Impure Blood (27 page)

‘We were hoping for more like ten minutes.’

Medusa stopped lacing up the skate, a wary look opening up a few secondary cracks around her eyes. Since one or two spectators were still hanging around, Darac shielded his ID as he showed it to her.

‘And my colleague here is Captain Lejeune.’

‘Jesus! A sting operation for five euros?’ Her face fractured like a dropped plate. ‘Yeah, well you’re out of luck,
flic
. I’ve got a permit to perform and to collect tips here. Fucking hell!’

‘Hey, hey, hey – we’re not here in connection with your licence or anything.’

‘What, then?’

‘We’ve got no problem with you at all. We just want to pick your brains about something.’

Medusa held up a hand.

‘Listen – I’m sorry, okay? But we do get that kind of hassle from time to time.’ She stood. ‘What do you want to know?’

Darac didn’t reply for the moment. His eye was taken by a cyclist freewheeling up behind her. Riding a pannier-laden touring bike, the man was in outline a dead ringer for Roland Granot. But blue-and-white-striped pedal pushers were not his old friend’s style.

‘Uh… We’re here because of what happened on Rue Verbier yesterday lunchtime. You were performing outside the Basilique?’

Medusa made a pistol of her hand and shot herself in the temple.

‘The man who was killed – of course. Did I see it – is that what you want to know?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘It – no; him – yes.’

The groaning whine of brake blocks heralded the arrival of the bike. The rider adjusted his long red pigtails as he dismounted.

‘Got a problem, Astrid?’

‘No, no. Start getting ready, Alex, I’ll only be a minute or two.’ She turned back to Darac and Frankie as the man parked his bike. ‘Look, I probably should have come forward but…’

‘It’s alright, Astrid.’

Darac hadn’t seen Frankie work in some time. Getting more than just a nostalgic kick out of it, he gave her the nod to continue.

‘Astrid
what
, by the way?’

‘Pireque.’ She spelled the name as she bent forward and began fishing around in the box.

‘Just tell us anything you remember about the man in the white suit.’

‘Do you mind?’ she said, finding her Gitanes. ‘Gasping.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Well, he ran across my pitch. Right in front of me.’

‘Had you ever seen him before?’

‘Several times.’

‘On Rue Verbier?’

‘I’ve been doing this for three months now. I’ve seen him most weekends.’

‘I’d like to show you a photo.’

As Frankie reached into her bag, Darac glanced across at Astrid’s would-be champion. Although he was stamping on a foot pump connected to a lump of flattened grey plastic, Alex the cyclist was as convincing an Obelix the Gaul as could be imagined.

‘Just so we’re clear, Astrid – is this the man?’

‘It’s him. How…’ She frowned, as if she only half wanted to know the answer. ‘…did he die?’

‘In a way, he died as a living statue. A paralytic drug killed him.’

Looking more than a little unnerved, Astrid took a long drag on her cigarette.

‘Everyone’s getting in on the act.’

‘Apart from yesterday, did he always stand and watch your performance?’

‘The first time I saw him, he did. Not since. Unless he watched from behind, of course. But people don’t do that.’

‘So recently, you’ve seen him only in passing?’ Frankie’s honeyed voice made it seem as if they were talking about a mutual friend. ‘Was he ever with anyone?’

‘Always by himself.’

‘Thank you.’

Frankie gave Darac a look. A little eyebrow semaphore between them put him back in.

‘Back to yesterday,’ he said. ‘After you saw the man, what happened then?’

‘Well, I had quite a good crowd going. One of them was a guy with a beard. He peeled away eventually and the man in the suit ran straight into him. They nearly went down, the pair of them.’

‘Anything stick in your mind about the man with the beard?’

Astrid gave a dry little laugh.

‘Oh yes. If somebody watches your act for like, half an hour and then goes without giving you a cent, they stick in your mind, alright.’

‘How long do people usually watch for?’

‘Five or six minutes. Ten is a long time to watch somebody standing still. Even with the snake shtick.’

Frankie made a mental note to ask her about that later.

‘So Beard was there for thirty whole minutes. Was it your impression that he was waiting for the man in the white suit? Did he keep looking towards the Avenue, for example?’

Astrid took a deep drag on the cigarette.

‘He did that, yes. A few times. But I don’t know if he was waiting for the man in the suit, particularly. And when he came jogging up, he didn’t shout, “Ah, here’s Charlie!” or whatever.’

‘Were you looking at them at the moment the guy peeled away and they collided?’

‘Not the exact moment. This real looker had just arrived and I was giving him my death stare.’

A shadow fell over Darac.

‘Come on, guys, you’re eating into my time,’ Obelix said, stowing his foot pump into one of the many panniers on his bike. Behind him, the flattened lump of plastic had turned into a bulbous lump of plastic. ‘My menhir’s pumped up.
I’m
pumped up – so will you move, please?’

Darac took out his wallet and handed him a ten-euro note.

‘Five minutes?’

Obelix gave an unimpressed shrug but he took the note.

‘Just a second. We’re from the Police Judiciaire. Do you ever work Rue Verbier?’

‘Only Astrid goes that far up Jean Médicin.’

‘Is it alright if my colleague shows you a photo just in case?’

Another shrug.

Concerned she might laugh at the surreal nature of the situation, Frankie duly handed Obelix Florian’s photo.

‘No. Never seen him.’

‘Our other friend, Frankie?’

Obelix ran his eye over Manou Esquebel.

‘No. But in my act, I never look at the audience, anyway.’

‘Pity.’ Darac glanced at his watch. ‘So five more minutes.’

‘Five.’ Obelix sloped off. ‘And no more.’

‘We were talking about the collision, Astrid. I know you didn’t see the impact directly but who do you think was responsible for it?’

‘Neither of them was looking where they were going. But the man with the beard’s back was turned and the other guy was running so you’d blame him, I suppose.’

‘Who came off worse – Suit or Beard?’

‘Suit. He really yelped – that’s what made me swivel my eyes back toward them. Beard was carrying a rucksack and I think it was
that
Suit ran into. There must have been… tent pegs in it or something.’

Darac shared a look with Frankie.

‘Then what happened?’

‘Suit hurried off down the street towards the market place. The guy with the rucksack walked off in the opposite direction. Towards the Avenue.’

Darac looked into Astrid’s eyes.

‘Would you recognise him again? The guy with the rucksack?’

‘I remember every square millimetre of that cheap bastard’s face, believe me.’

‘We have a sketch artist at the Caserne Auvare. Think you could—?’

‘No need, Captain… Darac, was it? I’m a Fine Arts graduate – I’ll draw the guy for you.’ Elegantly shaping her white marble hands, she struck a dramatic pose. ‘This shit is just temporary.’ She took another cheek-hollowing pull on the cigarette. ‘I hope.’

‘You do look fantastic,’ Darac said, sounding lame. ‘The drawing – could you come in to the Caserne to do it?’

‘Not just at the moment, I can’t. But later today – definitely.’

‘We’ll send a car.’

They took down her contact details.

A little to their left, Obelix was starting to look restless – odd preparation, Darac thought, for someone who was about to stand stock still for minutes on end.

‘Finally – have you ever seen this other guy?’

Frankie handed over the photo of Manou. Astrid gave a little snort.

‘Torso Boy – sexy but short. Yes, I’ve seen him. Here. A few times.’

‘How many is a few?’

‘Four, five maybe. Always pays. Not much, but something.’

Darac was coming to the conclusion that Astrid Pireque was one of the most useful eyewitnesses he’d ever come across.

‘Alone?’

‘No. That is, he doesn’t arrive with anyone. But he’s left with someone a couple of times. Different people, I mean.’

There was genuine appreciation in Frankie’s smile.

‘This is really helpful, Astrid. Did anything strike you about these encounters? Could you describe or perhaps even draw the people he went off with?’

‘One was a horse-faced boy of about eighteen or so – I could draw him. The other was a girl about the same age, I suppose, but I didn’t get a good look at her. A black girl. Tall. Big shades. Red Crocs.’

‘You’ve got one minute!’ Obelix called out, deftly kicking his menhir from one instep to the other.

Darac gave him a wave as he continued.

‘A boy
and
a girl left with him? In what manner?’

‘Just chatting.’

‘Flirting?’

‘A little. With the girl. Maybe even with the boy.’ She picked up her water bottle. ‘Why do you want to know this?’

‘There was no reluctance on their part to going with him?’

‘No.’ She gulped down the rest of her water. ‘Didn’t look like it.’

Frankie gave her a look.

‘Must be murder wearing the headdress in this heat.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Did Torso Boy ever have a bottle of water or anything with him?’

‘I didn’t see one but he had a bag. Could have been in there. Look, I better stow my stuff and get out of Alex’s way.’

‘If we have any further questions, may we ask them when you come in to the Caserne later?’

‘Sure.’ She picked up the headdress and carefully lowered it into the plinth. ‘Don’t suppose you need a second sketch artist at your place, do you?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Shame.’ She began lacing up her rollerblades.

‘Anything would be easier than this.’

‘Astrid, uh…’ Frankie risked peering at the snakes. ‘How do you make them move?’

The girl looked astonished.

‘Make them? I don’t make them – they’re real.’

On cue, the snakes writhed. One hand patrolling her skirt hem, the other going to her throat, Frankie emitted a sharp cry and took several backward steps.

‘I’m kidding!’ As proof, Astrid flicked one of the beasts in the eye. ‘But I’m not going to reveal how I do it. You alright?’

Frankie took a deep breath.

‘Of course.’

Still grinning, Astrid put her tips bag into the plinth and strapped it onto her back.

‘Thank you,’ Darac said. ‘If everyone were as observant as you, our job would be so much easier.’

‘You wait until you see how well I draw. Nice to meet you both.’

The girl took a few swaying strides and began carving her way down the boulevard.

‘Quite a sight.’ They finally left the pitch to Obelix. ‘A classical goddess on blades.’

‘And what a witness.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Paul – the snakes. She obviously operates them remotely – but how?’

‘Did you notice that ring on her left hand? ’

‘Which one?’

‘The ruby. There was a pea-sized bump on the palm-side of it. I think I saw her push her thumb against it.’

‘A switch for a radio-controlled transmitter? Bluetooth?’

‘Maybe. Where’s Erica when you need her?’

Frankie gave him a look.

‘I was only pretending to be scared, you know.’

Darac’s habitual half-smile disappearing, he nodded with obviously faux sincerity.

‘I know that.’

‘I was!’

Laughter from behind suspended the debate. They turned to find Obelix juggling the menhir in a series of increasingly extravagant passes. And then, with a concluding flourish, he tossed it onto the end of his upturned nose and froze.

‘
That’s
why he doesn’t see the audience,’ Frankie said, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Impressive. In its way.’

‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t get a slow puncture.’

Releasing a wave of kohl-black hair over her shoulders, Frankie threw back her head and laughed.

Darac gave her a look. ‘Shame to break this up, don’t you think?’

‘Agnès’s apartment?’

‘Want to come?’

‘Try and stop me.’

This was the moment he’d been waiting for. God bless the TV!

Everything was in place. The introductions had been made. The interviews given. The experts had pontificated. The promotional circus had paraded along the stage route. From motorised bananas, boats and bottles, the crowds had been pelted with trinkets. Giant hand-shaped gloves appeared to be among the most prized.

Made of soft green foam rubber, spectators loved to wave them at the peloton. It was all part of the fun. The riders saw it differently. If you were pedalling in train at fifty kilometres per hour, a foam finger could rip your arm open like a shard of glass. It was all part of the pain.

But there would be no peloton today. Each rider had his own race to ride. The stage was going to be quite long and hilly for an opening time trial. A fifteen-kilometre knee-breaker up and down, out and back. A testing overture to the symphony that was to come. Tomorrow – that was when the piece would really begin. One hundred and eighty-two kilometres with all the riders going off together.

The first rider was in the start gate. Eyes focussed a few metres beyond the ramp. Long, lung-filling breaths. Thighs flexing to power the bike away. A human spring ready to uncoil.

My son has made all this happen
, he said to himself. My son who bought a TV and had it specially adapted so I could watch it lying flat on my back. After everything I’ve done to him.

Five, four, three, two…

Thank you.

Three separate rings having failed to bring anyone to Agnès’s door, Darac slipped a couple of picks out of his tool roll.

‘You don’t have a key?’ Frankie said. ‘With all that skin-to-skin contact going on, I would have thought…’