Essence of Murder, page 4
‘But which vehicle? Any other senior officer in your position would call the Caserne for a pool car. Or get mobile control on the case. Or Foch. Or, if the case merited it, issue an APB.’
Armani looked hurt, suddenly. ‘You’re forgetting our brief.’
‘Our brief!’
Palms upwards now. ‘At last, you’re on message.’
Darac had one shot left. ‘Get your fingers ready, we’re going to do some arithmetic. You’re down here, as I think we know. You’ve got two up there – that makes three. What are your other four doing at this precise moment?’
‘Razor and Janine are on leave. Not together, you won’t be surprised to hear. Mahmoud and Getafix are off sick.’
‘Alright, I’ll concede that one.’ Darac rapped himself on the chest. ‘But why drag me over here? You could’ve got anyone to—’
‘I wanted the best available. And that’s you. Alright? Plus you finally closed out the Riquier stabbing case, didn’t you?’
‘Thanks to Astrid’s artistic gifts, yes.’
‘So what else have you got to do?’
Darac knew when he was beaten. ‘Alright, alright... So how big is this thing?’
‘How big would you like it to be?’
‘Not very.’
Armani’s expression said that there was no need to thank him, but Darac had got his wish. ‘My friend, it’s even smaller.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Darac exhaled deeply. ‘And when might this underwhelming spectacle get underway?’
‘When?’ Armani shared his incredulity with the invisible sidekicks he invariably had in tow before turning back to his tormentor. ‘We’re on a surveillance op, not taking our seats at the opera. When, he says!’
A half-smile invariably played around Darac’s lips. It broadened into something fuller. ‘I’m the best, remember?’
‘Best available,’ I said.’
‘I’m perfectly happy to leave you to it.’ Darac reached for the door catch. ‘Afterwards, park it in my usual spot and I’ll get the tram home.’
‘No, no.’ Armani clamped a hand on Darac’s nearside thigh. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. Farid inside will call as and when. It’ll be any minute now, I’m sure.’
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, the show curtain had remained resolutely down and Armani still hadn’t opened his bento box. In the meantime, Darac had sent emails to their boss, Commissaire Agnès Dantier; to his lieutenants, Roland Granot and Alejo ‘Bonbon’ Busquet; and to his lover, Frankie Lejeune. In between, he and Armani had visited a range of topics which, sticking to the age-old traditions of the stake-out, had begun at the whimsical end of the spectrum.
‘We’re in Quartier des Musiciens, right?’ Armani observed. ‘Well, edge of. We’ve got Rue Verdi, Rossini, Paganini...’
‘And Berlioz, Gounod...’
Armani shrugged. ‘OK, so a few Frenchies got in there as well. But who’s this Louise Ackermann?’
‘Not a musician. A poet. Nineteenth century.’
‘Ah.’
‘A Pessimist.’
‘She chose the right profession.’
Few people could make Darac laugh as much as Armani. ‘You could have a point there but I think it’s more a poetic mode than a mind-set.’
‘And with that she merits this?’ He swept a large, tanned hand over the scene. ‘I don’t know of a Rue Jean-Pierre Tardelli anywhere, do you?’
After a brief interlude in which Darac’s empty stomach turned his thoughts towards the triumph of succulence that was spice-marinated chicken with couscous, prunes, cashews and courgettes, he raised the subject of Armani’s bento. ‘I take it there’s something in that box?’
‘It was €12.50 so I hope so.’
‘And are you just going to sit there nursing it or what?’
‘I’ll get to it later.’
‘Because we could be in for the long haul? Is that it?’
‘Of course not. No, no, no. It’ll be—’
‘Any minute now?’
Armani’s assurance face was a thing of unimpeachable certainty. ‘Probably.’
With their eyes never straying far from the prize, the conversation rolled inconsequentially along until, as was the way, the talking points became more personal and, drawing his thumb and fingertips together, Armani asked something Darac suspected he’d wanted to ask all along.
‘So, you and Frankie, huh? Your soul-mate. Together at last.’ His matinee idol features took on an expression of such hooded-eyed intrigue, Darac almost laughed. But Armani was far from finished. ‘Ah, yes. Frankie, the soul-mate. The soul-mate who just happens to be a beauty, a velvet-voiced vixen, a green-eyed goddess, a—’
‘Yes, I think we’ll stop ticking the boxes there, Armani.’
‘You sly...’ He gave a lascivious little chuckle. ‘So, is it good, or what, being together? Huh? Tell me.’
‘Well, for a start, we’re not completely together, you know. In a co-habiting sense, at least. Frankie still has her place in La Turbie and I’m very happy up among the pantiles in my spot.’
A worrying possibility appeared to cross Armani’s mind. ‘But you are..?’
‘We are.’
The smile returned. ‘Good. So, together, like I said. Together with The Gorgeous One. Spill!’
Despite the ridiculousness of his language, Armani’s assessment wasn’t so far out. Darac and fellow officer Frankie Lejeune had enjoyed the closest of bonds for years and although she had never thought of herself as beautiful, it was a view widely held. But goddess? Darac loved Frankie deeply but he saw her as very much a flesh-and-blood equal, not a divinity to be worshipped. But perhaps he was over-interpreting or just mistranslating from the hyperbolic language that was classical Armanian. The simple truth was that, having finally overcome every obstacle in their path, Frankie and Darac’s coming together was proving a supremely joyous experience, a time of profound consummation for them both. The scenario had disappointed some, he knew. There was nothing like a spot of unresolved sexual tension to keep people interested. But sometimes, real life just didn’t follow the script.
‘It’s pretty good,’ Darac said. ‘On the whole.’
It seemed that Armani’s invisible sidekicks were still around. Nodding knowingly, he shared a grin with each in turn. ‘Oh, pretty good? Not bad? Could be worse, huh?’
‘Forget the stake-out for a second,’ Darac said. ‘Look at me. Quite simply, the past few months have been the happiest and most profoundly satisfying of my adult life. That do?’
Armani’s smile lost all its idiotic machismo. ‘Yes,’ he said, giving Darac’s knee a squeeze. ‘That will do fine.’
They let the moment breathe a little but Armani could never stay quiet for long.
‘And the divorce?’ he said. ‘Piss Face wants it too, now, I hear.’
‘He does, yes, so just a few weeks and it will be final.’
An amusing idea seemed to strike Armani. ‘Frankie kept her maiden name with him. But will she change it for you? That would make her Captain Darac!’ He cracked out laughing. ‘Another one! Fantastico!’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
Armani’s face dropped. ‘You are getting married, I hope?’
‘In time, we might, I suppose.’ He remembered his playful line earlier. ‘This time, I’m serious, by the way.’
‘But what if you have...’ Armani began, and went no further.
It wasn’t like him to be lost for words and Darac knew that for all the man’s bombast, Armani was a soft-hearted soul. “What if you have children?” he was going to ask, wasn’t he? Or even, “What if you have children who have a different surname from their mother?” Was now the moment to remind Armani of a conversation they’d had at their home station, the Caserne Auvare, a few years back? A conversation recounting Darac and Frankie’s questioning of an elderly witness about her family in which it emerged that Frankie herself couldn’t have children? Perhaps this was the perfect moment to refer to it again. But there were subtler ways of saying it.
‘It’s a good thing Frankie never had children, isn’t it?’ Darac said. ‘That really would have complicated things.’
‘Of course.’ Armani appeared a little uncomfortable. ‘Absolutely.’
A segue to Armani’s own home life beckoned and Darac saw no reason to ignore it. ‘Noëmi must have – what? – a couple of months to go now?’
The term “proud father” could have been coined for Armani. ‘Six weeks today,’ he said, beaming. ‘Everything is fine. And the baby’s a boy!’
‘A baby brother for little Emma?’
‘Yeah, but she’s not so little, now.’
As there was still no call from Farid or any action at the apartment block door, Armani was able to expand on his theme. Tomorrow was La Rentrée, the first day back at school for pupils of all ages and the big news chez Tardelli was their little Emma was returning as a “grand”, the oldest of the three classes of children attending École Maternelle.
‘So she’s six now?’ Darac could scarcely believe it. ‘When did that happen?’
‘I know!’ Armani began scrolling his mobile. ‘Check out her birthday party.’
Darac knew what was coming. With each new image or clip, Armani would comment glowingly on Emma’s prettiness, her cleverness and her adorable ways, with all of which he would be obliged to concur. Since he valued his life, Darac was prepared to fib if the evidence didn’t fit.
‘Here we go. Look at that face!’
Circumstances dictated that the screening was more a highlights package than Emma, The Director’s Cut, but the après show began as Darac had suspected. ‘Now,’ Armani said. ‘Tell me honestly.’ Holding the phone did little to curb his elaborate hand choreography. ‘Che bella or what?’
Darac didn’t need the get-out fib, after all. ‘Armani, if such a comment is permissible these days, Emma is a little cutie. Especially in her party costume. Who is she supposed to be – Rapunzel from the nursery rhyme?’
‘What nursery rhyme? You mean Rapunzel the fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm?’
‘That one, yes.’
Armani shook his head. ‘How yesterday are you? No, no, no. She’s Rapunzel from the movie Tangled. Big difference. The Grimms didn’t go in for peddling matching duvet sets et cetera.’
‘Like that, huh? Well, she still looks cute.’
A motor scooter buzzed past them and slowed to a stop outside the garage. The rider kept the engine running.
‘I’ll send you this video.’ He gave the screen a couple of taps. ‘There! No charge. Cutie? She’s a cutie, alright. A cutie and cute, if you know what I mean.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘See her little finger there? No? That’s because she’s got her Papa wrapped right around it.’ Armani finally opened his bento. ‘Don’t like the look of this umeboshi.’ He proffered the box. ‘You fancy it?’
‘Pass.’
The scooter’s throttle blipped a couple of times and edged forward.
‘The new baby will change things. So they tell me. Got a name for him yet?’
‘Fabien.’
Darac rehearsed it. ‘Fabien Tardelli.’ He nodded. ‘It’s got a good ring to it. But it’s only half the story. You are, let’s see, Jean-Pierre Vincenzo... Luca Tardelli? Or have I missed one?’
‘Thomas is in there somewhere,’ Armani said, and for a moment it seemed he was going to reveal Fabien’s full complement. ‘Check out this teriyaki chicken. If that doesn’t taste good...’
It happened all at once. Armani’s phone rang. A duffel bag dropped through the open window. The scooter rider caught it deftly and squirted away up the street.
‘What the hell?’ Armani took the call. ‘Farid? Hold.’ He turned to Darac. ‘We’re going to have to tail him. Nothing rash, now.’
‘Nothing is surer.’ The scooter still in view, Darac did no more than turn on the engine. ‘He had every opportunity to see us. I’ll give him plenty of slack.’
Armani nodded. ‘Farid? Talk to me.’ Armani listened. ‘No, we didn’t expect it either.’
Ahead, the rider turned left into Rue Rossini. Darac pulled sharply away.
‘OK, Farid, we’re in pursuit now... What? Oh, I ran into Captain Darac... What? No, a chicken thing... It’s tasty, yes. Listen, here’s what you do. Call for back-up, then you and Luisa take our friend to the Caserne and get out of him what you can. Relay anything useful soonest. Out.’
‘Now we need mobile control,’ Darac said.
‘You read my mind.’ Armani quickly set up the link and, critiquing each new mouthful, continued his culinary exploration of Japan as Darac followed the scooter discreetly along Rossini. A red light at the intersection with Gambetta gave the rider time to stow the duffel bag into his pillion box and on green, he turned left. Darac managed to flow through about thirty metres behind. With the Baie des Anges no more than a tiny azure glint at the far end of the boulevard, several more sets of lights helped to slow things further and by the time the scooter turned right into the Promenade des Anglais, mobile control had two unmarked vehicles closing in on the target from either side.
‘OK, you’re on the sweep if we lose him,’ Armani instructed them. ‘So stay back unless you hear different. Out.’
The low September sun was casting long shadows along the Promenade and the pair slipped on their shades as they made the turn.
‘Who is he and what’s he up to, this guy?’ Darac said.
‘Two main options. One: he’s the man at the head of this little ring – the one we’re after. Or two, and this is more likely: he’s just a go-between. A guy with a Vespa and hands like Gigi Buffon who’s on his way to meeting said head man.’ Ahead, a line of motorcycles was parked at right angles to the kerb like horses cinched to a rail outside a western saloon. One space was free and the rider turned smartly into it. ‘Pull over and we’ll find out.’
‘When I can. Who’s this Buffon character?’
Armani smiled, fondly. ‘You remember what I said about you being the best?’
‘Remember? I’m having it stitched into a sampler.’
Thunder face now. ‘Well, forget I said it!’ As if it were the acknowledged antidote to such ignorance, Armani chomped down on a mouthful of asparagus spears. It seemed to work. ‘Hmm, not bad.’
The source of Armani’s outrage, the sports-phobic Darac supposed, was that Signor Buffon, totally unknown to him, was no doubt a hero to fans the world over. Or at least in Turin to which Armani’s paternal line was attached like an umbilicus. Tant pis – Darac wasn’t about to change now.
Rolling the Peugeot past the target, both he and Armani hid their faces by glancing over their left shoulders as if checking for traffic coming up on their outside. Safely past, Armani glanced back the other way.
‘Tell me what he’s doing,’ Darac said.
‘He’s padlocking the scooter to a parking stanchion... He’s taking the duffel bag out of the box... Now he’s firing up a cigarette... And it looks as if... Yes, he’s going to cross the Promenade.’
‘The bag?’
‘On his shoulder. It’s option two. Almost certainly.’
Darac slowed to a crawl. ‘So no jumping out and just grabbing him.’
‘Not until he makes the exchange. Then we’ll get him and Monsieur Big with one swipe. Well, Monsieur Average.’
Judging they had overshot by a sufficient margin, Darac stopped the car and, squinting across the roadway, tried to follow the rider’s progress as he appeared and disappeared between the palms and shrubs lining the central reservation.
‘That must be the most densely planted section of the whole Promenade,’ Darac said, continuously shifting his point of view. ‘Sightlines through are terrible.’
‘We can’t just sit here.’ Armani stuffed in another mouthful. ‘We could lose Gigi altogether.’
‘No, hang on, I’ve got him. He’s reached the far pavement... He’s found an unoccupied bench... He’s looking around... And he’s sitting down.’
‘Facing the bay?’
Darac shook his head. ‘The city. People usually look out to sea if there’s a choice.’
‘He’s waiting for his boss, alright. And he’s making sure he sees him coming.’
Darac’s gaze was still trained on the target. Or at least, he was peering in the man’s general direction. ‘We could do with Granot. He’s got eyes like a hawk.’
Finally finishing his bento, suspect umeboshi and all, Armani dropped the empty box into the foot well behind him. ‘Tissue?’ he said, splaying his fingers like a customer in a nail bar. ‘Of course, any proper flic would have a proper camera and or a proper pair of binoculars on board.’
Darac took his eyes off the promenade for a moment. ‘You’ve got a nerve.’
‘Thanks. Tissue?’
‘What’s your handkerchief for?’
‘Wiping my shades, of course.’
Darac resumed his watching brief. ‘Try licking your fingers.’
‘I’ll try the glove compartment.’
Darac shrugged. ‘Or try the glove compartment.’
Shovelling its contents into his lap, Armani began sorting through it with all the finesse of a terrier at a rabbit hole. But he succeeded in unearthing his quarry, sorry specimen though it was. ‘Just one. And out of its packet.’ When its work was done, the tissue followed the bento box into the rear foot well. ‘There.’
Suddenly aware of the mess, Darac snatched up a slew of CDs, collated them into a stack and with Steve Swallow’s ‘Always Pack Your Uniform On Top’ aptly uppermost, He handed them over. ‘Do you behave like this at home?’
‘At home? No, I tend to be a little more... relaxed, shall we say. Slobby chic, I call it.’
Darac had sometimes wondered if Armani’s ragazzo-from-central-casting persona was just that – a persona it amused him to adopt. His marriage to Noëmi was a particularly happy one, he knew, yet she was a respected archivist who had trained at the Sorbonne.
