Knock 'Em Dead, page 8
‘Believe me, the set always comes first,’ Caroline said, checking out Darac’s T-shirt. ‘Are you going to the jazz festival?’
‘Yes. You a fan?’
‘In a soft-core sort of way. I like Brazilian music. Astrud Gilberto – that kind of thing.’
‘OK,’ Martina said, rising. ‘You two need to talk.’ She picked up a pile of papers from her desk and strode to the door. ‘Don’t leave it too long before you hit the shower, Caroline. You can catch cold even in this heat.’
‘That depends on the Captain, here.’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ He stood and extracted his notebook from his trouser pocket. ‘I may need just a brief word with you, later, madame. That alright?’
‘Sure.’ Martina ran an eye over him. ‘You play tennis? I’m offering six lessons for the price of five, today.’
‘Sorry. Ball sports are not my thing.’
‘Pity. Catch you later.’
‘You are a wise man,’ Caroline said, as Martina closed the door behind her. ‘You are also puzzled about something.’
And you are a very observant woman, Darac thought to himself. ‘It’s her accent. I’ve got a pretty good ear but I can’t place hers, at all.’
‘That’s because you’re aiming at a moving target.’ She took a long swig from a bottle promising “Pro Rehydration”, then patted her forehead with the neck towel. ‘Tina grew up on the tennis circuit. Americans, Russians, Australians – it’s a polyglot world.’
‘I see.’ Finding an empty couple of pages, he turned to Caroline and smiled, a benign signal that they were moving into deeper waters. ‘This is quite informal,’ he said. ‘Just a chat, in effect.’
As if finding some amusement in his assurance, she gave a little involuntary laugh. ‘Really?’
‘Nevertheless, I do have some questions and I would be grateful if you would answer them.’
‘I’m sure you would.’
‘Earlier today you had a meeting with Monsieur Ambroise Paillaud?’
Beads of sweat already pocking her forehead, she put her towel to use once more. ‘I did.’
‘At La Poche, opposite the station in Saint-Laurent?’
‘Indeed.’
‘He was a client?’
‘So it’s true. He is dead.’
‘Someone is and it seems certain that it’s Monsieur Paillaud. He was a client?’
‘He was.’
‘Can you remember what he was wearing this morning?’
Caroline stared off for a moment and then gave a description so complete, it included Paillaud’s toupée. Her list matched the findings at the scene.
‘Thank you. Did you or Monsieur Paillaud set up the meeting?’
‘The latter.’
‘And to establish a time frame, when did you arrive at La Poche?’
‘Around 11.15.’
Darac had a question he knew Caroline would realise strayed beyond the bounds of informality and from which other searching questions might flow. ‘Would you mind telling me the purpose of your meeting?’
‘Yes I would but since your next move could be to suggest we continue our “chat” all the way over at the Caserne Auvare, I really have little option, have I?’
‘Mademoiselle—’
‘Oh, don’t worry – I would do the same in your position.’
‘Thanks for understanding.’
‘Actually, I didn’t know what the purpose of the meeting was. He just said he wanted to see me.’
‘Uh-huh. And just going back to the time frame for a moment, I understand you went outside briefly. When was that?’
‘11.20 or so. To make a phone call.’
‘And who might you have been calling?’
‘Might? We’ve already established the ground rules, Captain – there’s no need to pussyfoot around. After just a few minutes, it was clear to me that the meeting was going to take longer than envisaged, and I was concerned it would eat into my court time.’ Another dab of the towel. ‘So I called Tina to ask if she could squeeze me in later. These twice-weekly thrashings are expensive, and having already paid for the pain, I wanted my money’s worth.’
Darac grinned. ‘I suppose scoring points against a former pro can’t be easy.’
Caroline took another long draft from her bottle. ‘One doesn’t score points in tennis, Captain. One wins them.’
‘Ah, yes? And was it necessary?’
‘Was what necessary?’
‘Having the lesson put back until later.’
‘Do you actually believe I’ve been running around the court all this time? In the middle of a scorching July day? I don’t know whether to feel flattered or offended.’
Darac could see little point in bashing balls around in any sort of weather. ‘It was put back, then.’
‘By an hour, yes.’
‘You left Monsieur Paillaud in the café at about?’
‘11.35.’
This all tallied with Claude Grange’s and Rafal Maso’s accounts. ‘And your lesson began an hour later than planned. How did you spend the interim?’
‘I drove round to Cap 3000. Bought a new swimsuit at Cala. If you’d care to check, it’s in my boot – the white Boxster. But I’m sure you already know that that’s my car.’
Hot and sticky though she may have been, Caroline Rosay’s cool self-assurance put Darac in mind of a young Lauren Bacall. Or rather, Bacall’s early Film Noir persona. On a different day, he might have posed his next question à la Bogart but he continued as before. ‘So, going back to the meeting itself. Why did Monsieur Paillaud want to see you?’
Caroline took another swig from her bottle and patted her forehead. ‘Do you rate Astrud Gilberto, Captain?’
He rated Nara Leão higher; Elis Regina higher still. ‘She has something, certainly. Especially when accompanied by Jobim.’
‘I agree. Why did Monsieur Paillaud want to see me? To tell me he was ill. Terminally ill, in fact, and that he intended to take his own life.’
Darac’s brows lowered. ‘He told you he was going to kill himself?’
‘Yes.’
‘And knowing that, you went off to chase a ball around a tennis court?’
She made an exasperated sound in her throat. ‘I obviously didn’t expect him to do it there and then. He was going to the Brassaï show in Nice, for one thing. It’s ticket-only and he had one. He also had a train ticket. A return, I think.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘He dropped his wallet. They fell out and I picked them up for him. Anyway, that’s why he wanted to meet me at the station. And even if I had known his intentions, you have to remember that I act for my clients, Captain, not against them. I frequently advise but if someone is set on a particular course of action, it’s not my role to try and prevent them. So long as there’s no illegality involved.’
Darac pursed his lips. As dispassionately as she had made it, perhaps Caroline had a point. ‘Can you recall his exact words?’
‘Uh... “Cancer has got me but I’ll go when I want to; not when it does.” It was something like that.’
‘Thank you. What was his motivation in telling you this?’
Slipping off her neck towel, she gave him a disappointed look. ‘You’re asking me to comment on another party’s—’
‘Alright, why do you think he told you? What could be gained by it?’
‘Gained? Nothing except perhaps to share his situation with someone. He lived alone, had no family at all, and no friends. A recluse, really. And although I wouldn’t exactly say I was his confidante, I believe he regarded me as someone he could at least trust.’
‘His will is lodged with you, I take it?’
‘It is.’
‘Your office is where?’
‘At home, La Crague. Avenue Montand.’
‘I see. Did Monsieur Paillaud at any time in your meeting refer to the will?’
She gulped down more fluid from the bottle. ‘No.’
‘So he didn’t want you to record a change, or anything?’
‘How could he without referring to it?’
Feeling Caroline’s mien turning a degree or two cooler, Darac decided to ease off a little. ‘Quite – stupid question. Could you tell me when he made his will?’
‘December last. Check on the national database if you like.’ She got to her feet. ‘And now, Captain, I really should head to the shower.’ She swung her kit bag on to her shoulder. ‘You don’t want me to catch that cold, do you?’
As they made their way into the foyer, Granot appeared, finally returned from his guided visit to hell. But instead of the sweat-drenched wreck Darac was expecting, the man looked relaxed, even strangely, uniquely, serene. ‘This is my colleague, Lieutenant Granot,’ Darac said, making the introduction. ‘At least, I think it is. Another question, mademoiselle, while we walk?’ He scrolled screens on his mobile. ‘Just a quick one.’
‘Alright.’
‘Would you look at this?’ He handed it over. ‘The fuzzy faces belong to—’
‘Monsieur Paillaud and the almost fan I mentioned from the café,’ she said, slowing. ‘So he caught up with him again at the station?’
‘He did but it’s the man in the background I’m interested in. The one in focus. Do you know him?’
She gave a disdainful snort. ‘Twice in one day. My, I am lucky. It’s Guy Vaselle.’ She handed back the phone. ‘We passed each other in our cars. Slowly enough to exchange looks; his conveying that he was sure my seeing him would have made my day.’
‘And it didn’t?’
‘Some may find Vaselle irresistible, Captain. I am happy to say, I am not one of them. The man is an arrogant, ignorant boor.’
‘How do you know him?’
‘He was a builder until a year or two ago. There was some work I needed doing and had a few local firms in to give estimates. Monsieur Vaselle made it crystal clear that if I opted for him, he would be happy to provide certain extra services. And, praise be, at no extra charge.’
‘On behalf of my gender, I apologise.’
‘No need, Captain, I assure you. Why are you interested in him?’
‘Monsieur Paillaud was involved in an altercation immediately before the speeding train hit him.’
The news brought Caroline to a halt. ‘And the altercation was with Vaselle?’
‘It was and although Monsieur Paillaud disclosed his suicidal intentions to you, we are far from certain he ended up under the train of his own volition.’
‘Pushed?’ She pursed her lips, thinking about it. ‘I suppose when you consider Monsieur Paillaud’s exhibition ticket and so on, it makes more sense. But Vaselle? He has a filthy temper, I would imagine, but I can’t quite picture...’ She brightened, returning to her signature look. ‘Still, I don’t have to, do I?’ She walked on. ‘That’s your job.’
‘Mine, Lieutenant Granot here and several other officers.’
‘Interesting question, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Does it count as murder if the victim intended to kill himself, anyway?’
It was Darac’s turn to be knocked off his stride. ‘Of course it does.’
‘Morally, I mean.’
‘That’s a little more difficult.’
At the first hint of philosophical speculation, Granot had been known to emit heart-rending groans. Darac gave him a look. There was no grimace. No eye-rolling. Just that same look of almost post-coital reverie.
They had arrived at the women’s locker room.
‘This is where I live,’ Caroline said. ‘Don’t hesitate to contact me if you require anything further, Captain.’
‘Thank you.’ They shook hands. ‘Just one final question. It’s something we can’t check on the database but you could just tell us.’
‘Try me.’
‘Monsieur Paillaud’s estate is a large one, I imagine?’
She pushed the door open, releasing sweet and sour scents into the air and a peal of girlish laughter. ‘It could be.’
‘To whom is it bequeathed, principally?’
She smiled. ‘See you at the jazz festival, perhaps.’
And with that, Caroline Rosay disappeared into the fug of the locker room.
He turned to Granot. ‘Impressive woman. I’m Paul Darac, by the way. And you are?’
‘Mademoiselle Foucault gave me a massage. That’s all I know.’
They headed back to the foyer.
‘I thought she was supposed to be showing you the ropes?’
‘She did, but first she ran a video of the things they do here. Up came this clip of her in action on this guy’s shoulders. I mentioned how tight mine were and she gave me five glorious minutes. Strong hands, I tell you. A slip of a girl like that! And she didn’t charge me.’
‘This is how they get you. First five minutes free; next thing, you’ve signed up for a thousand euros-worth. Let’s go.’
‘No, no. She wouldn’t do that. And you should see her on the cross trainer.’
‘The what?’
‘Cross trainer.’
‘Unbe-cocking-lievable.’
‘With her help, I’ll hit all my goals – you’ll see.’
‘Goals?’
‘Laugh. It’s fine.’ Granot composed himself into a roughly Granot-like form. ‘So – Caroline’s meeting with Paillaud?’
‘She said he told her he was going to top himself. Terminal illness.’
Granot’s aura darkened a shade. ‘And then she just drove off?’
‘She hadn’t realised he meant right away, she said. But whatever the timing of this thing, we’ve got Guy Vaselle to think about, haven’t we?’
‘Coercing your girlfriend into lying for you doesn’t look good. Where to next?’
‘Paillaud’s place. We might find something there. But first, I need a quick word.’ Hearing a loud, strangely-accented voice, he turned. ‘With that lady.’
As Martina Sicotte issued an instruction across the receptionist’s desk, Granot studied her four-square frame. ‘She’s built like her mother. Pity she couldn’t play like her.’
Before they reached the desk, she was joined by the short, shiny yoga teacher fresh from his stretch in the woods.
‘The smarmy swami’s back,’ Granot said, all vestiges of serenity gone. ‘Look at him.’
‘This might only take a second. Light and casual, now.’
As they approached, the shiny one put his palms together in greeting.
‘Deepak Abhamurthi,’ Martina said, speaking for him as if it would have been sacrilegious not to have done so.
‘How’s it going, mate?’ Darac said to him.
‘He teaches Abha Yoga here,’ Martina continued. ‘His own system.’
‘Good for him. If you’d like to leave us for the moment, monsieur? Earthly matters.’
Deepak bowed slightly and took his leave.
‘Madame, in my chat with Mademoiselle Rosay, she mentioned she’d phoned you earlier. Just need to tick that box if we can.’ He gave a nod in the general direction of Nice. ‘For the suits, you know.’
‘Don’t talk to me about them! Yeah, she phoned. Twice, about an hour and a half apart. The first would have been at around...’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Idiot, I don’t need to tell.’ She grabbed a mobile from her bag. ‘I can show.’
Another raise the flag moment – Darac had anticipated no more than a verbal confirmation. ‘Excellent.’
‘I can show the first one, anyway. The second was to the landline in the office.’ She performed a little girl’s apology face. ‘I was late on court.’ She tapped away at the screen. ‘There. Check for yourself.’
The Calls Received list showed an entry name-tagged for Caroline Rosay ringing at 11.17, more or less the time she had stated.
‘This is really helpful.’
‘You’re welcome.’ For a second time, Martina looked him up and down. ‘What’s your game, Captain?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You said you’re not into ball sports but with that physique, you must play something. Judo? Wrestling? Water polo?’
As Granot’s laughter turned into a coughing fit, Darac explained that as a non-swimmer, water polo was out of the question and the others were not his thing, either. Except when they were called for on the job. ‘All I play is guitar, I’m afraid.’
‘Listen, I’ll give you six lessons for the price of four.’
‘That’s generous but there’s really no point.’
‘You should at least think about learning to swim. We run courses.’
‘Some other time.’ Darac shook her racquet-hardened hand. ‘Thanks for your help.’
Granot had a parting shot to deliver; one, it seemed, he was confident Martina would be happy to receive. ‘I saw your mother win at Roland Garros back in ’77.’
‘Uh-huh?’ she said. And headed back to her office.
As Caroline Rosay showered away the sweat and shale dust, a figure strolled into the changing room, made a circuit of the benches and inserted a key into locker number 17. There were two bags inside: a white plastic holdall and a black leather daysack. Slipping an envelope into an inner compartment, the figure saw something unexpected. Something that demanded a second look.
11
‘Window number three.’
Hervé Montand detested queuing but there was no alternative: the concept of entrusting the internet with any sort of financial transaction was anathema to him. And so, although it pained him to relinquish the reins of power even for a minute during working hours, he had set off for the Saint-Laurent branch of Société Pro-Corse in good time to meet the mid-afternoon cash transfer deadline. Messieurs Lhatib and the other members of the “do it today or else” crowd were going to be paid after all.
‘Window number one.’
Montand had raised funds in the least damaging way he could: by having the company’s line of credit extended and by drawing down an amount equivalent to his salary until Christmas. After the events of the morning, the threat of facing awkward questions from his wife Mathilde, the registered owner of Montand Sanitary Ware, had ceased to matter. And with any luck, he concluded, she might be too drunk to notice anyway.
