Impure Blood (13 page)

‘Still nothing from the service provider. You should have let me send that text.’

‘We’ll get to Manou one way or another, don’t worry.’

‘It might have done more than just give us an address for him, it might have brought him to Florian’s apartment.’

‘It might but what if he knows Florian is dead? He hasn’t rung his number since, note. Even though Florian tried to call him just before he died.’

‘How could Manou know Florian’s dead? He couldn’t have heard it in the media. A non-Muslim was killed during a prayer service – that’s all they said. There was no description – nothing.’

‘True, but word can still get around. And what if Manou was there when it happened? What if he was the one who actually killed Florian? All a text message would do is alert him to the fact that we’re on to him. Or her.’

Feeling a little too easily outplayed, Erica drew down the corners of her finely lined mouth and shrugged.

‘“What if? What if?” Don’t you ever tire of asking that?’

‘Seeing where “what if” might lead is probably why I enjoy policing. Despite all the crap.’

Boulevard des Anglais’ most celebrated landmark, the pink-domed Hotel Negresco, shimmied exotically into view on their right. Turning her back on it, Erica held Darac in an almost accusing look.

‘I thought you became a policeman because you have a deep-seated need to right injustices?’

‘You’re mixing me up with Superman. As unlikely as that seems.’

Erica gave a dry little laugh.

Darac slowed to a halt just beyond the Negresco, waiting for pedestrians to clear a zebra crossing. Bringing up the rear of the group was an unlikely-looking couple: the man was round-shouldered and sported a long grey ponytail, baggy shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. The woman looked to be in her mid-twenties and was wearing her skimpy black bikini with all the panache of an off-duty beachwear model. In the middle of relating something of great importance to her, Ponytail had no intention of hurrying. And neither had Bikini Girl, who seemed riveted by the account and by the elaborate, rhythmical hand mime that accompanied it. As they gained the traffic island in the middle of the road, Darac pulled slowly past them, rolling down his window.

‘A broken clock keeps better time than him,’ he called to the girl, startling her.

Ponytail appeared in his rear-view mirror, laughing and giving Darac the finger.

‘That was Marco. Drummer with the quintet I play in.’

‘Ah, yes?’

Erica’s tone was bright and approving. His eyes on the road, Darac missed the slightly half-hearted smile that accompanied it.

After a further five minutes of stop-start progress, they finally reached Magnan. Cut in two by the twin conduits of the Nice–Cannes railway line and four lanes of road traffic, it was a mixed, largely residential quarter. There was no ‘other side of the tracks’ here. It was the degree of proximity to the tracks that mostly delineated the area. Darac had visited Florian’s apartment block on a couple of previous occasions. He remembered it as a clean-lined, low-rise building, a short uphill pull from the action.

Erica turned the air-con up a notch as they headed away from the promenade.

‘What’s his building called?’

‘L’Horizon Bleu. Imaginatively.’

‘Don’t know it. Nice cool underground parking? Say yes.’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank God.’

‘But it’s a ground-level lot.’

The lee of a high wall was the shadiest spot he could find.

‘Ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be.’

Thrown in among the laptops and other gear in the boot was a promising-looking box.

‘I don’t suppose there’s anything cool in that, is there? And no gags this time.’

‘Of course there is.’ He took off the lid. ‘Still or sparkling, Mademoiselle?’

‘Sparkling.’

‘Still?’

‘Still.’

They shared the sole remaining bottle, collected their gear and set off at a lazy pace towards the building’s canopied entrance.

‘This is what it must feel like to be Max Perand.’

‘Poor boy.’ The thought made Erica chuckle. ‘Maybe he’ll speed up once he’s grown into his strength or something. God, I sound like my mother.’

Darac’s mobile rang.

‘Chief?’

‘Granot – so how’s my boy Muntanor looking? Fit and ready to win me five hundred euros?’

‘It’s Contador, chief. Con-ta-dor. Right?’

‘Well how’s Contador looking, then?’

‘Dunno, haven’t seen him. But I tell you who I
have
seen. Half the security chiefs in the country. There’s been a terrorist threat issued against the Tour. And Nice is the designated target.’

Darac came to a dead stop.

‘What?’

Erica drifted back to his side. Darac put the phone on speaker.

‘According to an outfit called the Sons and Daughters of the Just Cause, come Sunday they will – and I’m quoting – “reap a bloody harvest in the city” unless various demands are met.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

Erica’s hand went to her throat.

‘Go on, Granot.’

‘But the powers-that-be are absolutely sure it’s a hoax.’

Darac let his phone hand fall.

‘A hoax.’ He gave Erica a look. ‘Would you believe it?’

‘
Now
he tells us.’

‘I know…’ He returned the phone to his ear. ‘Granot, why the hell didn’t you say that to start with?’

‘Hey – we had to sweat for what seemed like hours before we got the good word.’

‘Well thanks for sharing.’ Darac and Erica set off once more. ‘Back in the real world, we’re just about to search Florian’s apartment. You get the updates?’

‘Looks like Florian was using the prayer meeting as cover, doesn’t it?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘On the other hand, Florian’s pray mate has risked death trying to escape since then.’

‘Mansoor’s an illegal – that could be reason enough to make a run for it.’

‘And what about this GHB thing? I didn’t see that coming. Hope it doesn’t have anything to do with kids.’

‘Did you know Frankie was on board?’

‘No. Best news I’ve had all day.’

‘Me too.’ Darac glanced at his watch. ‘Listen – is Agnès still over with you?’

‘Yes – talking with the big brass. There’s an aspect of the thing that concerns us, apparently.’

‘We’re going to be playing Find the Hoaxers, by the sound of it. On top of everything else.’

‘No doubt. Anyway, chief – me and Vincent have got canapés and champagne waiting for us. Must fly.’

‘Enjoy yourself. Skiving bastard.’

It was banter. Darac believed that if anyone in the unit deserved a break, it was Granot. Despite the ubiquity of screen-based IT, every case the Brigade tackled still generated mountains of paper. Granot, the most indomitable paper mountaineer in the force, had cleared range after range of the stuff over the past few months.

Darac and Erica entered the building.

‘I don’t expect it but we may yet find the famous Manou waiting for Florian in his apartment.’ They stepped into the lift. ‘Or perhaps outside it.’

‘I’m ready for anything,’ Erica said, a nervous catch in her throat.

Darac gave her a smile and hit the button for floor three.

‘Anything?’

‘Almost anything.’

‘It’ll be fine.’

The doors opened. They got out. No one was around.

‘Almost monastic,’ Erica said, as they made their way along the silent, white-painted corridor towards Apartment 38. ‘That’s appropriate for a rapist.’

Darac reached out and shook her free hand.

‘Always glad to meet a fellow cynic.’

‘I’m not cynical about everything. I’ve just got no time for the Church. Or politicians. Or celeb culture. Or corporate America.’ She crossed herself extravagantly. ‘Except for Apple Mac, of course.’

Until this moment, Darac had had no idea Erica was such a kindred spirit.

‘You’ll be telling me you love jazz next.’

Erica’s one and only visit to a jazz club had proved one of the longest evenings of her life.

‘Uh… I wouldn’t exactly say “love”.’

‘Well, you need to hear jazz live.’

‘I’m sure that makes all the difference.’

They arrived at number 38. Shepherding her well to one side, Darac rang Florian’s doorbell.

‘What’s our worst-case scenario?’ she whispered. ‘Manou is Florian’s accomplice in the GHB business and he is in there raping some half-unconscious girl?’

‘And then he answers the door carrying a syringe full of pancuronium. That would worsen things a little.’

‘Pancuronium?’

‘Or perhaps vecuronium, rocuronium. Or one of the other curoniums.’

She looked none the wiser.

‘Lethal paralytics. Deanna’s pretty sure one was used to kill Florian.’

Erica almost dropped her laptop case. ‘I knew I should’ve stuck to my No House Calls rule.’

‘Look, I really don’t expect Manou to be in there. And even if he is, he’ll probably turn out to be some guy Florian played boules with or something.’

‘That doesn’t rule out violence.’

No one answered the door.

They let themselves in using Florian’s keys and headed straight for his computer.

It had been a steady 21.2 for some hours now. Since the time of the Romans, possibly. He’d made up his mind. He was ignoring the temperature. He closed his eyes. What was worse, he wondered – being hooked up to a ventilator in an ICU, or pedalling up Mont Ventoux in a headwind? Both made you feel like a living corpse. But it was no contest. The pain of Ventoux was only temporary.

Helplessness. That was the real killer. It felt to him as if there was no difference between having things done for you, and having things done to you. And it was hard to live with the sense that any minute, it may be decided that you have no useful life left. Your ride ended by others.

A swish of linen. A bright face. The red-headed one.

‘Letter for you, darling. Shall I read it?’

I don’t want you of all people to read it.

But he wondered if he might lose it altogether if he blinked no. He blinked once.

The tearing of the envelope. The rustle of paper. The clearing of the throat.

‘“Dear Papa, Well…”’

Her face.

‘Have you noticed how often people say “well” as the first word of a letter?’

No, no, no. Just read out the letter. Please.

‘Do you know what I mean?
Well
, here I am;
Well
, we finally made it…? Oh, what am I like? You don’t want to hear that, do you?’

No. I don’t. Read or don’t read, you stupid, stupid girl. Do not comment. Do not editorialise. And above all, do not interpret what you’re reading.

‘I’ll start again. “Dear Papa
, Well
…”’

Crash!

The shout came from another room. The red-headed one left immediately, tossing the letter on to his chest like a flower onto a coffin.

Lycée Principal, André Volpini, was an energetic individual of about fifty, short, and with a head of thinning hair that was too black to be natural. Small, restless eyes shone out of a face so bronzed and glossy, it appeared varnished.

‘Captain Lejeune, I… I don’t know what to say, as you can see. I cannot imagine that Emil could possibly have been involved in such a sordid – sordid? –
evil
business. It’s unthinkable.’

Frankie Lejeune had heard it all before. But she smiled sympathetically.

‘You’ve never entertained any doubts about Monsieur Florian?’ Her lullaby-soft voice took the leading edge off the question. ‘Not even for a moment?’

Before Volpini could answer, a black cat jumped up on the sofa and decided to make a bed of Frankie’s lap.

‘Please, shoo Cin Cin away, Captain.’ He seemed genuinely irritated on his visitor’s behalf but his eyes said he envied the animal. Frankie was a round-figured woman with a head of luxuriant black hair and large, pale-green eyes.

‘No, no. I love cats.’ As if to prove the assertion, she began tickling its neck. ‘You stay, Cin Cin.’

‘Then that’s… fine. But no, I have had no concerns about Emil whatever, and I must say, I’m inclined not to believe this. There must be some other explanation.’

‘Have parents or any of your students ever come to you or to other members of your staff with questions about Monsieur Florian’s behaviour?’

‘Certainly not. As I mentioned to your colleague, Lieutenant Granot, Emil wasn’t the sort of person everyone liked. He could be difficult. But I always found him amenable, conscientious. In summary, a decent man – yes, decent – and a very good teacher.’

‘I see.’

Volpini got to his feet.

‘A drink, Captain…?’ He smiled expectantly. ‘Look, I’m André and I can’t keep calling you Captain, can I? A drink…?’ He raised his too-black eyebrows.

‘No, thank you. We’re exploring a number of avenues, of course.’

He sat down.

‘Of course.’

‘But you do understand that our investigation must include questioning staff at your school, the students, and their families.’

Volpini threw up his hands.

‘My staff – well, yes, I see that. But the students and families? No, no. That is unconscionable. In any case, this is vacation time. Many people will be away.’

‘The timing is unfortunate. Nevertheless, we must press ahead. Your staff, if available, will be interviewed quite briefly and without fuss. As far as the children and their parents are concerned, a lower-impact strategy will be employed.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘In the guise of a standard feedback exercise, a questionnaire will be emailed out to each student and family member. Questions will cover a variety of topics relating to what I think your brochure refers to as “the whole school experience”.’

Volpini waved the idea away. Frankie continued unabashed.

‘Obviously, no reference will be made directly to Monsieur Florian or to this investigation. Nevertheless, those filling in the questionnaire will be given opportunity to air, confidentially of course, any concerns they may have on the theme of sexual harassment, deviant behaviour and so on. Contact details will also be provided for anyone preferring to call, email, or write to us on the issue.’