A Death in Time, page 12
Opting for the comparative informality of Darac’s office rather than the interview room, the trio positioned themselves in a tried and tested formation: the captain himself perched on the front edge of his desk, his two trusted lieutenants sitting apart door-side of the interviewee.
‘Thanks for coming in again, Monsieur,’ Darac said, motioning Thomas into a chair by a radiator to which many a suspect under questioning had been handcuffed over the years. No need for such draconian tactics today: conviviality was the name of the game. ‘Our paths didn’t really cross at your place but I’m Captain Paul Darac, and I’m in charge of the investigation. Not that you would convince these two of that.’
Bonbon caught Thomas’s eye and winked. ‘Best go along with him, Maurice.’
Already relaxing, Thomas grinned. ‘You’re a caution, you are, mate.’
‘That’ll come later.’ Bonbon grinned. ‘Just kidding.’ He indicated the cooler. ‘Some water?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Watch the cup. They make them out of recycled fluff or something and they’re liable to spill.’
‘Same with everything these days.’ His face contorting, Thomas produced a damp-looking handkerchief but the urge to sneeze disappeared and he returned it to his jacket. ‘Sorry about my nose, by the way. I haven’t got a cold. Allergies. Prone to them.’
As Bonbon did the needful at the cooler, Darac took the opportunity to study the mien and body language of Maurice Thomas, the man Denise Dubreuil may have referred to on her shopping list as MT, the person apparently denied union with one SM.
While Darac knew that pure physiognomy gave little clue as to a person’s character and none whatsoever where likely culpability for a crime was concerned, he couldn’t help employing a sort of reverse anthropomorphism to distinguish facial and corporal types. His closest colleagues were cases in point. With his tawny colouring, mischievously twinkling eyes and light, agile gait, Bonbon’s physical mien was irresistibly fox-like. Granot conjured images of bewhiskered sea creatures, spectacular in water, cumbersome on dry land. And facially at least, their boss Agnès Dantier personified the adjective “feline”. Round, timid-looking and prone to snuffling, Maurice Thomas put Darac in mind of nothing so much as a hedgehog. It remained to be seen if he would roll into a ball at the first signs of trouble but the way he talked gave no indication of any such frailty. A garrulous hedgehog? There was a first for everything.
‘Bumped into one of my old tenants downstairs,’ Thomas said, giving Bonbon a nod as he gingerly took the water cup. ‘From a couple of years ago. Jacques Derain or Gerain…Lerain! Wasn’t with me long. Nice chap. Talk the hind leg of a donkey, mind you. And nosey? They talk about women. Nothing on him, I’ll tell you. Always asking about this and that.’ He took a sip of water and winced. ‘Ow, that tooth! Must get it sorted out.’ He carefully set down the cup. ‘Anyway, Lerain has just started working in the canteen here, he was telling me. Tall, rangy, fair-haired fellow. Freckly. Come across him?’
Darac shared a look with Granot. The description of “Lerain” fitted Jérome Quentin, the undercover narco officer Armani had sent in to Thomas’s place in 2012 and come up empty. The canteen job story had been quick thinking on Quentin’s part and Darac made a mental note to pass that on to Armani as and when.
‘He works in the canteen?’ Granot said, feigning disdain, ‘Between us, we’ve barely set foot in the place since they contracted out the catering. No offence to your old tenant.’
Darac always felt a buzz when his band or his police team were on song. He felt that way now. ‘So, Monsieur – are you bearing up?’
‘I’m a cheerful chap by nature, Captain. Ask anyone down the quayside. But to be honest with you, hold it…’ Another contortion; another false alarm. ‘Sorry about that. Where was I? Yes – I’m devastated at what’s happened. At the start of the week, there I was sailing along quite happily with my two tenants. Now I haven’t got one.’ He shook his head at the degree of his misfortune. ‘And why? Because one of them murdered the other and then scarpered! By the look of it, anyway. I know it’s what you’re all thinking.’
‘Let’s say it is a strong possibility. I’m sure you’ll have gone over some of this before, but just for my benefit, let’s start with Mademoiselle Dubreuil. What was your take on her?’
‘She was the nervy type, God rest her soul. Not always very talkative but she was nice. No bother. She used to be an actress, you know? Fifteen years a landlord, I’ve been. Never had a theatrical in all that time and my mother before me, neither, so far as I know.’
‘Did she have any regular visitors?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘None, and I know what you’re wondering. How did she earn a living? Well, I can tell you that whatever it was, I doubt it was that. But if it was, as I told your mates here, I wouldn’t allow such a thing in my house.’ He raised a finger and wagged it emphatically. ‘Except on the day she died, as far as I know, she never had nobody in her room for any purpose whatsoever. Of course, I’m not in all the time and I’m not on the qui vive all the time I am in. But you heard how creaky them stairs are. You hear if someone goes up them. Prostitution? Quickest way to rack and ruin for the landlord. Well, that and…’ A study in regret, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘That and yes, turning a blind eye to drugs. I’ve always said if you allow them on the premises, the next thing, you’re overrun with the bastards and you’ve had it. That’s why I was so shocked to learn what had been going on with her and Ploine.’
‘You mentioned that you found the mademoiselle nervy. It never occurred to you she might be a regular user?’
‘It didn’t. I swear. I suppose I thought “these theatricals,” you know. They’re all like that, aren’t they? Highly strung.’
‘On the day she was murdered, you heard someone mounting the stairs? Is that what alerted you?’
‘No, I was out when he must’ve gone up. I only heard it on his way down after the row. Feet bang bang banging down, then slamming the door and he was off.’
‘The row itself. The male voice was definitely Ploine’s?’
‘It sounded like it.’
‘And you definitely didn’t see who it was?’
‘Nnnn-no.’ Another contortion and it was third time lucky for the subsequent sneeze. ‘Good – that’ll be it for a while. Uh, yes, the footsteps. It seems obvious now that it was young Ploine, as he called himself, but I couldn’t swear to it and that’s the truth.’ The hedgehog turned sheepish. ‘Look, I know I fibbed at the start about why I’d gone up to Mademoiselle Dubreuil’s apartment. I shouldn’t have done that and I’m sorry. But all that shouting and me just sitting there, below?’ He lowered his head. ‘It only went on for about a minute but I was scared. I daren’t go up until it had finished. Daren’t.’ He stared away. ‘I was ashamed, if you want the truth. Ashamed I hadn’t done anything to help her. Ashamed I didn’t know what Ploine was, the bastard.’ Another shake of the head. ‘A drug dealer on the premises… My mother’s turning in her grave, God rest her.’
Granot and Bonbon made sympathetic sounds and the interview continued.
‘The man known as Gérard Ploine,’ Darac said. ‘The fact that he was a drug dealer using an alias tells us a great deal, obviously, but how did he strike you?’
‘You get to know your tenants over time, I always say. To begin with, they all come across as pleasant, dependable, honest. Twelve months later, things can be very different.’
‘Until yesterday, you hadn’t known him long enough to have formed a truer opinion. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘He was never late with the rent or anything but as I say, they tend not to be any trouble at first. And now look what’s happened. Skipped off owing two weeks, as well. Won’t see that now, will I?’
‘I see you’ve agreed to assist our sketch artist once more.’ Astrid had already trawled the quayside bars on what was her second commission of the case. ‘This time to depict a visitor you say called round for Ploine a few times.’
‘Definitely. Anything to help.’
Darac glanced at the file. ‘A tall, dark-complexioned, slim white male whom you heard Ploine call “Ludo.” Nothing passed between them that you saw indicated anything suspicious?’
‘No, Captain. They just seemed to be mates off out for a drink. Joshing about football, that sort of stuff. Seems Ploine was a PSG fan. Don’t know who Ludo supported but he hated PSG.’
‘Paris Saint-Germain,’ Bonbon said, interpreting the sport-speak for Darac.
‘Paris? I see.’ Darac set down the file. ‘Well, once again, you’ve been a great help, Monsieur.’
‘Don’t know if I have.’
‘Oh, one last thing. You know someone with the initials SM, I believe. Or perhaps just know of them.’
Thomas looked blank, then wary, but for the moment, he eschewed rolling himself into a ball.
‘SM, Monsieur? Didn’t you meet him or her recently? Or were due to?’
‘I can’t think of anyone with those initials. What’s this about?’
‘Think again, mate,’ Bonbon said. ‘Last Friday morning, we’re talking. More water?’
‘No, no. Uh… SM?’ He shook his head. ‘I know an SN.’
Darac realised that if Denise Dubreuil had only heard Thomas or someone else say that he hadn’t been with SN, she could easily have misheard it as SM. And she might have misheard it in a supermarket from which, according to her till receipt, she checked out at 11.48 on the day before she was murdered. In their earlier conversation, Darac and Granot had noted that Denise had written 11.25 next to the date on her shopping list, the implication being that it was the time she had entered the store but neither could fathom why she had bothered to do so. Now what ifs? began to collide and connect in Darac’s head and he saw a possible purpose. It was a practice every police officer working on a case or journalist working on a story employed every day. She hadn’t pointlessly noted the time, had she? She had logged it as a significant detail. Just as Narco officer Jérome Quentin had worked undercover at the Port Lympia house two years ago, perhaps Officer Denise Dubreuil had been watching Maurice Thomas – or MT – over the past weeks. The first problem officers faced when investigating an individual whom they hadn’t realised was a fellow officer working undercover was that the more important the operation, the more watertight was the cover story. Darac had spoken to two people connected with the theatre company in which Denise had supposedly been employed years before. Both had said that they knew her and were able to identify her from recent-ish photos. But were they telling the truth? Who knew?’ Darac made a second mental note: to ask Agnès to make a series of calls to the GIGN, DGSI and other elite units of the nation’s security forces. It wouldn’t have been the first time an operation had been undertaken without the knowledge or consent of a local force. If Thomas was worthy of such high-level attention, though, his garrulous hedgehog routine was one hell of a performance.
At the scene, path assistant Lami Toto had drawn their attention to the track marks on Denise’s arms and although other factors appeared to corroborate it, this was not proof positive she was a user. In his role of Head of Narco, Armani’s full undercover disguise included fake needle marks that appeared identical to the real thing. Until Barrau came through with his full post-mortem report, the team could not be certain whether she had used such drugs. And even if she had, class A drug-dependent cops were far from unknown.
But clean or not, if Denise Dubreuil had been some sort of undercover operative of the state, it was far more likely that the activities of a drug dealer carrying false papers would have been her focus. Darac had earlier wondered if SM might have been Ploine’s true initials. What if MT didn’t refer to Thomas at all? They could have been Ploine’s initials.
Riffing on these ideas had taken no more than a couple of seconds and a number of further thoughts were already taking shape in Darac’s head. But first things first.
‘Going back to last Friday again, Monsieur. Did you go shopping in the morning by any chance?’
‘Friday, Friday… I did as it happened. There’s quite a big U just around the corner from me. In Boulevard Stali...Stali…Wait for it…’ Another sneeze. ‘… Grad.’
‘What time would that be?’
‘Ooh… Just after nine. I was getting low on bog rolls.’
Bonbon gave him a look. ‘Best way when you think about it.’
Thomas chuckled. ‘You should do stand-up, mate, I’m telling you.’
‘You’re sure about the time?’
‘Yeah, it’s when I usually go.’
It was still worth asking the question. ‘You didn’t happen to see Mademoiselle Dubreuil in the shop?’
‘No. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there. Biggish shop, as I say.’
‘Uh-huh. On to this person you know with the initials SN. Who would that be?’
‘My niece. Well, step-niece. Step-niece in-law, to be accurate. Sometimes see her at L’Archet where I go about this.’ He indicated his nose. ‘She’s a nurse there. Used to be just up the road at St Roch which was handy but she moved and I decided to move with her, as it were. L’Archet’s further but it’s a lot nicer.’
‘And her name, Monsieur?’
‘Oh, sorry. Suzanne. Suzanne Nairault. Lovely girl. Well, woman now.’
If Thomas’s entire performance had been an act, it had come time for his audience to put in a performance of its own – pretending Suzanne was a stranger when she had played an important role in several cases for the Brigade. She had also been Darac’s close friend and neighbour since he had moved into his Place Saint-Sépulcre apartment. He would trust Suzanne with his life; indeed, he already owed it to her. And further, he and Frankie trusted Suzanne to the extent that hers had been the first name to spring to mind as a back-up carer for Lily. Suzanne was on point in every conceivable way. If Thomas was not what he pretended to be, she would know. Wouldn’t she?
‘And did you have a clinic appointment at L’Archet on Friday at which you expected or hoped to see this Nurse Suzanne Nairault?’
‘No. Next one’s October. You still haven’t told me what this is all about?’’
Deciding they had gone as far as they could for the moment, Darac drew the interview to a close and the trio dispersed to make calls. First, Darac rang Agnès and asked her to contact what Frankie always referred to as “The Acronyms in Paris”.
‘Sorry to land this on you but you’ve got the clout and the contacts. They’ll listen to you.’
‘Whether they’ll respond fully is another matter but either way, we’ll get our answer.’
‘How?’
‘If it transpires Ms Dubreuil was indeed an undercover agent, they won’t comment but will immediately take us off the case, tacitly confirming it. If she wasn’t, they will probably tell me outright. I’ll get back to you soonest, Paul.’
God, we’re going to miss you, Agnès… Next, Darac tried Suzanne’s number and he pictured the phone ringing in the apartment directly beneath his and Frankie’s.
‘Hello?’
‘Good, you’re off duty.’
‘Paul, hi. I am until this evening, anyway. Am I free to have Lily, is that what you’re after?’
‘No, no.’
‘Shame. Just in the mood for a cuddle.’
‘I’ll send Bonbon round.’
‘That’ll do.’
‘Listen, I have a name to put to you. Maurice Thomas. Maurice Baudouin Thomas, to be exact. Ring any bells?’
‘Nothing’s happened to him?’
‘To him, no. So he is known to you?’
‘Since I was a kid, yes. Uncle Atchoo, we used to call him. I got my comeuppance for that later. I always seem to be on in S and S whenever he has an appointment.’
‘S and S?’
‘Snot and Spit.’
‘Ah – he said he often sees you in clinics. I was hoping he’d made it up.’
‘Why is old Uncle Atchoo on your radar?’
‘Yesterday, one of his two tenants, a drug user, was murdered at the Port Lympia house; the probable culprit is the second tenant, a drug dealer using a fake ID who skipped immediately afterwards.’
‘No-o. What a terrible thing to happen.’
‘MT has a clean record but on the quiet, you’ve never suspected him of say, being a drug dealer’s bagman?’
Suzanne’s laugh was the sort people were apt to call “infectious” and Darac went down with a mild case even over the phone.
‘So that’s a no, I guess.’
‘No flies on you, Paul.’
As the call ended, Darac reflected that if a typical murder investigation were written out as a musical score, the instruction Da Capo – go back to the beginning – would be the most frequently cited instruction to the player.
A couple of hours later, Agnès walked into Darac’s office and, taking the chair drawn up next to his, set down a trio of files. ‘Ooh, you do have a desk, after all.’
‘Told you it would be cleared.’ Idiot! ‘Not that deskwork is my forte, of course. The streets. That’s where I belong.’
‘Paul, you’re so transparent, I can see right through you.’
‘That’s another thing I’m terrible at.’
‘Let’s get on, shall we? First, I bring word from Paris.’
‘The security agencies on Denise Dubreuil? That was quick.’
‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ She handed over the printed-off replies. ‘The first one in was from GIGN.’ Darac speed-read it. ‘They all say the same thing, Paul.’
Darac handed them back. ‘Straight denial but we’re still on the case? So, she wasn’t working undercover. Or at least not for any recognised department of the State.’
