A Death in Time, page 14
‘Ah, the Saint-André.’ As if fondly recalling his part in what had been a hideous business, Bonbon’s foxy features took on an extra twinkle. But he had a concerning sidebar to add. ‘Flak – do you remember a couple of years ago, I cordially invited you to drop the stiff formality and just for once, call me Bonbon?’
‘And I did, Lieutenant.’
‘Just that once, yes.’
‘With respect, that was all you asked for.’
‘Well, and this is the last time I’m going to say this, anytime you feel like relaxing the rules permanently, feel free.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But back to my question. Zone sportif. Football pitches. Captain Sportphobe here has no idea. Flak?’
‘Oh… Four. Five, maybe?’
‘Try twelve. Twelve plus four rugby pitches.’
‘It’s just come to me,’ Darac said. ‘Twelve plus four rugby pitches. How’s that?’
‘Sufficient to earn a yellow card but I’ll waive it – with an i – this time. Of those sixteen pitches, only two are surrounded by athletics tracks. One is the new, smallish but beautifully formed Stade Charles Ehrmann; the other is the really small, wood-wormy old wreck that is the…’
‘Stade Walter Vallain?’
‘Exactly. I’ve never actually been there but I gather it hasn’t changed in years.’
‘As someone once said, all will become clear. Especially to you, Bonbon. You always seem to be on fire at this time of year. Ask Saint-André poisoner Alain Daillier.’
On cue, palm-piercing shards of sunlight caught the spool of copper wire that was Bonbon’s hair and appeared to ignite it.
‘Too kind but just between the three of us, my part in it was sheer luck. It turned out Daillier was from Le Boulou near the Spanish border, 20 kilometres from where I grew up. A link, right? I just carried on adding others. As is well known, I sport a head of beautiful auburn hair…’
‘Coveted by jobbing electricians everywhere,’ Darac said.
‘Phht! But I decided to refer to it to Daillier as ginger and, suspecting that, in combination with other factors, his out-and-out ginger locks may have made him a bit of an outcast as a child, I said that mine had, too. But that wasn’t all we shared in the looks department. There’s my skinny yet powerful physique…’
At that, the seriously powerful Flaco couldn’t help emitting her signature laugh, an incongruous lawn sprinkler tst-tst-tst.
‘Thank you, Flak,’ Bonbon continued unabashed. ‘The skinnier Daillier is a life-time supporter of Barca as is every right-thinking Catalan including myself. The list goes on, most of it from that point – such as our mothers sharing the same forename and a cousin working at his favourite pâtisserie etc – I fabricated for effect. In the end, I suspected the boundary between our separate identities had somehow blurred for him. Pathetic, really. In fact, if he hadn’t murdered his wife, I might have felt sorry for the man. But he had and I didn’t.’
‘You were brilliant, Bonbon. In fact, the whole team effort was exemplary. And that very much includes you, Flak.’
‘Thank you.’
The radio buzzed.
‘Charvet, Captain.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Doctor Mpensa’s team has just arrived at the scene. Patricia is already taping it off.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Finding the way into the Stade is straightforward enough but I take it you won’t be familiar with the lay-out of the place once you’re there?’
‘You take it correctly.’
‘Bonbon or Flak know it?’
The pair shook their heads.
‘That’s a no, Charvet, but even my old Peugeot has satnav. And we’ve got all the usual portables onboard.’
‘The lay-out doesn’t appear on satnav and although the satellite view on a mapping app shows the pitch and seating areas clearly, the various ways and paths around the site are not clear at all. Fortunately, I’ve known the place since childhood. I’ll talk you through it.’
Darac shared a grin with Bonbon. Charvet didn’t often get the opportunity to play eminence grise and although the pair suspected his info was going to prove entirely superfluous, raining on the man’s parade was not an option. ‘Local knowledge, Charvet? Hit it.’
‘Saint-Augustin’s first team used to play their home matches at the Walter Vallain and the first open-ish space you’ll come to is what’s left of the spectators’ car park. The far end funnels down to railings, a couple of old-fashioned turnstiles and a wide gate behind which is a static caravan jacked up on bricks. If he’s stopped vomiting, that’s where you’ll find night watchman Eric Cauvin who’ll probably have been joined by his daytime counterpart by now. The turnstiles give access to the football pitch and the athletics track directly behind Eric’s caravan. The gate opens on to an unmade track signed: private: players and officials only and this is what can’t make out on aerial photo. Once through the gate, you need to turn immediately sharp right. The track winds through a lot of greenery to the opposite end of the site where there are changing rooms and a second car park exclusively for the use of the above. That’s where I directed Ops to earlier.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Oh, and I had a sneaky word with Patricia who’d had a quick glance at the corpse when they arrived. Don’t quote her or me, Captain, but a blunt force injury to the back of the skull, it’s looking like. Nasty blow with something heavy and not therefore caused by the football that was also found in the water. One last thing. It looked to Patricia that the body had been lying there all night. Nothing on the victim’s age or gender as yet.’
‘Thanks – that’s all really useful, Charvet. Out.’
‘Got something here, Captain,’ Flaco said, settling on a new screen.
‘Go for it.’
‘The University’s sports team schedules. Most use the pitches and various indoor facilities at STAPS, but both the football and athletics teams also use stadia for training – the new Charles Ehrmann, which the athletics team also use for competition, and the old Walter Vallain. That’s where the athletics squad met last evening.’
‘We’ll need to talk to everyone who was there. Especially as Patricia reckons the body had been in the water jump all night.’
Bonbon nodded. ‘With any luck, gateman Eric will have a list of attendees. FYI, there’s some decent talent in that athletics squad at the moment. Two of them have just been selected for the French national team. I mean literally, within the last day or two.’ Bonbon’s tawny eyebrows went in search of his hairline. ‘That’s a coincidence, now I think.’
Darac waited for a conclusion but none came. ‘Coincidence?’
‘Yes. One of those selected is a steeplechase specialist. Julien Somebody. Future world beater, they reckon, a lad that in less aware times would have referred to as “The Great White Hope” in the national press.’
‘A white boy called Julien beating the world in the steeplechase?’ Flaco said, ever the straight talker but not usually tart with her mentors. ‘A couple of hundred African boys would be interested to hear that.’
‘Go, Flak!’ Darac said, slowing for a red at the Gambetta intersection.
The young woman from Guadeloupe needed no second invitation. ‘And is the national press really more aware than it was? Such terms as Great White Hope may have disappeared but the thinking behind them is right there in plain sight.’
‘Fair point,’ Bonbon conceded. ‘Libé excepted. Plus Charlie, and the other satirical mags.’
Darac didn’t usually talk politics on the job but being held at the lights somehow encouraged him to push the topic further. ‘If that thinking isn’t exposed for what it is, the return of racist terms may only be the start. And it wouldn’t be for the first time in our history, would it? If any more middle-ground minds are poisoned by the Far Right’s lies, where will that leave us after the next election? French society could rupture irreparably. I fear it already has in some places.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Bonbon said. ‘Le Pen and co are hugely dangerous. There’s no doubt about it.’
In what was for her an unprecedented display of intimacy, Flaco reached forward and just for the briefest moment, gripped Darac’s and Bonbon’s shoulders. In both senses touched, the pair opted for words of solidarity rather than the usual throwaway quips. The lights changed, the conversation returned to the case. ‘These training sessions, Flak,’ Darac said. ‘Got anything else on them?’
‘Yes... It states that all sessions are led by the head coach, one Gilles Laborde.’ She looked up, meeting Darac’s eyes in his mirror. ‘His work number’s here.’
‘Good – should gateman Eric not have a list of attendees, this Laborde will. And that will be useful even if the victim turns out to have no connection with the team or the university. He won’t be at work yet though, will he?’
‘Laborde? I’ll bet you anything he is,’ Bonbon said. ‘The man’s as driven as they come.’
THIRTY
This was the third time that Cassie had had to go through the morning briefing without Dédé. She missed her. Not that they had been allowed to sit together, and with their arrival and departure times staggered, they had never had the opportunity to establish any real rapport. Handovers on the street had been the only time they had managed to exchange a few words. But even then, they had to rely on Dédé’s rare ability to whisper things to her partner – her partner in crime as they had become – without moving her lips. He was watching. They knew he was. He who saw and heard everything. And now she was dead.
‘Where was Chantal Darac born?’
Here we go... ‘Uh… Agen.’
‘Speed up. What was her maiden name?’
‘Chantal Lantosque.’
‘What are her daughters called?’
Dédé was usually asked the Chantal daughter questions. Cassie began to sweat. ‘Sophie and…
‘Come on!’
‘Jeanne. No, Jeannine.’
‘Ages?’
‘Sophie is 33. Jeannine 31.’
‘Work?’
‘Sophie is an editor in a publishing house.’
‘Which one?’
‘Éditions… Gallimard.’
‘Where?’
‘Paris.’
‘Jeannine?’
‘She…’ What the hell does she do? It’s financial. Lucky cow. ‘She’s an investment analyst for a bank – a private one.’
‘Which?’
‘Darsey.’
‘In Paris?’
‘No.’
‘Where?’
‘Strasbourg.’
‘Are they married?’
‘Jeannine. Only Jeannine.’
‘How long?’
‘Three years.’
‘To?’
‘Uh… Mark? No Marcel. Marcel Bourges.’
‘So she’s Jeannine Bourges?’
‘No. She kept her maiden name.’
‘Children?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
Don’t get it wrong, Cassie… But don’t guess. Ever. Has he even told you this?
‘Well?’
‘I… don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? Why?’
‘Because you haven’t told us. Me, I mean.’
‘Correct. Where was Noëmi Tardelli born?’
Cassie began to breathe more easily. She knew Noëmi backwards. ‘Antibes.’
‘What was her maiden name?’
‘Noëmi Aubert.’
‘What’s her daughter called?’
‘Emma.’
‘Age?’
‘Seven.’
‘Son?’
The sound of scuttling somewhere behind her made Cassie jump.
‘Answer!’
‘Fabien. 18 months.’
‘Did I ask you how old the little bastard was? Eh?’
Cassie shook her head.
‘Speak!’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Don’t anticipate what I’m going to ask or say to you. Just do as I tell you. Right?’
‘Sorry.’
‘How old did you say Jeannine Bourges was?’
‘I didn’t. Her name is Jeannine Lantosque.’
‘Better. Now listen, Carmen. We went over the old plan countless times so you’d get it in your head. Since Debreuil has left us, the plan has had to change. Yesterday, I told you something about it. Now I’m going to tell you the rest. The first thing is that that the operation is much simpler now. And it will be over far quicker than before.’
Cassie almost smiled.
‘But it’s going to be harder to pull off.’
Cassie almost cried.
THIRTY-ONE
By the time Darac’s Peugeot was bumping and bouncing its way through the dust towards stadium gateman Eric Cauvin’s caravan, Bonbon had twice called Head Coach Gilles Laborde’s office. On the first occasion, he had reassured PA Monique Azzani that he was calling on a routine matter and she had put him through to Laborde’s phone only to discover he was not yet at his desk. Delayed by traffic, she imagined, although he invariably called her if that were the case. However, she was confident he would arrive at any moment. The second call found her perplexed and more than a little concerned. Since, she had claimed, Laborde “had never having a day off for sickness in his life,” perhaps he’d suffered an injury while out exercising or jogging before leaving for work. Trying his mobile first – no answer – Monique had then called his home but fared no better, wife Zoë confirming that he had left for work at the usual time and counselling Monique not to worry.
A decrepit 2CV was parked alongside the caravan and in the shaded area behind it, a tired-looking Vespa sat double-chained to the railings. Stubbing a fag end into the dashboard, a man got out from behind the wheel of the 2CV and, replicating the sound of a tin shed collapsing, slammed the driver’s door.
‘All that’s missing is a snatch of ‘Duelling Banjos,’ Bonbon said.
Darac nodded. ‘Does have a Deliverance feel about it. Know the movie, Flak?’
‘Seen it, Captain. One viewing was enough.’
Wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt, knee-length cargoes and a lanyard ID, the man was a stocky individual with better things to do.
‘This isn’t Cauvin, clearly,’ Darac said, rolling his window as he slowed. ‘And where’s the uniform Sous-Brigadier Saucisson should have assigned him?’
Bonbon grinned. ‘I think the name was Sorbissone but your version may turn out to be closer to the truth.’
The man stepped forward and in a vaguely border guard-like manner, peered into the car.
‘Morning Monsieur..?’ Darac canted his head. ‘Reixe.’ He showed his own ID. ‘Where’s the uniformed officer who should be controlling this entrance?’
‘Assisting me, you mean. He had to nip down the other end. Be back in a minute. If his Yammie 900 copes with the potholes, that is.’
Darac made a mental note to have a word with the officer. ‘I see. Monsieur Eric Cauvin around?’
‘How many more of you are there?’
‘Monsieur Cauvin?’
‘I see. Like that, is it? He’s probably home by now.’
‘What hours does he work?’
‘Comes at 6 in the evening, goes off at 8 in the morning. Friday to Monday.’
Darac was astonished, ‘He works 14-hour shifts?’
‘When he’s awake. And if you can call it work. Like I said, he gets off at 8 when I come on but he usually sticks around for a natter. And he would’ve done today for sure but once the local flics turned up, he came back here and started throwing up.’ He indicated the caravan with a back header. ‘It stinks in there.’
‘So the 2CV’s not his?’
‘Site vehicle. We use it to shuttle between here and the players’ car park.’
‘Really? How far is it?’
‘If you straightened it out, it’d be a couple of hundred metres, maybe. It all adds up, you know.’
‘OK. And the scooter?’
‘Mine.’ Reixe confirmed the cut of his masculinity by spitting into the dust. ‘I’ve got a 750 Kwaker at home but if I come on that, it’d be gone by lunchtime.’
‘A 750 quacker, eh?’ Darac said, deadpan. ‘Sounds impressive.’ He turned to Flaco. ‘We’ve got an address for Eric?’ A couple of taps on her phone found it and he recited it to Reixe. ‘Apartment 7, La Bella Vista. That correct?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where is that?’
‘Off Montel, up that way.’ He nodded towards a cluster of high-rise buildings in the distance. ‘He uses the 2CV here on-site but he walks to and from his apartment. Takes him half an hour with his leg. Does him good, he says.’
Darac nodded. ‘It would take us a few minutes to get a mobile number for him but if you could speed that up for us, we’d be grateful.’
Reixe hesitated before reaching into the thigh pocket of his cargoes. ‘We’ve got all this data protection crap now but I suppose it’s alright.’
‘While you’re finding it, do you and Eric routinely make a complete list of everyone you admit through this gate? Athletes and coaches heading for the far car park, in other words?’
‘I don’t. No point, is there?’ He displayed Eric’s phone numbers and the trio shared them immediately. ‘Alright?’
‘CCTV on site?’
‘Oh, yeah, we’re living the dream here, mate. Lasers, drones, force-fields, the lot.’
‘We’ll go again with the question. Do you––’
‘No. No CCTV.’
‘Alarms?’
‘Only the changing rooms. Keypad’s in the caravan here, would you believe.’
‘That’s a bit inconvenient, isn’t it?’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Finally, and we’ll ask him this ourselves, I take it Eric is responsible for locking up the site each night he’s here?’
