weeds off with the blade! You’re just pushing them around! Nip them! That’s better… I’m sorry, Lieutenant. What did you say?’

  ‘I asked if Sylvie Galvin donated a considerable sum of money to the convent?’

  ‘She did not.’

  ‘She could have done so anonymously.’

  Mother Anne graced Bonbon with another smile. ‘In that case, we would have no way of knowing if she had or not, would we?’

  ‘A sum in the region of €400,000 would carry a pretty strong identity of its own, though, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I assure you, Lieutenant, that for the period to which you refer, our accounts will show no such donation.’ She indicated a small, single-storey brick building adjoining the winery. ‘Our offices. You are free to examine the books, by all means.’

  ‘Thank you. Before I do – do you have any clue as to the identity of Sylvie’s father?’

  ‘None. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’

  In the office, Bonbon examined the books with a comb almost as fine-toothed as the one traditionally wielded by Granot. By the time he walked back to his car, he’d arrived at a firm conclusion. Unless someone had broken up Sylvie’s windfall into subatomic-sized particles, she had not blown the sum on the Sisters of Mercy.

  Although he had ultimately drawn a blank, Bonbon didn’t drive away from the convent entirely empty-handed. A half-case of rosé, an assortment of honeys and two baskets of freshly pulled veg wasn’t a bad return.

  * * *

  Leaning back in his chair, Granot, desk phone to one ear and his finger in the other, yawned extravagantly. The obsequious young man he was talking to from the Crédit Bal-Med bank
had said, ‘I’ll just be a minute, sir,’ a full five minutes before. Granot was inspecting his finger for wax when the man finally did come back.

  ‘Lieutenant?’

  ‘Still here.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, sir, but I now have the information you requested.’

  Granot shifted his bulk forward and picked up his pen. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘The current account statement of Mademoiselle Galvin that you faxed me?’

  Granot glanced at the original in front of him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Galvin did have an account with us and the number on this statement tallies with the number of that account. But I can find no record of the certified cheque of €400,000 referred to in it. It seems that the deposit never happened.’

  Granot’s eyes locked on the entry as if the figures might suddenly rearrange into an explanation.

  ‘Are you still there, Lieutenant?’

  ‘You say the transaction never happened. But could the amount have been paid in just for a second or two and then disappeared? Perhaps the result of an error?’

  ‘That is… not impossible. I will have to look further to determine it, though, sir. Might take an hour or two.’

  ‘That’s fine. Call me back when you have an answer. Wait. Does the address on the statement tally with your records for Mademoiselle Galvin?’

  ‘Appartements Solferino, 17, Les Moulins… Yes, that too is correct.’

  ‘Thank you, monsieur. I’ll await your call.’

  He hung up and hit speed dial. ‘Good – you’re still here,’ he said when Darac answered.

  ‘I’m not heading off to Marseille until later. What’s up?’

  Granot relayed the news.

  ‘I’ll be right in.’

  * * *

  Granot was sitting back in his chair, his hams of forearms crossed in contemplation.

  ‘So the four hundred grand didn’t exist but the account did?’ Darac said.

  ‘It didn’t exist in any real way for Sylvie.’ Granot unfolded his arms and sat forward. ‘But it doesn’t look like conventional money laundering. There, the money definitely goes into an account and definitely goes out.’ He indicated the statement. ‘According to this, the money went in and stayed in.’

  Darac stared off for a moment. ‘You haven’t seen Sylvie’s grave, have you, Granot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think Versailles.’

  Darac looked at his watch. There was just time.

  * * *

  Marvais et Fils was one of the area’s longest established firms of undertakers. Darac was greeted by a tall, sober young man wearing a sober suit. ‘I am pleased to have taken your call, Captain. I am Benoit Marvais – the fifth generation of the family to have had the honour of serving the community.’

  ‘In their various hours of need.’

  Marvais didn’t quite know how to take the remark. ‘Indeed. Please follow me.’

  Marvais led Darac through a suite of showrooms and chapels into a private office at the rear of the premises.

  ‘So – Galvin, Sylvie Marie,’ he said, booting up the computer. ‘And may I say on behalf of my father and our whole organisation, Captain, that we were utterly dismayed at yesterday’s events. Desecration of a loved one’s grave is the bitterest of pills for the family. And to have actually witnessed it. And to have been almost killed in the process – words fail me.’ The young man’s expression took on even graver sobriety. ‘Might I enquire—?’

  ‘No sale, Marvais. We’ve approached Louis Frégaux to rebuild my mother’s grave.’

  Lowering his eyes, the young man inclined his head. ‘Of course.’

  The computer came to life. The screen wallpaper, Darac noticed, was a team shot of Nice’s football team, Le Gym.

  Marvais’ composure slipped a couple of notches. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Please forgive this, Captain. No one sees this as a rule. Members of the public, I mean.’

  ‘According to one of my lieutenants, the team are a deadly bunch this season anyway. So…’ Darac gave a shrug in lieu of a punchline.

  ‘That’s very good.’ The smile fading as soon as it formed, the young man sat down and began scrolling through screens. ‘Galvin, Sylvie Marie… I’m not familiar with the name, I’m afraid – I’ve only just started here, actually. I’ve worked at our branch down in Antibes since leaving school. I’ll have it for you in a moment.’

  Darac gave the place the once-over as he waited. On a filing cabinet was a stack of magazines published by the Society of Crematistes. He picked one up and opened it. And put it down again immediately. A pegboard leaning against a door that gave into a yard caught his eye. Attached to it was a display of numbered coffin handles.

  ‘Old stock on its way out,’ the young man said. ‘Literally. I was on my way to the yard with it when you arrived.’

  ‘Coffin handles date?’ he said, idiotically picking out B3 as his handle du choix.

  ‘My father doesn’t think so but we must look forward. Go with the times. Ah – Galvin, Sylvie. Here we are. There appear to be two interments. Which are you interested in?’

  The transfer of bodily remains from final resting place to even more final resting place was a fairly common practice in the area. But it was invariably a downscaling move.

  ‘I think you’d better give me both.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Sobriety once more. ‘On the first occasion, which was 26 April 2008, our non-living client had preselected the—’

  ‘Look, Monsieur Marvais – forget the patter, just use plain language, alright?’

  ‘In that case, the first interment was a plywood and niche job. Perfectly decent but basic.’

  ‘Do you have a list of the mourners’ names, by any chance?’

  ‘None is kept.’

  ‘Alright – who paid for it?’

  Marvais consulted the screen. ‘The deceased herself. Insurance policy.’

  ‘What sort of occupancy did she pay for?’

  ‘The remains would have been removed…’ He checked the screen. ‘After four years.’

  ‘But the second funeral obviated that necessity.’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘What date was that?’

  ‘It was… 11 June last year.’

  ‘Occupancy?’

  ‘The term… is in perpetuity.’

  Marvais read on. His face tightened. His cheeks flushed slightly.

  ‘The cost of this second interment, monsieur?’

  ‘Uh…’ Marvais attempted a matter-of-fact lightness. ‘It was twenty-five thousand euros.’

  Darac nodded. ‘Twenty-five grand. A tidy sum. And a conveniently round one.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Who paid?’

  An adjustment of the tie. A dry-lipped smile. ‘An anonymous benefactor paid, actually. Our lives are like stones in a pond, aren’t they; they send out many—’

  ‘Let me guess. He paid in cash, didn’t he? Or she?’

  For effect, Marvais checked the screen. ‘Do you know, he – or she – did. Very generous.’

  ‘Who dealt with the matter?’

  ‘There’s a note here. The instruction and the money arrived in an envelope. Cécile, our secretary at the time, opened it. It was signed simply, “a friend”.’

  ‘Let me see the screen.’

  ‘Certainly, Captain.’ Marvais was all readiness to help. ‘We have nothing to hide.’

  ‘What, this is an everyday occurrence in your industry, is it? Receiving vast cash sums anonymously to pay for a “friend’s” funeral?’

  ‘It is unconventional but it’s not against the law, Captain. I assure you that all the proper offices were performed, and all the regulations were observed in relation to the second interment of Mademoiselle Galvin.’

  The note tallied with Marvais’ recital.

  ‘There, you see,’ he said. ‘It’s as I indicated. Now, if you’ll forgive me—’

  ‘Are you a religious man,
Marvais?’

  A knife to the heart could not have wounded him more. ‘Of course!’

  ‘In that case you’d better pray that that twenty-five grand was declared. Show me the year’s accounts.’

  Glassy-eyed, ashen-faced, Marvais could have stood in for one of his ‘non-living clients’. ‘It’s not that easy. We need notice of—’

  ‘What you need notice of is the fact that I can close down this entire operation with one phone call.’

  Silence.

  ‘Oh… very well.’

  Marvais got somewhat unsteadily to his feet, yanked open a drawer and extracted a folder. He set it on the desk and riffled through its various sections, slowing as he neared the relevant month. He looked as if he might indeed be sending up a prayer as he paused before turning the final page.

  ‘There! I told you! Fully declared and completely legiti— completely observant of the rules and regulations.’

  ‘Good. Now let’s see Cécile’s note.’

  ‘The note? I’m not sure we would have that.’

  ‘You’ve got…’ He performed a rough count. ‘Fifteen filing cabinets there labelled “Correspondence”. Try “A” for “Anonymous”.’

  By the time Marvais found it, an MTV screensaver had kicked in on the computer.

  ‘Here’s a receipt for the note,’ Darac said, taking it. ‘Which is more than your company issued for the cash. Goodbye for now.’

  ‘For now?’

  ‘Well, you’ll want to be around when we perform the exhumation.’ Shifting the handle display to one side, Darac opened the door into the yard. ‘I’ll go out this way.’

  He left the young man to last year’s hardware and Lady Gaga.

  15

  Pairs of identical glass doors regressing into the distance gave the corridor the look of a movie dream sequence.

  ‘Captain?’ Dream over. The consultant was short, sharp and in a hurry. A shepherding arm directed Darac into a light, bright office. ‘Victor Scalette.’

  ‘I spoke to your secretary on the phone,’ Darac said, turning, but Scalette was already past him.

  ‘Sit, please.’ Facing the indicated chair was a desk on which sat just two files. Scalette sat down and opened the uppermost one in a single continuous action, though not before Darac managed to read Sylvie Galvin’s name on the cover label. ‘So, Captain.’ Scalette concluded the utterance, as he had every previous one, with a long, impatient exhalation.