Babazouk Blues, page 17
As if it had been waiting for him to finish, his mobile rang just as he was completing the final report. The number was unfamiliar.
‘This is Lieutenant Armand Gras from Foch. Sorry to disturb you, Captain, but I’ve got something of interest to the Brigade.’
There was a first for everything. ‘Ah, yes?’
‘I’m investigating a potential dangerous driving case at L’Ancienne Bastide, the campsite up by Col d’Eze. A couple of less-than-happy campers want us to nail the driver of a car who nearly flattened them on her way into the site on Friday. The evidence on the ground here seems to bear out their story.’
‘How is this of interest?’
‘The vehicle the woman was driving is registered to one Adèle Voska.’
Darac’s ears pricked up. ‘Go on.’
‘The site manager has just confirmed that she was here at the stated time, looking for her father, Gilles. He’s got an interesting tattoo on his arm, this guy. Crossed daggers.’
‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
‘Hold it, Captain. After ten months of continuous occupancy, Gilles Voska, aka Dagger, paid up and pulled out yesterday evening.’
‘Did he now?’ His laptop still on, Darac clicked on the database: Voska scarpering the day after his mate Battail had been taken into custody was obviously suspicious.
‘How did he leave?’
‘In his RV.’ The lieutenant supplied a description and the registration.
‘Top work, Gras. If you ever consider trying out for the Brigade, come and see me.’
‘Thanks, Captain, but I hear you lot in La Crim’ do even more paperwork than us.’
Voska’s mug shot came up on the screen. With the usual provisos about the photographic context, and the notoriously unreliable nature of physiognomy itself, Voska’s hollow-eyed skull conveyed the purest image of evil Darac had ever seen.
He brought up his bio. As a younger man, Voska had served for twelve years in the Foreign Legion, finishing as an officer in a commando unit. His adjustment to civilian life had not gone well. He had spent thirteen years in prison altogether. Drug pushing, extortion, publishing obscene materials, aggravated assault, rape. He had also been arrested for manslaughter but released due to lack of evidence.
‘Somebody screwed up,’ Darac murmured as he read the details. All in all, Voska was a versatile offender, one whose record dwarfed Battail’s. Looking for a connection, Darac juxtaposed their prison records. There it was. So much for Battail stating that he knew nothing about Voska. The two of them had served in La Santé, their terms overlapping by six months – ample time to become acquainted. Yet under questioning, Battail had not cited Voska as an alibi. Instead, he’d offered ‘I went to a couple of bars.’ That didn’t ring true. Providing one another with alibis was written into the charter of the Old Lags Club. It was an obligation.
But then Darac saw it. In not citing Voska, Battail had done his bit for the club. It was a delaying tactic. While officers were out combing bars for anyone who had seen Battail, Voska was taking his leave without having to account to anyone for anything.
Hoping it wasn’t too late, Darac sent out an APB: Voska was to be sought and detained. He ran Adèle Voska’s name through the database: no known offences. With her background, it meant she was either clever or lucky. Or a law-abiding citizen, of course. He rang Bonbon, updated him and outlined his unoffered alibi theory.
‘I’m sure you’re right, chief. When’s the release or charge deadline on Battail?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon, now. In light of Brigitte’s accusation, Frènes extended it a day.’
‘OK.’
Darac glanced at his watch. ‘I’m going to try another route in the meantime, Bonbon. Keep in touch.’ He rang the path lab. ‘Patricia, Barrau still there?’
‘He’s on his way out of the building.’
‘Stop him.’
It was a pointless request, he knew. Once on course, Barrau wasn’t the sort to turn back. It wasn’t long before Patricia returned. ‘He’s coming, Captain.’
‘How did you—?’
‘I told him I thought Frènes was calling. Quick, here he comes.’
‘Jules?’ Barrau said. ‘For goodness sake, I was on my—’
‘Jules has just been called away, Carl. Paul here.’ He could almost feel Barrau’s indignation pouring out of the phone. ‘Any progress on the Mesnel autopsy?’
‘The completed report has just been faxed to your office.’
A clunk. Followed by silence. ‘He really has gone this time, Captain.’
‘You did brilliantly. Listen, can you route the fax to my laptop?’
‘Sure.’
Having printed it off, Darac turned first to the cause-of-death page. Seeing it there in black-and-white caused an eruption of anger so sudden, he threw the pages across the room. Had Jeanne Mesnel’s killer appeared in front of him at that moment, half the wild horses of the Camargue could not have dragged Darac away.
‘The bastard. The fucking, fucking bastard.’
Snatching up the pages, Darac took some moments to gain the composure necessary to begin reading systematically through the report. Initially, entries showed only minor revisions from the original. However, the time of death had been narrowed down to somewhere between 3 and 5 pm. Then the hideous stuff kicked in. Traces of semen had been found in Jeanne Mesnel’s vagina. Tearing and other factors indicated sex had not been consensual. Conclusion: she had been raped, suffered a heart attack and left to drown in the hot tub. There was no DNA match for the perpetrator as yet but it was not Battail.
Jeanne Mesnel raped. Raped to death. And convicted rapist Gilles Voska was away and gone. Ridge was right, wasn’t he? Being a cop was some comfort zone. Darac knew he had to start thinking of this as just another case. Agnès Dantier’s words to new recruits came back to him: Engage with facts; keep your distance from people. Fifteen years into the job, he knew it was a bridge too far, this time. He tried to imagine the mind of a man who could traumatise a frail old lady to death in such a way.
Darac went out on to his terrace. Taking deep breaths, he looked out across the terracotta canopy of the Babazouk. It was glowing brazier red. He gazed beyond it to the mountains. No succour there, either. And then he remembered that a part of him had wanted the enquiry to become a fully fledged murder case. His stomach turning over, he went back inside and drank a glass of water.
He’d calmed down by the time he returned to the study. But a fire had been lit within him and he knew it would not be extinguished until everything had been settled. Tapping the arm of his chair more percussively than usual, he rang the duty officer at Commissariat Joinel. ‘Charvet?’
‘It’s Béatrice, Captain.’
‘Bé, set up a squad meeting, will you?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Eleven o’clock.’
That gave him an hour and a half. His first move was to revise his earlier APB. Phone teams and slog squads added to the mix, the search for Voska and his RV was now a concerted, full-scale effort. He’d prime Interpol next. But before ringing Frènes to authorise it, Darac decided to pay a call on someone who might just give them a steer.
* * *
Flanking the delta of tracks draining Nice Ville station, the Emerald Apartments building did not conjure the precious jewel its name signified. Behind its shabby, green-tinted glass frontage was a shabbier interior. Entering the lobby was like stepping into an abandoned aquarium. Darac took one look at the lift and opted for the stairs.
As he made his way along the second-floor corridor, a train heading out of the station put the building’s foundations to the test. Everything around him shook but just held out. Checking that the safety on his SIG automatic was off, Darac found number 167 and knocked. The door was opened by a tall, broad-shouldered young woman wearing jeans and a sleeveless leather jacket. Her face, bare of make-up except for a gash of blood-red lipstick, was as strongly featured as a monumental bust: something to be admired from afar. But it was her coiffure that really caught Darac’s eye. Sculpted into jet-black pyramids, it was a goth Valley of the Kings.
Darac showed her his ID. ‘Adèle Voska?’
‘I already made a statement. Those little hoity-toities were jay walking. Go grill them.’
‘I’m not here in connection with that. May I come in?’
‘I’m going out.’
‘Nevertheless.’
Tucking a hand casually into a pocket, she shrugged and let him into a living space that belonged in a much classier building. Three doors gave off the room. Two were wide open and led to the bathroom and kitchen. Nowhere for Gilles Voska to hide in there. Darac indicated the third. ‘Your bedroom? May I?’
‘Got a warrant?’
‘Yes I have.’ He slipped a document out of his pocket and held it up, momentarily. Headed ‘Palais de Justice’, it was a warrant actually relating to a different case.
‘Then what are you asking me for?’
Darac’s hand slipped inside his jacket as he threw open the door. The bed was a divan and the wardrobe was an open rack on castors. No balcony. Unless Gilles Voska had the power of invisibility, he was elsewhere. Darac turned to Adèle. ‘My notes say you’re a design student.’ One who liked to keep a hand in a pocket, it seemed. ‘You do this?’
‘So?’
‘It’s good.’
‘It’s condemned. In a couple of months, I’m out of this shithole.’
That meant Adèle was eligible for rehousing. Theoretically.
‘Housing crisis?’ He grinned. ‘What housing crisis?’
‘What do you want, flic?’
‘First, I’d like you to take your hand out of your pocket.’
‘This is my apartment, my hand, my pocket. I’ll keep it there.’
He couldn’t allow it. As a young officer, Darac had gone to a restaurant in Cagnes-sur-Mer to question its chef about some minor misdemeanour. The interview ended when the man’s ‘little helper’, his seemingly docile eleven-year-old daughter, stabbed the detective in the thigh with a paring knife, missing his femoral artery by millimetres. The incident had left an indelible mark. ‘You can put your hand where you like but my problem is—’
A lunge, a grab and he’d relieved her of her weapon: a Mace spray. Her chest heaving, she tottered back against the door.
‘Do you always go to the door with this for company?’
Adèle was shaking. Darac could hardly credit it but he felt if he made the wrong move now, she might fall apart completely. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Don’t come near me.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ He kept his eyes on her as he picked up the canister, backed slowly to the window and set it down on the sill. Returning to the centre of the room, he lowered himself into a cross-legged position on the floor. ‘There. Harmless.’
‘You’ve got a gun, arsehole. Stamped PROPERTY OF THE STATE just like you are.’
The observation took him aback. In what had been an uncharacteristically barbed exchange, Angeline had once hit him with the same accusation.
‘I’ll unload it.’ Holding the barrel, he removed the clip and tossed it over his shoulder. It went some way to calming the girl. But it was a couple of minutes before her shaking stilled and the skin around her eyes and mouth lost its pallor. The way her lovingly prepared coiffure retained its perfect geometry throughout touched Darac, somehow. ‘Shall I call a doctor?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? What’s wrong?’
‘A man attacked me the other day and I’m still edgy. Is that OK?’
‘Did you report it to the police?’
She made a dismissive sound in her throat.
‘You still could.’ He gave her a couple of good reasons why. ‘No?’
Once again, the building shuddered alarmingly.
‘What do you want?’
‘Alright. I want to know where Dagger is, the man you claimed not to know and who turns out to be your father.’
‘My father’s name isn’t Dagger. It’s Gilles.’
‘Don’t be cute. Where is he?’
She recited the Ancienne Bastide address.
‘Where is he now, I mean. He left the campsite last night, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Did he? Uh-huh.’
‘One last time, Adèle. Do you know where he might have gone?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ Adèle’s reply appeared to carry real conviction.
‘May I stand?’ he asked. ‘My left leg’s going to sleep.’
She shrugged.
‘It doesn’t surprise you that we’re looking for him?’
‘Nothing surprises me about anything.’
‘Why did you go and see him at the campsite?’
She switched her weight on to her other foot. ‘To tell him to fuck off.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
Another shrug.
‘You opened the tattoo parlour up on Friday. Why?’
‘I often do it. En route from home, Battail stops off to see some stupid woman. When he gets in, I go.’
‘Do you know the name of this woman?’
She gave him a withering stare.
‘Address, then? Or anything at all?’
‘The only thing I know is that she can’t get enough of Battail. According to him.’
‘Back to your father…’
Darac persisted for another ten minutes but he made no progress. Glad to be back out on the street, he swiped his phone and called mobile control.
‘I need a tail on one Adèle Voska.’ He gave the details. ‘Anyone nearby?’
‘About two minutes away, Captain.’
‘You know what to do.’
He waited until he was back in his car before he rang Frènes. He kept his eye on the entrance to Adèle’s building as he talked.
‘So why do you want this man, Darac?’
He gave a recap of the thoughts he’d shared with Bonbon. Frènes was unimpressed.
‘Was the semen Voska’s?’
‘We don’t know yet. But it wasn’t Battail’s.’
‘Until we do know, I suggest we—’
‘Give him even more time to make good his escape? The man’s a convicted rapist. Why do you think he skipped when he did? And consider the other details.’
There was action at the apartment building. Darac watched as Adèle Voska emerged and headed across the street toward a cluster of cars huddled on a patch of rough ground.
‘The lack of an alibi, Captain? And a departure from a campsite in a vehicle designed for a mobile lifestyle? Unconvincing. Particularly for a Sunday morning, I might add.’
‘Sorry about that but we’ve been farting around. Now we need action.’
‘To ensure a swift resolution, I gave you action on Day One.’
‘Yes, and I know it’s inconvenient but your tip-off, Marcel Battail, didn’t do it.’
‘He may still be an accessory.’
‘I’m sure he is but Voska is the main player in this, Monsieur Frènes. Trust me.’
Adèle’s car turned into the street. Where was the tail? Darac readied himself, in case.
‘Escalating the case to these proportions—’
‘You wanted this thing to be a quickie, monsieur. It still could be if you act now.’
‘The Gendarmerie is one thing but Interpol? Do you know what the unit cost will be?’
Down the street, a grey Ford Focus pulled slowly away from the kerb.
‘And for what?’ Frènes went on. ‘The murder of an old woman who according to Dr Barrau might have been dead within a year anyway?’
‘Her murder will still count as a full tick in the “solved” column, monsieur.’
The Focus rolled past, its driver exchanging the slightest of nods with Darac. On the phone, a pregnant pause went to full term before Frènes finally delivered. Darac thanked him, rang off and made another call.
* * *
The day man blew a sour mouthful of air in Darac’s direction as he admitted him to Résidence Floride.
‘I’ve missed you, too.’
Cristelle opened the door on its chain. Once again, Jeanne Mesnel was alive for a moment; alive in a white towelling dressing gown, smelling of lime and cinnamon.
‘May I come in?’
‘That depends.’
‘I’ve got some news of the investigation into your grandmother’s murder.’
‘So it was murder, then?’ she said, keeping the door fettered.
‘And we have an idea who may have been responsible.’
Darac reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and took out the Voska photograph. Cristelle’s eyes stayed on Darac’s as he held it up.
‘Is that really why you’ve come? Or have you come to see me?’
‘Please look at the photo, Cristelle.’
Limes, cinnamon and silence.
‘I’m not going until you look at it.’
She did as she was asked and shook her head.
‘Never seen him?’
‘No,’ she said, softly, lowering her gaze. Her eyes settled on her bathrobe belt. She fingered the knot absently, then half-undoing it, slid her eyes up to meet his. The invitation was clear. He didn’t move. Very slowly, Cristelle closed the door and unhooked the chain. When she opened it, the robe lay at her feet. And Darac was gone.
27
Telling himself to keep it professional, Darac walked into the briefing room and set up his stall front and centre. Behind him, flip charts, whiteboards and screens were arrayed like a display at a police-college open day.
‘Flak and Perand, thanks for coming in. I’ll re-jig your shifts.’
Perand gave Flaco a look that said he would believe that when it happened.
‘Failing that, I’ll owe you both one.’ He took a sheaf of reports out of his bag and handed them out. ‘This is Barrau’s second autopsy report on Madame Mesnel. If you turn to page two, you’ll see that a trace of motile sperm was detected in the victim’s vagina.’
‘Swimmers in the canal, eh? Bet the old girl hadn’t seen any of that action for—’
‘Malraux.’
Darac hadn’t raised his voice but his eyes were burning.
‘Yes, sir?’
