Essence of Murder, page 7
The truth was always best. Especially with Agnès. Darac ran a hand into the black, wavy thicket that was his hair and kept it there. ‘Can’t remember now,’ he said.
7.21
Unable to spot Elie on a quick tour of her beat, Astrid did what she should have done in the first place: approach the formidable Bruno on the night desk. ‘Gone home already,’ he said. So, deciding to leave out any reference to the elephant in the room, Astrid sent Elie a text:
Babe, we’ll sizzle on the griddle – sorry, take drinks on the lawn – some other time. See you tomorrow, Sloppy kisses, Tridi
With most having repaired to their rooms for a pre-dinner freshen-up, Astrid found only a few stragglers left on the lawn. Her eye was immediately taken by Gérard Urquelle, standing over in the far corner with... who was the Russian woman he’d seemed anxious to avoid earlier? Thea, yes. Thea Petrova. Astrid watched them and the way they were together. The nods and moues. The occasional asides. The companionable silences. It all seemed so easy. So familiar.
‘I didn’t forget the drinks voucher.’
Astrid’s portrait-subject-in-waiting, Ralf Bassette had arrived and he was holding two glasses of champagne. ‘So I see,’ she said, smiling as she took one.
‘Santé.’
‘Santé.’ Astrid took a sip. ‘Hmm. I think our Mathieu Croix might say, “Baking baguette; ripe Williams pear; urgent mousse.’
‘What would you say?’
‘Yum yum, probably.’
Bassette laughed. ‘So would I.’ He took a sip and, checking his mobile was on mute, slipped off his jacket. ‘Gosh, it’s hot out here.’
‘Hate to tell you this but we’ll be spending a good three hours en plein air tomorrow morning. Alongside the Canal de la Vésubie just over the way there. Do you know it?’
‘I’m not familiar with this part of the city, I’m afraid. Canal? I hope the towpath will be in the shade.’
‘Oh, it’s not navigable – just a narrow water course. And it’s sinuous, not straight, so you can always find shade. Plus, you won’t have to carry your own stuff up there. Lionel, the Villa’s maintenance man, doubles as a sherpa.’
‘Impressive.’
‘The greatest hazard we’ll face are the local joggers.’
Urquelle and Thea were still on Astrid’s mind and she glanced across. There had been a change. Thea hadn’t moved from the spot and was talking animatedly into her mobile but Urquelle was heading back into the building. Catching Astrid’s eye, he waved, made a couple of jaunty remarks concerning the dinner to come and the introductory class to follow, and was gone. Still turning over questions about the man in her mind, Astrid managed no more than a bland comment in response. Bassette, she noticed, didn’t manage even that.
‘Do you know Monsieur Urquelle?’ she asked.
‘Not at all.’ He appeared to go to a different thought and it was a pleasant one. ‘Since we met in reception, I’ve been looking at some of your work on the internet. Astrid, I thought it wonderful.’
Ker-ching! ‘Thank you. That’s kind.’
‘I very much enjoyed the Pop-Arty things. But I loved your drawings on paper. Mind you, I am a little biased in that regard, I suppose.’
Pecuniary considerations aside, Astrid was beginning to feel a certain kinship with Monsieur Ralf Bassette. In a range of media, the basis of much of her best work was her École-honed drawing technique, an approach she knew was on the endangered list in many quarters. ‘So your thing is drawing? That’s refreshing.’
‘My thing is paper.’
‘Paper?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I do love drawing as I say, but I’m very much into paper.’ He smiled his patrician smile. ‘In the sense that I make it.’
One of Astrid’s fellow students at the Académie had made paper. Hours of drudgery with recycled scraps normally yielded at least enough new material for a couple of thumbnail sketches. She sensed that Bassette’s operation was on a somewhat larger scale. ‘Oh?’ she said.
‘Yes. Writing and printing paper, mainly. Are you familiar with Plume d’Oie?’
Ker-ching suddenly seemed inadequate. Perhaps only the ubiquitous Clairefontaine company offered a wider range of high-quality stationery. ‘I think I may have come across it.’
‘Ah, yes? Well, I own it. At this point, I used to add “for my sins” but I’ve been told it’s passé, meaningless and predictable.’
‘By whom, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘My wife, Anna.’ He smiled, proud of her, by the look of it and Astrid expected to be shown a photo at any moment. The mobile, though, remained in Bassette’s pocket. Maybe Anna had told him that that, too, was a no-no.
Astrid glanced at her watch. ‘Listen, I hate to tear myself away but I really must say hello to my other students.’
‘Of course.’
Bassette’s buoyant mood appeared to sink a little. ‘Will we have the pleasure of Monsieur Urquelle’s company on the course?’
‘I thought you said you didn’t know him.’
‘I don’t. But I do recognize him as a man Anna once found far from passé, meaningless and predictable.’
Astrid’s brows rose. It seemed Elie might not be the only one with a reason for hating Urquelle. But whether Bassette did or not, he had just added ‘forgiving’ to the qualities she had identified in him earlier. Or maybe he was a spineless fool. ‘Ah,’ she said, and left it there. ‘It’s quicker if we go through the bar.’
‘Right you are.’
They moved off and by an idiosyncrasy of the flow of sound waves in an enclosed outdoor space, Astrid caught a few words of Thea’s phone conversation still going on in the corner. A phrase Astrid heard clearly was “not a chance.” Another was “change things” or perhaps “changes things.” And finally, something that might have been “it’s better.” Speaking in Russian, Thea had sounded slightly tense, Astrid felt. But of one thing, she was sure. Thea was a native of the St Petersburg area. It was an accent Astrid knew quite well.
Looking on from the open doorway, a red-faced heavily set man wearing a sweat-stained shirt gave the pair a nod. ‘Looking forward to getting down into that cellar at some stage, I can tell you.’ He drained the glass of red he was nursing. ‘Laurent Salins.’
‘Charmed,’ Astrid said, keeping moving while her companion stopped and offered his hand. ‘8.30, Monsieur Bassette,’ she called out. ‘Salle Fernand Léger.’
‘Indeed!’
As Astrid continued on her way, she could have sworn she heard Bassette introduce himself to Salins with just one word: ‘Anything.’
7.53 PM
Except that there was no social media device, the contents of young Emma Tardelli’s bedroom were typical of many a six year-old French girl’s of the time: single bed with themed linen and a family of soft toys in residence; desk for homework and chair; dressing table with hairbrush, slides and other grooming ephemera; wardrobe with mirror on the inside of the door; boxes in primary colours full of toys, some recently acquired, some “from when I was little;” wall shelf laden with books, pictures and her own collection of DVDs.
And finally, Emma’s pride and joy. Presiding over her bed was her poster from the movie Tangled, slightly dog-eared and festooned with real, if miniature, lipstick kisses, its twin stars peeping out into the room through a wall of entwined tresses.
Noëmi kissed Emma on both cheeks and since baby Fabien had chosen that moment to start kicking his way out of her belly, she stayed sitting on the bed.
‘Will Papa come in and give me a kiss tonight?’
‘When Papa’s late home, he always comes in to give you a kiss.’
Scrunching her shoulders, Emma clasped her hands against her cheek and giggled. ‘Can I capture him and make him take me all round the world?’
‘Can’t I come too?’
‘No, I’m Rapunzel and Papa’s Flynn. You’ve got to stay here.’
‘That’s alright. I like it here.’ She took Emma’s hand. ‘Feel. He’s kicking.’
In one seamless movement, Emma sprang on to her knees and with almost heart-breaking concentration, felt her way around the miracle that was her maman’s tummy.
‘Think, sweetie, when you go to Maternelle tomorrow, you’re going to be a grand, aren’t you? Won’t Fabi be proud of his big sister?’
Emma nodded, her expression balancing gravitas and hauteur in a way that was her Papa to a T. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Fabi will be very proud of me. Can I wear make-up now?’
‘No.’
‘Can I play with yours when I come home from school?’
‘If you’re good.’
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’
Noëmi gave Emma three final, final bedtime kisses and settled her down for the night.
* * *
It was half an hour or so later that Armani returned home and, true to Noëmi’s word, almost the first thing he did was to kiss his sleeping princess goodnight. The very first was to kiss her almost sleeping mother.
‘Tired?’
‘No-o.’ She grinned. ‘Just pretending.’
‘Is this what I get for being the perfect husband?’ he said, chucking her under the chin. ‘I’ll get us some refreshment.’
Noëmi was already stretched out on the lounger by the time Armani took a couple of cold drinks out on to the balcony. He drew up a chair and to the staccato click-clack from the terrain de pétanque down to their left, the pair, as they did almost every evening, watched the light gradually fade on Place Wilson.
‘You and Fabi have a good time together today?’
‘Wonderful. Except when I was putting Emma down.’
‘What happened?’
‘He decided to replay La Coppa Italia.’
‘La Coppa? Tell me Juve scored this time.’ Remembering his team’s 2-0 loss to Napoli in the final still hurt. ‘Preferably three.’
She raised her brows. ‘I think they did.’
‘Sforza!’ Armani toasted the triumph with a mouthful of Peroni and then took her hand. ‘Six weeks today, sweetheart. That’s all it is.’
‘Yes. It was lovely, really. Emma felt him.’
Armani kissed Noëmi’s hand. ‘Her last day of the holiday... You know from Mat onwards, I hated La Rentrée. Emma takes after you.’
‘In some things.’
‘She’s still excited about tomorrow?’
‘Excited? Mama told me she’d re-packed her backpack half a dozen times before I picked her up.’ Noëmi frowned as she shifted her weight on the lounger. ‘And she’s done it twice since we got home.’
Armani felt a sense of such deep contentment at that moment, he could have laughed or cried or both. Instead, letting go of Noëmi’s hand, he reached forward and adjusted the cushion under her feet. ‘That better?’
‘Hmm.’
Down on the street, lights were going on in the restaurants and the evening bustle was getting underway. In the Place itself, the pétanque game appeared to be coming to the last shot of the last end and Armani stood resting his elbows on the balcony rail to watch it. The appearance of the player charged with taking the shot made him smile. A matchstick glued implacably to his lower lip, the player conveyed an air of unassailable confidence. Above the Plimsoll line of his tiny, shiny shorts rose a bulky mass of flesh covered in a holed basketball-style singlet at least two sizes too small. The same could not have been said for the football socks slumped in slack resignation half-way down his skinny calves. What looked suspiciously like brand new trainers completed the ensemble.
Judging that the man’s outfit was not redeemed but made worse by his gleaming footwear, Armani couldn’t help feeling for him, too. The game situation looked hopeless. The tiny target, the cochonnet, was surrounded by a ring of enemy shots, with one of them virtually touching. To win the game, that boule would have to be fired out. But where would that leave its confrères? Any shot in pétanque was a hostage to fortune – that was one of the beauties of the game – but no amount of helpful ricochets would save the day here, surely. There was only one way to win this one: the last shot would have to expel the almost-touching boule without moving the cochonnet more than a centimetre or two. Each of the player’s teammates seemed to have an opinion on the best way to achieve the dead shot this required and a lively debate sprang up which soon turned into a flaming row.
‘This is getting good,’ Armani said, but then quite suddenly, the fracas subsided and the player was ready. He stood stock still. His legs flexed. In one quick flick of the wrist, he let fly. The players hushed. The silver orb arced into the failing light and fell. There was a clack but no click. A chorus of cheers and jeers went up simultaneously: the shot had cannoned away the enemy toucher and finished right up against the target.
A grinning Armani tapped his mobile a couple of times and on the terrain, the hero of the hour bent to extract something from his sock. ‘Was that shot for the game, Granot? And you’re on speaker so mind your mouth.’
‘Of course it was for the game.’
‘Bravo! So your lucky old outfit came through for you again, huh?’
‘Listen, three months ago, all I could get on were the socks.’
Armani let that one lie. ‘So what’s with the new trainers?’
‘My old ones were getting a little past their best.’
Stifling a laugh, Armani turned his back on the scene.
‘Noëmi with you?’
‘Evening, Granot!’ she called out, covering for her husband who was still hiding his amusement at Granot’s sartorial idiosyncrasies.
‘Did you see my winning shot?’
She hadn’t. ‘It was brilliant!’
‘Then, I dedicate the match to you.’
‘You darling!’
Armani went to sit down and Noëmi gave his knee a pat. ‘Invite him up for a beer.’
Armani relayed the message but Granot had made plans with his team-mates and the call ended with the promise to do it another time.
‘Pity he couldn’t make it. And en route, he could’ve popped into U and got some of those prune yoghurts we like.’
‘I’ll nip down and get them later.’ Armani sat back in his chair. ‘So how was MAMAC today?’
‘Routine. Boring, even.’
Armani couldn’t resist a grin. ‘Bella, you’re archiving a collection of artist’s letters and papers, no? Not working as a trapeze artist.’
‘Listen, I really enjoy it when the guy writes about art. Or love. Or life. What I’ve been ploughing through for the past three months is a dispute over a plumbing bill. And the positioning of a boundary fence.’
‘You should get Granot on the case. He loves that kind of thing.’
‘Yes?’ Noëmi shrugged. ‘Anyway, I don’t think I’m going to miss work much when I go on leave. And I certainly won’t miss seeing all my lovely work colleagues. Unlike you, I haven’t got any. Colleagues, I mean.’
‘Working solo’s satisfying. But teamwork is more fun.’ Noëmi’s glass was empty, he noticed. ‘More carrot juice? You’ve probably only drunk about four litres of the stuff today.’
She contemplated the glass. ‘Nnnnn... Yes.’ She handed it over. ‘You’re sweet, you know. I don’t care what they say.’
‘All I know is that if our baby comes out orange,’ he called out as he went inside, ‘we’ll know why. A child of mine clashing with the paintwork? Que disastro!’
The apartment building ran the entire south-facing side of Place Wilson. With its primrose yellow-washed walls and duck-egg blue shutters, it presented a sunny, harmonious face to the world and the Tardellis had loved it at first sight. Their six-roomed place occupied a prime spot on the top, fifth floor and directly below was something else they loved: a modestly equipped little children’s playground they soon came to regard as an outdoor extension in which Emma could run free – as long as at least one of them was on hand to supervise.
For six years, Emma had been the sole focus of their parental love and both had wondered how she would take to her role as Fabien’s big sister. For a moment, Noëmi pictured Emma coaxing the little one on to the slide, helping him climb the stairs to the cute little house at the top, then encouraging him to wave at maman and papa before whooshing down. It was a joyous thought. But is that would it would be like?
‘Thank you.’ Taking the refilled glass, she turned her thoughts to the here and now. ‘How about you? Not much of a day off, getting caught up in a work thing.’
‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong.’ He took down another mouthful of beer. ‘Where to begin?’ A natural storyteller, Armani loved teasing things out. ‘If anyone asked, how would you describe my voice?’
‘Deep. Manly. Gorgeous accent.’ Allowing her head to fall to the side, she grinned at him. ‘How am I doing?’
‘Great. And my singing voice?’
‘Uh, let’s see...’ She scrunched her brow while she looked for the mot juste. ‘Terrible just about covers it. Still doing great?’
Armani laughed, then laughed louder still before recounting the scenario on the Promenade des Anglais.
‘Well, Paul’s plan worked anyway,’ she said, giggling. ‘He’s amazing, isn’t he? To have thought that up on the spur of the moment?’
Armani drew down the corners of his mouth. ‘He’s got his points.’
‘And only you, my big, idiotic carissimo, would have had the...’
‘Balls?’
Noëmi’s turn to laugh. ‘Yes, balls! Great big ones, to carry it off!’
Armani brought the fingertips of both hands together and shook them. ‘You haven’t heard the cream of the jest. To get me to go along with the plan, Darac tried to fool me that Agnès and Erica lurve my beautiful singing voice, right? Super fans. He’d forgotten I’m Armani, King of the Kidders.’ He grinned devilishly. ‘They will be cursing him for ever because they don’t know where it’s going or when it will end!’
