Impure Blood (12 page)

‘Granot says the man was in shock earlier. He’ll be even more shocked when he hears what one of his trusted members of staff had in his pocket.’ Darac shifted his weight back from the filing cabinet and straightened. ‘With all this in mind, I gave Frankie a call over in Vice. She’s agreed to come in with us on this thing. There’s no better officer – full stop. And if it transpires kids are involved, she’s particularly brilliant.’

As Darac paused to check his notes, Perand leaned brightly in to Flaco.

‘This might be my first child-rape case.’

Flaco gave him a wide-eyed look.

‘Hey that’s great!’ Pseudo-excitement morphed into disgust. ‘Pea brain.’

Saving Perand further punishment, the Brigade’s IT specialist, Erica Lamarth, pranced into the room at that moment. Tall and slender with a girlish face framed by straight, centre-parted blond hair, Erica was something of a pin-up for the boys at the Caserne. Or most of them. Darac saw her slightly differently: she reminded him of a spectacular Afghan hound an aunt had owned when he was a child. It was a positive association for him but, realising Erica probably wouldn’t see it that way, he’d kept it to himself.

‘Sorry it’s taken me so long to get here.’ She set down an evidence bag. ‘Tricky computer issue to sort out at Foch.’

‘Good to see you,’ Darac said, smiling. ‘You get all the mobiles?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Before you go on, Emil Florian was carrying a date-rape drug when he was killed. Of course, it may have been something he found and was about to hand over to us. But something tells me not, somehow.’

‘So he wasn’t just a victim, then. Interesting.’ Hooking strands of her blond hair first behind one ear, then the other, she bent to fish the mobiles out of her bag. ‘In that case, these may prove even more significant.’ She set them down on the filing cabinet. ‘Okay, Eenie – Emil Florian’s. Meenie – Mansoor Narooq’s. Minie – Slimane Bahtoum’s. Obviously, I had no pass code for Florian’s and the boys were unforthcoming about theirs, but here goes. As I’ve only had time to have a bit of a play with Florian’s, I’ll start with his.’ She held it up. ‘Alright – at 12.10 this lunchtime, Florian made a call. It didn’t connect. It was the last call he made and none came in before he died over an hour later. Obviously, we don’t know the reason he made that call. It might have been important; it might have been totally insignificant. The intended recipient, though, was not. He or she was designated as speed-dial key one on Florian’s phone – so whoever it was, they were obviously close to him. The closest of anyone, presumably.’

‘Most likely be his brother Jean,’ Perand said. ‘Lives in Paris. And his number’s disconnected too, we’ve discovered – hence the call not going through.’

‘It’s unlikely to be him,’ Erica said, re-anchoring her hair. ‘Florian called the same number six separate times the day before. All those calls connected.’

Perand shrugged, conceding the point.

‘Been any calls from that number in the last couple of hours?’ Darac said.

‘No.’

‘Might be coincidental. Might mean the caller knew Florian was dead. Keep his phone powered up from now on, Erica.’

Wearing an awestruck expression, she pointed at Darac as if he’d come up with the idea of the century.

‘
That
is good.’

‘Of course you were going to do that.’ He smiled. ‘Got a name to link with the speed-dial number?’

‘Indeed I have. It’s listed as “Manou” in the memory.
Man
ou?’ she repeated, raising her almost hairless eyebrows.

Darac stiffened.

‘Ah.’ He had almost made up his mind that the cousins had been innocent bystanders at the death of a man they knew nothing about. But Manou could easily have been a pet name for Mansoor. Or, less likely, for Slimane. ‘My friends call me Slim,’ he’d said in the prayer room – maybe in an attempt to mislead.

Erica prised open the phones.

‘“Ah” indeed. So let’s find out if one of these two is Manou.’

Flaco seemed puzzled.

‘Erica – why didn’t you just run the Manou number past the service provider?’

‘Because demos are much more fun.’

Incomprehension turned to surprise on the younger woman’s face.

‘And they’re more foolproof, but I’m just kidding. I did call them initially, but not for the first time, their accounts computer is down.’

It was Perand’s turn to look puzzled.

‘Uh… how are you going to bypass the pass codes on the phones?’

Erica treated him to the sort of look a benign teacher might reserve for a slow pupil.

‘I’m going to read them off the memory chips, sweetie.’

‘Yes,’ he nodded sagely. ‘That’ll do it.’

Slimane’s mobile was the first to glow into life. Moments later, a customised welcome tone poured a little Afropop into the room.

‘Okay, let’s call our Manou and see if one of these rings.’ Erica picked up Florian’s mobile. ‘I’m looking forward to this, myself.’

‘Hold it a second, Erica.’ Darac finally ran his hand out of his hair. ‘There’s a better way, isn’t there?’

‘Is there?’

‘If Manou turns out to be neither Mansoor nor Slimane…’

‘I’ll bet you he is.’ Perand smiled his lopsided smile. ‘Monsieur Manou Narooq to be exact.’

‘He may be,’ Darac continued. ‘But supposing he isn’t. The real Manou will think Florian’s ringing him, won’t he? We could verify the Slimane/Mansoor connection simply by comparing their mobile numbers with the number for Manou on Florian’s phone.’

Erica’s hair escaped the anchor of her ears as she weighed the point.

‘Slightly less showbiz but I agree, it’s safer.’ She handed over Slimane’s phone. ‘Here, you take that one, Captain. And you take Mansoor’s, Perand. I’ll bring up Manou’s number.’ She began scrolling through Florian’s address book, found the number for Manou and left it displayed. ‘There you go.’

A moment later, Darac had come up with Slimane’s own number. He checked it against the number on Florian’s screen. It didn’t match.

‘Manou isn’t Slimane.’ With a loose fist, Darac began tapping out a little Latin rhythm on the filing cabinet as they waited for Perand. And waited.

‘I can find every shitting number but Narooq’s own.’

Erica reprised her teacher’s voice.

‘From the main menu, find Address Book and then select T for This Mobile.’

‘I tell you what’s better still.’ Perand was tiring of playing the loser. ‘Why don’t I just ask the guy? He’s only sitting ten metres…’

As if in reaction, the sound of Mansoor’s voice piped up from Darac’s office next door. It was loud and getting louder. Sounds of a scuffle now. Chairs scraping. Shouting. Darac was first out of the door, the others following hard behind.

‘What the…?’

They found Mansoor’s custodian looking helplessly out of an open window. His gun was still holstered, Darac noticed, pushing him quickly aside. But as he looked down into the compound, the question of whether Mansoor had absconded with a loaded weapon became an academic one, anyway. The boy was lying on his back, his legs twisted under him. There was no blood but he wasn’t moving.

‘What the hell happened, Dax?’

‘I don’t know, Captain. He suddenly flipped. Got past me somehow… Opened the window and jumped. Completely out of the blue. I swear, sir.’

‘Shit. He’s dead,’ Perand said, nudging in next to Darac. ‘But it’s only a few metres down.’

Dax put his hands together as if in prayer.

‘I grabbed at his ankle as he jumped and it upended him. He landed… all wrong.’

Looking for any sign of hope, Darac stared hard into the boy’s expressionless face.

‘Come on!’

Perand stepped back from the window, allowing Flaco in. He turned to Erica.

‘Jesus. Frènes nearly had a heart attack when he thought a civilian had killed a Muslim. Now one of us has.’

Figures from all over the compound were advancing towards the body. Darac kept staring, willing the boy to open his eyes. ‘Give one back from the twenty-five thousand,’ he’d said. Maybe Darac should have tried.

Quite suddenly, Mansoor’s face contorted in pain.

‘He’s alive!’ Darac quickly ran an eye over the advancing officers. As far as he could see, none had drawn a weapon. ‘And unarmed!’ Better safe than sorry.

Mansoor tried to get to his feet as the first officers arrived on the scene. He almost made it but, holding his left shoulder, he slewed and sank back on to his right side. A woman Darac recognised as one of the dispatchers exchanged a few words with the boy and then tentatively tested his limbs for movement.

Flaco looked back into the room over her shoulder.

‘He’s moving.’

In the doorway, Erica exhaled deeply and uncrossed her fingers.

‘But what made him do that?’

Perand turned to her.

‘How about hearing his mobile being turned on in the next room? He’s our Manou, alright. And he’s an all-action guy, you’ve got to say. Running out of crowds, jumping out of windows…’

The dispatcher looked up at Darac.

‘What happened, Captain?’

‘It’s unclear. What’s the damage?’

‘Don’t think he’s broken anything but there is some trauma to the shoulder. And to his right leg. There’s soft-tissue damage in a number of places and he’s concussed, I think. Apart from that, he looks in reasonable shape.’

‘I’m sending someone down. Hang on.’ He eyeballed Dax. ‘You’ll have to pen a detailed account of what just happened. Obviously.’

‘Yes, Captain.’

Still standing well back from the window, Erica waved a mobile to catch Darac’s eye. Mouthing ‘Give me two seconds,’ he turned to Flaco.

‘In a moment, I want you to get down there and detail a uniform to help you escort Mansoor over to St Roch. Stay with him. Assuming the medicos release him within an hour or two, bring him back here. I’ll talk to him later. If they want to keep him in, call Charvet to arrange your relief. Someone must be with Mansoor at all times.’

Realising that with every week that passed, more and more trust was being placed in her, Flaco’s full lips betrayed just a hint of a smile.

‘Right, Captain.’

‘Before you do that, though –’ Darac gave Erica a nod ‘– back to our identity crisis.’

‘Hang on a second, Captain.’ Perand looked uncomfortable suddenly. ‘The trolley woman – supposing we get a hit from Lartou’s photo and Flaco’s still over at the hospital. What do I do?’

‘Is that a serious question?’

‘Well…’

‘You’ll just have to go and interview the woman without your big sister to look after you, won’t you? In the meantime you can catch up with your paperwork.’ Eyebrows high in amazement, Darac gave a clearing shake of the head and turned to Erica. ‘Finally.’

‘Yes – so. This is the Manou number on Florian’s phone which we discovered didn’t match Slimane’s.’ Like a conjurer showing an audience a secret card, she let them all see the displayed number. Now she held up the second phone. ‘And this is Mansoor’s own number.’ It didn’t match. ‘So unless they have other mobiles, which of course they could have, Florian’s best friend Manou is neither Slimane nor Mansoor.’

‘That is a relief.’ For Darac, at least. ‘Thanks, Erica. Okay, we’ll have a team meeting to discuss progress later on – time TBA. For now, Flaco – off you go.’

‘I’ll report back, Captain.’

Darac turned to Erica.

‘It would still be useful to find Manou. Did the service provider give any idea when their computer will be up and running?’

‘They didn’t.’

‘Okay.’ Darac ran a hand through his hair. ‘Maybe we’ll find out all about him at Florian’s apartment.’

‘We might be able to take the maybe out of it.’ Erica opened a new message on Florian’s phone. ‘What shall I put – “come to the apartment”?’

‘Proactive.’ Perand had the look of a punter who knew he’d finally picked a winner. ‘I like it.’

‘If Manou happens to live in Nantes or Naples or New York, he might find that an odd message to receive.’ Darac picked up his desk phone. ‘But once I’ve made a few calls, there is something you can do, Erica. Something far more useful.’

Still 21.2.

There was a new one on duty. A redhead. Pretty. Scatty. A comedian. Everything was funny to her. Especially herself. ‘What am I like?’ she kept saying. I could tell you what you are like. You are a moron. At least, I would say it if I could. But I can still communicate. I can blink. Once for yes, twice for no. And I can hear. God, how I can hear. I can hear and understand every puerile utterance you spew into the air. Don’t you realise that?

Oh yes, if I stay alive long enough, I will know all about you, won’t I? In a few captive minutes, I already know that you don’t like fish; that your boyfriend is a plumber; that he’s very handy in general and plays football. I know that you fancy William from
Télématin
and once dreamed that you shared a hot-air-balloon ride with him over Paris. You were nude. I know your mother had rheumatoid arthritis before a visit to Lourdes completely cured her. And I know that you like your job because it’s so meaningful, yet you can still have a great laugh with everybody.

The moron’s face.

‘Isn’t that right, darling?’

She didn’t wait for a response.

‘I thought he was getting the TV?’ she said to the black one.

‘As a matter of fact, he didn’t want it.’

No! That is not a matter of fact. It was a mistake.

‘Didn’t want it?’ the red-headed one said, surprised.

Ask me if I’m sure. Please.

Her face.

‘I don’t blame you, darling. Who wants to watch a lot of stupid cyclists all day?’

I do. I want it more than anything in the world. That’s what I’m like.

‘Right. He’s all done and dusted, bless him.’

Her face.

‘See you soon!’

Yes. No doubt you will.

The lovely fat one. She is my only hope.

Wait a minute. Is that 21.3?

No.

21.2.

My mistake.

Born and bred in nearby Vence and living in Nice itself for the past ten years, Darac was about as local as a local police officer could be. But familiarity hadn’t immunised him against the extraordinary beauty of the Côte d’Azur. Nowhere else gave him the same lift. He was driving along the palm-shaded arc of Boulevard des Anglais, a perfect parabola within which the Baie des Anges glittered like shards of silver-flecked sapphire. In his pocket were the keys to Emil Florian’s apartment in Magnan. In the passenger seat was Erica Lamarthe. She glanced at her mobile.