Essence of Murder, page 28
‘And are the ashtrays—?’
‘Emptied every day?’ Astrid said, sufficiently au fait with Darac’s thought processes to anticipate the question. ‘This may be the Villa des Pinales and not the Café Cacapipi, but happily, they are emptied only every few days. I wouldn’t bet my original Ed Ruscha print on it, but if within the next hour or two, forensics examine the butt pile in the ashtray Urquelle used last night, somewhere near the top they’d find—’
‘One Gauloise among several Gitanes? A Gauloise superficially matching others swivel-heeled into the paving on the other side of bench a?’
‘Exactly. And they didn’t smoke after that.’
This was a breakthrough and as the pair shared a look, as if to celebrate with them, another cheer went up in the Salle. Darac took out his mobile.
‘R.O? Got an update for you that needs acting on immediately.’
‘Marvellous news – the pickings in his room are looking very slim.’
‘And keep your eyes on your inbox – I’m sending you a shot of a sketch map Astrid’s just drawn of the smoking area. You’ll be paying particular attention to bench a. Copy everyone else in on this, too, OK?’
Astrid laid her sketchbook on the floor and Darac did the needful, then continued with the call. At the end of it, she picked up the book and riffled pages.
‘Let me bring something else to the party.’ She arrived at the image she was looking for: a hastily retreating back, male, soft around the middle, a large head sunk into bulky shoulders. ‘Voilà. It’s Salins.’
‘What’s the story here?’
‘He was snooping around in the corridor along from my room. Last thing on Wednesday night, it was. When he heard my door open, he scuttled off. If scuttled is the word. Plodded quicker says it better.’
‘What was he looking for? Or whom?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There are no public rooms on the top floor, are there?’
‘None.’
‘And Urquelle was on the floor below north-facing... Let’s put a body in every bedroom, as it were.’ Darac scrolled screens on his phone. ‘Salins is on the first floor, too, I see.’
‘Ah, yes?’
‘And on your corridor... Next door is Mathieu Croix, then Zoë. Around the corner in the east-facing rooms, we have... Babette Bonnet, then her sister Claudine, Lydia Félix...’ A number of possible explanations for Salins’s behaviour occurred to Darac but he needed more to go on. ‘Could be significant but we’ll have to leave that one just now.’
‘Sure.’
‘Salins will be in the Salle de Bacchus with Mathieu Croix now, won’t he?’
‘Should be.’
‘Need to talk to Granot. You OK for the moment?’
‘For the moment.’
‘Good.’ He tapped a key and waited. ‘Astrid, do your students have any idea you’re one of us, by the way?’
‘No. In fact, the only person here who does know is Elie and I’d like to keep it that way if possible.’
‘Well, it won’t be easy to...’ Granot came on, cutting short the reflection.
‘Before you ask, chief, nothing significant has come through on the background checks so far; and Flak and Perand have completed the Denis Marut search. There was no clear connection to anyone here except Urquelle himself.’
‘OK. Bigger fish, now. You’re all au fait with the smoking area development?’
‘All of us, yes – interesting.’
‘I have more.’
‘And we have Urquelle’s wallet, pocket diary and mobile, by the way. They’ve just arrived from Path. Erica’s taken possession of the latter.’
‘Excellent. Obviously, when time permits, you’re the man to go through the diary entries and the wallet contents in detail. Just for the moment though, it’s the diary alone I’m interested in – it may figure in part of the reason I called in the first place. Astrid witnessed Urquelle writing something in that diary on Thursday night. Anything on yesterday’s page?’
‘A second... Thursday, the 13th is... blank.’
‘OK. Is there a part for addresses in the diary?’
‘Uh... No. But there is a notes section at the back... And it has a few entries.’
‘Dated, by any chance?’
‘No but you can easily tell the individual notes apart. Whether the last one is the one Astrid saw Urquelle make, I’ve no way of knowing. It’s a column of figures. A calculation, possibly. And judging by the bottom line, it looks like a subtraction. Hang on.’ Darac heard mumbling. ‘Yes, it is. No idea what the figures refer to, of course. May be best if I email you a photo. It’s all the rage today.’
‘Isn’t it? After I’ve updated you more fully on Laurent Salins, revise the whiteboards, then detail Bonbon and Flak to hoick the man out of Mathieu Croix’s class and grill him.’
‘You said you had more. Let’s hear it.’
The update duly delivered, Darac ended the call and opened Granot’s email. The calculation read:
6238
2344
1000
1500
1394
‘It is a subtraction if you add it up,’ Astrid said. ‘Up from the bottom. What do you make if it?’
‘Two different kinds of numbers here, aren’t there? Nice round ones like 1,000 and 1,500 and three very sharp ones. The bottom one explains itself. The others? Don’t know. But one thing I do know is that when Granot gets stuck into this problem, he’ll find the answer. And no one in any force would find it quicker.’
In the Salle, a cheer went up for another work under consideration. An also-ran, by the sound of it.
‘I wonder whose that was?’ Astrid said, fine frown lines appearing on her forehead. ‘Probably Alan’s. His work’s not figurative enough to be popular.’ She shook her head. ‘Sorry, switched off there for a moment. Yes, Granot always seems to come up with those sorts of answers quickly.’
‘When do you normally break for coffee?’
‘Around 3.30.’
‘We might take statements from those who appear to have no connection with Urquelle then. Suspects, as we’ve already discussed, might be pulled at any time.’
‘By suspects you mean Salins?’
‘Salins and any others who emerge. As things stand, the cigarette he gave Urquelle does appear to have been the direct instrument of his death. But there’s a qualification. You may not be aware of this but on his registration form, Salins cited himself as a call centre manager. It’s not clear how such a person could have got hold of an industrial poison. It suggests someone else may have been involved. Someone who does have access to these substances.’
An extra couple of lines appeared to form on Astrid’s forehead. ‘That rules out Elie, surely. And Vivienne. And I shouldn’t think Alan Davies sprays industrial poisons on his eight lemon trees.’
‘Yes, I doubt that,’ Darac said, noting she hadn’t exempted her other favourite, Ralf Bassette. But there again, how could she? The man was an industrialist, after all. Erring on the side of caution was an approach Darac rarely adopted but he decided not to enlighten Astrid about Vivienne’s family business connection, or go any further down this particular line. ‘I’m off to the Salle des Rêves next, by the way. Just for a few minutes. Zoë mentions that if I enter quietly through the kitchen at the back, probably no one would notice. No one except Zoë, of course.’
‘You won’t be present for the presentation of the perfumes?’
‘No, no. I’ll have slipped away before then.’
‘Good, because as soon as the first student returns to her seat, they would see you.’
‘Quite.’
‘Why are you doing this anyway?’
‘I’d like to gauge what state Lydia Félix is in before we talk to her more formally. And just to gain a general impression. Have you spoken to her?’
‘Once. Briefly. Difficult to warm to someone who was so obviously flattered by the attentions of a creep like Urquelle. But she seems pleasant enough. Intelligent. Rather pretty, as I hope my sketch catches. Zoë says she’s top of the class, by the way. She and a rather dignified older lady named Cinzia Veri are her pets this time. Very engaged students, both.’
‘Whereas Urquelle was totally the opposite. Hmm.’ Darac went to another thought. ‘In case you’re worried, by the way, Zoë is very much off the hook for the murder.’
Eyes wide, Astrid exhaled sharply. ‘She had better be or you’ll have your papa to answer to, for one.’
He grinned. ‘You’re right, there.’
‘And Darac...’ She hesitated, an unfamiliar look for her. ‘In fact, Paul, may I?’
‘Ah, the using my forename shtick, huh? It’s been tried, Astrid. Many times.’
‘And?’
‘Works like a charm. What do you want to say?’
‘Actually, I shouldn’t say this, I know, but... when you get to her, please go easy on Elie.’
‘As I said about one of the others, if she is innocent, she has nothing whatever to fear. If she turns out to be guilty, I promise you that I, and everyone else in the team, will treat her with compassion and with sympathy.’
‘Thank you.’ Tucking her sketchbook under an arm, Astrid reached for the door handle. ‘So – back to it.’
‘One second. I’ve got something to say, too. A moment ago, I stressed just how invaluable Granot is to the Brigade. I hope you realise that you are, too, Astrid. In fact, more than that – you’re irreplaceable.’
Astrid may have been invaluable and irreplaceable but for the moment, she was also incapable – incapable of speech. But then she rallied. ‘I bet you say that to all the geniuses,’ she said, throwing the line away like a pro but then her expression changed. ‘Thanks. Paul.’
Darac smiled and by way of a valediction, gave her shoulder a squeeze, a signature sign-off for his inner circle.
As she opened the door, one pair of eyes locked immediately on his.
They were the eyes of Ralf Bassette.
1.59 PM
Like her mentor before her, Zoë Hamada usually enjoyed every minute of the last class of the course. Inevitably, things were different this time. She wondered how Martin Darac would have played it if one of his students had been murdered, possibly by one of the others? Appreciating how useful his father’s expertise and experience might prove to the investigation, Captain Paul Darac, Zoë had heard, had summoned Martin to the Villa.
Fond of her former boss, she had been heartened by the news. And, having sourced, secured and maintained all the materials used on the course with her customary meticulousness, she was sure Martin would confirm that she had done everything by the book.
It hadn’t been her fault that the deeply unpleasant Urquelle had ignored her instructions pertaining to their outdoor lesson on aldehydes, a class she had entitled Cyanide and Salad. She had made it crystal clear that she alone would open the double-jarred examples she had selected for the experiment which would take place in the centre of the terrace garden, well clear of the building. So of course, having asked “Which is the smelliest?” Urquelle had thought it funny to open the one labelled sol: trans, cis-2, 6-nonandiel en route. It was Zoë’s practice to open such jars wearing a respirator mask and then invite her students to witness the remarkable smells released at a distance of some three metres. Urquelle’s exposed nostrils were less than half a metre away when he opened the nonadienal jars, releasing a smell so bland in its familiar form – cucumber – but of such surreal intensity in its chemical concentration even in solution, that he promptly dropped both jars, spilling some of the contents harmlessly on his hand. Too bad.
Yes, Zoë had very much looked forward to having Martin on board so she was dismayed to hear that he wouldn’t be able to make it until around 6.30 – by which time the murderer could have poisoned several more victims and been long gone. But then she received a text. Learning that the poison that killed Urquelle had in fact been administered in the form of a cigarette came as a huge relief and she took particular pleasure in the fact that it was Martin’s son Paul who had sent it.
And there he was now, unmistakably his father’s son, slipping unnoticed by her students into the back corner of the room. Taking stock. Taking stock and waiting to pounce? Zoë couldn’t let such speculations get in the way. She was about to deliver her pre-presentation address.
‘First, I must issue a word of caution about something I referred to briefly in our introductory class on Wednesday.’ At this point, she usually made a jokey reference to health and safety regulations but wisely ditched it. ‘It concerns the use of my word “unique” in relation to the scent you have now each successfully created on the course. I want you to picture this scene. Having returned home, you are sitting at your dressing table, perhaps preparing for a night out and you proudly turn to your own, lovingly crafted scent. As it mists the pulse points on your neck and wrists and you’re enveloped in its gorgeousness, a worrying little bell rings in your head. “I’ve smelled something like this before,” you say to yourself. “It’s like L’été de L’Amour or Au-delà de Minuit, perhaps. What I’ve made isn’t unique at all, it’s a replica of another scent.” The point I should have made more explicitly on Wednesday evening is that all scents are replicas...’
As Zoë’s speech continued, Darac’s gaze remained fixed on Lydia Félix and from his corner position, he could follow every shift in her expression – as it was reflected in her right profile, at least. It was clear that the class was proving a struggle for her. But in what respect? At some moments, she turned to her elderly neighbour, Cinzia Veri, wearing an entertained, unambiguously happy expression. At others, her head dropped, and Darac assumed at first that the weight of her grief was the cause. But then he realised he had misinterpreted her body language. He craned his neck to the side. She was texting or emailing someone.
Before Darac ghosted back through the kitchen, he estimated Lydia had sent and read at least three messages. An easy job for Erica later.
He was en route to the Salle de Bacchus when he received an email of his own. He called the sender immediately.
‘Serge? Darac. What have you got?’
‘I’ve discovered Laurent Salins is not who he says he is. His real name is Léo Banda and he’s not a call centre manager either.’
‘Tell me he’s an acrylamide importer and there could be a promotion in it for you.’
‘In that case chief,’ Serge said. ‘I’ll be hanging on to my rank for a bit longer.’
2.10 PM
Mathieu Croix was arguing the case for decanting any red wine of “suitable age and heft” when he looked up to find all eyes sliding to the door behind him. Unconsciously performing a comic double-take, he followed them. Having missed Granot’s lunchtime briefing, he was unaware that the three remaining classes were subject to possible interruption and, having left his mobile resolutely switched off, he had not received a call advising him that two officers were en route to do just that. Consequently, he was surprised at the appearance of the pair: a twinkle-eyed wiry fellow sporting a gravity-defying shock of reddish hair; and a short, strapping young black woman wearing an expression of such deliciously smouldering menace, Croix felt a frisson he hadn’t experienced since the days of Madame de Douleur’s Maison des Fouets.
‘May I help you?’ he said, a remark hardly likely to provoke the young woman into a frenzied assault but he lived in hope. The wiry one gestured him to join them in the doorway.
‘Monsieur Croix? Lieutenant Busquet and Officer Flaco.’
‘Flaco?’ Croix said, relishing the sound of her name. ‘Flac-o! Splendid.’
As a bemused Bonbon continued sotto voce, voices in the room rose, adding a further layer of insulation. ‘You seem surprised to see us, monsieur.’
‘No, no, I understand in general, of course. Has there been a development, then?’
‘You could call it that,’ Bonbon said, playing down what was a fully fledged breakthrough. ‘I’ll explain briefly why we’re here.’
While Bonbon spelled things out, Flaco ran an eye around the room and, like Darac earlier, recognised every face from Astrid’s notes: the obsequious yet haughty Marcia Calon, her eyes burning, darting around the scene as if hoping an arrest would happen here and now, right in front of her. However sanctimoniously triumphant Marcia may have appeared, Flaco sensed she wouldn’t have wanted the suspect – whoever he was – to go quietly. She would have preferred to witness a violent struggle, the captive dragged out writhing, spitting, kicking. That Marcia herself had initially appeared on the list of suspects would have astonished and mortified her, Flaco knew.
Embarrassed by the blatant zealotry of his wife, Marcia’s husband Jérôme looked fearful of the unpleasantness that might be about to materialise. When Flaco had embarked on her career with the Brigade, she wouldn’t have believed a little mouse like Jérôme capable of committing or planning a murder. Now she knew differently. She also knew that if he ever did do such a thing, Marcia was certain to be the victim.
Astrid had made it clear in her notes that there was almost certainly more to Thea Petrova’s relationship with Urquelle than the series of unplanned encounters at trade shows Thea herself had claimed. Initiating, conducting and ending casual affairs appeared to have been a way of life for Urquelle; an ending that proved all too final for Karen Bicoud. From Astrid’s account, the imperious Thea wasn’t the type to accept being discarded by anyone. And why should she? Flaco’s first look at the living person accorded both with Astrid’s pen and ink sketch and her comments. If Urquelle had sought to ditch Thea, Flaco could imagine just how violently, how vengefully, the woman might have responded. But since the breakthrough, Flaco and Bonbon had little need to imagine anything about the life and loves of the fake fur saleswoman Madame Thea Petrova. A 100% genuine suspect had emerged form the crowd: the ruddy-complexioned man they now knew as Léo Banda.
