Knock 'Em Dead, page 9
‘Window number three.’
His longer-term problems, he knew with certainty, would be far more difficult to overcome. Just how difficult, he wasn’t sure. But he intended to find out. And he intended to act.
‘Window number two.’
Montand strode confidently forward.
‘Monsieur?’
‘Effect these transfers, would you?’ He passed them through. ‘Everything is filled in.’
The teller glanced at the wall clock. ‘You have missed the deadline for today.’
‘What?’
‘The deadline. You’ve missed it. By two minutes.’
Montand looked at his watch. Where had the time... ‘Get me the manager.’
‘Monsieur, that will not achieve—’
‘Get me the fucking manager!’ All eyes upon him, his own slid to his shoes. But he quickly recovered. ‘Monsieur Roux is a personal friend.’ One he had had no intention of confronting with the situation but again, needs must. ‘Get him now.’
‘Monsieur Roux has moved on. Our new manager is Monsieur Sidiqui.’
‘Sidi..?’ It took a moment to gather himself. ‘Then... get him,’ he said.
12
Carrying a laden laundry bag, Mademoiselle Daniela Wienawska marched into La Poche as if she owned the place; but it was the diminutive figure of her mother, floating along behind like a tethered cloud, to whom it actually belonged. At the bar, Rafal Maso, for once without his headphones, was serving beers to a quartet of fat men wearing rugby shirts.
‘Raf,’ Daniela said, by way of greeting – half a name for half a brother. ‘Stripped the bed?’
‘It’s in the basket.’
‘Back in a minute. Make us a citron pressé, will you?’
‘Don’t forget the bog.’ Rafal opened the till. ‘Twelve euros eighty,’ he said to one of the fat men.
Daniela pushed through the curtains and headed for the stairs.
‘Is everything alright now, darling?’ Sonia said, smiling serenely as she kissed her son lightly on both cheeks.
‘Weird morning. Really weird. Busier than usual, too.’
‘Why didn’t you call me right away?’
‘Didn’t want to worry you.’
‘You good boy.’ Still smiling, Sonia ran an eye over the gathered faces. ‘Wonderful for business, a death on the line.’
‘They axed the trains. When they put them back on, these guys just stayed.’ He poured a slug of slivovitz into a cup. ‘Latte with it?’
‘Lovely.’
Sonia went to sit at her usual table. From across the street, a four-note refrain heralded an announcement. The Régionale to Grasse via Cannes was running eight minutes late. It proved an optimistic forecast. The service still hadn’t arrived by the time Daniela returned from upstairs and sat down opposite Sonia.
‘I finished the Cif. And we’re nearly out at home.’
‘Rafal?’
He joined them.
‘When’s your next booking for the room?’
‘Not until the end of August.’
Sonia’s cheek muscles took a well-earned rest. ‘Nothing for six weeks? At this time of year?’ The smile was already back. ‘But you never know so let’s re-stock anyway. There’s a whole carton in the garage up at the Saint-Jeannet house, Dani.’
‘Right.’ Daniela grinned as she stirred her juice with her straw. ‘So, Raf. You finally met Caroline.’
‘Yeah, and I didn’t even realise it was her.’
‘Duh! And?’
‘Talk about up herself but who cares?’ He shook a loose fist. ‘One cool lady.’
‘You don’t have to clean for her.’
‘She’s always nice to me at the Centre,’ Sonia said. ‘A little brisk, perhaps. But nice.’
‘She can be really sweet, at times.’ Daniela sucked up a mouthful. ‘At others, she can be a real bitch.’ She squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘Sorry, maminka.’
‘Don’t worry, darling.’ Sonia’s expression retained its habitual serenity. ‘I’ve known a good many bitches in my time.’
‘Does that include Tina?’ Rafal said.
‘Tina’s more of a loser than a bitch. A loser, a whore and a skinflint.’
‘Never mind about her – what about Monsieur Paillaud?’ Daniela’s straw made a loud draining sound as she sucked up the dregs of her juice. ‘How long before all the fun begins?’
‘Soon,’ Sonia said. ‘Very soon, I should think.’
13
The sign was hiding in a wall aglow with bougainvillea.
‘Which way?’
Granot narrowed his eyes. ‘Left.’
As Darac made the turn, his mobile rang and he glanced at the number. ‘Go ahead, Map.’
‘Darac, I tried to call a few minutes ago.’
‘There are several dead spots on the La Crague road. Go ahead.’
‘I know there wasn’t much doubt but just confirming that the dead man was indeed Ambroise Paillaud. Blood from the scene matches samples taken by the Clinique Albert Magnesca in the city.’
‘Right.’ He thought back to his meeting with Caroline Rosay. ‘So he did have cancer?’
‘They treat other things there, too, but yes – he had a rare form of leukaemia. Terminal.’
‘OK, Map. Thanks for that.’
Granot shook his head. ‘I was half hoping it was someone else.’
‘A strange thing, fandom, isn’t it? Feeling drawn to people you don’t personally know simply because they make you laugh. Or cry. Or groove.’
‘The last one is particularly strange.’
He turned to Granot. ‘What are you on tomorrow?’
‘Micro-managing bastard. All the same, you acting commissaires.’
‘It goes with the territory, sweetheart,’ Bogart said, three conversations late.
‘I’m due a half-day off. I’ll be spending some of it with Jodie. At Centre Sicotte, I mean.’
It was too good an opportunity to miss. ‘Jodie. And what will Madame Granot make of that?’
‘My mother?’ He indicated the road. ‘Carry on to the end.’
‘I was thinking of Odile.’
‘Odile will be glad I’m finally doing something about my health.’
‘With Jodie.’
‘With the finalists of Miss World, if necessary.’
‘Too good for you, that woman.’
‘She would be the first to agree with you.’
‘How many wives have you had, Granot?’
‘Including my own?’ He gave a weak smile. ‘Three.’ More peering. ‘Is that Chemin des Mimosas? Yes, turn right. It’s on its own, the villa, so we shouldn’t have any... Uh-oh.’
Ahead, a posse of reporters and other hangers-on had gathered at the cordon tape.
‘Hyenas,’ Darac said. ‘All they’re missing is the carcass.’
As if he had a remote camera on Darac, Frènes rang at that moment.
‘What was the last thing I said to you, Captain?’
‘Was it how you’d kill for a ticket to the jazz festival?’
‘It was to remind you to keep me constantly informed on your progress. I haven’t heard anything from you since I rang earlier.’
Darac could feel his chest tightening. ‘Listen, if we’d had anything...’
Granot held up a cautioning hand. ‘Don’t give him an excuse,’ he whispered.
It was a timely reminder. The last thing Darac wanted was to be taken off what might prove to be one of Granot’s last cases with the team. ‘I was about to call, as a matter of fact. Just a moment ago, Djibril Mpensa confirmed that it was Ambroise Paillaud who was killed in the incident at Saint-Laurent-du-Var station.’
‘That’s something, at least.’
‘Lieutenant Granot and I are making significant progress on the question of whether Paillaud was pushed into the TGV’s path by one Guy Vaselle deliberately, accidentally, or whether he took his own life.’
‘And the others? Busquet? Flaco? Perand? What are they doing?’
Darac’s patience wearing ever thinner, he gave it a good couple of beats before answering. ‘Lieutenant Busquet is on leave. Due back tomorrow. Officer Flaco has already made a key breakthrough and is following a number of leads. Officer Perand will be interviewing a potentially crucial eyewitness later this afternoon.’ Though it seemed unlikely from Flaco’s earlier report that old Monsieur – Recolte was it? – would give Perand anything useful. ‘When we have more, you will be the first to know, monsieur.’
‘You’re damn right I will be and you’ll be quick about it. Instil that imperative in the others. We need the speediest possible outcome on this one. Do you understand? Speedy and secure. I want to make tonight’s 9 o’clock news at the latest. Alright? In the meantime, ensure you are contactable at all times and should you encounter the media, remember whom you are representing.’
‘Yes, yes.’ More tightening in the chest. ‘You’re slowing us down, monsieur. Out.’
The press pressed forward. Ignoring all entreaties for a comment, the pair pressed back and with Granot’s bulk to the fore, they gained the cordon tape and signed in with Patricia’s temporary replacement.
‘Keep the bastards well back,’ Darac said. ‘Shoot them if necessary.’
‘He’s joking,’ Granot added, quickly. ‘The house keys?’
They took them and headed for a wicket gate set into the tree-lined wall that screened the garden.
‘No pool,’ Granot said, as they walked through into the back yard. ‘No alarm, either.’
‘I’ll check the recycling.’
The bins were empty.
The back door opened into a clean, routinely stocked kitchen. Darac opened the fridge. ‘Plenty of in-date stuff in here.’
‘That only suggests Paillaud may have intended to return.’
‘True. By the same token, though, we’d better check the water and power.’
They proved to be still connected. In itself, it didn’t mean much but it might have strengthened the suicide call had Paillaud turned them off before leaving for the station.
In view of the man’s fame and the reputed size of his fortune, the rest of the villa was not what Darac and Granot would have expected. It was an attractive place and large, especially for just one person, but it was not lavishly appointed. There was no projection room to show the dozen or so full-length features and countless short films in which Paillaud had starred. There was no music or games room. No elaborate sound or vision system. And unless they were hidden, there was no computer or laptop.
‘Not spending your money,’ Granot said, as they headed back into the living room. ‘That’s one way of building up a fortune.’
A pulsing red LED drew Darac’s eye towards a table set against the far wall. Sitting between a pair of clown figurines was Paillaud’s landline phone. ‘Someone’s been in touch, by the look of it.’
‘Let’s hope it’s Guy Vaselle.’
‘What – “I’m going to kill you. Meet me at the station” ?’
‘Wouldn’t something like that be good? Just once in a career?’
‘Let’s see if we can get the thing to work, first. If it’s password-protected, we’ll have to take it back for Erica.’
Darac hit the play button.
‘You have one new message,’ the machine announced. ‘Today, at 10.42 a.m.’
‘Unlucky, caller,’ Darac said. ‘You only just missed him, probably.’
‘Message number one,’ the machine continued.
The voice that kicked in sounded thin and anxious.
‘Monsieur Paillaud? Ambroise, if I may. I hope I’m not disturbing you. This is Mayor Hervé Montand.’
Darac and Granot shared a look.
‘Something has come up here at the Mairie. It’s something rather pressing and I would very much appreciate a meeting to discuss it with you. Today, if possible. Your long-term commitment to the ancient commune of La Crague-du-Var of which you are, of course, its most celebrated son, is of inestimable comfort to us. However... Well, we can talk about that. You have my numbers for the Mairie, the factory, my home, and my mobile...’
Granot looked for an address book as the message continued. There appeared to be none.
‘Would you be kind enough to call me back? I anticipate remaining at my desk here at the Mairie for a little while longer, and then, as usual, I shall head down to the factory for the remainder—’
‘End of message,’ the machine announced.
Darac absently picked up one of the clown figurines. ‘A crisis at the Mairie; heavy hints about Paillaud’s generosity, but also his obligations, towards his native commune; the scarcely masked anxiety in the mayor’s voice. What did R.O. say about begging bowls?’
‘It did sound as if a request for a hand-out was coming. One Paillaud never got to hear.’
‘And an hour or so after Montand leaves that message, his brother-in-law and employee, Guy Vaselle, meets Paillaud at the station.’
Granot nodded. ‘He puts Montand’s case. “We need some money, please.” Paillaud replies “Bugger off” and the volatile Vaselle throws him under the train.’
‘Perhaps.’ Aware of its awfulness suddenly, Darac set down the clown ornament next to its partner. ‘And don’t forget Paillaud’s meeting with Caroline Rosay, beforehand. I’m not sure I completely believe her account of it.’
‘What’s going on here, chief?’
Hands on hips, Darac stared at the floor; Granot stood twisting an end of his moustache.
‘Any thoughts?’ Granot said, at length.
‘Plenty. Nothing cogent, though.’ Darac looked up, catching a sight of the two of them in a full-length mirror. ‘Except that we look like a pair of clowns, as well.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
Darac scanned the room. ‘So what sort of a man was Ambroise Paillaud?’
‘Normally, I’d say the contents of a person’s bureau tell us all we need to know but as this is Monsieur La Chute...’ Granot turned to the room’s two bookcases. ‘Perhaps this might be as good a place to start as any.’
Darac’s eye was taken by the wall space between the cases. He indicated a dust-hung rectangular shape a shade deeper than the surrounding pale yellow emulsion. ‘Something has hung there, hasn’t it? A painting, a poster or something. A large one.’
Granot was already checking out the books themselves. ‘And?’
‘Just wondering what had graced that space. It’s significant what people put in pride of place on their walls. That football photo in your living room, for instance.’
‘That is no ordinary football photo. It’s the ’98 World Cup-winning side which, FYI, just happened to be us. France, I mean. Signed by the whole team.’
‘Does Odile approve?’ As if drawn by a force beyond his control, Darac moved to an alcove crammed with vinyl LPs. ‘It completely dominates the room.’
‘Approve? It’s Odile’s photo. She doted on that team.’ Encouraged by its title, Granot pulled an old clothbound volume off the shelf. ‘Especially Monsieur Patrick Vieira for reasons best known to Odile’s hormones.’
‘So if you ever took the photo down, it would be significant, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes. It would mean I’d had to sell it. Through being put out to grass. The bastards.’
Hallelujah, Darac thought: Granot the grump was well and truly back. ‘They’re not talking about giving you the heave-ho, just a sideways move.’
‘Sideways,’ Granot muttered. ‘I don’t like sideways. I’m a man not a crab.’
‘It’s not going to happen now, anyway, remember? Thanks to your personal trainer.’
‘Oh yes. I forgot for the moment.’
No sooner had Darac begun running an eye over Paillaud’s record collection than he remembered Angeline’s observation that in every situation, there were people who looked for points of engagement with others, people who looked for points of opposition, and finally, people who looked merely for points of information. “Which are you, Paul?” Darac had replied that when he was off-duty, especially when he was playing with the Quintet, he was the first; the rest of the time, the third. It hadn’t occurred to him to challenge the categories with which Angeline had presented him, a response she invariably adopted. Another test flunked. It was the third time today, he reflected, that Angeline had popped into his head. The last time that had happened, he had run into her in person almost immediately.
‘Anything?’
The record collection was heavy on shows, popular songs and light classical pieces.
‘Update: Paillaud and I have nothing much in common musically.’
Granot’s reply was submerged in a rumble of laughter. ‘This is brilliant.’ He checked the spine. ‘A Pictorial History of French Comedy. I’m on 1961. Come and look.’
Filling a whole page, the photo depicted a young Paillaud in one of his most popular guises: a willing but hapless waiter. The elements were familiar. The location: a café terrace in Paris. The task: responding to a diner’s finger-clicking summons. The complication: Paillaud can see only at a right-angle to his direction of travel, his view ahead blocked by the two-metre high stack of trays he is carrying. The hazard: the Seine, flowing alongside the terrace a good four metres beneath the quayside and with no barrier intervening. Entitled Coming, Monsieur! the photo captured the moment Paillaud, oblivious of the watery consequences, took a full, extravagant stride off the quay. Facing the camera, his cheek pressed against the tower of trays, the young man’s expression conveyed such whole-hearted effort and such innocent confidence that Darac didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He laughed.
