Authors: Peter Morfoot
‘I could have. Come out of there!’
Bonbon was grinning foxily as he padded out of the room.
‘Good job you’re on the ground floor, isn’t it?’ He continued towards the kitchen. ‘All that weight.’
‘Don’t go in there either.’ Manou turned to Darac. ‘Tell him to come back.’
‘Why? You’ve nothing to hide, have you?’
‘No.’ He made an effort not to follow Bonbon with his eyes. ‘If I’d known you were coming I would’ve washed up.’
‘My partner’s an interior-design buff.’ Through a chink in the door, Darac could see Bonbon putting on gloves. ‘Just wants to see what you’ve done with the place.’
‘Interior design… bullshit. I’ve heard of
flics
planting evidence.’
‘Where did you hear that – in prison? How come you only got four months for aggravated assault, by the way, Manou?’
The man sighed and sat down. As if to ensure he said nothing out of turn, he began chewing the inside of his cheek.
‘I’ve got a whole raft of questions for you but let’s go back to the one I just asked you. Have you spoken to Emil Florian on the phone recently? Last night, for instance?’
For a supposedly streetwise operator, Manou was hopelessly transparent. Behind the unimpressed pout, potential responses ricocheted like pinballs. He flipped one.
‘No. Should I have?’
‘Why not tell the truth? It’s easier on the brain.’
Darac had touched a raw nerve.
‘What do you think I am?’ The words were spat out. ‘A fucking idiot?’
Bending slowly forward, Darac got close in to Manou’s face.
‘You might well be an idiot for all I know. Answer!’
Manou neither flinched nor sought to give himself space.
‘You’ve got a gorgeous mouth.’
Darac straightened, shaking his head.
‘When all else fails, fall back on sex. Is that the secret of your success?’
‘It hasn’t failed. Anyway, there are worse things than falling back on sex. Depending on whose sex you fall back on, of course.’ Manou pursed his lips and let his eyes drop to his crotch. ‘Twenty centimetres. Send my long-lost pal from the south-west away and I’ll let you play with it.’
‘Sorry – not gay. Or a homophobe, so there’ll be no furious assault to give a lawyer ammo.’
Manou shrugged, the act instantly dropped.
‘Look, why are you here? I’ve got to get ready to go to work.’
‘Work? What do you do?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘It’s my business also. What do you do?’
‘I drive a taxi. If you ask
really
nicely, I’ll say “Are you looking at me?” like Bobby De Niro.’
‘You just did. Which company do you drive for?’
As if it required thought, he took a moment before answering.
‘For… Peerless Taxis.’
‘The place down on Rue de Bruges?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Now I want you to—’ He stopped talking as Bonbon emerged from the kitchen holding a clear plastic canister. In it was some sort of white powder.
‘What’s this?’
Straightening his arms, Manou clenched his fists tightly.
‘What is it?’ Bonbon repeated, removing the lid. A circle in red marker ink was daubed on it.
‘It’s… protein powder.’
Bonbon shook his head.
‘It’s way too salty for that, my friend.’
‘Get dressed,’ Darac said. ‘We’ll carry this on at the Caserne.’
Agnès was grateful for the handrail – the steps up from the compound seemed steeper than usual. It then took her two attempts to buzz herself in to the building. It was as well the keypad hadn’t defeated her a third time. Setting off the alarm was the last thing she needed.
‘Béatrice,’ she said, resting her elbows on the duty officer’s counter. ‘Were you to have an espresso sent to my office in fifteen minutes’ time, you would make a hot, tired old commissaire very happy.’
‘Certainly, madame.’
‘Has Captain Darac conducted his progress meeting yet?’
‘Yes. The team is questioning the various parties again at the moment.’
‘And the meeting call I put out for 9.30 – have Vice and Narcotics managed to get in?’
Béatrice consulted her list.
‘Lejeune, Tardelli, Martinet… yes, they’re all here.’
‘Good.’ Agnès picked up her attaché case. It felt heavier than before. First, the steps seemed steeper, now this? And the day wasn’t over yet. ‘You know what, Béatrice? Make that a double espresso.’
The young woman smiled.
‘Of course.’
Like a doctor making rounds, Agnès called in on each of her team in turn. In Bonbon’s office, she found Manou Esquebel handcuffed to a vertical pipe. He seemed hardly to register her presence. Free to sit or stand, he was standing, shifting his weight restlessly from one foot to the other. His white T-shirt drenched in sweat, he looked as if his concentration was being stretched beyond its usual limits – a reaction users exhibited. Although there were no drugs offences on Manou’s rap sheet, Agnès made a mental note to ask Armani Tardelli about him.
‘I tell you, I’m going to kill Emil when I get out of here!’
‘Are you?’
‘No? Fucking hell…’
‘A word, Lieutenant?’
Bonbon joined her in the corridor.
‘He thinks Florian is still alive, Bonbon?’
‘We’re keeping news of his death up our sleeves for the moment.’
‘So you obviously don’t believe
he
could be responsible?’
‘Until we know
exactly
what happened to Florian, and when, we can’t rule it out; but we don’t believe it, no.’
‘Why?’
‘Surely the first thing Esquebel would’ve done if he’d killed Florian, or even if he’d just heard about his death, is to have got rid of the GHB. But he didn’t. Our visit came as a complete surprise to him.’
‘That’s certainly suggestive.’
‘And there are other factors.’
‘Right. Let’s wind him up again and see where he goes.’
Once back in the room, Bonbon showed Manou the key found under Florian’s prayer mat.
‘So you don’t know what this opens. And you can’t remember why Florian rang you last night. Maybe you’ll remember later. So let’s rewind. Again. Your apartment – the one furnished by your boyfriend. Let’s talk about the white stuff I found there in the canister…’
Manou let out a groan.
‘Our pathology lab will prove it’s GHB. You know they will.’
Not until tomorrow, they won’t
, Agnès thought. The lab stick-dippers would have gone home hours ago.
Manou exhaled deeply and stopped moving. His cuffed hand rattled down the pipe as he sank on to his seat, staring at the floor.
Bonbon’s eyes slid expressively to Agnès. It wouldn’t be long now. Both remained silent.
‘Alright. Alright… it is GHB. Or near enough.’
‘We know it is; but that feels better, doesn’t it?’
‘But I only use it for bodybuilding.’
Bonbon’s eyebrows furrowed his freckles.
‘Bodybuilding?’ He made a derisory sound in his throat. ‘What possible use could a date-rape drug have in bodybuilding?’
‘You’re ignorant, do you know that? Scientists didn’t invent GHB to knock people half out and then give them… uh…’ The word search proved futile. ‘…And then make them forget everything. They invented it for bodybuilders.’
‘Really? I don’t believe you.’
‘No? It releases growth hormone, FYI.’
Bonbon looked down on Manou’s one-metre-sixty-seven frame.
‘It’s doing a hell of a job.’
The cuffs held the boy as he shot to his feet. A rearing cobra might have looked more menacing to Bonbon at that moment. But not by much.
‘Fuck you, you ginger fucking wimp. I could take you out with one tap.’
‘You probably could. I
am
a wimp. But ginger? Take that back.’ Bonbon pointed to the shock of copper wire that was his hair. ‘This is auburn. Alright? And tell me this – if you’re using the stuff to plump up your bumps, how come
you’re
not half-unconscious?’
‘It’s the dose, you cunt – how much of it you use. Jesus, you’re thick.’
Agnès picked up the baton.
‘The second thing the lab will prove, Manou, is that your GHB and the stuff Florian carries around in his water bottle are the same. He’s no bodybuilder, is he?’
‘Think what you like.’
Agnès decided to leave Bonbon to it.
In the squad room, Max Perand and Yvonne Flaco were interrogating Corinne Delage, the Warfarin enthusiast. Sitting unrestrained across a table from the youngsters, the old woman was wearing a look of prim self-righteousness; something that might have carried more credibility had her rap sheet not been laid out in front of her.
Quite unconsciously, Perand put the question he was posing on hold as Agnès entered. She gave him the nod to continue but now the boss had arrived, Delage had no interest in anyone but her. Her guardian angel had flown in, it seemed; a kindred spirit with the power to straighten everything out.
‘Oh, madame – all I did was to run over a bit of muck in the street and these two young… officers are talking about murder.’
‘Yeah, well that’s not surprising.’ Perand gave his stubble a scratch. ‘The man died seconds after you left your mark on him.’
Delage cast Agnès a conspiratorial look.
‘Honestly – can you believe it?’
‘Answer the officer’s question.’
Delage’s smile faded.
‘But…’
Agnès fixed the old woman in her feline gaze. ‘Answer the question.’
‘Pah!’
Her mouth twisting into a sneer, Delage turned back to Perand.
‘No, I’d never seen the man before. And left a mark? That’s rubbish. I hardly touched him.’
It was unfortunate but Agnès and the others understood this to be the case.
‘Like you hardly touched your neighbour’s dog?’ Flaco held up the rap sheet. Delage chose not to look at it. ‘You used poison, didn’t you?’
‘It was an accident. I was after rats and that was proved in court. And listen to me: if this darkie died after he got in the way of my trolley, he must have been dying already.’
Delage sat back as if nothing else needed to be said on the matter.
Flaco shared a look with Perand. She hadn’t bought the trolley-killer theory from the outset. Now it seemed the perpetrator hadn’t even noticed the colour of Florian’s skin.
‘Darkie?’
‘Yes,
darkie
! Not a black like you but one of…’ From sour to saccharin in the blink of an eye, Delage turned once more to Agnès. ‘Madame, do I have to explain myself to this—’
‘Yes. Yes you do.’
‘The dead man was not dark-skinned,’ Flaco said. ‘He was white.’
Delage’s jaw dropped open.
‘What?’
Agnès knew the woman to be something of an actress but even so, she judged her reaction genuine. And if so, it was of some significance. If Delage hadn’t known anything about Florian beforehand, she could hardly have killed him out of revenge. Other possibilities were up for grabs but Agnès gave them little credence. Yet until Deanna Bianchi came up with an account of exactly how and when Florian was given the drug she suspected killed him, she had no alternative but to continue the questioning of Madame Corinne Delage.
‘A piece of advice, madame,’ Agnès said. If you further abuse, obstruct or in any way mislead either of my officers, your impressive record of offences is going to bear yet another entry.’
‘Yes?’ The old woman’s mouth twisted defiantly. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Carry on.’
In the next-door office, Darac was interviewing Mansoor Narooq. Leaning inconspicuously against the door frame, Agnès decided to watch and listen for the moment.
‘In any pain?’ Darac said, placing a cup of water in the young man’s right hand. ‘If you are, we can postpone this.’
‘What difference would that make?’ Mansoor took three sips. ‘It doesn’t hurt unless I move in a certain way.’
Darac’s landline rang. An indicator light told him the call was internal.
‘Excuse me a second.’
The number was Erica’s. Lifting the cord over his photo of Angeline, he went around to the far side of his desk and sat down.
‘You still here?’
‘Going home now but I’ve just finished with Manou Esquebel’s computer.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you to look at that tonight.’
‘It didn’t take long, especially as Manou’s password, like Florian’s, turned out to be “Manou”, would you believe.’
Staring out over the compound, Mansoor gave every impression he wasn’t listening. Darac kept his words neutral anyway.
‘I’d wondered if it was a hand-me-down.’
‘It was.’
‘Anything of interest to us?’
‘It was the same as Florian’s – clean as a whistle. Not one pornographic file. Hard or soft.’
‘Right.’
‘But I did discover something unexpected.
I
didn’t expect it, anyway. Manou Esquebel can’t read. Can barely spell his name.’
‘Really?’ Darac thought back to his and Bonbon’s visit to Manou’s apartment. There were some books but that meant little. More indicative, perhaps, were his reactions to digs about his brainpower. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I found a sound-based Learn to Read programme on the hard drive. Manou’s been struggling with it for a couple of years, by the look of it. His answers to some of the questions… Well, I found it sad, somehow. Anyway, no gruesome images – that’s the story on page one.’
‘Great work – thanks. Now go home. Unless you’re coming to the meeting.’
‘Not me. I’m half out the door now.’
Darac hung up. Manou illiterate? It must have made driving a taxi interesting.
‘Captain?’
‘Just be a moment, Mansoor.’ Darac got to his feet, conscious that once again, Agnès’s arrival appeared to perturb his charge. ‘This lady is my boss, by the way. In fact, everyone’s boss around here.’
Jetting her the quickest glance, Mansoor nodded and looked away.
In the corridor, Agnès gave Darac a knowing smile.
‘On behalf of all women, I thank you.’
‘I don’t think it will have had much effect.’
‘Nor do I.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Could you come to my office before the meeting?’
‘Sure.’
‘Five minutes?’
‘Five it is.’
Darac kept his eye on her as she withdrew. She looked drained, he thought. He went back into his office and picked up the phone.