Authors: Peter Morfoot
He blinked twice.
‘No – never mind. You must be very proud of him, though.’
He blinked once.
Especially if what had been planned for tomorrow went as he’d hoped.
The landing was strung with lines of washing. As a Las Planas-bound tram whirred along the boulevard below, Darac brushed between a pair of beach towels and made for the apartment’s front door. Before he could knock, a child of no more than three emerged backwards through it. Giddy with terror and laughter, he shrieked as a shaven-headed man in his mid-thirties appeared suddenly, issuing threats in a pantomime roar. Both were clad in the black knee-length shorts of Nice’s football club, OGC Nice, known as Le Gym. The boy shrieked again and turned to run off.
‘Sorry, mate – didn’t hear you knock. Be with you in a second.’
The bogeyman swept up the boy and carried him upside down back into the apartment. Darac heard a woman’s voice from inside.
‘How am I supposed to get him ready for bed now?’
‘You’ve never had any problems getting men into bed. Has she, Poupou, eh?’
‘You arsehole… Shut the fuck up!’
‘I’ve told you – no swearing in front of the kid! And we’ve got a visitor.’
A whispered exchange. Darac couldn’t make out the words but they sounded to the point. The man reappeared at the door.
‘Sorry about that.’ He adjusted the hang of his balls. ‘Women, eh?’
Darac showed him his ID.
‘Cyrille Monceau?’
The man’s face hardened.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to answer some questions.’
Monceau cast an anxious glance back into the apartment. Putting the door on the latch, he stepped outside.
‘I haven’t stolen so much as a newspaper in years,
flic
. Not since I’ve been married.’
‘I’m not interested in years. I’m interested in the past twenty-four hours. Talk me through them.’
Inside, Poupou was already rebelling at the prospect of bed. He wanted Papa.
‘Talk you through them why?’
‘Look, I’ve got no time, no time at all, to mess around. Answer the question or you’ll be spending forty-eight hours at the Caserne.’
Monceau cleared his throat and spat. The gobbet landed nearer his own bare foot than Darac’s shoe; he just about got away with it.
‘Alright – for ten of those hours I was at work at EDF – I’m on the maintenance team at the plant. You can check.’
‘Don’t worry, I will. What time did you start?’
‘Eight. Eight until six this morning.’
‘Did you leave the site at any point in between?’
‘In my job, you can’t just leave the site. I was there all shift. Several people can back that up.’
Assuming this checked out, it meant Monceau could not have taken part in either abduction. But he could still have been behind them.
‘What did you do immediately after your shift?’
‘Had breakfast in the canteen, then came home to bed. Yvette doesn’t work today so she can vouch for that.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m off again in an hour or so.’
Inside, Poupou’s tears were turning to temper. Darac pictured Yvette reaching for a bottle of something tranquilising. Perhaps for them both.
‘Now we can go back years. To 1992 to be exact. When your brother died in prison, you wrote two letters to the officer responsible for his conviction. You told Commissaire Vincent Dantier to watch his back. Because you were going to kill him.’
Monceau shook his head.
‘1992… Jesus. Look – my brother and I were close and he was stitched up by that bastard. Then he didn’t get the proper medical treatment in the nick. When he died, I was eighteen. What do you think I’d do? Write to Dantier and say: “Never mind, monsieur, I forgive you.”’
‘You threatened his life. Twice.’
Monceau’s narrow-set eyes widened brightly.
‘Has somebody iced him? Best news I’ve had!’
‘Sorry to disappoint you. But threats have been made against Monsieur Dantier and his daughter.’
Yvette appeared with Poupou. Without a word or a look, she handed the livid little bundle to Monceau and went back into the apartment. He held the child to his chest like a badge of honour.
‘Threats – so what?’
‘Serious threats.’
‘Look, I feel sorry for Dantier’s daughter. It’s not her fault she’s got a bastard for a father.’
Darac called time on the interview five minutes later. He had everything he was going to get from Monceau for the time being. He called Armani as he took the steps down to the lobby.
‘Anything yet?’
‘I’m bringing in Jacqueline Dutillieux as we speak.’
Darac’s grip on the phone intensified.
‘Bonbon’s find? Go on.’
‘I put him on to it. Our Jacqui’s got a classic rap sheet for a heavy female user. Theft, deception, prostitution. No hint of violence, mind you, but here’s the thing. It’s Agnès D. she blames for having her kids taken away from her. She’s been out and clean now, more or less, for a year or so but the kids still don’t want to know her. So she hates Agnès with a vengeance and I’m quoting.’
A tram accelerated away from the stop as Darac emerged onto the boulevard.
‘So that’s motive. Means and opportunity have got to involve a guy.’
‘The van driver himself, yes. There is a boyfriend but beyond saying she was with him last night and this morning, she refused to give me any more on who, where and why.’
A rollerblader was sitting on one of the platform benches. Eyeing Darac’s mobile, he looked interested, suddenly.
‘What’s your gut feeling?’ The boy stood. ‘Forget it, kid.’
The kid sat down.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing. Go on, Armani.’
‘My gut feeling is no. But we’ll see. Your guy?’
‘I’ll check it but he looks to have a solid alibi. As for any other involvement, I don’t see it.’
‘Right. Where next for you?’
‘Saint-Laurent-du-Var. The son of one Maurice Brosse. Keep me posted, Armani.’
* * *
Dead end. Brosse was on vacation in Mauritius. Had been for a week. As the hours wore on, lead after lead receded back into the woodwork. By eight o’clock, most of the team were back in the squad room at the Caserne, seeking to tease a second tranche of suspects out of the records. What else could they do?
It was just before nine when Flaco’s desk phone rang. Rubbing her eyes, she almost dropped the receiver as she picked up.
‘Yes?’ As if it had a life of its own, the pen she was holding began to tap, pocking the margin of her pad. ‘What a mess.’ She stopped immediately.
‘What was that, Flak?’
‘Nothing. Go ahead.’
‘It’s Partin, here. I’m with the team up on Mont Boron. I’ve just spoken to the Alledargues.’ He spelled the name. ‘They’re a retired couple who live next door to Commissaire Dantier. They were the ones who weren’t in when Lieutenant Granot called round earlier. To cut a long story short, Madame Alledargue, the little beauty, spotted that the van we’re looking for had a Département 31 registration. 31 is Haute-Garonne, where she’s from. That’s why it stuck in her mind.’
Flaco punched the air.
‘Fantastic, Partin.’
Across the other side of the room, Darac looked up from his case notes.
‘There’s more, Flak. She’s certain “A” was the letter immediately before it. “A for Alledargue” she’d thought at the time. The woman may be egocentric but she’s observant.’
Flaco smothered the phone.
‘Listen up, everybody.’ One or two voices continued. ‘Quiet please!’ Silence. ‘The van has a Département 31 plate. And “A” was the final letter.’
Fist pumps, silently mouthed thank-yous, raps on desks – the news was celebrated all around the room.
‘I wish we’d known that before we dug up all this.’ Perand waved a hand at the piles of paper crowding the work table in front of them. ‘And sent the pavement pounders out.’
As Flaco continued the call, he and the rest of their group began pulling out the A-31 plates from the follow-up stacks.
‘Anything else from Madame Alledargue?’ Flaco began tapping on her pad in earnest. It had worked last time. ‘Or from the husband?’
‘Plenty. All of it irrelevant.’
No more tapping.
‘So they didn’t see the van arrive or leave or see the driver?’
‘No.’
‘Too much to hope for. But that’s great work, Partin,’ she said, unconsciously copying Darac’s manner.
As the call ended, Perand handed her a greatly reduced stack of follow-ups.
‘With all the non-A-31 plates taken out, it leaves just two buyers and one hirer to check out,
chief.
’ He smiled his lopsided smile, enjoying the rib. But it disappeared as he took back the top page.
‘Jesus Christ!’ He showed it to Adèle Rousade. ‘Did you pick this one out?’
‘Hours ago, darling. It’s an A-31, no?’
‘That it is.’
Adèle’s features fell like a dropped lipstick.
‘So what have I done wrong?’
‘Not a thing.’ Subsiding into his chair, he held out the page to Flaco. ‘It’s just that if either of us two had got this one, the buyer’s name would have jumped straight out. As you say – hours ago.’
At their desks, Darac’s team was following the exchange like spectators at a play.
Frankie spoke for them all.
‘Don’t drag it out, for God’s sake. Who bought the damned van?’
Holding up the page for everyone to see, Flaco announced the name. No one quite believed it. But it was there in black and white.
Rue Vaulesne was one of a network of streets linking Boulevards Cessole and Auguste Raynaud in the north of the city. An essay in vernacular architecture, there were scarcely any two structures in the street that looked as if they belonged together.
Outwardly, the two guys strolling along Rue Vaulesne didn’t seem much alike, either. Exuding an attractive mixture of warmth and sensitivity, one was dark, strongly built and moved with a sort of easy confidence. The other, a skinny individual with wiry red hair, had the mischievous alertness of someone who was used to taking his chances. But they had at least one thing in common. They enjoyed a joke. Or that’s what it would have looked like to anyone watching.
‘I suppose it was too much to hope the van would be parked outside,’ Bonbon said.
Darac laughed and gave his mate a punch on the arm.
‘Can you see us?’ he asked.
Lartou Lartigue’s voice buzzed into his earpiece.
‘Yes we can, chief. We just rang the landline again – intending to pose as the phone company, this time. Still no answer.’
‘Anything else we need to know?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Everyone in place?’
‘Everyone.’
Darac and Bonbon were still shaking their heads and chuckling.
‘Let us know immediately if anyone comes back to the house. Otherwise, don’t come on again until I get back to you. And no more calls to the landline – we’ll know soon enough if anyone’s home.’
‘Check. Good luck, chief. Out.’
‘It’s the next one.’ Overdressed in the heat, Bonbon paused to mop his brow. ‘No lights on.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Just smiles now – the gag seemed to be wearing off. ‘They could be using blackout curtains.’
The target address was a semi-detached, two-storey townhouse rendered, where it was adhering, in stained lavender-washed plaster. On one side, the property abutted the end wall of a dreary three-storey apartment block; on the other, a half-closed wrought-iron gate gave on to a path that led to the rear of the house.
‘You go round the back, Bonbon. I’ll wait a second, then try the front door.’
‘Got your safety off?’
‘Oh yes.’
Bonbon opened the gate and, leaving it at the same angle he found it, disappeared down the path. Darac turned to the door. Listening for sounds inside, he stood at a right angle to it and knocked. He heard nothing. No lights came on as far as he could tell. He knocked again. Still no one came to the door. But he heard muffled steps on the pavement behind him. With any luck, it would be just a passer-by. Darac had every confidence in Lartou and the others but earpieces could go down and so could the links to them. Feeling anything but relaxed, Darac essayed a smile and turned. Moving with the exaggerated care of someone walking a tightrope, the interloper proved to be a frail old man carrying a bag of shopping.
‘Evening, monsieur,’ Darac said.
His eyes fixed determinedly ahead, the old boy said nothing as he shuffled on his way.
A third knock unanswered, Darac went to join Bonbon in the back yard. Bounded at the rear by a flat-roofed outbuilding, it was a scruffy, utilitarian space. Terracotta pots proliferated. Some were planted up, most were stacked against the outbuilding’s cinderblock front wall. In the fast-fading light, they looked like clusters of clinging barnacles.
Overhead, a corrugated plastic canopy connected the outbuilding’s roof to the rear wall of the house. A shield against prying eyes, perhaps, as much as a shelter. Stumbling over a partly demolished wall, Darac adopted it as a redoubt as he looked around for Bonbon. He couldn’t see him.
‘Bonbon?’ he whispered into his mouthpiece. There was no reply. ‘Bonbon?’ Still no answer. He was nowhere to be seen. ‘Psssttt!’
The outbuilding door opened. A figure slipped stealthily out into the open; open, that is, to the yard and to anyone looking out of the ground-floor window of the house. The figure looked thicker-set than Bonbon. But it was him, alright – he and Darac were both wearing bullet-proof vests under their shirts. The figure disappeared momentarily and then reappeared at Darac’s side.
‘You had me worried there for a minute.’
‘I was talking into my mouthpiece but it must be down.’ Bonbon’s expression conveyed none of its usual whimsicality. ‘So no signs of life at the front?’
‘Armani shuffled past on the pavement. That was it.’
‘Doesn’t seem to be anyone in at the back. That outhouse concerns me, though. The floor’s concrete and there’s a small pile of broken bricks in one corner.’
‘How small?’
‘Too small to conceal anything like a body. But it could cover a Gartreuix-style hatch. It would make too much noise to shift a pile of bricks now, though.’