Knock 'Em Dead, page 3
‘Definitely. You’re what – sixty now? Pilates works well. Also, yoga. And weight training, properly supervised.’
‘All available at Centre Sicotte, no doubt. And at great expense.’
‘Applying a little more pressure now... Monsieur, I work here at the surgery part-time and I work at the Centre part-time. I have nothing whatever to do with the running of either establishment.’
‘Argh!... I wasn’t suggesting you did. I need to go there on another matter later so I’ll make enquiries then.’
‘I’d start with Pilates.’
The session kneaded, relaxed and rolled on for another five minutes.
‘Now the easy part,’ she said, covering his torso with a towel. ‘Just relax for a few moments.’
After washing her hands, she grazed a side table stacked with printouts, selected one and took out a pen. Hoping he would fall asleep, as patients often did during these après moments, Jodie said nothing further until she had finished annotating the sheet.
‘Still awake?’
‘Of course.’
She helped Montand to his feet. Lying prone for half-an-hour had distended the fleshy masses of his face and Jodie waited until blood had drained from the loose pouches of his cheeks before leading him through a few rudimentary stretches.
‘How does that feel now?’ she said, looping a hair band into a figure of eight around her stubby ponytail.
‘Better.’
‘Good. Need any assistance getting dressed?’
‘I can manage.’
‘Here’s an instruction sheet. Please pay particular attention to my notes. Now if you’ll excuse me? I’m due elsewhere.’
Jodie left him to it. Crossing the waiting area, she kept her eyes open for any familiar faces but saw none. It was a typical cast of characters: cheerful middle-aged man explaining how he’d broken his ankle; young mother texting while baby cries for attention; elderly man staring at floor, sighing and saying “oh dear” intermittently; stone-faced elderly couple, seasoned trappists, trainee corpses; finally, beset father trying to read Le Petit Prince to twin bespectacled six year-olds with ADHD.
Managing the traffic was a heavily made-up receptionist wearing a T-shirt shouting up the forthcoming La Crague Iron Man event. She glanced up from her property magazine as Jodie joined her behind the counter.
‘Hi Jodie,’ she trilled. ‘Finished for the day?’
‘Yeah, I thought I’d sail my luxury yacht over to Monaco for the afternoon.’ She picked up a board with various forms clipped to it. ‘Want to come?’
‘Oh, why not?’ Her computer produced a muffled gong-like sound. ‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous?’ She checked the patient list on the screen. ‘Monsieur Floine?’
The sighing man stood as “Delete Monsieur Floine?” came up on her display. ‘Room Two, monsieur.’
He nodded and trudged away, deleted.
The receptionist lazily turned the page of her magazine. ‘Goodness – look at this place... So what are you up to really – home calls?’
‘Not until this evening.’
The woman turned to Jodie, her bland expression taking on the hauteur of an old-fashioned schoolmarm. ‘You are a little miracle, the way you fly around.’
Pausing in mid pen-stroke, Jodie glanced at the woman’s T-shirt. ‘Save it. Arnaud’s already stung me for ten euros.’
‘I’m serious. And I’m not just talking about how hard you work, I’m talking about how well you manage your condition.’
‘Oh, that,’ Jodie said, still refusing the tyranny of the woman’s favour. ‘Nothing to it.’
‘Nothing? All those needles?’ The receptionist shuddered at the thought and returned to her magazine. ‘So where are you tearing off to next?’
‘Centre Sicotte. I’m there until 4.30 today.’
‘Rubbing down a lot of muscular young men all afternoon? Why not!’
Jodie smiled, tilting the crescent moon-shaped scar on her cheek into a different phase. ‘They’re not all sports injuries. I’ve got yoga ladies. All sorts, really.’
‘I fancy yoga. Or rather the instructor. What’s he called, the delicious one?’
‘Deepak. Deepak Abhamurthi.’
The receptionist seemed to go off the idea. ‘He doesn’t look like a... Deepak.’
Jodie’s pen began to falter. She gave it a coaxing shake. ‘He wasn’t called that originally. It’s a sort of stage name.’
‘Ah. I might sign up, as I say. I think he could get me into some very interesting positions, young Monsieur Deepak.’
‘You wouldn’t be the first. Damn... ’ With one entry still to make, Jodie’s pen gave out. ‘You haven’t got..?’
‘Of course.’ The receptionist opened a drawer containing bundles of ballpoints in assorted colours. Each bore the legend: “Centre Médical de La Crague-du-Var, Docteur Arnaud F. Zep, Médecin Géneraliste” in gold, followed by an indecipherable splodge of figures. ‘Good thing you know what the phone number is. Take your pick.’
Jodie chose a blue one and began scribbling incomplete circles on a piece of waste paper. ‘I think this thing has dried... No, here we go. Sort of.’
The receptionist lowered her voice. ‘Cheapo rubbish. You know how tight our good doctor is.’
‘He’s generous with his time. And with his charities.’
‘A little charity closer to home wouldn’t go amiss.’
A heavy knock on the counter.
‘Monsieur Montand,’ the receptionist said, closing her magazine. ‘I am so sorry. I didn’t see you.’ She took his appointment card. ‘Same time next week for you?’
‘I suppose so. Would Doctor Zep be available? Just for a word, not a consultation.’
‘He’s not back from his run yet, I’m afraid. Or his swim or bike ride. He’s in training.’ A look of deep concern. ‘Have you sponsored him yet, by the way? It’s for a school in Angola, this time.’
Montand appeared unmoved. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘Right, my darling, I’m away,’ Jodie said, her bold bud of a face breaking into a smile. ‘Thanks for the pen. I may start recommending them to my wrist patients. Good exercise —having to go over everything twice.’
‘And then he has the rest of the day off,’ the receptionist continued, ignoring Jodie. ‘Apart from home visits, emergencies and so on. So if you could wait? He’s due any minute.’
‘Just for a minute, then, alright.’
The receptionist heard the door close behind her. ‘Oh, you’ve gone.’
Jodie ran into Dr Zep in the car park; or rather, he ran into her. A short, stocky individual in his early forties, Zep’s bristling red hair and whorled, pock-marked skin gave him an overwrought, eaten-up look even at rest.
‘Sorry,’ he gasped, his chest heaving as he bent forward, hands on knees.
‘No harm done.’ As long as she had known him, Zep had made the average fitness fanatic look like a couch potato. But today, his grey hoodie almost black with sweat, his ruddy complexion pale as paper, he’d obviously pushed things too far.
‘Are you OK, Arnaud?’
He spat out a string of gobbets between his feet. ‘P.B.’
‘Congratulations.’ Thinking that posting a personal best wasn’t worth killing yourself for, Jodie’s eyes narrowed as she glanced at the stopwatch on his wrist. ‘Which route? Not Saint-Laurent and back?’
He nodded.
‘That’s absurdly fast.’
‘Thanks.’
‘In a bad way, I mean.’
Zep straightened as a voice hailed him. ‘What’s Montand doing here?’
‘Ricked his back. I was a bit rude to him on the table. Probably wants to complain about me.’
‘That’s it, Foucault – you’re fired.’ Zep took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Until tomorrow. Here goes.’
‘Don’t run!’ she said, getting into her car.
Jodie kept her eye on the two men as they came together. She could neither hear what they were saying nor read their lips but it was clear that Zep wasn’t buying the mayoral argument. Increasingly frustrated, Montand jabbed an index finger in the direction of Saint-Laurent. Or is it at me? Jodie wondered. Montand repeated the gesture, pointing right at her, this time. Although she had been half joking, perhaps he was bitching about her. For a little routine ragging of La Crague? She felt her muscles tense as a more troubling explanation occurred to her. But how could Montand have found that out? Whatever it was, Dr Zep had clearly heard enough. Shaking his head, he strode off towards the surgery but then, coming to a halt with a click of his fingers, he turned to make a point of his own. You tell him, Arnaud. An afterthought it may have been but for some moments, Montand stood as motionless as the statue of his great-grandfather, the centrepiece of the village’s Place Charles Montand.
By the time Jodie pulled away from her space, Montand was approaching his own car. She slowed and rolled her window. ‘Are you alright, monsieur?’
He said nothing as he continued on his way.
5
‘Impressive, the way the TGV driver’s holding up,’ Darac said, nosing his Peugeot on to the apron of Saint-Laurent-du-Var station. ‘Considering.’
Granot shook his jowly chops. ‘It’s all bluff.’
‘Denial? Perhaps. I wouldn’t blame him.’
‘Call it what you like, he’ll be crying into his cognac later.’
They got out, collected a laptop from the boot, slipped on their police armbands and began picking their way through the crowd.
With no trains running in either direction, SNCF had laid on a shuttle service of replacement buses. Officials were advising those not waiting for one to vacate the area, an instruction aimed principally at rubberneckers.
‘Look at all these raised hands,’ Granot said. ‘Like someone’s called for a straw poll.’
Darac nodded. ‘Not content just to gawp now, are they? People have got to take photos as well. There’s nothing to take from back here, anyway.’
‘And where do the snappers go in between times? They’re never around when they might be of some use, are they?’
‘Gangway! This is something you won’t miss if they bump you sideways,’ Darac said, still trying to sell the idea. And then he played the killer card. ‘And you certainly won’t miss the new protocols from Luxembourg.’
‘The European Court of Justice.’ Granot muttered the words in a snarl. ‘European Court of Meddling Shitheads, more like.’
‘Not entirely fair.’
‘What’s fair about making our lives more difficult?’
Darac the maverick was averse to hierarchies, directives and red tape of all kinds. Nevertheless, he supported Luxembourg’s reforms in the main, including its most controversial: the removal of some of the restrictions governing a suspect’s access to legal representation. Yes, amoral, smart-mouthed lawyers could soon be present during the questioning of all suspects in custody, not just those in cases initiated by the examining magistrate, and that was an unappealing prospect even to the most upright officer. But there was a saving grace. The lawyer in question would not be permitted to intervene, merely ask questions at the end of the interview. For Darac, this represented a fair balance; it granted the accused a new level of protection but shouldn’t interfere with interrogations in any serious way.
The change would represent a bridge too far, he believed, for only two types of officer: those who relied on beating confessions out of suspects, guilty or not; and those, like Granot, who were set in their ways and were irritated at having to do things differently. Both camps had already seen a rise in resignations and early retirements. For the time being, Darac was content to see how things worked out in practice. But if ever a murderer, rapist or kidnapper walked free on his watch because of the change, that day, Darac knew, might prove his last on the job, too.
‘So there you have it, Granot,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d be better off out of our brave new world of policing.’
‘No I wouldn’t. I like moaning. Being hacked off is my natural state.’
Darac couldn’t argue with that one as they passed with some relief into the safe haven of the cordoned-off area.
‘Where’s Patricia?’ Granot said to a young technician signing officers in and out of the red zone. A box of overalls sat open on a cart next to him.
‘On leave, Lieutenant.’
‘Ah.’ A moue of disappointment. ‘Right.’
First, Bonbon on leave and now Patricia? Darac knew exactly what Granot was thinking. Where was the fun in facing a hellish challenge if you couldn’t share the pain with your mates?
They suited up, never a welcome prospect for Granot in hot weather, and the pair walked through the booking hall out on to the Nice-bound platform. Standing in the shade was a young black woman wearing the uniform of a captain in the SNPF, the National Rail Police Service. ‘Captain. Lieutenant.’ She smiled and extended a hand. ‘Been expecting you. Florence Feilleu.’
The introductions made, Darac got straight to the point. ‘Your role here?’
‘To tread on your toes, naturally.’
Cute, Darac thought. ‘Seriously.’
‘I’m the rail incident officer. I’ve already informed your forensic and pathology people that the fatality appears to be a clear case of murder and that we are here chiefly to manage the railway context of the investigation. To clear up and to assist you and your teams, basically.’
‘For our safety and so on,’ Granot said.
‘Yes.’ She gave Darac a look and held it. ‘And to ensure there is no repeat of the sort of unauthorised shenanigans that took place at Nice’s Gare Thiers, recently.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Darac said, feigning innocence. ‘Real mischief-makers, some of my colleagues.’
Florence was still holding the look. ‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Got any big fast locos handy, by the way? Love to take one for a spin.’
‘Get an X-Box.’
He grinned. ‘But back to business...’ He went no further as a message crackled in on her lapel radio.
‘Copy that. Over. You’ll have to excuse me just for a moment, gentlemen.’ She raised a hand. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’
‘ “Gentlemen,” ’ Granot mouthed, as she took her leave. ‘Not used to such courtesies.’
They looked around them. Open to the elements, the station had a layout as basic as a child’s train set. Running east-west, two sparsely furnished platforms were connected by a footbridge at the western end, where they were standing, and by an underpass at the eastern end. The booking hall and a few ancillary structures were grouped next to the footbridge on the northern, Nice-bound side of the station. Soft-leaved shrubs and the razor-edged tentacles of aloes relieved the stark symmetry of the chain-link fence that bounded the length of the platform. Beyond, blocks of flats, classier apartments and business premises layered back into the town at a variety of angles.
Route Nationale 7 ran immediately behind the Marseille-bound platform, opposite. On the far side of the road, a parade of apartment-topped shops looked as if it had seen better days.
‘Talk about the other side of the tracks,’ Granot said, wiping his forehead. ‘Can’t be easy running a business when the places either side are boarded-up and splattered in graffiti, can it?’
At that moment, young Officer Max Perand loped lazily out of one of the shop doorways. Catching their eye, he gave a shake of the head and a thumbs-down. No eyewitness as yet.
Florence Feilleu had finished her call. ‘That was Eric, your safety liaison officer. All train services and movements are suspended in both directions through this sector—’
Granot harrumphed. ‘No change there. They’re on strike more than they actually work, these people.’
‘Be that as it may, there are still dangers out there on the tracks so take your cue from Eric before venturing away from any of the public areas of the station.’
Darac nodded. ‘Are the overhead wires live?’
‘Power was turned off but it’s back on now. We had to check for damage from flying... let’s just call it debris.’
Darac winced. If, as he suspected, Florence was playing the “I’ve seen it all” game, she was winning it.
‘Obviously,’ she went on, ‘the network’s priority is to reinstate services through the station as soon as possible so I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know the moment you deem that feasible.’
‘Sure. Anything from CCTV yet?’ It was worth a try. ‘Anything conclusive, I mean.’
‘Your crime scene coordinator... Lartou, you call him?’ Darac nodded. ‘He’s going over the footage now. There should be something – there are cameras all over the station. In terms of eyewitnesses, we had a team here very soon after the incident and they spoke to every potential witness. No one saw anything.’
‘Naturally.’
Across the road, Perand emerged from another shop door. Catching Granot’s eye, he pointed to the floors above and disappeared around the side of the building. Reflecting that he himself would have started his questioning on the uppermost storey, where the view of the station was more comprehensive, Granot gave him a slightly tired nod in acknowledgment.
‘Florence, do you think we might get any more from the driver?’ Darac said. ‘Counter-intuitively, eyewitness statements typically become more detailed over time. For the first few months, anyway.’
The question seemed to raise her hackles. ‘First and foremost, I’m a police officer, Captain, not a rail worker. I know all about the Witness Detail/Time graph. And the reward system that typically shapes it.’
Granot produced another harrumph.
‘Forgive me,’ Darac said. ‘I was thinking more about the shock aspect. The driver is dealing with it remarkably well—’
‘For the time being,’ Granot interjected. The last word on the subject.
