Knock 'Em Dead, page 13
‘They didn’t actually fall. Just slipped a bit.’ Didier sympathetically essayed the effect. ‘You should avoid those big glissandi at his age.’
Club owner Ridge Clay finally arrived with the drinks. It had taken him twenty minutes to get to the bar and back.
‘Sorry for taking a while but I haven‘t seen some of these guys for the longest time.’ He glanced at the piano and the lack of action around it. ‘Ain’t gonna happen, Jimmy.’
‘Salut!’
Darac took a long draught of his Leffe Triple and stared at its head as he set it down. Ridge waited until the rest of the band had picked up the conversation before he turned to him. ‘So, Garfield,’ he said, still using the pet name he’d given Darac on their first meeting, some fifteen years ago. ‘Good old Christophe doesn’t give a shit for “Francine’s” feelings?’
‘Not about organising a leaving party for her, anyway.’
‘You wouldn’t ride over her like that? If you were together?’
Darac’s beer was still taking his full gaze. ‘I’m a sentimental slob so... Actually, no, I wouldn’t or it’s all about you, isn’t it?’ He heard himself. ‘I majored in Self-Righteous Studies at university, by the way.’ He took another long draught. ‘Did quite well.’
Warm applause greeted James’s final sprinkling of ‘Stardust’. He played through it into ‘Georgia On My Mind’.
‘Did Frankie tell you why she hadn’t said anything about leaving?’
‘No but I could only get a couple of words with her alone.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Ridge took a sip of his bourbon. ‘If I was Jimmy Clarence, you know what I might suggest?’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I’ll clean it up. I’d say: “You want that woman? Then go get her, man.” ’
Feeling a throb in his chest, Darac looked Ridge in the eye. ‘What would you say?’
Ridge downed the rest of his drink. ‘A few years ago, she left your team, right? But that didn’t kill her feelings for you because you still see each other most days. If she leaves the city... That just might do it.’
Before Darac could marshal his thoughts, he realised that the throb in his chest was his mobile. He checked the number. ‘I’ve been waiting for this, Ridge.’
He took the call in the lobby.
‘Captain? Charvet. Sorry to disturb you – I know you’re off.’
‘It’s fine. The wills database finally playing ball?’
‘No, but their IT person says it’ll be up and running by tomorrow at the latest.’
‘OK. Well, thanks for—’
‘That’s not why I’m calling.’
‘If it’s about my cameo appearance at Frènes’s press conference later, I’ve told him I’ll be on time.’
‘They’ll have to send in an understudy, Captain. You’re needed elsewhere.’
21
As Darac took the turn to La Crague, heavier rain began to fall and Chet Baker began to sing ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’. He hit the off button.
‘That’s a first,’ Bonbon said.
Darac knew he was on safe ground. ‘I’ll turn it back on if you like.’
‘No, I’m fine.’ Bonbon’s smile morphed into a grimace as he ran an eye over the locale. ‘I know few places look great in gloom but La Crague’s a dull spot at the best of times, isn’t it? One café bar – average. One pâtisserie – average. Boulangerie – average. Boucherie – average. War memorial – average. Pissoir – don’t know. Probably average.’ He reached into a pocket. ‘I need a boost. Fancy a piece of this, chief? Chief?’
‘What? Sorry, I was thinking about...’ He was thinking about Frankie’s decision to leave and he was tempted to canvass Bonbon’s thoughts but until she brought it up herself, he felt he couldn’t. ‘Just thinking.’
‘If you’re worrying about Granot, he’ll make it, don’t worry. So long as he leaves things like this butter brittle alone.’
At first glance, the proffered bag appeared to contain a miniature green doormat. A second glance confirmed it. ‘Is that the stuff with brandy in it?’
‘That’s butter waffle. From Cours Saleya. This is Brittle with a Hint of Mint. Casiprix.’
‘Pass. So you think Granot will? Hit those targets?’
‘Yes, especially with this...’ Bonbon paused as he attempted to snap off a corner of the brittle. No go. ‘Especially with this Jodie girl...’ He tried harder. Still no go. Teeth bared, the veins in his forehead pulsing visibly, he redoubled his effort. The brittle was unbowed. ‘Especially... with this... Jodie girl helping him.’
‘You alright, there?’
Bonbon took a deep breath and, making a noise like the start of the Monaco Grand Prix, tried once more.
‘I think Jodie is the key, you’re right. Anyone who can get Granot enthusing about things like “cross trainers” has to be some kind of genius.’
‘What’s...?’ Bonbon wheezed. ‘A cross trainer?’
‘Dunno. But there’s one with Granot’s name on it at Centre Sicotte, down the road.’
Bonbon took a moment to recover, then unholstered his automatic.
Darac glanced across. ‘I hope you have a licence to shoot sweets?’
‘None needed. Martina Sicotte...’ Bonbon pistol-whipped the brittle. To no effect. ‘She’s... someone I haven’t thought about in a while.’ A further thrashing. Same result. ‘You should’ve seen her mother play.’
‘That’s what Granot says.’
‘She was fantastic.’ Bonbon opened the glove compartment, inserted the brittle half-way in at an angle and, holding tightly on to the end, rammed the door shut. The brittle held; the door broke off. ‘Ah. It’s just the hinge, I think. Popped out. How does it...?’ He offered up the part and gave it a shove. To his evident surprise, it clicked into place, opening and closing freely. ‘There you are.’
‘Masterful.’
‘Well, you know.’
‘Thank God you went for the brittle and not the hard stuff.’
And then Bonbon spotted his efforts had not been in vain after all: a pea-sized nugget had landed on his knee. Snaffling it before it got any ideas of its own, he gave it the taste test. ‘Uh-huh.’ He rolled the window, spat out the nugget and consigned the mother lode itself to a specimen bag. ‘A waste of one euro fifty, that was. Unless we need to jemmy something at the scene. Like a safe.’
They passed through a deserted Place Charles Montand.
‘Not exactly buzzing,’ Darac said.
‘Not good for you living in a place like this. The orientation doesn’t help.’
‘Political?’
‘Topographical. La Crague sits on a ledge, doesn’t it? Like a shelf in a cupboard. Because it faces east, most people who live here see the sun only in the morning. The back of the cupboard cuts it off for the rest of the day.’
‘Some prefer shade.’
‘As welcome relief, yes, but not all the time. Think of it: you wake up to the famed Côte d’Azur sun only for it to abandon you shortly afterwards. Every day promises more than it delivers.’
‘Perhaps they should adopt that as the village motto.’
‘ “La Crague, Land Of Disappointment.” ’ Bonbon gave Darac a look. ‘Considering it’s a few minutes’ drive from the likes of Carros and Gattières, it makes you wonder why Ambroise Paillaud chose to come back here to live.’
‘Especially as he was unhappy in La Crague as a kid, according to the autobiography I’m speed reading.’
‘Really?’
‘Unknown father. Slightly dotty if lovable mother. Numerous kids and assorted men knocking around all the time. It was pretty chaotic.’
‘I thought Paillaud was an only child?’
‘The other kids weren’t Madame’s, it seems. She was a sort of mother hen to half the waifs and strays in the Alpes Maritimes. Animals too, and not just cats and dogs.’
‘A proper circus.’ Bonbon grinned. ‘I bet the locals loved that.’
‘Exactly. They threw Madame and her whole entourage out, basically. So off they went on their travels, losing a few here, gaining the odd one there until eventually, they pitched up near Paris. The rest, as they say...’
Bonbon’s eyebrows lowered in a kind of awed bewilderment. ‘Monsieur La Chute... Maybe it’s fitting he died as he’d lived. Crashing into things on purpose.’
‘At least we know that’s how he did die.’ Darac nosed the Peugeot into the narrow street that led out of the Place’s far end. ‘Thanks to Perand’s video coup.’
‘The way the man’s body just... burst apart.’ Bonbon’s face crumpled. ‘Ai, ai, ai.’
‘You know what I keep thinking, though? Before he jumped, Paillaud stood in the one spot on the whole station that CCTV doesn’t cover. Why?’
‘You think it was a deliberate choice?’
‘Bit of a coincidence if it wasn’t.’
‘He was something of a recluse, remember. Didn’t like being seen. Didn’t like being watched even more, probably.’
Darac turned the windscreen wipers up a notch. ‘I didn’t even notice the CC until Lartou mentioned it.’
‘Paillaud might though, mightn’t he? Especially with his life in front of the camera behind him. So to speak.’
Darac outlined the selfie scenario.
‘That doesn’t fit, then.’
‘And there’s something else, Bonbon. Something about the jump. I’ve watched it over and over and I can’t put my finger on it. And now we’ve got this new death to consider. There’s a lot to this thing, I think.’
‘At least it’s got you off TV duty with Frènes. Where did you leave it with him?’
‘He’s expecting me to keep him au courant all the way. I explained that if I did that, it would slow down the investigation hopelessly and as speed was of the essence, he should leave us to it.’
‘Did you add “as usual”?’
‘He knows the score. As long as I behave myself when I eventually do get in front of the cameras or whatever, we should be OK.’
‘Right. Action Boy Granot meeting us at the murder scene?’
‘He’ll be along later. He’s got a case out at L’Escarène to sign off first.’
‘L’Escarène? That’s way out of our jurisdiction.’
‘So is La Crague but it didn’t stop Frènes allocating us.’
‘Has the man never heard of the Gendarmerie? Not bad, some of them. Victims of our own success, we are.’
‘Maybe we should bodge the occasional case.’
‘After this one, let’s try it.’ Bonbon scanned the locale once more. ‘Look at this rain. It’s not even 8 o’clock and it’s black as midnight out there.’
They followed the street to a junction with a narrower road that ascended the rising ground above the Place in a series of long traverses. Three or four hairpins later, they passed a huddle of familiar vehicles and turned at a swinging torch on to a short, gravel-laid driveway. Ahead, two dissimilar-looking villas stood side-by-side like strangers brought together at a graveside. The cordon tape glistened in his headlights as Darac drew up next to a plain black panel van. He rolled his window. The van driver followed suit, releasing a whiff of formaldehyde into the murk.
‘How’s it going, Ricky?’
‘Sorry to tell you this, gents.’ He gave his partner a wink. ‘You’re stuck with Doctor Mpensa – your mate Barrau’s sick note’s been extended.’
‘Let’s hope it’s nothing trivial.’
‘And another bit of good news. Thanks to tonight’s goings-on, there’s a rumour Professor Bianchi’s been called back from leave. She’ll be in on Sunday, they’re saying.’
‘Will she?’ Darac shared a look with Bonbon. ‘Thanks, Ricky. See you later.’
‘Cheers, Captain.’ His window rolled back up.
‘Deanna back early?’ Bonbon said, getting out of the car. ‘You said there was a lot to this thing.’
22
Kicking off his sandals, Guy Vaselle slammed his front door. ‘Fuck!’
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d drawn a blank at a bar. Had his wife been at home, he would have even considered screwing her but he was having no luck with anything today.
‘Fucking holidays! Fucking everything!’
He went to the sink and set about washing his hands, scrubbing them thoroughly. ‘Look at this sink,’ he announced, as if to a visitor. ‘Retro farmhouse. First in the area. First!’ He bent and let water from an antique brass tap cascade over his head. ‘Now they’re all doing it. Fuckers, I beat the lot of them. The lot!’
And then he stripped off his shirt and shorts and stuffed them into the washing machine.
23
‘Isolated site, isn’t it?’ Darac said.
Suited up and signed in, he and Bonbon still hadn’t entered the building proper.
‘Nearest neighbours are at least a couple of football pitches away.’ Bonbon clicked his tongue. ‘That’s two-hundred metres, by the way.’
Darac played along. ‘Thank you.’
The forensic focus was on the smarter of the two villas. Darac detected a family resemblance between it and Ambroise Paillaud’s larger place down in the village. Under the eaves, a lime-green box bore the lettering AMSeF.
‘Alarmed. No CCTV, by the look of it. Shared driveway. Who lives next door?’
Bonbon checked his notes. ‘One Brice Kerthus. Sixty-four year-old male.’
Darac indicated a newly registered Renault saloon parked alongside the cypresses. ‘Where’s the Porsche? If that’s Kerthus’s car, it’s on the wrong side.’
A uniform was standing guard outside the victim’s front door.
‘The Boxster’s in the garage, sir. Around the side.’
‘OK, thanks.’ Darac nodded towards the front door. ‘Shall we?’
As they ducked under the tape, Bonbon spotted a top-of-the-range bike in Kerthus’s porch. ‘Up and down these hills? Must be some rider. Pity I didn’t draw him in the Tour sweep. My guy couldn’t climb stairs.’
Caroline Rosay’s villa may have been a smaller clone of Paillaud’s but one glance at the interior was sufficient to establish that the décor was on a different level.
‘See this delicate little hall table?’ Bonbon said, fighting an urge to take off his glove and run a finger across its fine intarsia inlay. ‘In the trade it’s called a console. This one’s worth about four grand. We’re in the wrong game. Should have trained as notaries.’
‘Seems so.’
Bonbon’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s taken a bash.’
With the concern of a vet examining the leg of an injured foal, Bonbon knelt to inspect the damage as a lanky figure wearing crime scene overalls came loping along the hall towards them. The combination of a stubble-blackened face and white elasticated hood gave Max Perand the sort of look a surrealist photographer might have concocted.
‘If it’s not the man of the moment,’ Darac said. ‘The Paillaud suicide video, Perand? That call-back looked like a certain loser but you went anyway.’ He gave the boy a pat on the arm. ‘Good work.’
A lopsided grin rearranged the stubble.
‘Anything significant there, Bonbon?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s just surprising to see a gouge left in a piece of this quality. Looks as if someone bashed the leg dragging something past. A wheeled suitcase, maybe. Recently, by the look of it. Possibly today.’
‘We’ll bear that in mind. The body, Perand?’
‘In the office at the back. The assailant broke in through the patio doors that give on to the garden.’
Along the corridor, a bald, heavily built black man hove busily into view. He looked up from the clipboard he was carrying. ‘Just getting more coffins, chief,’ Jean-Jacques Lartigue said, in his curiously delicate, precisely enunciated tones. He fanned the wad of paper. ‘There’s a lot of stuff to take away. Bonbon? What are you doing here?’
‘I’m wondering the same thing.’
‘Any CCTV around, Lartou? Couldn’t see a camera outside.’
‘There’s none in the place, chief. Nor next door.’
‘The alarm?’
‘Off. The log shows it was on until 3.51 this afternoon, when Mademoiselle Rosay must have returned home. For the past three nights, she reactivated it at 11.17, 11.56 and...’ He checked his notes as he moved past them and headed for the door. ‘10.02. Her bedtimes, presumably. Back in a minute.’
‘Thanks, Lartou.’ Darac turned to Perand. ‘You were saying.’
‘Yeah, she must have disturbed the assailant as he was turning over the office. The door into it from the house is open and there are files thrown around.’
‘Who discovered the body?’
‘None other than the mayor of this little burg, an arrogant shit by the name of Hervé Montand. Seems he had an appointment – that’s his Renault outside. But a Monsieur Brice Kerthus and a Doctor Arnaud Zep play a part also.’
‘Kerthus is the next-door neighbour, right? Who’s this Doctor Zep?’
‘He was visiting Kerthus when Montand arrived. Got here a couple of minutes before. By bike, would you believe.’
‘Arnaud Zep?’ Bonbon repeated, savouring the name. ‘Sounds like a top cyclist. It was a social call, presumably?’
‘Professional.’
‘A house call in the evening? Kerthus is really sick, then?’
‘The fat little bugger’s as camp as Christmas, I’ll tell you that. And he could talk for France. But he does have a serious heart condition. Acute angina.’
‘Bedridden or mobile?’ Darac said.
‘I see where you’re going, chief. He’s mobile but Zep says Kerthus’s condition rules him out as a possible murderer. Two reasons. First, he’s just not fit enough to have carried it out. Second, if he somehow had managed it and survived, Zep says the effects would have been obvious in the exam he performed on him in what must have been only minutes afterwards. Flak’s next door with the pair of them, taking down their statements.’
