Authors: Peter Morfoot
‘“Congratulations – you can subtract one,” you said. Well congratulations, whatever your name is, you can
add
one to all the case teams you’ve fucked over, you time-wasting bastard…’
Darac’s whole body was flexed as he moved around the desk. Everything that was welling up in him was going to release in one huge explosion. There was no way he could stop himself this time.
Shapes banged in through the doorway. Arms enveloped him from behind.
‘Chief! Chief! Relax,’ Granot shouted. ‘He was… just doing his job.’
They struggled into the centre of the room as one heaving entity, for the moment Granot’s massive strength subduing Darac’s tensile power.
‘Help me!’ Granot shouted, his face already colouring with the effort. Perand threw his lanky carcass at the scrum but failing to find purchase, slid ineffectually onto his knees. Head down, Bonbon managed to hold on, at least, but immediately disorientated, began to push Darac towards his target, rather than away from it. It was Flaco who made the difference, tackling the heaving pair head-on. Caught in a pincer movement, Darac felt the check, but still he pressed forward, his eyes locked on the man who had misled them and wasted all their time; the man who was looking on now, almost within reach; the man whose cocksure nonchalance could be erased with just one decent dig to the jaw; the man who stood in for everything that was causing Darac pain.
And then quite suddenly, the view of the target was gone. Cut off. Her hands clamping his face, Frankie made him look into her wide, imploring eyes.
‘Stop it. Stop it now.’
Darac made one last flexing effort but then, juddering with a different kind of emotion, he subsided completely. A feeling of defeat came over him. Defeat in more than just this battle. Defeat in almost every area that mattered.
‘It’s fine… It’s fine… It’s… over.’
Granot’s questioning eyes met Frankie’s.
‘He’s alright.’
Chest burning, Granot released his hold and slumped back into a chair by the desk. Darac and Flaco disentangled themselves and stood to regain their breath.
‘Your team value you, Captain,’ the visitor said. ‘I’ll note that.’
He turned to the others.
‘For those of you who didn’t catch it, I am Lieutenant Efe Santoor. Of the DCRI. Paris.’
‘And we are investigating the abduction… of Agnès and Vincent Dantier,’ Darac said, his voice cutting through a groundswell of resentment. Clenching and releasing his shoulders, he went over to the water cooler. ‘Do you people… know anything about that?’
‘We know nothing about it. But we agree with your assessment. It’s not political. It’s criminal.’
‘So you can confirm that the… Sons and Daughters of the Just Cause are neither a terrorist organisation… nor a figment of some bureaucrat’s twisted mind?’
‘Unreservedly. I came in today to let you know that.’
‘Good of you.’ Darac turned to Flaco. ‘Water?’ Blowing out her cheeks, she shook her head. Pouring one cup, he gave her a pat on the arm as he carried it back to his desk.
‘I can’t wait to hear what your story is, Lieutenant Santoor,’ Bonbon said. ‘But every minute could be crucial, so if you’ll excuse us?’
‘I understand. You’ll all be receiving my report in due course anyway.’
Granot was still in Darac’s chair, breathing hard.
‘Speaking for… myself… I can’t… do anything… for the minute.’
‘Alright then.’ Santoor glanced around the room. ‘Where’s your guest chair? I’ll give you the bare bones now if you want to hear them.’
Darac handed Granot the cup of water. In lieu of a handshake, he gripped the big man’s shoulder.
‘You alright, man?’
‘Pussy like you?’ Granot wiped his forehead with his forearm. ‘I could keep that up… all day.’
Santoor had found the chair he’d graced during his pointless earlier interrogation. For old times’ sake, he set it down next to the radiator.
‘As some of you may have already worked out, one of my principal duties in the DCRI is to investigate – undercover – potentially subversive Muslim cells.’
Bonbon eyeballed him.
‘Is this the investigation into the “local Muslim situation” Lanvalle mentioned to Agnès but wouldn’t give her any details about?’
‘It was part of it, yes. Concerns about Hamid Toulé led me to infiltrate the prayer group. But I had found no evidence to support those concerns at the time of the incident with Monsieur Florian. I can honestly say that the evidence I gave to you all was absolutely as I witnessed it. I did not see Florian beforehand; I did not believe the old woman caused his death; and I had no idea who or what did. Now fact and fiction diverge a little.’
Frankie shook her head.
‘I bet they do.’
‘My superiors saw Florian’s death as an opportunity for me to push things with Toulé. They believed that we might find out more about his potential criminality if we promoted the idea of Mansoor Narooq’s own. “I’m illegal – they’ll send me back,” I told him. Then I came up with the idea of the exchange with Slimane, who really is my cousin, by the way. And of course, although he doesn’t know what I do, he does know I work for the government. I put the idea to him and then we approached Toulé.’
‘Did anyone else know about it?’ Darac said. ‘The imam?’
‘I think he was aware something wasn’t right and I don’t think he likes Toulé very much but he knew nothing about it. In terms of encouraging Toulé to open up a whole new side of himself to me, the plan didn’t work. In fact, he advised me to face the consequences of questioning and only went along with it because I insisted.’ He essayed a look of exaggerated sympathy. ‘I do hope the prayer group’s mosque will be granted them one of these days, don’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Bonbon was essaying a look of his own – one of sheer incredulity. ‘But where are you at, Santoor? When you ran out of the crowd that day and didn’t obey calls to stop, Flaco here almost shot you.’
‘Nice to see you again, Yvonne.’
Flaco’s scowl was of Jesuitical severity.
‘Five more steps and I would have pulled the trigger.’
‘That’s fine – I was going to stop after four had the Captain not intervened.’
Darac exhaled deeply.
‘Cut the bravado. Why did you do that?’
‘I hadn’t expected you to discover the switch with Slimane at all, to be honest, let alone so quickly…’
Spitting out a mouthful of air, Granot shared a comradely look with anyone who would have it. There were plenty of takers.
‘I should never have involved Slimane. He let me down. Badly. I could see he was on the verge of blowing my cover in front of everyone.’ He fixed Darac with his hawk-like stare. ‘Blowing it just to bring an end to the routine questioning you, Captain, were subjecting him to. I couldn’t allow that. Apart from anything else, it would have completely compromised any other covert activity we may plan for Toulé and company in the future.’
Risking a stubble fire by giving his chin a scratch, Perand looked animated to a degree no one in the team had ever seen before.
‘Two things. Surely, you should have told
us
who you were? Secondly, you nearly killed yourself jumping out of the fucking window. Sir.’
Santoor smiled.
‘Beautifully put.’ The smile was switched off. ‘Naturally, I didn’t intend to fall so heavily. But the escape itself was all part of my new brief. Plan A was dead so we’d moved to Plan B.
‘How did you receive the order?’ Darac said.
‘Through my one allowed phone call, of course. You should really start monitoring them, don’t you think?’
Darac exhaled deeply.
‘Tell us about Plan B.’
‘Obvious, isn’t it? My arrest presented me with a perfect opportunity to see what you people were up to from the inside. As it were. The DCRI being the DCRI, a false ID trail was laid immediately and I got to it. I’m still working on my report but so far, Commandant Lanvalle has found it most interesting.’
Frankie levelled him with a look Medusa herself might have envied.
‘
Chapeau
.’
‘Thank you. In short, you’ve done some things well, others very, very poorly.’ He indicated Darac’s desk. ‘Although I’m glad to see you’ve already corrected one error, Captain. It’s strictly against guidelines to display an image of a loved one where it might be seen by a suspect. An identifiable loved one is a security risk both to the officer concerned and, by extension, to the entire Brigade.’
Darac opened the drawer and tossed the absent photograph on to the desk. In the shot, Angeline was wearing a trilby pulled low over her brow, dark sunglasses and a heavy moustache. It was Darac’s favourite photo of her. Despite everything, it would probably remain so.
‘Oh, that’s funny.’ Raising a sardonic eyebrow, Santoor nodded. ‘Very knowing of you both.’ All at once, his sharp features took on an even keener edge. ‘Leaving a suspect unfettered and unsupervised while audibly discussing case developments with a superior officer
and
a senior pathologist – those and other errors won’t be so easy to answer for.’
‘I’ve heard enough,’ Darac said. ‘We’ve got work to do. Get out.’
‘In relation to the Dantier case, you need to hear one more thing. Commandant Lanvalle has instructed me to tell you that should your own resources prove inadequate to the task, you may approach him.’ He gave a phone number. ‘We have special resources in the DCRI. Resources and powers. Assistance, where possible, will be provided.’
‘What sort of assistance?’
‘Door-stepping, for instance. I like your term “slog squad”, Captain. They could slog even harder if more bodies were thrown into the mix.’
‘How many could we have and how soon?’
‘The simple things are often the hardest, aren’t they? The numbers and timing would have to be determined by committee. And we’d require adequate notice, obviously. And there would have to be—’
‘No time for red tape. Can you do anything else?’
‘Now it gets easier. We can obtain fast-track warrants, we’ve got expert hostage negotiators – anything in that line we can do quickly.’
‘Thank Lanvalle from us for that – we may need it.’
‘So that concludes our business.’ Santoor got to his feet and as if bidding the radiator farewell, gave it a pat. ‘It’s just not the same without the handcuffs.
And
the air-con’s behaving itself. Disappointing.’ He moved to the door. ‘Bye for now.’
‘One second, Santoor.’ Darac’s
what if
mind had come up with another connection. ‘Jacques Sevran. AKA Seve.’
Santoor shrugged, uninterested.
‘Yes?’
‘Beat officer. Hugely experienced. Linguist. Babysat you in this office. The office in which you offered me a bribe…’
The team could see where this was going. A further wave of condemnation broke in Santoor’s direction.
‘…A bribe
I
refused. Now Seve is under arrest. What do you know about that?’
Santoor thought about it for a second.
‘I cannot discuss an ongoing investigation, Captain – you know that. Goodbye. And good luck.’
‘You can wait another second.’ Fully recovered, Granot got to his feet and walked slowly across to the young man. ‘It’s a good job for you I weigh 115 kilos and Flaco there is as brave as a lioness or you might not have been able to complete that report of yours for some time.’
Santoor gave Darac an evaluating look.
‘I’d have taken my chances.’
‘It’s not just the job,’ Frankie said. ‘You really are an arsehole, aren’t you?’
Santoor grinned, turned on his heel and was gone.
‘Seve, you bloody idiot.’ Darac picked up Angeline’s photo and, triggering a crossfire of glances between the others, returned it to the drawer. When he looked up, they were all looking neutrally at him. ‘But that’s for another time. As is so much else – including properly expressing my thanks.’ He caught Bonbon’s eye. ‘Even to you and Perand, you wimps.’ As the smiles faded, he glanced at his watch. ‘Agnès is out there somewhere. Let’s pick the tempo back up.’
In the haze-veiled hills above Monaco, Yves Dauresse’s work was almost over for the day. Pursued by a team car and a posse of camera-wielding outriders, the final competitor out of the start gate was approaching the Garde Républicaine motorcyclist.
Even had Dauresse not been on station, it was doubtful that any of the 180 lone starters would have failed to see the hazard he was there to indicate – a section of kerbed pavement suddenly appearing on the inside of a dropping hairpin bend – but safety first was the brief even when there was no peloton to worry about. His whistle clamped between his lips, he held his yellow warning flag in both hands above his head. Dauresse began to wave it slowly from side to side.
The sound of his pedalling masked by the crowd and by his motorised entourage, the rider flew safely past and began his snaking descent into Monaco. For Dauresse, Stage One was over. Throwing his leg over his BMW, he radioed his status to the team co-ordinator and set off down the mountain. Twelve years he’d been doing this. Twelve long, tiring, uneventful years. This year was going to be the last.
Nurses had come and gone. Presumably. Come and gone in 37.5 degree heat for all he knew. The Tour had occupied his entire consciousness. And it was just a taste of what was to come.
For the second year in succession, Cancellara had won the time trial. The trunk-thighed Swiss had blasted around the course a whole eighteen seconds faster than Contador. If Cancellara could climb the really big stuff, he mused, he would have no equal as a Tour rider. What a powerhouse he was on the flat. And what a descender. Fearless. No one riding a motorbike could catch him going downhill. A GR man had once tried it. A 1000cc engine under his backside and he got nowhere near.
The short one’s voice. Saying something, out of his line of vision.
The bed jolted as the notes went back into their sheath.
‘I said, did you enjoy that?’
He blinked once.
‘Lovely! And did you see your son?’
He blinked once.
‘Did he win?’
Idiot.