Knock 'Em Dead, page 29
Granot stuck out a fat hand but Flaco’s death stare stopped him. ‘Quite right.’ He returned to the file. ‘This is the interesting one. The property sales documents all tally with the lists. However, I’ve discovered a discrepancy elsewhere.’ He handed round a page bearing the names of three former citizens of La Crague. ‘Messieurs Blé, Martot and Colle. As you can see, each had a will registered with Caroline and each died at a reasonably ripe old age. The wills themselves though, are missing.’
Darac pursed his lips. ‘Are they connected in any other way? Have you had time to dig?’
‘Only to establish that they are not related by blood or marriage. I’ve asked Erica to search for any further details on Caroline’s computer – a job for when she’s finished the reconstruction, obviously.’ He produced a wad of photocopied pages. ‘Caroline’s diary, now. I’ve got nowhere with the dots business and from my description, Jodie can’t explain them either. So I’m going to show her these as we agreed. Alright?’
Darac felt a tremor in his chest and his heart jumped but there was no moment of confusion about the cause this time. His pulse quickening, he grabbed the mobile out of his breast pocket and juggled with it before getting it under control. He looked at the screen. A text. But it was from Didier. He’d read it later. When he looked up, all eyes were on him. ‘Bit nervous about tonight’s gig, I guess. Any more, Granot?’
The big man tugged at his moustache. ‘This would take more digging still but hasn’t it occurred to anyone that Caroline lived very well for a notary?’
‘It did to me,’ Perand said. ‘The Porsche, the clothes, the house itself.’
‘Don’t forget the furniture.’ Bonbon scrolled his mobile. ‘This is in the dining room where you interviewed Montand. A kind of cabinet known as a credenza.’ He showed it. ‘It’s eighteenth century, I’d say. Worth about five grand. And there are several other pieces of note. Found any receipts?’
‘A couple from the 1970s. Payments were made by cheque in the joint account of her parents, both no longer with us.’
‘I felt she came from money,’ Darac said.
‘And she was an only child.’ Granot let go of his moustache. ‘Before you ask, she doesn’t appear to have handled the parents’ wills.’ He set down the file. ‘That’s all I have at the moment.’
‘Good work. Flak?’
Before she could answer, the grey desk phone rang and Darac put it on speaker.
‘It’s Louise Ouârd, Captain. I’ve now thoroughly examined the new samples you sent.’
In the room, voices hushed; ears pricked up.
‘Thanks for coming back so quickly.’
‘First, the name Zep as written in the diary of the murder victim, Rosay.’
‘Tell me Guy Vaselle made that entry and there’ll be a cheque in the post.’
‘I was hopeful but my conclusion is going to disappoint you, I’m afraid. Vaselle did not make the entry.’
No one swore or threw up their hands but the news took the mood back down.
‘Alright. Now you have the diary itself to work with, have you revised your opinion on Caroline Rosay?’
‘Only to strengthen my first thought. She definitely did not make the entry.’
The mood hadn’t lifted by the time Darac arrived at his final question. ‘The letter Paillaud purportedly wrote to Férion – is that his hand?’
‘I’m only going on the jpeg you sent but I’d say there’s little doubt it is.’
‘Thank you, Louise.’
Assurances of future co-operation were made and the call ended on a cordial if downbeat note.
Bonbon pressed his lips together. ‘So Vaselle dodges another bullet. If R.O.’s footprint doesn’t work for us, we’ll have to release him. Again.’
‘Agreed.’ Darac massaged his temples. ‘Flak – we were coming to you before all that.’
‘I’ve been looking into Sonia Bera, and her children Rafal Maso and Daniela Wienawska. First, none has a conviction, an arrest or even a parking fine to their name.’ The scowl deepened. ‘The name inconsistencies are easily explained. Sonia has been married twice. She divorced the first husband and lost the second to a heart condition. The children took their fathers’ surnames. Sonia reverted to her maiden name following the death of husband number two. The interesting thing is the connection they have with Paillaud and now Férion.’
Darac ran his hand into his hair and kept it there. ‘Go on.’
‘We know that La Poche is managed by Rafal on behalf of his mother, Sonia – a detail she didn’t have to volunteer but did. On the day of Paillaud’s suicide, Rafal told you and Lieutenant Granot that he’d had a male guest staying the night before who’d left after breakfast. That put it well before the time of the fatal incident so no further enquiries were made about him.’
‘I think a “but” is coming,’ Darac said, giving Granot a look.
Flaco added a full pout to her scowl. ‘That guest was Maurice Férion.’
Darac waited for the reaction to subside a little. ‘In referring to that night, Férion said only that he’d spent it in a “shithole down the road” from Vence.’
Perand shrugged. ‘Saint-Laurent is down the road from Vence. And if La Poche isn’t a shithole, I don’t know where is.’
‘You’re overlooking the significance to the case of that shithole,’ Granot said. ‘The question is: did Férion simply fail to mention he’d stayed at La Poche or did he deliberately conceal the fact?’
‘That’s my concern,’ Flaco said.
Bonbon helped himself to another jelly bear. ‘It mightn’t be sinister even if he did the latter. Routinely concealing what they get up to is second nature to journalists. Take my uncle Jaume. He’s been a scribbler on Diari de Girona for nearly thirty years. If that man played his cards any closer to his chest, he wouldn’t be able to read them himself.’
Darac nodded. ‘It is part of their craft, I think. Anyway, we can tease the truth out of Férion when he comes in later. Flak, how did you discover this?’
‘Rafal’s never seen me so after you sent your update last night, Captain, I went there incognito. Had a drink. Went to the toilet. Stuffed the paper towels into my bag and told him he’d run out. While he went into the back to get a new roll, I took a quick look at the guest book.’
Granot gave a little grunt of pleasure. ‘Voilà!’
‘Not all that close to his chest,’ Perand said. ‘Signing in.’
‘What made you think of looking, Flak?’
‘You mentioned in your update that Férion had stayed in a dump somewhere “down the road” on his first night; then decamped to Vence, and was finally heading to Saint-Jeannet. I interviewed Sonia and Daniela on his second night. As well as revealing her connection to Rafal and La Poche, Sonia mentioned she let out a couple of nice rooms in the Vence house but that her best place was her villa up in Saint-Jeannet.’
Perand shrugged. ‘In other words, you took a punt on the coincidence and got lucky.’
‘Guilty.’ The observation clearly didn’t trouble her. ‘On both counts.’
The internal phone rang. ‘Hang on to your hats,’ Darac said, putting it on speaker. ‘So, does the shoe fit, R.O.?’
‘Guy Vaselle? I was hopeful but sadly, no.’
‘Ah, well. Thanks, R.O.’ He hung up. ‘That’s Vaselle out of here. I’ll ring the cell block after the meeting.’ He exhaled deeply. ‘Let’s go back to the Sonia/Paillaud/Férion connection.’
Granot’s thumb and forefinger once more found his moustache. ‘How did a Parisian like Férion know about La Poche? I didn’t and I live only a few kilometres away. It’s not advertised. There’s no website.’
Bonbon shifted in his chair, exchanging one contorted posture for another. ‘We can’t call and ask Rafal without alerting the boy, and therefore his mother and sister, to our sudden interest, can we?’
Darac’s headache was returning but at least he hadn’t felt his eyelids flutter since yesterday. ‘Maybe a lack of coffee in my system has destroyed my imagination but again, there could be a simple explanation. Férion told me that Paillaud virtually begged him to visit for a few days, yet offered no hospitality and stumped up only the minimum for board and lodging. Controlling and cheap – that absolutely fits my picture of Paillaud. We know he knew of La Poche – that’s where he arranged to meet Caroline – so he may have simply recommended the place. Férion told me that, buoyed by the promise of an unexpected windfall from Paillaud, he decided to upgrade after that first night. Again, we can quiz the man about it when he comes in. Artfully, if need be.’
‘The banal explanation usually proves to be the true one,’ Perand said, consciously or unconsciously quoting their absent boss, Agnès Dantier. ‘But do we need a break this morning.’
Darac moved the meeting on. Issues were discussed, leads followed, ideas thrown up, but after a good half an hour, no conclusions had been reached except that they needed Erica’s reconstructed will more than ever. No more than a minute later, the door opened and in she stepped.
‘Here comes the cavalry,’ Bonbon said, his voice the first in an upbeat chorus of welcome.
She was wearing a crestfallen expression, a routine favoured by her mentor Raul Ormans, a piece of harmless shtick aimed at ramping up the triumph of the eventual reveal.
‘Take my spot, Erica.’ Darac swung his weight forward off the desk and joined the others.
Erica’s expression did not change as she turned the laptop screen towards them.
47
The teaspoon hung suspended half-way to Sonia’s lips. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tabbouleh?’
Jodie shoved the cabinet drawer home with a flourish and crossed behind her. ‘I would like some.’
‘Ah.’ Sonia lowered the spoon.
‘But I won’t, thanks.’
‘Ah.’ The spoon began its ascent once more.
Jodie grabbed a form and, scrolling a couple of screens on her tablet, began transferring some of the figures. ‘Lieutenant Granot is doing well.’
‘He reminds me of Oliver Hardy,’ Sonia said, beaming. ‘Fat but graceful.’
‘He’s less fat than he was. Lost two kilos already.’
As if daunted at the prospect of further spoon-work, Sonia set her barely touched lunch aside. ‘Do you talk to him?’
‘Of course.’ She hit the off button and picked up her schedule for the day. ‘What do you mean?’
Sonia turned to her. ‘Do you talk to him about what happened? Dani is still devastated, poor thing, so heaven only knows how you must feel. We do worry about you.’
Jodie managed a smile. ‘I know you do. But I’d just as soon not talk about it.’ She glanced at her schedule. ‘I’ve got a pair of tight quads in Room Two in a minute and I don’t want to weep all over them.’
‘And who is going to massage you, Jodie?’ Sonia rose and held out her arms. ‘Come here. Let me give you a hug.’
Jodie hesitated but she didn’t really know why. The two women, short and slight as young girls, came together.
‘We would love you to come and stay with us for a while, Dani and me. You need company. You need to be able to talk. But you’d be completely self-contained, too. Whenever you wanted it, you could be by yourself.’
As Sonia’s almost weightless hand rubbed her back, Jodie felt as if she were 12 years old again, being consoled by a teammate at having been awarded a low score.
‘Will you think about it?’
Jodie smiled. ‘I just might.’
48
The atmosphere was flat.
‘I’m putting Erica up for the Edmond Locard Medal,’ Darac said. ‘Alright, it didn’t work out for us, but from conception to execution, she devised a programme that put together an image of a shredded handwritten text, every cross-cut speck in place, in just two days? Amazing.’
‘It will become the norm, this method.’ Granot nodded. ‘They’ll name it after her.’
‘Here’s to Erica.’ They essayed smiles as they chinked cups. ‘And the Lamarthe Process.’
‘It takes nothing away from the achievement but it’s a pity she hadn’t been able to reconstruct the date at the beginning of the exercise, not right at the end.’
Darac shrugged. ‘It was just the way the pieces played out, I guess. But this is a bad break, there’s no getting away from it.’
‘Another one.’
‘Yes.’ You don’t know the half of it. Darac still hadn’t heard from Frankie.
‘As a notary, Caroline shouldn’t have even kept Paillaud’s last-but-one will!’ Granot’s chops took on a more bilious hue. ‘Not without marking it superseded like the others in the file.’ He let out a long breath. ‘And it wasn’t recorded in the inventory.’
‘So where are we with all this now?’
‘I’m seriously wondering if there actually was a new will. Although Férion has joined the ranks of those promised the earth by Paillaud, he didn’t see the document, did he? And alright, Paillaud may have filled in a cheque counterfoil payable to Caroline but there’s no sign of the cheque itself. And she did flatly deny he’d produced a new will.’
‘We’re going round in circles, Granot.’
‘With no real evidence that a new will exists, the old one will be processed at some stage, you realise.’
Darac ran a hand through his hair and kept it there. ‘Not while we’re still investigating Caroline’s murder.’
‘I know but Monsieur Toilet Head will be cock-a-hoop when he finds out it’s only a matter of time. That really sticks in my craw.’
A new possibility occurred to Darac. He stared at the floor, running with the idea until it attached itself to another. And then another. He felt a frisson of excitement as a whole sequence of connections put itself together in his head and kept going.
‘I know that expression,’ Granot said, brightening. ‘You’ve got something. Come on, let’s hear it.’
Darac gave it a couple of beats, then looked up. ‘How does this play? On the day Caroline was killed, someone shredded an old will in her office, the sole document found in the caddy. Why? Because, never imagining it could be reconstructed, whoever did it wanted us to believe it was Paillaud’s new will, the one Caroline denied being given, the one it looks as if he at least intended paying her for.’
‘Yes, go on.’
‘It all points to one thing, doesn’t it?’
49
Clad only in boxer shorts, Hervé Montand sat up and said “ah”.
‘Again?’
‘Aaaaah.’
‘That’s fine. So they have released Vaselle?’
‘Yes. Now I have a question. Why the urgency for this? My annual check-up isn’t due for nearly two months. And on a Sunday?’
‘I deemed it necessary to bring it forward. Your medication profile has changed. Stand, please.’
Montand clambered off the exam bed.
‘I’m going to check for hernia now. Look to the side and cough for me?’
Montand thought he knew what was coming but as he felt the gloved hand slip under his shorts and close firmly around his testicles, Zep added an unexpected variation. With his other hand, he produced a sheet of paper.
‘As a distraction, look at this.’ He kept the gloved hand where it was. ‘Can you read it or do you require glasses?’
‘What on earth—?’
‘Monsieur, I’m sure your ancestors were no strangers to the art of torturing captives and I could make this as hellishly medieval as you probably deserve but I’d prefer to give you just a small indication of what I could do to you if you don’t co-operate.’
Montand’s whole body shuddered. Among the cries and whimpers that emerged from his gaping maw over the next few seconds, only one word was distinguishable: ‘Why?’
‘Read the document.’
‘But—’
Zep began to squeeze again.
‘No, stop! Stop...’ Montand tried to focus on the page. ‘I’ll... I’ll read it!’
Zep relaxed his grip but held on. ‘Aloud.’
Montand’s eyes were streaming and, at first, he couldn’t make out that the handwritten page bore Ambroise Paillaud’s address and had been signed both by him and by Caroline Rosay. As his vision cleared, he failed to notice that Zep’s thumb was concealing the document’s date. ‘ “This is my will...” ’ He turned to Zep. ‘Which will and how did you come by—? Aaaaarggghh!’
‘Read.’
‘Alright! Alright...’ He slowly gathered himself. ‘ “I... hereby bequeath my villa known as no 3, Chemin des Mimosas, in the commune of La Crague-du-Var, Alpes Maritimes and all of its contents to Monsieur Maurice Rémy Férion...” ’
‘Skip this paragraph. The remainder will be of more interest to you. Don’t worry, once inheritance tax is paid, you may still get the millions you were promised last year.’
‘I may?’ Montand closed his eyes and he would have sunk to his knees in gratitude if he hadn’t understood the likely consequences for his sex life. ‘Oh, thank God, thank God. But only may get it?’
Zep smiled. ‘You will not receive a cent of that sum unless La Crague meets its constitutional obligation to provide social housing for its citizens.’
‘What?’ Montand’s eyes flashed open. ‘I... I recognise no such obligation! I shall just continue to pay the fines. As they do in the likes of Neuilly, I might add. And elsewhere.’
‘And there are other stipulations. Read the details. To yourself, if you like. I’ll turn the page for you as and when. Just don’t forget where my other hand is.’
Over the next two minutes, a complex of emotions fought their way across the sweating face of Hervé Montand; a struggle between triumph and tragedy that any classical actor would have been pushed to equal.
