Impure Blood (21 page)

He got out of the car recalling the innocent way in which the issue had first surfaced. He and Angeline had just started sleeping together and the morning had begun wonderfully. Darac’s pre-breakfast routine never changed: once out of the shower, he picked up an old Hofner f-hole guitar he kept leaning against the living-room wall and played through several choruses of a favourite number. However many times he worked around the changes, he endeavoured never to play the same solo lines twice.

‘Why do you always start your day like that?’ Angeline had said.

‘It’s my morning detox.’

On that particular morning, he was wearing only a pair of boxers.

‘The guitar leaves marks,’ she had said, running a finger around the parallel indentations on his thigh.

‘Well, you have to… suffer for your art.’

He’d never known such passionate sex.

Afterwards, she had voiced an observation about Darac no one else had.

‘Do you know what I find strange? About you, I mean.’

‘Keep it to one thing – I’m sensitive.’

‘Seriously – it’s that you’re both a jazz musician and…’

‘A
flic
?’

‘…a creature of habit. A love of improvisation and a love of predictable pattern – it seems inconsistent.’

‘Maybe one can’t exist without the other,’ he’d replied, initiating a debate on the nature of contradiction, paradox and meaning. Angeline left the question of how he could be both a musician and a policeman until later. And it was to become the centre of most of their rows over the years.

‘Have you ever hit a suspect?’

‘Have you ever shouted at a lazy student?’

‘Of course but that’s not the same thing. Have you ever hit a suspect?’

‘I’ve never hit an innocent one.’

On and on. But their arguments never ended with a sense that their differences were irreconcilable. It sounded like a line from a bad pop song but their love had always been strong enough to see them through.

‘Would you rather I gave up the police and became a jazz musician exclusively?’ he’d once asked her. ‘It would mean a slight cut in salary, of course. Of about ninety-five per cent.’

‘The money has nothing to do with it. You could no sooner be just a musician than you could be just a policeman. You’re a
poète policier
– that’s your truth. That’s who you are.’

Poète policier
… Darac had first come across the term in the written press. Regarding the phenomenon – with some complacency – as peculiarly French, commentators saw
poètes policiers
as making a unique contribution to the life of the nation. At least in the popular imagination, artists were self-absorbed types who led indulged, ivory-ower existences; in contradistinction,
poètes policiers
, often equally gifted, risked their necks fighting crime for the benefit of all. It was a win-win combination.

In one sense, Darac agreed with Angeline about his ‘truth’. Leading a double life was something that held a natural appeal for him. It wasn’t, he believed, that he was afraid of commitment; it was just that it seemed more interesting to inhabit two entirely different worlds.

He was less sure of its value to others. Was the condition of being neither one thing nor the other really worthy of celebration? Angeline seemed to have thought it was. Until recently, anyway. For his own part, Darac sometimes wondered if he had put a positive spin on his inclinations. Perhaps living on the cusp was really a form of sitting on the fence. And perhaps the world would have been a better place if he had sought to emulate the genius of Agnès Dantier
or
Sonny Rollins – not both.

A female voice brought him back into the moment. The attitude was pure Cagole.

‘Morning. Hot night, no?’

Carrying a sheath of papers, the woman was wearing the uniform of an APJA, an officer’s assistant. A smile played around her thin, coral-glossed lips.

‘Yes… Adèle. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.’

‘
Really
hot. Hardly slept a wink. Might need a nice back massage later. So – thong on or off? What do you think? I’ve brought a towel and—’

‘For fuck’s sake, has no one got anything better to do around here than…’

Her eyes flared.

‘I’ve got plenty to do, as it happens, Captain.’

She walked away.

Darac’s apology got no further than a raised hand and an open mouth. Abandoning the pose, he walked up the steps of Building D wondering how to play it with Bonbon and the others. Would they realise he wasn’t his usual self? They wouldn’t be the greatest detectives in the world if they didn’t. Should he say something? If so, what? He recalled that Granot had once turned up at the Caserne with two black eyes and a face the colour of a red traffic light. His then wife had hit him with a fire extinguisher and turned it on him. Compared to that, Darac’s ‘Angeline and I had words this morning. The future’s looking uncertain’ might seem a little tame.

Lartigue, yesterday’s crime-scene co-ordination officer emerged on to the landing above him.

‘Thanks for sorting out my backup, chief. It’s making life a lot easier.’

‘Sorry I could only get you a couple of guys, Lartou.’

‘No, no, they’re invaluable. I was beginning to see Avenue Jean Médecin from different angles even when I
wasn’t
looking at the monitor.’

Darac sympathised. Reviewing CCTV footage for long periods was a lousy job.

‘Any further clips of Florian or Delage?’

‘None. We’ve still got several options to look at, though.’

‘Let me know if anything comes up.’

As Darac signed in at the duty officer’s desk, Bonbon emerged from his office further down the corridor.

‘Chief?’

‘How did it go with Marie Lacroix?’

‘It didn’t – got there too late. I’m going over there now.’

The pair met each other halfway.

‘Manou Esquebel is waiting for you in your office. He seems calmer this morning, interestingly. More information has come in on him, by the way. Statements from neighbours, I think.’

‘I’ll look at them in a second. Mansoor Narooq?’

‘He’s in with Granot. Immigration want to know if they can come for him this afternoon. They obviously wouldn’t start the deportation unless we gave the word but I doubt he has anything more to tell us. A guy just in the wrong place at the wrong time, wasn’t he?’

‘I think so. Slimane Bahtoum?’

‘Flaco’s putting the frighteners on him but for practice more than anything. He doesn’t know anything about the murder, does he? He wasn’t even at the scene at the time. Immigration will no doubt want a word with him, though. He knew his cousin was an illegal, after all. And he said nothing.’

‘Getting more like Vichy-fucking-France every day, this country. Madame Delage?’

‘Perand’s gone to see her. Finally had a shave, by the way – Perand, not Delage.’

‘Good. That all?’

‘Think so. Oh, one thing – Florian’s older brother, Jean. Our hard-working colleagues in Paris still haven’t been round to his place yet. So although it happened yesterday, he still doesn’t know about Emil’s death, presumably.’

‘Unless he did it.’

Bonbon’s elastic grin widened. ‘There you go – case solved.’

‘Seriously, we do need to be apprised of his movements. In terms of giving him the bad news, I don’t think a day’s delay will matter much. There wasn’t a letter, photo or even a reference to the guy anywhere in Florian’s things so they obviously weren’t close.’ Darac made to move away. ‘Boss around?’

‘Not in yet.’ A knowing look in his eyes, Bonbon stood his ground. ‘So how did you leave it?’

‘Leave what?’

‘The big problem you’re having with Angeline.’

Darac ran a hand through his hair.

‘That obvious?’

‘Not at all. I’m a brilliant detective.’ He proffered a pink paper bag. ‘Sherbet belly button?’

‘Pass.’

‘You haven’t had a row with her or you’d be stomping around and acting mean. It’s more serious than that. On the other hand, it’s not completely…’

Darac held up both hands, palms outwards.

‘Save it. You’re right. I think it’ll be okay, though. In the end.’

Bonbon gave an encouraging nod.

‘Sure.’

‘Yes, I think it’ll be okay. Definitely.’

‘As you think there’s hope – welcome a word of advice?’

Darac gave an unconvinced shrug. ‘Sure. Why not?’

‘The two of you need to undertake some sort of project. It doesn’t matter what it is just so long as it takes time and you do it together. Painting the apartment is a good one.’

‘Is this why your place always looks so pristine?’

‘No.’ The twinkle in Bonbon’s tawny eyes glinted a little more sharply. ‘The wife’s lover is a painter and decorator. Honestly – think about it.’

‘See you later, man.’

Darac gave Bonbon’s cheek a pat and continued to his office. He found Manou Esquebel in the custody of one of the Caserne’s burlier uniforms.

‘Morning, Poitrard. He give you any trouble?’

‘This little arsehole?’ The man snorted disdainfully. ‘Am I relieved, Captain?’

‘You’re relieved.’

Manou extended a leg as Poitrard moved past, tripping him and earning a stiff kick on the shins as a reward. In what seemed a conscious caricature of camp, Manou yelped loudly, and then bent to rub away the pain. When he spoke, his words emerged in a furious bleat.

‘That is police brutality. Police brutality!’

Poitrard glowered over him.

‘Shut the fuck up or I’ll kick your pretty little face in as well.’

‘I’ll tear your foot off first, you fat cunt.’

‘Thanks, officer.’ Darac shepherded him away. ‘For now.’

‘For now? You saw that, Captain. He kicked me. I’m bringing charges.’

Darac decided to take a different tack with him.

‘You’re an intelligent guy, Manou. So don’t play games – alright?’

Caught off-guard, Esquebel seemed to decide that complying might be a good way to go.

A framed photo of Angeline lived on Darac’s desk. His eye went to it as he picked up the interview file. He opened a drawer, hesitated a moment and then closed it again. An added distraction or not, the photo could stay where it was.

Telling Manou to remain quiet, Darac settled down to read through the account of his interrogations so far, and the reports from a slog squad detailed to talk to his neighbours. After no more than a couple of minutes, he picked up Angeline’s photo and laid it carefully in the drawer.

As he had expected, only a few of the neighbours had given statements. Of those, a few reported seeing Florian at one time or another. One, a Madame Griet, a widow whose ground-floor apartment was on the opposite side of the building to Manou’s, had a little more to report. Ad hoc football games took place most weekends at La Masarella, she said. Seeing them as ‘breeding grounds for trouble’, she felt obliged to keep tabs on them by casting occasional glances from her window. At any one time, as many as thirty players might be involved in games which could go on for hours. Most were teenage kids but ‘the one they call Manou’, something of a hero to the youngsters for his physique and for his ‘madcap stunts’, often joined in. Two Saturdays ago, Madame Griet remembered a man she later identified as Florian watching a game from the sidelines. She’d noticed him because he’d seemed a fish out of water. Manou seemed to know him.

The following Saturday, Madame Griet was waiting in for a friend when she spotted Florian hanging around again. It was about 10 am but this time, Manou didn’t seem to be playing. She’d remembered Florian particularly because he’d got a plastic bottle stuck in his pocket and had gone comically red in the face trying to extricate it. At that moment, her friend had knocked on Madame Griet’s door so she got her things together and left with her to go shopping. No further dramas. End of story.

Closing the folder, Darac tossed it on to the desk and sat back with his hands behind his head. He felt as if he’d come to a fork in the road – the next step would be an important one. He had always been impressed by Agnès’s ultra-logical approach to questioning and, on her behalf, advocated that method to the officers he was mentoring. By instinct, though, he was a devotee of the Try Everything You Can Think Of school. And he had a useful edge over Manou if he could think of a way of exploiting it.

‘You’re feeling better this morning. Not so feverish, not so at the end of your tether.’

‘So?’

‘We’ll find out from the lab later today what you’re on. But it might expedite things if you told me now. It can’t be anything particularly heavy or you would be suffering.’

Bored by the question, Manou shook his head.

‘How many more times? What I’m
on
is GHB, steroids, caffeine tablets and shit. Nothing else.’

Darac was still sitting back in his chair, hands behind his head, relaxed.

‘All for bodybuilding?’

‘And for energy. I overdo it sometimes. Makes me weird.’ The pout disappeared. ‘Works, though.’ The handcuffs fettering his left wrist rattled up the pipe as he flexed his biceps. It made him look like a performing monkey. ‘See?’

‘You’ve already admitted to possessing GHB, which is a controlled substance. You do realise that?’

The monkey slid down his pole.

‘I bought some years ago. I don’t think it was against the law then.’

‘It is now.’

‘I know! Jesus. Give me a break.’

Free to move, Darac continued to remain absolutely still; tethered, Manou was all restless movement.

‘So the stuff is well past its use by, is it?’

‘It dissolves like shit but it still works.’ He heard the implication. ‘As a growth hormone releaser, I mean. For bodybuilding.’

‘There are no drug offences on your rap sheet, are there?’

‘Not one.’

‘In fact, you’ve never even been questioned in that connection.’

‘Not even when Tard—’

Manou extended his free arm, grabbing at the air as if trying to take the remark back.

‘So you know Captain Tardelli. He visited you last night in the guise of a prison liaison officer, didn’t he? How do you know what he looked like? How do you know his name?’

The air conditioner marking the moment with a loud, off-beat clatter, Manou’s mental pinball table came into action again. Full tilt. But then, quite suddenly, he seemed to abandon the game. If it was a play, it was his most convincing yet.