A Death in Time, page 7
‘Hardly Avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey,’ Darac said. ‘But pleasant enough. Well done, Lami, this is all useful stuff.’
The young man smiled. ‘And this is the actual building. As for her apartment itself, who knows?’
Granot grinned. ‘My grandfather used to say, “many a tattered shirt hides a proud breast.” ’
It took a moment but Lami caught the meaning. ‘I see, yes. The Marseille address may have been quite luxurious inside. I’ve seen many apartments like that.’
‘In which case,’ Granot went on, ‘this place would represent a definite downturn in Mademoiselle Dubreuil’s fortunes and that could prove significant. On the other hand, it could have been quite similar to this.’
‘If it proves necessary, we can check it out,’ Darac said, and then a less than cheery thought struck him. ‘Do you recall our esteemed former colleague Lieutenant Intern Christian Malraux, Lami? You can be rude, it’s OK.’
The young man let his expression answer for him.
‘He’s over in Marseille these days. Full Lieutenant. If we were feeling neighbourly, we could ask him to check out the rue de Rouet address in person.’
Granot shook his grizzled chops. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘You’re right. It is a ghastly thought.’
‘Not what I meant. When would it have been? Last August? Well, sometime in the Summer, anyway.’
‘Last Summer?’ A smile was never far from Darac’s lips. ‘Frankie and I had another little matter on our minds back then.’
‘Ah yes, of course. But Malraux? Left the force. Went back to Paris, I think.’
‘Really?’ Darac said. ‘Well, I can’t pretend I’m sorry he’s no longer a police officer.’
‘Quite.’
The pressure marks on either side of the victim’s throat took Darac’s eye.
‘Thumbs made those deep, wide and obvious marks, didn’t they, Lami?’
The young man appeared uncomfortable. ‘Captain, I…’
‘We understand your opinion isn’t an official one so anything you say will go no further. We trust you – trust us. OK?’
‘I do, Captain. Thank you.’
‘So this was a frontal assault by someone with big hands. In his prelim, Barrau had to have moved the body to some extent but did he move it out of the position it’s in now?’
‘No, it’s lying exactly where it was and in the same attitude as when we entered the apartment. Hardly a centimetre different.’
‘Coupled with the marks around the throat, that suggests?’
‘That the assault was brutal, frontal and began with both perp and victim standing. It may also have continued after she fell back on the floor.’
‘Right.’ Darac peered at the rug. ‘See that small, slightly darker area next to her arm?’
‘Yes, but there’s a stain on it,’ Granot said.
‘It’s not a stain. I think it’s a shade effect caused by the overhead light hitting the pile at a different angle. The fibres are laying back slightly, more so in the middle.’
Granot leaned in closer. ‘So they are. It’s a depression, effectively, isn’t it?’
‘I think so and when R.O. gets here, he’ll tell us if a knee was likely to have made it.’ Darac turned to Lami. ‘That would back up your thought that the perp had continued to strangle this poor woman once she was lying helpless on her back.’
‘Yes it would, Captain.’
‘She’s clothed, obviously. Fully?’
‘Yes and indications are that there was no sexual aspect to the assault whatsoever. But to sound like Doctor Barrau for a moment, we will know more when the post mortem proper has been completed.’
‘Anything else to add, Lami?’
‘Ye-es, but it’s speculation and it doesn’t add materially to what we already know. And once again, the PM will confirm it without any doubt.’
‘Go on, nevertheless.’
Tracing a line from the chin, Lami hovered a gloved finger over the victim’s throat. ‘Behind this point lies the hyoid bone. With all the swelling and discolouration, it’s difficult to tell but if I were to press here, which I should not and will not do, I am almost certain that I would find it broken. That is how brutal this assault was. That’s all that occurs to me, Captain. Lieutenant.’
‘Excellent, Lami. Thanks’
The actorish voice of senior forensic analyst Raul Ormans boomed around the landing.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, everyone. Wretched van!’
For the next hour, officers and technicians hived off into various parts of the building. A two-man slog squad was also dispatched to nearby bars and eateries. Predictably, no one reported having seen Ploine today but by the end of the hour, the picture was considerably clearer. Ormans was on the point of breaking camp upstairs when Darac joined him. He had one final question on the strangling itself.
‘I guess it won’t really add anything, R.O, but do you think it was the perp’s knee that made that slight depression in the rug?’
‘Full marks, my friend. The pile fibres are more flattened in the middle of the depression which gradually become more upright the further they radiate out in a forward direction. Thus, it was something weighty and more or less rounded that made it. Also, there’s a slight stub mark on the parquet about fifty-five centimetres behind and in line with the centre of the depression. I’m sure it was made by the toe of a rubber-soled shoe, probably a trainer, worn by the kneeling man in the act of completing his atrocity; a man therefore, who would be of above average height.’
‘Which a certain Monsieur Gerard Ploine is, according to the signally diminutive owner of this building, Monsieur Thomas.’
‘No previous for Ploine, then?’ Ormans performed a double-take. ‘There’s a sentence I hadn’t planned on uttering today. Or there’d be a record of how tall he is.’
‘In fact, Lartou discovered there’s no record of any kind about him because no Gerard Ploine is known to exist. It’s an alias.’
‘Ah.’
‘That and Ploine’s height aren’t the only things implicating him.’
Following Perand’s questioning of the timorous yet chatty Monsieur Thomas, Granot had succeeded in extracting far more from him, including a retraction of his original statement. The landlord hadn’t ventured upstairs to discuss a minor repair with Mademoiselle Dubreuil, as he’d originally stated. He’d been alerted by the sounds of an altercation and shortly afterwards, footsteps hurrying downstairs. “Ploine” had been in situ before this sequence of events, absent immediately thereafter. A search of his room indicated he had flown the coop so hastily, he had left ample evidence of his stock in trade.
‘He was the slain former artiste’s pusher?’
‘It seems likely, R.O. Thomas denies ever suspecting that such a thing was going on but Granot’s going to grill him on that point back at the Caserne. If he does know more, he’ll spill straight away, we think.’
‘I would, if I ever found myself in that unfortunate position. A point about the killing, though. Pushers tend not to murder their clients. Not intentionally, anyhow.’
‘But who knows what else there may have been between them?’
‘True.’
As they reached the ground floor, the Brigade’s sketch artist, Astrid Pireque, was making a characteristic entrance.
‘Mwa, mwa. That’s all the kisses you’re getting, Darac – I was just going out on the town when Charvet called.’
Actual kisses of greeting were exchanged with Ormans and the man flashed a triumphant grin in Darac’s direction as he went to liaise with his team.
There was still a little meat to chew on Astrid’s funny bone. ‘ “The Captain says he urgently needs your talent,” Charvet said. Serve you right if I’d gone all cubist, wouldn’t it?’ She riffled pages in her sketch book. ‘This was courtesy of Amal, barman at L’Etoile d’Argent just along the quai. He says I’ve caught “Géri” perfectly and a couple of regulars agreed.’ She displayed her work. ‘Whether I did or not and they were all lying is another matter. I’ve photographed and filed it.’
Astrid had depicted a white, shaven-headed man aged about thirty. The face was taut, dark eyed and somewhat rodent-like. Two rings in the left ear, one in the right. The sketch credibly matched the verbal description Thomas had given but working with the man himself would enable Astrid to produce a still sharper portrait.
Darac essayed a winning smile. ‘I am very sorry to have dragged you out but we’ve no photo of the likely perp to circulate and the guy made a run for it a good couple of hours ago now.’
‘Hmm, reasonably grovelling so I’ll leave it there. And where’s this Monsieur Thomas on whom I’m to further squander my talent?’
‘Here.’ Darac opened the door to apartment one. ‘Perand’s in with him.’
‘Perand? Shit – so blessed. So… Evening, gentlemen!’
Darac’s mobile rang as he closed the door behind her, and before he answered it, Granot appeared. The caller was Armani and, putting him on speaker, he passed on what they had learned so far. Armani knew nothing of Mademoiselle Denise Dubreuil and he hadn’t found her rap sheet of much interest. But he did have one nugget for Darac and Granot.
‘We’ve watched Monsieur Maurice Thomas’s address before,’ he said. ‘And last year, I even sent a guy in – Jéro Quentin – posing as a tenant.’
‘Why? Despite appearances to the exact contrary, did it turn out Thomas owns one of the swankier yachts in the port?’
‘That would’ve been a bit of a tell. No, it was just the activity round and about his spot on the quayside.’
‘And at the end of his tenancy, Quentin’s conclusion was?’
‘That Thomas’s place may not have been a miniature Villa Rose but it wasn’t any kind of trap house. And Thomas himself? Chatty busybody of a guy not overly concerned with formalities. But clean as a Baggio strike on the ball. From our point of view, at least.’
‘That’s pretty clean, I take it.’
‘The cleanest, my friend.’
‘OK. Does the alias of the other tenant, Gérard Ploine, mean anything to you?’ Darac spelled it. ‘He is very much in the frame for the murder and, although Thomas denies any knowledge of it, it seems he was supplying Denise. Astrid’s just filed a likeness of him.’
‘Hang on, I’ll bring it up. Pazzo alias for a pusher to use. You’re better off calling yourself Bernard or Dupont. Here we go... No, don’t know him.’
‘I know you’ve got a lot on but have you had time to go through the report and the photos of the various things he left behind in the apartment?’
‘Hey, you’re talking to Armani. I do everything on fast forward. And I’ve got the stuff itself in front of me. I’d bet my Juve life membership that it had not been planted by someone trying to incriminate him. He was dealing, alright. Semi-pro. New to the area.’
‘Who was supplying him, I wonder?’
‘We’ll run tests on the gear but unless there’s a clear batch match, we’ll never know, probably.’
‘Right.’
‘Who was Astrid working with to get the ID image?’
‘Guy in a bar Ploine frequented. She’s in with Thomas himself at the moment. If the sketches don’t match, I’ll let you know but I don’t expect it.’
‘OK, Papa. My love to the ladies. Ciao.’
Darac couldn’t resist a smile. ‘And to you, man.’
The call ended, he turned to Granot. ‘Any further developments?’
‘None. We’re still yet to discover where Denise worked, if she indeed did conventional work, nor does her address book reveal anything obviously promising.’
‘Overall, we’re making good progress though, and a further chat with Monsieur Thomas at the Caserne might give us more still.’
‘Absolutely.’ Whiskers bristling, Granot performed his impression of a sea lion scenting a wounded flounder. ‘If he’s hiding anything, we’ll get it out of him, alright.’
TWELVE
At Maison Laborde, mother and daughter had wasted no time indulging in what some locals were now referring to as le catch-up.
‘You know Sue just read a recent article of yours.’
‘Did she, bless her? I thought she wasn’t tech-minded. Except where there’s a music-making connection. But I’ve never written on digital recording or anything.’
‘It was in Tek Mek Online, I think? The English translation version, naturally. Something to do with sockets and messaging?’
‘Oh, “From SSL To TLS.” That’s Secure Socket Layer to Traffic Layer Security. Dull? It wasn’t Around The World In Eighty Days, put it that way. Why on earth did she read that?’
‘She couldn’t follow it, naturally. I think it just tickled her that the mother of a… close friend could write such a techie piece.’
‘There must be far cleverer women than me in IT at Cambridge. Women who actually invent such things, not just write about them and work out how to fix them when they go wrong. There’ll be many in the wider community, too, won’t there? Cambridge is the Silicon Valley of England after all’.
‘Silicon Fen they call it. But don’t undersell yourself. I use loads of hacks and gizmos that you’ve come up with.’
‘Not quite the same level, darling. But, if Sue wants to read something of mine she will completely understand, the thing I’m writing at the moment will fit the bill. It’s not technical in itself.’ Zoë paused meaningfully. ‘I’ve been asked to contribute a chapter to a book entitled Boss Women that’s coming out next year. It’s a collection of accounts by women who, against the odds in a lot of cases, have set up and run their own businesses. I have been dying to tell you about it.’
Inès’s smile was full and wide. ‘Maman, I love this! And Sue will love it, too, I’m sure. How wonderful! How far on are you with it?’
‘The submission deadline is in a couple of days, actually but that’s not as scary as it sounds. To give a spontaneous feel to everyone’s accounts, the publisher suggested we first record them as spoken-word pieces. I’ve already made the recording so all that’s left for me to do is type it up and email it to them.’
‘This is fantastic. Who’s the publisher?’
‘Eumenides. A feminist outfit, as you might imagine. And there’s some Libé money behind it as well, I gather.’
‘And Libé in the mix, too?’ What does papa make of all this? Inès wondered. ‘Wow!’
‘Yes. It was International Women’s Day last Saturday and they’ve been running articles on it and related issues. I imagine IWD didn’t pass unnoticed in Cambridge?’
‘Hardly – the celebration went on all week.’ And what a climax yesterday had been. Inès pictured the landmark Guardian headline, Bobby’s Tea Rooms, Choral Evensong at King’s, Green’s Restaurant, The Arts Picture House, and, finally and gloriously, bed. ‘But back to this book, you dark horse, you. Will there be an English-language version?’
Zoë shook her head. ‘Just French to begin with.’
‘Never mind. I’ll translate it for Sue.’
‘And you’ll be able to do it at reading speed, I’m sure. Your English has been word-perfect for years she told me when we were over.’
‘Better than my French now at times, I think.’
‘Don’t tell your father that.’
‘This calls for more wine. Shall we?’
As bedtime approached, both felt reasonably au fait with how things were going in the life of the other but neither had told the whole truth. With their glasses returned to the cupboard and the empty bottles buried safely in the recycling, they were sitting together on the sofa, Inès stretched out with one foot on the floor, her head on Zoë’s shoulder. If ever there were a time for either or both of them to open up, this was surely it.
‘You must be tired,’ Zoë said, stroking the back of Inès’s hand. ‘Bed?’
‘I thought I’d wait up until father came in from training.’
‘That’s nice, he’ll love that. Shouldn’t be long, now.’
‘How about bed for you? You’d been working all day before I got here. All I’ve done is sit down on various forms of transport.’
‘I’m not really tired, besides, your father will have a couple of laptops with him. One of his students, a nice girl called Samira Something-Or-Other was going to bring them in to training.’
‘You’re not going set to work at this time of night, are you?’
‘Hardly call it work. It’s basically a data transfer job. I just need to start them going and they will do their thing overnight. Be ready in the morning, touch wood.’
‘Oh, well. That doesn’t sound too onerous.’
The word “onerous” resonated in Inès’s head. The phrase “an onerous task” joined it. And there was one onerous task above all, wasn’t there? For the past quarter of an hour, she had felt the loving touch of her mother’s hand, the rise and fall of her chest against her cheek and, most redolent of all, breathed in her perfume. But it was only now that the sense of security this all provided began to give Inès second thoughts. She could unburden herself right now, couldn’t she? Spill everything. Wouldn’t it make the eventual showdown with her father easier?
She righted herself. ‘Sorry, Maman. Getting a bit of a stiff neck. And my head must have felt like a tonne weight on your chest, anyway.’
‘Far from it, darling. Listen? Your father’s home.’
If the perfect moment to segue into what Inès needed to say had come, it had disappeared just as quickly.
Gilles swept in at the same speed at which he’d left earlier. ‘Good evening?’ he said.
