Authors: Peter Morfoot
‘Murdered,’ she finished, matter-of-factly. ‘But I suppose he didn’t dare risk making the threat so credible that Paris would have thrown everything at him – it might have scuppered his first objective.’
‘Stop and search, extra surveillance – both would have made it more difficult for Jarret to carry out the abductions. And there would have been other difficulties. Yes, I suppose it makes sense in a twisted sort of way.’
‘The threat part of his plan was quite well conceived, I think. Had my father and I both been murdered, it would have looked really bad for us.’ She smiled. ‘Looked bad for the Brigade, I mean.’
‘And I suppose a third objective was to point the finger of blame for the outrage at the Muslim community – or why use the “Just Cause” tag? A terrorist organisation of
any
persuasion would have served to deflect us away from the personal motivation for the abductions.’
She looked far away once more. ‘Race… Blood… Why can’t people ever seem to get beyond that? In some ways, it’s the saddest thing of all.’
In the corridor outside, the sound of approaching voices was the signal for Agnès to reach for Darac’s hand.
‘Before the others come in, I want to say something.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘Yes, there is. You came through, Paul. When everything else was crumbling around me, you came through. I will never forget that.’
He’d always been taught to accept thanks gracefully.
‘I… think you’re after another foot massage.’ He gave Agnès’s hand a squeeze before withdrawing it. ‘Seems like years ago, that, doesn’t it?’
She managed to raise a smile as the rest of the squad filed into the room.
For the next half-hour, fat was chewed, gossip was passed on. Updates were issued on everything from Jacques ‘Seve’ Sevran’s likely fate to Corinne Delage’s improving medical condition. As it came time for everyone to leave, Agnès had another speech to make.
‘I know how tirelessly you all worked on this. The fact that it mattered so much to you matters hugely to me. Thank you.’
‘I wasn’t doing anything that weekend anyway.’ Armani’s was the loudest voice in a chorus of disclaimers and gags. ‘You’re getting out in about a week, right? If you want to make it up to us, you can take us to the Chantecler. The à la carte menu.’
‘Then it will be
socca
all round. See you all soon.’
Darac and Frankie were the last to leave.
‘Are you going to be alright, Agnès?’ Frankie asked, exchanging goodbye kisses.
‘Oh yes. I’ll be fine.’ Her eyes were far away. ‘I’m a Dantier.’
* * *
Later that afternoon, Darac went looking for his team in the squad room. He found them sitting around the TV, engrossed in the day’s Tour stage. Only Perand, seeking refuge at the coffee machine, was
hors de combat
.
‘Espresso, chief?’
‘You read my mind.’
Before Darac could say anything further, his mobile rang. He sat, and leaning back in the chair, put his feet up on a desk.
‘This is Frènes.’
‘Monsieur.’
‘Captain, I’m calling to inform you that your disciplinary hearing regarding the incident in the Marguerite car park is set for two weeks today. 11 am. That’s the 23rd.’
‘Eleven on the 23rd. Right.’
‘And just because Mademoiselle Lamarthe has arrived at, or been steered toward, the opinion that any combat-trained officer disturbed without warning would react as you did, I must nevertheless caution you that…’
As Frènes continued, Darac’s eyes strayed to the TV screen. A knot of riders was rounding a turn at full speed. At a traffic island ahead of them, a Garde Républicaine officer waved a yellow flag. The peloton flew past.
As Perand handed Darac the espresso, Flaco gave him a wave from her desk.
‘Can I have a word when you’ve finished?’ she mouthed.
He gave her a beckoning nod.
‘I have another date with the authorities for your diary, Captain.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Although the DCRI officer Lieutenant Efe Santoor has opted to drop some of the allegations against you, there is still a whole catalogue of practice deviations, rule infractions, and outright misconduct charges to answer. The hearing is set for Tuesday the 28th at 10 am.’
‘Ten on the 28th. Right.’
‘And something to be borne in mind here…’
Flaco scowled sweetly as she handed him a clipboard. Darac ran an eye over the clamped pages. Sponsorship forms. The girl was climbing Kilimanjaro. Frankie had pledged thirty euros.
‘Jesus.’
Frènes concluded his briefing on the DCRI hearing and then turned to another topic.
‘And just to inform you of another matter, Captain. Your investiture of the Police Medal of Honour is set for 4pm on the 31st.’
‘Four on the 31st. Right.’
Darac ended the call, put himself down for thirty euros and got to his feet.
‘Thanks, Captain.’
‘You’re welcome.’
He turned to the TV watchers.
‘If I could have your attention for just one moment, guys? And everyone else? Thanks. Ever since the sweep was drawn, my possession of a certain piece of paper has created what could only be described as a frenzy of interest. Increasingly hard sums of cash have been offered for the passport to ultimate success that is ticket number twenty-one, Signor Alfredo…’
‘Alberto…’ a number of voices chorused.
‘Alberto Contador. Here is
my
final offer. As some of you know, Thursday nights are quintet night at the Blue Devil.’
‘We
all
know.’
‘Thank you, Bonbon. Tonight, we are going to do something really special. During the first set, we are playing the whole of Duke Ellington’s Far East Suite. Ellington. Tunes, right? Sing-along time. It’s worth coming just to hear “Bluebird of Delhi”, trust me.’
From Erica to Granot, every face was looking at him as if he were an escaped lunatic.
‘The second set is devoted entirely to suites by Sonny Rollins and Ornette Coleman. That is one unique evening of jazz. Now, I am prepared to swap my sweep ticket with anyone here who will come along to the gig.
Swap
– no cash required. All it will cost you is fifteen euros to get into the club.’
‘Couldn’t we just pay and go away again?’ Armani said.
Bonbon shuffled awkwardly.
‘Swap your ticket – not
give
it? I did draw Lance, you know.’
Granot had the look of a discomfited warthog.
‘How long would the thing go on for?’
Swatting the reluctant trio aside, Darac turned to Flaco.
‘You’ll swap your ticket to come to a jazz gig, won’t you? Ellington? Rollins? Coleman? Geniuses, the lot of them, and if I say so myself, the quintet’s pretty damn good. We’re going to be a ten-piece for the night.’
‘Tonight? Can’t. Sorry, Captain. Training.’
‘Erica?’
‘I’d love to… I’m lying. Look – the problem is, I really can’t stand jazz.’ She scrunched her face. ‘Sor-ree.’
‘Can’t stand it. Uh-huh.’ Making an effort, he regrouped, smiled and turned to Perand. The young man shook his head before Darac got a word out.
‘Just not my thing, Captain. Too…’
‘Keep it to yourself.’ Running a hand through his hair, Darac turned to the whole group. ‘You know there’s a kid over in uniform who’s already going to this gig – Patrick Cabriet. No inducements. Just knows a good thing when he sees it. I’ve got a good mind…’
In the manner of someone offering the ultimate sacrifice, Armani stepped forward.
‘No, no. I tell you what – I’ll do it. Yes – I’ll swap. Why not? And come to the whole gig. There. How bad can it be?’
Armani drew admiring glances from the room.
‘You won’t regret it.’ Darac smiled as he handed him the slip of paper bearing the magic number twenty-one.
‘There you go.’
Bowing graciously, Armani put his hand in his pocket and gave Darac his own slip in return. Darac opened it.
‘Who’s your new boy, chief?’
In Granot’s handwriting, the slip read:
Alexander Jacob Markowski
.
Suddenly, the air con was the only sound in the room.
‘No, that’s… mine,’ Armani said, at length. He held out his hand.
Darac folded the paper neatly and gave it back to him.
Producing this series of novels would have been an infinitely more difficult task without the sage counsel, encouragement and support of my wife Liz, and my immediate family, Rob, Clare, Katey and Bryan. For giving unstintingly of their time and for their invaluable insights, my thanks go to Susan Woodall and Alex Carter. For their many kindnesses, I’m indebted to Lisa Hitch, Sarah Burton and Boris Blouin. Special thanks go to Katherine Roddwell for her translation work both from texts and during in-situ interviews with officers of the Police Judiciaire in Nice.
Finally, for their expert guidance, warm thanks to my agent, Ian Drury at Sheil Land; and my editor at Titan Books, Miranda Jewess.
Peter Morfoot has written a number of plays and sketch shows for BBC radio and TV and is the author of the acclaimed satirical novel,
Burksey
. He has lectured in film, holds a PhD in Art History, and has spent thirty years exploring the life, art and restaurant tables of the French Riviera, the setting for his series of crime novels featuring Captain Paul Darac of Nice’s Brigade Criminelle. He lives in Cambridge.
COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS
A CAPTAIN DARAC NOVEL
Captain Paul Darac of the Brigade Criminelle is forced to abandon his jazz quintet mid-show by the call to a possible murder. He and his officers arrive on the scene to find the mutilated corpse of a woman, although her cause of death may not have been a sinister one. Initially routine, the case deepens and darkens into a complex inquiry that threatens to close in on Darac himself. But allegiances past and present must be set aside to unravel a tale of greed, deception and treachery that spans the social spectrum. It is among the winding streets of his own neighbourhood in Nice’s old town, the Babazouk, that Darac faces his severest test yet.
AVAILABLE APRIL 2017
A CAPTAIN DARAC NOVEL
It is Carnival time in Nice, and for three weeks the boulevards are alive with dancers, jugglers and musicians. Amidst the colour and pageantry, Captain Paul Darac of the Brigade Criminelle is investigating a series of suspicious deaths. He and his team reopen a closed case that may provide new insights, but their own lives are in danger as they uncover a story of terrifying ambition and betrayal.
AVAILABLE APRIL 2018
AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS
A FAROES NOVEL
Having left the Faroes as a child, Jan Reyna is now a British police detective, and the islands are foreign to him. But he is drawn back when his estranged father is found unconscious with a shotgun by his side and someone else’s blood at the scene. Then a man’s body is washed up on an isolated beach. Is Reyna’s father responsible? Looking for answers, Reyna falls in with Detective Hjalti Hentze, but as the stakes get higher and Reyna learns more about his family and the truth behind his mother’s flight from the Faroes, he must decide whether to stay, or to forsake the strange, windswept islands for good.
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR
“Unmissable and thrilling fiction… a tough-talking, brutally honest lesson in the harsh realities of youth crime.”
Lancashire Evening Post
A GEORGE KOCHARYAN MYSTERY
Meet George Kocharyan, Cambridge Confidential Services’ one and only private investigator. Amidst the usual jobs following unfaithful spouses, he is approached by the glamorous Sylvia Booker. The wife of the bursar of Morley College, Booker is worried that her daughter Lucy has fallen in with the wrong crowd.
Aided by his assistant Sandra and her teenage son, George soon realises that Lucy is sneaking off to the apartment of an older man, but perhaps not for the reasons one might suspect. Then an unfaithful wife he had been following is found dead. As his investigation continues – enlivened by a mild stabbing and the unwanted intervention and attention of Detective Inspector Vicky Stubbing – George begins to wonder if all the threads are connected…
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