Impure Blood (44 page)

He pulled the bike off its stand and began threading his way between the crowds streaming along the promenade. After a few moments, intermittent snorts from the throttle gave way to a more sustained burst.

Sure that he had gone, Medusa staggered from the plinth. Her slender arms felt as heavy as stone as she raised them to her headdress and pulled it off. Snakes hit the pavement in an explosion of electronic innards.

‘Is there a doctor here?’ she said, barely able to speak. ‘I need help. I’ve been poisoned.’

Laughter. The spectators were enjoying the whole fake injection shtick. There was even a fake bead of blood on her arm.

Astrid opened the plinth and with a colossal effort, took out her mobile. The keypad looked kilometres away. Somehow, she managed to enter the number.

* * *

Darac’s mobile rang.

‘Good, I thought we’d lost you. Go ahead, Astrid.’

‘He… injected me. Just now.’

‘What?’

‘He injected… In the arm, I…’

‘I’ve got you. Listen, you’re going to be alright, okay?

Help will be there any second. A helicopter.’

‘I pretended to be… paralysed. But…’

‘Don’t speak any more. They’ll fly you to Hôpital St Roch.’

Quizzical looks were shared around the room. The hospital had no helipad of its own and the standard protocol – landing the helicopter at the old port and then completing the journey by ambulance – would surely take too long.

Darac smothered the mouthpiece.

‘Granot – Foch is practically next door. Get them to clear a space on Rue des Postes so they can land on the street. Four good uniforms is all it should take.’

‘Yes.’ Granot picked up his phone. ‘Two, even.’

‘It will be there any second, Astrid. So hang on, hear me?’

The sound of blades. Amplified words ricocheted through the roar.

‘
Landing. Clear a space but do not disperse. Clear a space. Do not disperse
.’

‘There it is now. You’ll be in hospital in two minutes.’

‘Don’t go. Please…’

‘I have to make some quick calls. You’ll be okay, Astrid. Believe that.’

Back on the promenade, the helicopter landed, scattering the crowd like blown leaves. Two crew members ran towards the fallen statue. Santoor made straight for the spectators.

* * *

Darac called Deanna first. His team gathered around like an audience at a gig, he was trading fours with her before the helicopter had even touched down on the promenade. He ended the call by patching her through to the flight crew. Next was A and E at the hospital.

A huge break. It was his neighbour Suzanne who picked up. No need for ID questions or other time-wasting rigmarole. She remained silent as he reeled off everything she needed to know.

‘Deanna said to administer the neostigmine immediately. She’ll be with you as soon as she can.’

‘We’re on it, Paul. Out.’

The calls ended, Darac sank down on to the edge of his desk.

‘Now we wait. Again.’

Every face was tense. It was Frankie who spoke first.

‘What did Deanna say about Astrid’s chances?’

‘Too many unknown factors. But if she’s still conscious on arrival, there’s a chance.’

‘The poor girl.’

‘She helps us – helps us brilliantly – and this is her reward.’ Darac stared off, shaking his head. But then something hit him. ‘Astrid said she saw the guy “
at
the traffic island near the Negresco”, didn’t she? Not “just opposite the Negresco”, “just past the Negresco” or whatever. But the boulevard is completely closed for the Tour, isn’t it?’

Bonbon nodded.

‘It was probably just a manner of speaking.’

‘Perhaps but this girl’s very precise. And she said it before the bastard injected her, remember.’

‘But the only guy
at
the traffic island just now would have been a Garde Républicaine officer.’

‘What would he have been doing there?’

‘Warning the approaching peloton of the obstacle. That’s what they do all day when the Tour is on.’

Granot went over to the espresso machine.

‘Unless their orders were changed, I can even tell you which officer it was. A lad called David Jarret got that station. We talked about it in Monaco. He was really pleased about it. Prime spot.’

‘Jarret.’ Darac rolled the name around his mouth. ‘Jarret could be Djourescu given a Francophone makeover, couldn’t it?’

‘It
could
. So could Dauresse, his section leader, come to that. But this isn’t a fruitful avenue. These boys are clean cut.
La crème de la crème
.’

‘So was Vincent fucking Dantier.’

Exhaling deeply, Granot shovelled coffee into the holder.

‘Anyone join me?’

For once, there were no takers.

‘Let’s say the perpetrator is this Jarret.’ As if propelled by the gathering momentum of his thoughts, Darac shifted his weight forward. ‘As a police officer, he could have had access to the files we have. And he could have put the story together – as we have.’ He clicked his fingers as an obvious thought struck him. ‘He would have had to sign to see them. Archive will have the record.’

‘Having to sign for everything.’ Bonbon gave a little snort. ‘At last it might pay off.’

Darac picked up his desk phone but then put it straight back on to the cradle.

‘A problem. If it is this Jarret…’

‘It won’t be.’ Granot shook his head. ‘Alright, Vincent turns out to have been a human rat but he’s from a totally different world from the GR guys.’

‘
If
it’s Jarret – how did he tie Vincent Dantier’s name to the number 287 on the report? We only got to it via a personal photo.’

Granot held up his hands palms upwards.

‘Exactly. And as no visitor to Archive is going to be admitted to Agnès’s office…’

Darac was excited again.

‘No, it still holds. There’s a companion photo in Agnès’s apartment. And it’s stupidly easy to get into. It took us all of five seconds.’

Frankie nodded, warming to the direction things were taking.

‘And we know the kidnapper cased the building at some point, don’t we? That’s how he knew where the security cameras were in the corridors and so on.’

Darac picked up the phone.

‘Just wait.’ Granot held up a ham of a hand. ‘How did he know to go looking there in the first place? You’re putting the cart before the horse.’

Darac smothered the mouthpiece.

‘We don’t know exactly what he knew to start with, do we? Maybe he knew quite a lot.’ He uncovered the mouthpiece. ‘Yes, Adèle? I need something else.’ He told her what he wanted. ‘I’ll hold the line.’

Looking tensely at his watch, Darac tapped the desk with a loose fist as he waited. What was happening at St Roch? Did they get Astrid there in time? And if they did, was she hanging on in there now? At least there was a chance. Had he done the right thing? Could he have got her there any quicker? How would Agnès have handled it? Agnès… When this thing was all over, Darac was going to insist she augmented proper security arrangements at her apartment. A ten-year-old child could break into the place.

He glanced at his watch once more. It felt like ten minutes had gone by but it was only two. He scanned the room. Having gone as far as they could for the moment, everyone seemed to be on downtime. Everyone except for Granot, to whom a terrible thought had just occurred. Moving with untypical anxiety, he began scrabbling through the papers on his desk.

‘I’m back.’

As Adèle began reeling off a list of names, Darac kept his eyes on Granot. The big man found what he was looking for almost immediately – Astrid’s flyer. Setting it down, he arranged his hands around it to mask the beard. Granot’s face emptied as if a tap had been turned. Scrunching up the sheet, he tossed it on to the desk like a card player throwing in a losing hand. At that same moment, Adèle read out the name of one David Henri Jarret.

‘Thanks, Adèle.’ Darac got to his feet. ‘Granot?’

‘Jarret met both the boss and Vincent at the briefing,’ he said, his eyes boring a hole through space. ‘Even shook their hands…’ He came to, suddenly. ‘That drawing’s been sitting on this desk for hours. Hours! It just never occurred to me…’

‘Why would it?’

The race was on again.

‘I need to call Santoor but let’s get moving while the trail’s still hot. Bonbon and Granot – you organise the ground search for Jarret but no APBs – Jarret may be listening in. Cars, slog squads, our own helicopters, the works.’

‘We’re on it.’

‘Perand – go through Gendarmerie HQ for a photo of Jarret. Get them to email it to all our guys, fly copies all over the city and on TV.’

The boy got on with it without comment.

‘Lartou and Flaco – CCTV and webcams, I guess.’

‘Check.’

‘Frankie – get back on to Clinique Rendflore in Paris. Conduct that relayed questioning of Jean Florian we were discussing.’

‘Right.’

Darac was finally ready to make his call but his mobile rang before he could key in the number.

‘Darac? Santoor here. I’ve questioned the crowd who were watching Medusa. You’re looking for a—’

‘Garde Républicaine officer, yes, we know. David Jarret is his name. We’ve got the ball rolling here but what do you have?’

‘How did you…?’

‘There’s no time. What do you have?’

‘I’m still on the ground here at the promenade. The helicopter’s gone off with the victim. She looked bad, I’m afraid. Jarret injected her in front of several people. Made it look like part of the act.’

Darac ran a hand into his hair and kept it there.

‘Jarret tried to stop Astrid alerting us to who he is, right? But he wasn’t
as
concerned that several bystanders might be able to identify him later.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So it seems his fear is not so much the threat of capture itself, it’s
when
that capture might happen. Wherever he’s gone to now, it could be to carry out his mission. We must get to him as soon as we can.’

‘This might help you. Jarret’s riding a blue Gendarmerie-tagged BMW with a letter P for Paris on the windshield. I’ve just alerted all… Oh, no, no, no.’

‘What is it?’

‘I may have just alerted Jarret to the fact that we’re on to him.’

‘You sent out an APB on an open frequency?’

‘I am so sorry.’

Darac felt like hitting something. And all around him, the squad room was alive with abuse and expletives. Some just groaned. Bonbon wasn’t alone in reflecting that the man who was carpeting Darac for displaying a photo on his desk had just potentially torpedoed a huge police operation.

‘It can’t be helped now.’ Darac shared a despairing look with Frankie. ‘Which way did he go? Did anyone see that?’

‘Along the promenade towards the west, initially. After that, no one’s sure. But let me get back to you. No more than two minutes.’

Santoor rang off.

‘Two minutes is a long time just now.’ Darac sought a productive way to fill it. ‘Anyone here have Annie Provin’s number?’

‘I’ve got her number, alright, but I don’t have it.’

Darac’s look could have flayed a rhino.

‘Cut out the comedy, you fucking clown.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Perand’s swarthy skin coloured. ‘Sorry.’

‘Frènes has the number, I should think.’ Granot was waiting for an answer on his call. ‘He’s been on her TV show numerous times. They’re pretty friendly in a sparring-partner sort of way.’ He uncovered the mouthpiece. ‘Yes, that’s affirmative – every car you have. I
know
the Tour is on…’

Keeping his mobile free for Santoor’s return call, Darac picked up a landline phone.

‘Monsieur Frènes – Darac. Listen carefully…’

‘Captain Dar—’

‘Listen! We know who kidnapped the Dantiers. We need someone to review all the TV footage of the Tour’s procession along the Negresco stretch of the Anglais. Especially the aerial footage. Stuff from cameras not providing the live feed, even. Annie Provin and her people can do that. Promise her an exclusive on the case if she can get back to us with a lead in the next few minutes.’

He told Frènes what they were looking for and ended the call as his mobile rang.

‘Santoor?’

‘Not much but something. As we came in to land, the pilot saw Jarret heading up Boulevard Gambetta. He noticed because he thought it odd that a Garde Rép was riding away from the race route while the stage was still going on.’

‘Up Gambetta – we’ll redirect our ground people accordingly.’ He looked across at Bonbon. He nodded back. ‘Is the chopper airborne again?’

‘Yes. They’ll be picking me up shortly.’

‘Nix that. Tell them to track above Gambetta
now
– keeping their eyes peeled and you informed all the way. Alright?’

‘Check. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘I’m going over there myself now.’

Darac ended the call.

‘Chief?’ Perand raised a hand. ‘I’ve got Commandant Mohr holding. He’s the GR officer commanding the Tour squadron. I’ve outlined the situation.’

Perand’s printer made an odd burping sound. In halting steps, a photo began to appear.

‘Quick work.’ He held out his hand. ‘Let me have him.’

‘The Captain for you now, Commandant.’

His eyes on the emerging photo, Darac took the phone.

‘Captain Darac, is it? What is all this kidnapping and murder nonsense? Jarret? It’s impossible.’

A maxim of Agnès’s came back to Darac:
If you can’t pull rank, pull somebody else’s.

‘Everyone from Commandant Lanvalle of the DCRI on down is behind us on this, Commandant. Jarret has killed and he’s about to kill again unless we can stop him. Quickly, what do you know that might help us?’

Slice by horizontal slice, the top of Jarret’s head became visible. The hair was dark brown, and might have been wavy were it not cut so short.

‘Are you all sure? It’s not—’

‘We’re sure. Quickly!’

Jarret’s forehead. It was quite narrow. Otherwise unremarkable.

‘Uh… well he reported sick after the peloton cleared the staggered island at the Gambetta/Boulevard des Anglais turn. Said he was returning to Monaco but he would ride through to Brignoles to rendezvous with the squadron after the stage.’