Babazouk Blues, page 19
‘Your own parents must be proud of all you’ve achieved.’
‘Oh, sure.’ The thought brought the widest smile of the day. ‘I’m very fortunate.’
Darac could picture Mom and Dad thrilling to each new accomplishment of their little princess. Taylor had to have been the most popular girl in school.
‘What do they make of Villa Rose? It must be wonderful saying, “Welcome to my world,” to one’s parents in what is literally a palace.’
‘They love it,’ she beamed, tugging a pearl earring. ‘What American wouldn’t?’
‘And now, as you hinted, you have found a second family in the Lamberts.’
‘Happily, I have.’
‘Your assistant, Dr Ivo Selmek, is part of that family also?’
She let out an involuntary breath. ‘In a sense.’
‘He’s envious of your position, isn’t he?’
‘It’s normal. I’m a few years younger than he is. You’ve spoken to him, then?’
‘He referred to that family closeness you mention. Between you and the Lamberts.’
Taylor’s smile persisted but the look in her blue eyes turned a degree or two cooler. ‘You two did have a good chat.’
‘They’ve come to rely on you personally for everything from getting shopping to balancing their household accounts, he said.’
Her smile finally went out. ‘In what spirit did he say that?’
‘Forgive me but I wonder if he thinks you’re something of a goody-goody.’
Taylor cut the few remaining morsels on her plate into even smaller pieces. ‘That’s because Ivo doesn’t do friendship. He doesn’t understand it.’
‘There are other things Dr Selmek doesn’t understand, I gather.’
‘Oh?’
‘The big Matisse exhibition Villa Rose is putting on. He disagrees with several decisions that Monsieur de Lambert has made regarding it, apparently.’
‘Such as?’
‘The principal one was to do with a work called Souk at… somewhere from one of the American galleries. He couldn’t understand why, having acquired it, Lambert didn’t approach a gallery nearer home for its companion picture, Woman at… somewhere. Especially as both you and Selmek listed it as a must-have on your initial plan.’
‘Really, Ivo!’ Taylor concluded her meal by clanging her fork down on her plate. ‘Sorry about that but we at Villa Rose have our classified information, also. Ivo shouldn’t be discussing our business with outsiders.’
‘Would you tell me why Lambert opposed his team’s ideas? I’m interested in group dynamics, decision-making and so on.’
Darac hoped the smile with which he capped the request might relax Taylor’s professional scruples for a moment.
‘Alright, I’ll tell you. Woman at Asilah hangs in the Musée Matisse here in Nice. Our exhibition has far more scope than showing works one can see locally. “If people want to see Woman, they need only take a cab,” Philippe pointed out. And he was right.’
‘I see,’ Darac said, but he felt that Selmek had a point. Surely, displaying companion pictures side by side made more sense? Especially if they hadn’t been exhibited together in years. ‘So, by the same token, you didn’t approach the Musée for any other works?’
‘No.’
‘Uh-huh. Shall we order coffee or something?’
‘I’d prefer a something.’
When the drinks arrived, the young waiter was so distracted by Taylor, he almost missed the table with the tray. She seemed scarcely to notice as she took her lemon tea and handed Darac his espresso. ‘You said you had a couple of questions and a photograph to show me?’
Despite everything that was exercising him about Voska, there were other issues he wanted to raise first. ‘May we go back to your purchase of the house?’
‘Uh… if necessary. Why?’
Darac had become a skilled liar over the years. ‘Just to put everything together in my mind. I’m wondering where you first saw the advertisement for the sale.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact…’
She went on to tell the story more or less as Madame Corot had outlined it.
‘I thought you always jogged to Passable and back in the mornings? It’s in the opposite direction from Villa Rose, is it not?’
‘Indeed, but they were digging up the lane down to the beach at that time. A whole week. It was a – what do you call it? Water main repair.’
It would be easy enough to check and he would.
‘It seems serendipitous that a would-be house buyer happened to be invited into the home of a would-be vendor; and then five minutes later, an agreement is struck to the satisfaction of both parties.’
‘It was more like an hour, actually. Serendipitous things do happen in life, Paul.’
‘Who first broached the question about the sale?’
‘I did. No, Jeanne did. What does it matter?’
‘While chatting, she suddenly said: “How would you like to buy my house?”’
‘Yes she did! Virtually.’
‘Go on.’
‘I was telling her how lovely I thought the house was and quite out of the blue she said, “You wouldn’t like to buy it, would you?” Just – like – that.’
He’d hoped she’d have come up with something better. If she’d been lying, though, she probably would have. ‘The gift of the hot tub: when did that idea occur to you?’
‘I can’t remember exactly. Paul—?’
‘Answer the question, please.’
Colour began to stain Taylor’s cheeks like ink soaking into paper. It seemed this wasn’t what she had had in mind for their lunch.
‘It certainly wasn’t a loss leader allowed for in the bid. It occurred to me after we agreed the sale, a gift pure and simple. Nor was it a… an inducement.’
‘Had you any prior knowledge of Jeanne Mesnel, her husband Alain, the house or anything related to it before you met her that day and put in the offer?’
Taylor tugged so hard on her earring, an inflamed circlet of skin formed around the post. ‘Did I have some sort of ulterior motive for buying the house, in other words?’
‘Yes.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I did not.’
‘Thank you, Taylor.’
It was clear that if such a motive existed, Darac would have to discover it himself. He picked up his espresso and took a contemplative sip. Taylor followed suit with her tea. Gradually, the tension eased.
‘Taylor, in your rooms, we referred to the unthinkable prospect that someone may have killed Madame Mesnel. I’m afraid that is what happened.’
As if it might contain a counter to the assertion, she searched the air around her. ‘I don’t believe it! Well, as you say it I do, but it seems unbelievable.’
Darac ran a hand through his hair. ‘This isn’t going to be pleasant.’
Taylor was shocked by his account of Jeanne’s death and for quite some moments, she wasn’t able to speak. At length, Darac reached into a pocket and took out a photograph. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’
Taylor drew her pashmina to her throat. ‘This is the perpetrator? No, thank God.’
‘His name is Gilles Voska, a convicted rapist.’
Taylor stiffened as Darac set the photograph on the table between them. ‘Just a minute. Knowing all this, why did you persist in questioning me about the house? What relevance could it have? You can’t possibly think I could be associated with this… pig.’
‘I’m sure you know the film director Jean Renoir, son of Auguste, the artist—’
‘Don’t patronise me. I know better than you who he was.’
‘Then you’ll know one of his axioms was, “Everyone has their reasons.” Given sufficient reason, anyone is capable of murder, Taylor. Anyone.’
‘Me? Murder an old lady so I could save a few euros on a house purchase?’
‘Murder has been committed for a lot less.’
Taylor’s voice was really buzzing now. ‘But I told you where I was at the time.’
‘And as far as it goes, the alibis check out. But it wouldn’t matter where you were at the time if, say…’ Darac brought his index finger down on Voska’s photo. ‘…this man proves to have been your accomplice.’
Taylor recoiled as if Château Park’s midday maroon had just been fired. ‘You can’t possibly believe that!’
Darac didn’t believe it. He was forming a wholly different picture of what had happened that afternoon at the hot tub. But somewhere along the line, the ground rules of his relationship with Taylor had become blurred and it was time to redraw them. ‘What you have to understand, Taylor, is that, as a policeman, I can’t just believe the probable. I have to embrace the possible. Every avenue must be explored. Surely you see that?’
Taylor stared off over the Babazouk, its tessellated roofscape no longer inviting games of aerial upscuts. At length, she exhaled deeply. ‘I can, yes. Now could you put the photo away, please? Those huge staring eyes make my blood run cold.’
Darac and Taylor went their separate ways shortly afterwards. Maybe he’d been hard on her but at least she now knew where they stood. He shared her reaction to Voska’s eyes, though. It was as if evil were pouring out of them into the atmosphere. Yet he couldn’t wait to see that face in the flesh. And he had a couple of ideas about how to bring the moment closer.
28
Darac took the stairs down into the dreary Rue Belgique and disappeared into the garrulous gloom of Hannigan’s Irish bar. Stepping through decorative scatterings of sawdust, he found a familiar figure sitting alone in a corner banquette. ‘Hello, Brigitte.’
She smiled, perhaps out of habit, perhaps remembering her first impressions of him. But then her face fell.
‘May I sit down?’
She shrugged, giving herself a foam moustache as she took down a mouthful of stout. A finger flicked it away like a red-tipped wiper blade. ‘I am still pissed off at you, flic.’
‘How’s Thierry?’
‘He’s fine.’ She eyeballed him. ‘And he’s where you can’t get him!’
‘No need to worry.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘He’s off our list of suspects.’
A crack appeared in the ice. ‘I want that on a piece of paper. Signed.’
He nodded. ‘As soon as I get back to the office.’
A cloud of alcohol enveloped Darac.
‘He bothering you, sweetheart?’
Darac turned. The speaker was a ruddy-faced hulk of a man.
‘Piss off back to your seat.’ Brigitte smiled as an afterthought. ‘But thanks, darling.’
The hulk drifted away.
‘Protecting me.’ She pulled up a bra strap. ‘Then I was mean to him. Bad Brigitte.’
‘We’re releasing Marcel tomorrow afternoon.’
She pulled up the other strap. ‘But he’s guilty of murder.’
‘We both know he isn’t.’
She put her hand on Darac’s thigh. ‘Does that matter?’
‘I need to find out who really did it.’ He put her hand back in her lap. She held on to it. ‘And I think he knows who that person is.’
‘What’s that to do with me?’
‘Maybe you could find out.’
She threw his hand away. ‘Snitch? Me?’
‘Brigitte, you were trying to get the man sent down for good.’
‘Only to save Thierry.’
‘Marcel’s dying to see you, you know. Dying to, if you catch me?’
‘Of course he is. But he might not be when he realises I’ve moved out again.’
‘Still got your key?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Move back in before he finds out.’
More stout. Another sweep of the wiper blade. ‘We-ell…’
‘Brigitte, I want you to answer a question. Truthfully. Promise?’
‘You can be really sweet, you know? And masterful.’
Darac pressed on. ‘I think Marcel’s shelved any plans to play it rough with you but if I’m wrong, could you handle it?’
Brigitte looked affronted. ‘Of course! But if I do help you, what’d be in it for me?’
‘Got anything outstanding?’
‘Only my bust, darling,’ she said, delighted at her wit.
‘Fines? Minor offences?’
‘No. I’ve always been a good girl.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He thought about it. ‘Alright. I’ll tell you what you’ll get out of it. The knowledge that you did the right thing when it was a lot easier to do nothing.’
For a moment, the concept evaded her. ‘Well, that’s all lovely. But—’
‘Brigitte, someone raped Madame Mesnel and that’s basically what killed her.’
There was an eruption of laughter at the bar. Brigitte said nothing until the aftershocks had ceased. ‘That’s terrible,’ she said, staring into space.
‘We’re almost certain the man you know as Dagger was responsible.’
She began to cry. An even thicker cloud of alcohol enveloped them. Brigitte’s knight errant had brought reinforcements. ‘You’re sure you’re alright, sweetheart?’
‘Yes! Bugger off the three of you!’
They stood their ground. Darac looked expectantly into their eyes. Waiting for the light of comprehension to dawn in them was like watching a row of fruit-machine wheels spinning incrementally to a stop. ‘You heard the lady.’
Pledging their support with an elaborate dumb show of gestures, the three lemons slowly repaired to the bar.
‘Look Brigitte, I wouldn’t ask you to tap Marcel if I didn’t think it was important.’
‘Even if I did find out something, it won’t bring Madame Mesnel back, will it?’
‘No. But it might stop it happening to some other old lady.’
‘Old lady…’ Brigitte’s eyes closed. ‘The bastard!’
‘Look—’
‘Alright! I’ll do it.’
‘You will?’ Darac hid his surprise by squeezing her hand. ‘Thank you.’
It took Brigitte some moments to recover. ‘There’s a problem, though. He never tells me anything.’
‘Tell him we mistreated you, and all to protect him. He owes it to you to spill.’
‘Don’t think that would work.’
‘Alright, tell him he can’t have any… Can’t have any unless he does.’
‘That would.’ She smiled weakly, then gave a forlorn shrug. ‘I don’t know. Me, a police informer. My father would have killed himself if he was still alive. God rest him.’
‘You’re doing the right thing.’
‘I’m not wearing a wire or anything like that.’
‘We have some very discreet gear.’
‘Suppose I’m in the nuddy when I get him to talk? Where do you suggest I put it then? Think about it.’
He preferred not to. ‘Just find out what you can and then ring us.’
‘I’m not talking to that fucking Christian.’
‘Malraux? OK, not him. But there are plenty of others you can talk to. We’ve got a very sympathetic female officer, Captain Francine Lejeune.’
‘I only want you.’
‘Alright.’
The barman appeared, grazing for empties.
‘Just a second,’ Darac said. ‘Bring me a whiskey. And for you, Brigitte?’
Suddenly, all was well in her world. ‘Yes, let’s have a drink together. Bushmills, please, Michael. Doubles.’
The barman sighed and trudged off.
‘And what happens after all this? To me, I mean.’
‘What will happen?’ Darac looked into her eyes. ‘I can’t promise you a new life in Paris or anything. A lot will depend on where it leads.’
She put her hand on his. ‘You won’t let anything bad happen to me, will you darling?’
‘I’ll do my best.’ He gently slipped her bra strap back over the lovebirds and hooked it on to her shoulder. ‘Promise.’
‘Come home with me.’
‘I don’t think my boyfriend would like that.’
Brigitte’s brows went in search of her hairline. ‘You’re a bender?’
Darac raised his hands palms outwards. ‘Sorry.’
When the whiskeys arrived, they sipped them in silence.
* * *
Thinking the venue might appeal to her, Darac had arranged to meet Adèle Voska in one of the hottest new spots in town, Bar Stendhal in Rue Verdi. A hit with fashionistas of all persuasions, the place was all planar surfaces, primary colours and black lacquer. In its way, Darac found it as depressing as Hannigan’s. It was like entering a children’s nursery or a 3-D Mondrian painting: Rue Verdi Boogie Woogie.
More than a few heads turned as Adèle walked in, including Darac’s. Her face, a pale matte mask surmounted by a crown of black radiating spikes, had been rebuilt since their earlier meeting. Exit the Valley of the Kings; enter the Statue of Liberty.
There appeared to be one more subtle variation.
‘Don’t worry, flic. The Mace is in here.’
The bag was buckled in four places, he noticed. Safe enough.
‘Thanks for coming.’
She declined his handshake. ‘Did I have a choice?’
‘Of course.’
A slow tango-like tune overlaid with spoken Spanish was fading out as a greeter showed them to the only free pair of seats in the house: stools attached to a small round table on the mezzanine.
‘You could be arrested for walking around with that stuff, you know, unless you’ve got a permit. How did you come by it, anyway?’
‘Got it in Barcelona. Just over the counter.’
‘You’ve been there recently?’
‘It’s where I smuggled my father off to after you left. Disguised as a human being.’
The tail had confirmed she’d had no direct contact with Gilles Voska all day. Darac was happy she’d joked about it, though; a sign she was loosening up, perhaps. ‘Look, it’s clear you don’t get on with your dear papa.’
An involuntary laugh cracking her make-up, she looked seventy years old, suddenly. ‘We have the same surname, we’re left-handed and we hate flics. That’s all we share.’
‘In that case—’
‘I hate him but I’m also frightened of him.’
The ambience disc rolled on to the next track.
