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

  ‘Am I keeping you from something, Doctor?’

  ‘I am a senior consultant,’ he said, as if the question were the most imbecilic ever posed.

  The man’s attitude irritated Darac but he took no offence. He’d been known to push the pace along himself when the occasion demanded it. ‘As I mentioned briefly on the phone, we’re trying to trace—’ Darac’s mobile rang. ‘Excuse me.’ Showing versatility, Scalette blew out a column of air without saying anything first. Checking the caller’s ID, Darac put the phone on silent. ‘My lieutenant. He’ll leave a message.’ Darac slid Astrid’s sketches across the desk. ‘As I was saying, we are trying to trace and identify this man. He strongly resembles Sylvie, doesn’t he?’

  A glance was all it took. ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘We believe he is Sylvie’s unacknowledged and indeed, unrecorded father. As I understand it, the condition from which she died—’

  ‘Juvenile neuronal ceroid lipofuscinosis.’ Scalette closed the file. ‘A form of Batten disease.’

  Darac made a note and continued. ‘Thank you. The condition is rare and inherited, is it not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Since this is the national centre for the treatment of the disease, there’s a strong possibility that Sylvie’s father’s name, et cetera, will appear on your case files. True?’

  Scalette nodded brusquely. ‘We know from our records that the mother was not affected, but she would, of course, have been a carrier, since the disease is carried in a recessive gene. The same could be true of the father.’

  ‘Be that as it may.’

  Scalette thought about it and then opened the flap of the second file, half revealing a long list of names. He thought about it again and closed it. ‘You have a court order?’

  Well aware that at this early stage, Frènes would certainly refuse it, Darac hadn’t applied for one. You had to choose which battles to fight. ‘Not as such.’

  ‘Your application was refused?’

  ‘No, no. There just hasn’t been time to apply. And speaking of that, you’ve been very kind and your time is obviously valuable so I’d be more than happy to continue this with your records people.’ In fact, Darac had been banking on it. Preferably with a temp who didn’t know any better. ‘So if you’d just point me—’

  ‘I’m not pointing you anywhere. Our admin staff are just as au fait with the regulations regarding patient confidentiality as I am, Captain.’

  ‘You know, you really should do something about that breathing problem of yours.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Skip it. Look, we’re searching for a needle in a haystack with this thing. If the needle’s name is on that list, it would make finding him at least possible.’

  ‘Why do you want to trace this man?’

  ‘You’re in the business of saving lives, right? Give me a copy of what you have there and you could be saving this man’s life.’ He indicated the drawings. ‘Someone tried to kill him yesterday. Many times over.’

  Sitting back, Scalette drew his index fingers together and tapped them against his pursed lips. ‘So it could be argued,’ he said at length, ‘that you need to trace the patient for his own protection?’

  And because the man was at the centre of an intriguing case. But that wasn’t going to play with Scalette. ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘His own protection,’ the doctor repeated, staring off.

  The concept seeming to offer a way forward, Darac detected a slight relaxation in the man’s facial muscles. But there was some resistance, still. ‘Dr Scalette, I infer that there are people you may have to answer to about this.’

  ‘You infer correctly.’

  ‘I give you my personal guarantee that not one person on that list will be approached directly or indirectly until we’re absolutely certain—’

  ‘I am going to release the list,’ he said, turning on his photocopier.

  ‘You are? Thank you.’

  ‘Do not misunderstand, Captain. I set little store by your guarantee. But I have limitless respect for Professor Bianchi. But for her, I would not have agreed to see you in the first place.’

  ‘Deanna called?’

  Scalette copied the list and handed it over. Another shepherding arm. Another dream sequence of doors and Darac stepped out on to the apron of the hospital.

  It was then that he finally played Granot’s message.

  16

  Wearing a tuxedo and the sort of expression heavyweights sport before a bout, Jacques Telonne crossed the hall and headed for Laure’s room. No stranger to betrayal and broken promises, he entertained little hope of finding the guitar case sitting outside her door.

  It was there.

  Half expecting it to be empty, he knelt and undid the clasps. The guitar was sitting snugly in its lined recess. He could see that she had cleaned the instrument but had she bothered to remove all her prints? In a lidded compartment, he found plectrums, replacement strings and a pair of nail scissors. He was willing to bet she hadn’t even considered cleaning those or the case itself. Darac had said there would be no questions asked but Telonne couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure. And one hundred per cent was the Jacques Telonne way. He closed the clasps and picked up the case.

  In the garage, he wiped every surface of every part of the package. He was laying the instrument back into its recess when a door opened behind him.

  ‘What are you doing with that?’

  The man was aged in his early forties, strong of build and cocksure of manner.

  ‘I am not doing anything, Picot. You are. I need you to drop this off somewhere.’

  He joined Telonne at the workbench. ‘Delivery boy now as well, am I? It says “site foreman” on my hard hat.’

  Conveying that he was only just keeping the lid on his temper, Telonne fixed Picot with a look. The man shrugged, getting the message.

  ‘So where do you want me to take it?’

  Telonne closed the lid of the case and told him what he wanted.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Got a pair of clean gloves?’

  ‘In the car. And a parka.’

  ‘And you’re clear on what I want you to do?’

  ‘No problemo.’

  ‘There’d better not be a problem. This was all I needed at the moment.’

  Picot tossed the day’s Nice-Matin on to the case. ‘It mightn’t be the only thing.’

  Telonne snatched up the paper. As he speed-read the piece, incomprehension did nothing to lighten his mood. At the end of it, he lowered his perfectly trimmed eyebrows and shook his head.

  ‘This affects me how? And spit it out, Picot. I’m due at a reception shortly.’

  Picot respected Telonne the captain of industry. He respected Telonne the would-be mayor. He respected Telonne the man. But he wasn’t intimidated by him. Not for a second.

  ‘Think about it, Jacques.’

  17

  ‘You’ve had a shave, Perand?’ Granot lumbered into the squad room and set down his stuff. ‘You look almost human.’

  The young man moved to adjust his balls, but thought better of it. ‘There’s a shaver in my glove compartment at all times, as it happens.’

  Bonbon joined them. ‘You just hadn’t realised what it was for until now.’ He held out a paper bag. ‘Lemon drop, anyone?’

  ‘How were the Sisters of Mercy?’ Granot said, helping himself.

  ‘Sisterly. But they weren’t much help on Sylvie. None of them had any idea who her father was.’ He flicked the bag with his finger. ‘Flak?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Wearing a white lab coat, Erica stepped lightly into the room. Doubly glad he’d resisted the call of his balls, Perand flashed her a smile designed to suggest the world of fascinating possibilities that lay behind it.

  Her eyes were elsewhere. ‘Are those orange drops, Bonbon?’

  ‘Lemon. And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?’

  ‘Lemon? Better still.’ She slipped one into her
mouth. ‘Darac left a message asking me to come over.’

  ‘I see your young man scored another couple of tries yesterday, Erica,’ Granot said. ‘What is it now, twenty – twenty-five for the season?’

  ‘Serge isn’t counting them.’ Nonchalance gave way to glee. ‘But it’s twenty-seven!’

  Bonbon looked awestruck. ‘Serge Paulin – the Flying Flic.’ He gave Perand a look. ‘You seen the man play, Max?’ He formed his hands around an invisible tree. ‘Calves like this.’

  ‘Like a nice big calf, do you, Lieutenant?’

  ‘As you can see by my own.’ Drawing up handfuls of cloth, Bonbon airily flapped his trouser legs. ‘Call me… Spartacus.’

  Flaco didn’t lose it very often but the sound of her laughter – a lawn sprinkler on helium – was a joyful thing.

  Granot chose to ignore the horseplay. ‘Serge could play at a higher level, couldn’t he? For one of the really big clubs, even.’

  Erica’s face fell. ‘Don’t say that. If he went off to Toulouse or somewhere, I’d never see him.’

  ‘Pity,’ Perand said.

  Bonbon pulled up a chair. ‘Enough of the gods who walk among us. For a moment, I thought I’d cracked it at the convent. About where Sylvie Galvin’s four hundred grand might have gone, I mean. I thought she might have donated it to the sisters.’

  ‘And she hadn’t?’

  ‘No, and our paper chaser par excellence here soon discovered why she couldn’t have.’

  Granot accepted the compliment with a grunt. ‘She never had it to give, Erica. Not for a second.’ He showed her the statement. ‘This is a one hundred per cent genuine fake.’

  ‘May I?’ Erica took it.

  ‘There are no microchips or anything,’ Granot said.

  ‘I took Foch’s forgery course last year, you know.’ She held it up to the light. ‘And came top.’

  ‘So what do you think of this one?’

  ‘Good.’ She handed it back. ‘But not quite good enough. That’s what you’re supposed to say.’

  ‘Sylvie is a dummy in this thing, isn’t she?’ Bonbon drew his knees up under his chin. ‘A pawn in a bigger game.’

  Flaco shook her head. ‘You know if we hadn’t interviewed so many people this morning who knew Sylvie, I might even question whether she really existed.’

  ‘That is beyond doubt,’ Granot said. ‘One of the few things about this business that is.’

  Making a signature entrance, Darac walked in sipping an industrial-sized espresso. ‘Erica, can you scan these and get them up on the projector?’ He handed her Dr Scalette’s list of male NCL sufferers and the anonymous donor’s note from Marvais et Fils. ‘Thanks.’

  Narrowing her eyes, Erica rested a hand on her hip. ‘This isn’t why you called me in?’

  ‘No. Well, partly.’

  ‘None of you geniuses knows how to use a scanner and a data projector?’

  Perand was a cool, smart-mouthed boy. Except when he was around Erica. ‘I can,’ he said.

  ‘I can,’ Flaco parroted, doing her best to sound like a fawning ninny. ‘We all can, Erica.’

  ‘I just thought you’d be interested in developments,’ Darac said. ‘Especially as you were there when this thing started.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Unconvinced, Erica anchored a skein of her fine blond hair behind one ear, and fed the first sheet into the scanner.

  Darac parked his backside on an empty desk. ‘One of the things Erica has there comes from an interesting little detour I made before I went off to Marseille.’

  As Darac recounted his experience at Marvais et Fils, Bonbon, whose wiry frame had all the capacity for contortion of a pipe cleaner, bent himself into an increasingly tortured position in his chair. At the end of the account, his face was a picture of incredulity.

  ‘Twenty-five grand in cash?’

  Perand grinned. ‘Talk about dodgy.’ It was his turn for a little voice work. ‘Ah, Monsieur Marvais – give us an empty tomb and look the other way a minute, will you? Here’s a little something extra for your trouble.’

  ‘They properly recorded the transaction, remember,’ Granot said.

  Bonbon shook his head. ‘But that doesn’t guarantee everything lying under that slab is above board.’

  Darac nodded. ‘And it seems significant that this new grave has in-perpetuity occupancy. What you would do if you didn’t want it to be disturbed at some point in the future.’

  Flaco turned to Darac. ‘Do you believe Sylvie’s remains are actually in the grave, Captain?’

  ‘They should be. We’ll soon know. Even Frènes didn’t argue over the exhumation order. That’s how strange this is.’

  Erica had finished her task. ‘Alright, I’ve made and logged the files. Want to throw them into the mix?’

  ‘Go for it.’

  She threw a switch on the data projector and a list of names formed on a cleared section of wall. Most bore annotations in Darac’s handwriting.

  ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘The Hôpital de la Timone in Marseille is the national treatment centre for NCL. It’s highly likely that one of its patients is Sylvie’s father. There are a hundred and eighty-seven names altogether. The men I’ve crossed out have birth dates that rule them out as potential fathers for Sylvie. Giving plenty of latitude, that leaves forty-seven names. There are a number of approaches we can adopt…’

  Silently mouthing one of the entries, Bonbon sat back in his seat, tapping his chin. For a moment, he couldn’t place it. Then it came to him. ‘We may only need one of them, chief.’

  Next to him, Granot gave the desk a rap. He was there, too.

  ‘Delmas. Pierre Delmas,’ they said, more or less in unison.

  The name only half registered with Darac. ‘Delmas?’ He stared off. ‘It’s familiar but I can’t pinpoint it.’

  Granot shifted his weight back in his chair. ‘That’s because you didn’t have anything to do with the case. You were on your secondment in Paris.’ His grizzled old mug took on a nostalgic look. ‘Twelve glorious months without a single reference to jazz. Those were the days.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. And the case was?’

  ‘The Société Provençale Robbery of 2003.’ Granot smiled proprietorially. ‘Ever heard of that?’

  ‘So-Pro? Of course. The gang was unusually astute, wasn’t it? It was bad luck for them that they were up against Agnès; even though, in the end, it took a tip-off to close out the case. You were on it from the start, Granot?’

  ‘I most certainly was.’

  ‘I wasn’t on the strength until some months later,’ Bonbon said, typing Delmas’s name into the police database. ‘I was here for the trial, though.’

  ‘What was the most notable thing about this robbery?’ Granot enjoyed playing quizmaster. ‘Come on, Captain Brains.’

  ‘Easy. It was a copycat of the Société Générale job of ’76. More or less.’

  ‘It was indeed.’

  Even Perand seemed impressed. ‘So-Gén? It’s world famous.’

  ‘They made a movie of it,’ Erica said, attracting the young man’s gaze once more. ‘And there are documentaries.’

  Flaco nodded. ‘I saw one not long ago. The thieves left a message in the vault: We did this without… weapons or violence or…?”’

  Granot smiled, warming to his role as éminence grise on the case. ‘Hate, it was. Now fast forward to May 2003 and the Société Provençale. The thieves got into the vault on a Friday evening. By dawn on the Monday, they’d chalked the exact same message on the strongroom wall and made off with over nineteen million in cash, jewellery and other valuables. A perfect crime – the “So-Pro” robbery in more senses than one. But it turned out the gang hadn’t been quite as Pro as the press gave them credit for. Just a few days later, everything was recovered. Everything. The “So-Am” robbery, they called it, in the end.’

  ‘That’s who Pierre Delmas is.’ Darac clicked his fingers. ‘He went down for it, didn’t he? In fact, he was the only one
of the gang who did. He was, what – the getaway driver?’

  ‘He was the inside man. Worked for a firm that handled security at the bank. Got ten years.’

  ‘Question, Captain?’ Flaco said. ‘It’s an interesting development and I can see the connection Delmas might have to Sylvie Galvin through this disease. But so might others. Delmas could still be in prison, even.’

  Bonbon angled his screen to Granot. The big man nodded. Bonbon turned it to face the others. ‘Have a look at this mug shot, guys.’

  A balding man with a fleshy face and dark, deep-set eyes stared back at them.

  ‘It’s Astrid’s sketch.’ Perand yawned. ‘All over again.’

  ‘Now I know who he is,’ Bonbon said, ‘I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it before.’

  Granot shook his jowly chops. ‘I saw a lot more of him than you did and I didn’t get it. His face is a lot fatter now, to be fair.’

  Bonbon scrolled the page. ‘Well, look at that. You were wondering if the man is still inside, Flak? He isn’t. Got out a couple of years early.’ The foxiest of grins. ‘Two days ago, to be exact.’

  Erica gave Darac a look. ‘That’s the day we went to the Parade of Lights.’

  ‘It is indeed.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Fresh out of prison and straight to the parade. Interesting.’

  Perand treated the others to one of his smugger looks. ‘Delmas was the only one of the gang to go down? I bet I know where the others are. At least some of them. They’re residing in a cash-sale grave in Vence.’

  18

  ‘There was no one in, Lieutenant.’

  Granot’s reply began with a belch. ‘Sorry, Perand, my guts are rotten this morning. No one in? So get the owner or the concierge to let you in.’

  ‘Delmas is the owner. And there’s no one on site who could let me in at the moment.’

  ‘Got a man staked out?’

  Perand kept the mobile to his ear as he knocked on the apartment next door. ‘Yes. Next time Delmas shows, he’ll pick him up.’