Knock 'Em Dead, page 11
‘Tough,’ Flaco said.
Vaselle sat back and folded his arms, not as a barrier to hide behind, Darac felt, but as a way of holding himself in. So far, so good.
‘Stop being stupid, Monsieur Vaselle,’ Flaco said, ‘and you might just convince me you are not guilty of murder.’
‘Fuck you.’
Flaco did something she had never done in an interview before. She laughed.
Vaselle stiffened, his mouth hardening into a sneer. ‘Listen, you’re the monkey. Have you got me? The monkey. I want the organ grinder, there.’
‘Monsieur Vaselle, Monsieur Vaselle... aah.’ She dabbed her eyes, overdoing it slightly, perhaps. ‘Let’s move on. What took you to the station at Saint-Laurent-du-Var this lunchtime?’
Vaselle said nothing.
Before the Luxembourg directive, an interrogating officer might well have banged the desk at this point, screaming: “Answer the question!” Using the impolite “tu” form, some officers would have then told the suspect that uniforms in marked cars would be dispatched, all sirens blazing, to trash their property while looking for clues; clues which they would definitely find. For some officers, this would have just have been the start of things.
‘What took you to the station?’
Vaselle remained mute.
‘Do you understand the question, monsieur?’
‘Of course, I fucking understand it.’ Once more, he jerked his head forward. ‘Paillaud asked me to meet him.’
‘Why? And how? Take your time. I realise I asked two whole questions there.’
His body flexing like a racehorse in the starting gate, Vaselle’s eyes bored into Flaco. It was clear that he wanted to demolish her and Darac almost wished he would try. She would have had the man on his back before he knew what had hit him.
‘Let’s do the “how” first.’
Vaselle shifted his weight several times before he answered. ‘He called me on the phone.’
‘On your mobile?’
He shrugged.
‘Got that particular one on you?’
‘Think you’re clever, don’t you?’
‘Show me.’
Vaselle had been subject to a basic search but as he wasn’t under arrest, he’d been allowed to retain the contents of his pockets. Cursing under his breath, he stood and tossed it on to the desk.
‘Show me,’ she said, not moving.
He grabbed the phone.
‘How did he come to have your number?’
‘I used to be an architect and builder. The number’s freely available.’
‘How did you know Monsieur Paillaud?’
‘I didn’t. But he knew me. Correction – knew my work.’ His eyes lowered. ‘It’s won awards, some of it.’
And now you work for your brother-in-law, Darac thought. Making toilets.
Vaselle held out the phone half-way between them, obliging Flaco to reach for it. She stayed her ground. Vaselle began to shake. ‘You...’
‘Yes?’ Flaco said. ‘What am I?’
He bit his lip and handed her the phone. Flaco noted the incoming number – a mobile – and the time of the call. Giving no outward reaction, she handed it to Darac.
‘Now what did he want to talk to you about?’ she continued.
‘A load of bullshit about wanting to sue me for putting up some properties last year that blocked his view.’
‘View of what?’
‘The new stadium over in Saint-Isidore. And they’ve only just started building it.’
‘The Allianz Riviera?’
‘What other new stadiums do you know there?’
‘The properties you built are virtually all bungalows, aren’t they?’ Flaco said, doubting that Paillaud could possibly have had a case for a sightline violation. ‘Second homes, mainly.’
‘What of it? All of my properties are built to code and have obtained the necessary permissions. None of them block a view of anything. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead...’
‘Yes you do,’ Darac said.
‘Well now, I was beginning to think you were a deaf mute.’
‘You like to speak ill of the dead because the dead can’t talk back. Unlike Girlfriend Number Three, Seven or Ten or whatever she is. You’re going down, mate. It’s just a question of what for.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘We’ve seen how riled you get, Vaselle. Just a couple of little digs is enough to set you off. Threatening you with a law suit? That really got your goat. You pushed poor old Paillaud.’
Sweat began to show through Vaselle’s shirt. ‘I didn’t.’
‘You intended to kill him – that’s murder. You didn’t but he died anyway – that’s manslaughter. Which is it?’
Vaselle’s belligerence seemed all used up, suddenly. ‘I didn’t do anything! Hear me, will you?’
Darac glanced at the guard. ‘All yours,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You’re held, Vaselle, pending further enquiries.’
Flaco brought the interview formally to a close and the pair left to a chorus of protestations of innocence. Once they were out of earshot, Darac turned to her.
‘Ask Erica to check whose number he actually gave you, will you, Flak? Paillaud didn’t have a mobile.’
15
Crammed with hot desks and hot bodies, the Caserne’s squad room was one kind of crowd scene. The palm-shaded paths, flower beds and fountains of Jardin Albert, quite another. But it was just as hectic. Picking his way between riggers, film crews, sound technicians and volunteers, Darac was heading for the more intimate of the Jazz Festival’s two performance spaces, a spot he’d known since childhood. A tiered, open-air auditorium fanning out from a covered stage, the “Theatre among the Greenery”, Le Théâtre de Verdure had been built in the style of an ancient Greek amphitheatre. A trio of monumental sculptures ringed the perimeter: Tragedy and Dance flanked the stage and, rising from the Promenade des Anglais above the rearmost row of seats, a Winged Victory.
Arriving backstage just as the venerable James Clarence Jazz Orchestra had concluded its rehearsal, Darac exchanged a few words with his long-time friend, jazz club owner Ridge Clay, and headed out on to the stand. If the guys trooping past him had been inspired by the verdant beauty of the setting, there was no sign of it. Perhaps they were jet-lagged. Or perhaps they were just sick of the sight of each other after decades of touring.
Ahead, a familiar bear-like figure toting a double bass was making the best of it as he foundered in the flood of bodies washing against him. Darac chuckled as he caught some of his band mate’s patter, delivered in a thicker than usual Lillois accent.
‘You know what they say: laugh and the world laughs with you,’ Luc Gabron said, grinning as if bestowing compliments. ‘Great to see you.’ Everyone blanked him. ‘Hi. Luc Gabron from The Didier Musso Quintet. But that’s my story.’
Catching up with him, Darac nudged the nose of his guitar case against Luc’s backside.
‘Later, sweetie – I keep telling you.’ He turned. ‘Ah, it’s you, Darac. I thought it was Juliette Binoche up to her old tricks again.’
‘I thought Louise Bourgoin was your fantasy squeeze.’
‘Left me. She’s with Didier now.’
‘That’s rough.’
A living legend tramped past them, his gnarly upper lip the legacy of a lifetime of playing.
‘Welcome, monsieur,’ Luc said.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And to you.’ He gave Darac a look. ‘Tell me, why are people like Beep-Beep Johnston rehearsing? I thought this session was just for the likes of us.’
‘Whatever the reason, it’s clearly not a very popular one with the guys.’
But then an explosion of laughter erupted behind them. It seemed Ridge Clay had run into some old friends.
‘See that?’ Luc said. ‘The man has the power to bring the dead back to life. I always suspected he was God in disguise.’
‘Jimmy?’ Ridge called out. ‘Get your shit together and haul it over here!’
‘I ain’t in no hurry,’ James Clarence called back from the piano. ‘I’ll see enough of your sorry ass at the club later!’
More laughter.
‘Hear that, Darac? Royalty at The Blue Devil tonight. Can you make it?’
He would if he could but he suspected that the case, as so often before, would claim him. ‘I’d like to—’
‘—But the usual terms and conditions apply?’
‘Exactly.’
The flood having dwindled to a trickle, Darac followed Luc out on to the stand. At the piano, Quintet leader Didier Musso was all reverent smiles and quiffy nods as he took over the stool from James Clarence himself. Seven other members of Didier’s quintet – the title was nominal – listened in as the great man said a few words and took his leave.
Didier was still excited about it as he exchanged kisses of greeting with Darac. ‘See these?’ He held up his hands. ‘These fingers are about to play keys graced only moments before by one of the all-time heroes of our music.’
‘Better not fuck up, then,’ Luc said, fitting the floor spike into his bass.
Trudi Pachelberg, a heavily mascara-ed blonde in a short red skirt, gave a low, throaty chuckle as she flipped open her alto case. ‘Luc’s available for children’s parties, people.’
Thumps from the drum set behind. Some adjustment to a pedal. More thumps.
‘What did you talk about?’ Darac said, attending to his guitar amp.
‘I know what I said to him; what he said to me? No idea.’ Didier turned to a stocky, bald individual wearing a sax neck strap. ‘Dave?’
Englishman Dave Blackstock had been sucking on a reed for the past thirty seconds. ‘That’ll do. He was asking about the local talent.’ He fitted his mouthpiece together. ‘And I don’t think he was referring to us musos.’
Splintery rolls, snaps and thunky dunks from the drums.
‘How old is he now?’ Jacques Quille played a creamy arpeggio on his tarnished old trumpet. ‘Late seventies?’
‘That’s what playing keyboards does for you.’ Didier took a sheaf of scores and charts from his bag and began laying them out on the piano. ‘Keeps you young.’
‘Didier’s really 62,’ Trudi said, bringing laughter all round, and then blew a series of silky and snaky runs on her alto.
Splashes, crashes and clams from the cymbals.
Darac parked his backside on a chair and began his warm-up. For reasons that had as much to do with habit and superstition as with sound musical principles, he launched into the runs and chords he always played before a rehearsal or a gig.
From the drums: thumps, rolls, snaps, splashes and crashes all at once.
‘How’s it going back there?’ Didier called out, as the drummer exchanged her sticks for brushes and a sound like breaking surf fizzed and frothed around the amphitheatre.
‘Super, Didier.’ The young woman was wearing a white T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the Young Musicians of the Côte d’Azur – JAMCA. In black marker pen, an extravagant hand had added: “Maxine – you’re going to be great! Love, Marco xx.” ‘Thanks for asking.’
The response brought a chorus of protest.
“Way too polite...” “Tell him to mind his own damn business...” “Say three hail Didiers and spit...”
Maxine grinned, loving the vibe. ‘Next time,’ she said.
Darac gave her the thumbs-up and then scanned the arena. There was no sign of Frankie as Didier hit a middle A on the keyboard and kept hitting it until the band was in tune.
‘Close enough for you-know-what.’
‘Didi?’ Dave said. ‘We’re still doing a sound check at the gig itself, I hope.’
‘Of course. This is the pre-sound-check sound check – to speed things up for Yannick and his fader fiddlers on the day.’ In the centre of the back row was a trio sitting with their feet up on a mixing desk. Hovering above them, Victory gazed out over the bay as if preferring not to look. ‘Say hi to them.’ Predictably desultory waves followed from both sides. ‘Excellent.’
Didier ran a shepherd’s eye around his flock. Everyone was ready. ‘So let’s wake Yannick and co up with...’ He paused, looking all around him. ‘Listen.’
All eyes settled on Maxine. A cicada had landed on one of her drum mics and was chiriking its mating call. Amplified around the Jardin, the sound, so much an emblem of a warm summer night in the south, made everyone stop what they were doing and listen. On stage, the band saw an added significance.
Dave Blackstock was the first to speak. ‘Putting it out early, isn’t he? It’s as if Marco was...’ He shrugged the thought away. ‘Yeah, well.’
The cicada disappeared and for a sickening moment, Darac experienced something he usually encountered only in his nightmares: an uncannily realistic sensation of falling as if into a bottomless pit. Unlike his nightmares, the episode passed as quickly as it had come. ‘Let’s start with it, shall we?’ he said, quietly.
‘Blues For Marco?’ Didier nodded and, finding solace in the activity, busily rearranged his charts.
A voice broke in through the stage monitors. ‘Yannick here. Disney time’s over, guys. We’ve got some cats from Japan coming in shortly.’
The whole band stiffened. ‘They’re not here yet, then?’ Didier said into his mic.
‘They’re on site somewhere.’
‘Well you can fucking wait, then.’ He turned to the drums. ‘You ready, Maxine?’
She gathered herself. ‘Yeah. Let’s do it.’
‘So... Just the head and bridges, guys, OK? We’ll save the good stuff for the night.’ Didier counted the band in and the rehearsal began.
Darac had left a pass on the gate for Frankie but in the end, there had been no need: the gatekeeper proved to be a former beat officer from the Caserne and had admitted her without question. He had also let through the man accompanying her. The pair settled in a discreet spot and watched the Quintet work through the spines of three numbers which used up their allotted time.
Frankie’s husband, Christophe, was of average height, build and looks. A designer of objects as diverse as table lamps and IUDs, he was a bright, creative individual and in other circumstances, Darac might have had more time for the man. But his tolerance, stretched to breaking point by the situation, had finally snapped a month ago. It was the day of Frankie and Christophe’s 5th wedding anniversary and to mark the occasion, Christophe had laid on an evening cruise around Cannes’s Îles de Lérins – a “treat for all our friends.” The bay had been serene; the sunset, sensational; Frankie, superb. It had been excruciating.
‘Christophe.’ Darac managed a smile. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine.’ He clamped a hand around Frankie’s waist. ‘You sounded good, by the way. As far as I could tell, which isn’t saying much, to be honest.’
Feeling the back of Christophe’s hand as he reached forward, Darac gave Frankie two kisses in greeting. She wasn’t wearing her signature Marucca perfume, he noticed.
‘Yes you did, Paul,’ she said, standing stiffly upright, not, as was her habit, with one hip thrust slightly out. ‘Sound good, I mean.’
‘Thank you.’ Darac’s habitual half-smile turned into something more wistful as he looked into Frankie’s eyes. ‘Were you here for the cicada?’
‘The cicada? Is that a Latin number?’
He gave a little shake of the head. ‘Skip it. Or hop it, or whatever cicadas do.’
‘There, I can help,’ Christophe said, with faux hauteur. ‘According to no lesser authority than myself, cicadas neither skip nor hop. They fly.’
Darac found Christophe’s send-ups irritating. By overplaying things, he succeeded only in reproducing the phenomena he found so laughable. If you act the part of a bore, you’re a bore aren’t you?
‘I suppose they do fly,’ Darac said. ‘Cicadas.’
Christophe glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve still got loads of time.’ He gave Darac a look. ‘I’m flying off, myself, later. Stuttgart.’
‘Oh?’ Darac’s spirits lifted. ‘I thought you were around for a while?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back on Sunday.’ He grinned. ‘In plenty of time for your act. Oh, I don’t mean act, do I?’ He was still grinning. ‘Performance.’
Frankie stirred, looking around as if seeking a way out. ‘Ah, there’s Didier.’ She removed Christophe’s hand from her waist. ‘Haven’t spoken to him in ages. Won’t be long.’
Darac turned to go with her.
‘Paul – a word?’ Christophe said, halting him.
Just as she had at the Caserne earlier, Frankie gave a little backhanded wave as she moved away. The two men were left facing each other. It crossed Darac’s mind to open with “I’m in love with your wife.” The thought returned.
‘Christophe, there’s—’
‘Sorry but while we have a moment, Francine has told me she doesn’t want a party.’
‘What?’
‘No party. But I don’t think we should take any notice of that rubbish, do you?’
Playing jazz had developed in Darac a number of skills he’d drafted in to his armoury as a detective. The most important was not the ability to improvise per se; it was the capacity to react quickly and decisively to each new development in a case as it came up. Even his nemesis, Public Prosecutor Jules Frènes, had admitted that when the chips were down, no one’s brain worked faster than Darac’s.
‘What?’ he repeated, lamely.
‘The leaving do, dummy.’
Leaving do? What the hell? ‘Just... remind me where we’ve got to with that?’
‘Well, the Marseille... Damn – what’s the Commissaire’s name?’
A picture was forming in Darac’s head like an image developing on a piece of photographic paper. Frankie leaving? She hadn’t said a word. ‘Commissaire? There are several there.’ Vice seemed the most likely. ‘Murat?’
