A Death in Time, page 20
What to do? Cassie couldn’t walk out of the pharmacy, leaving the prescription unfilled. She would have to brazen it out. It was an alarming thought but it was probably safer if the cop replaced the impatient woman who’d been sitting next to her. Unless he wanted to talk. That would be curtains. Cassie’s stomach, never the strongest, began to turn over. The screen display changed to 89 and a man sitting at a right-angle way to her left got to his feet. The cop took his seat. There would be no conversation but now he would be able to study her profile at will. And he would get a good view of her standing and walking to the counter. Not for the first time, Cassie cursed her good looks.
But think. Was she in real danger here? She was dressed in her own clothes and not wearing any of the disguise. That was key. And she was wearing glasses. The cop was off-duty now and perhaps he’d switched off his surveillance head. And – a daily question for Cassie – what was more dangerous, anyway? Continuing with the job or giving herself up? She could. She could do it here and now.
The screen display changed to 90. Cassie took a deep breath.
THIRTY-SIX
Inès Laborde embraced her mother in a way she never quite had before. Having dreaded the thought of coming out to her, she now wished she had done so years before. And when she had announced her intention to marry – now quite legally – the love of her life, she was delighted that Zoë’s only question concerned the identity of the lucky woman. “It had better be Susan,” she had said, the gifted musician whom she regarded as a “perfect match” for her daughter.
Had the break-up of Zoë’s own marriage enabled Inès to come to this new and glorious understanding with her? Whether it had or not, it was a gift that would go on giving. There was no longer any need for Inès to toe the line with her disgrace of a father. The rat was out of the bag.
Inès understood that the road ahead was not without its obstacles for her mother. At the moment, Zoë was full of resolve to strike out anew. And years before, doing precisely the same thing in her professional life had worked wonderfully. Why wouldn’t making a similar move in her personal life work equally as well? It was a source of comfort to Inès that her mother was in a stronger position to achieve this than many women in her situation. She ran her own successful business. She had her own money. She had a half-share in the house that she was already referring to as “the property.” Despite the positives, Inès was still worried that Zoë’s resolve might wane once the controlling Gilles, confronted with the prospect of losing something he didn’t even value, began to employ his considerable powers of persuasion to win her back.
‘You won’t let that happen, will you, Maman?’
Zoë pulled out of the embrace. ‘No, darling,’ she said, squeezing Inès’s hands as she looked her squarely in the eye. ‘I will not.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise. I’m a Boss Woman, remember?’
The door flew open and the women turned. Before them was a sight neither had ever seen before.
‘What are you doing here, you pig?’ Eyes wide and wild, Inès bore down on her father. ‘Sobbing won’t do it for you. You’ve failed. Do you understand, Coach Laborde? You’re last. Relegated. Thrown out of the league. So fuck off back to your… whatever she is. And don’t come back.’
The man hadn’t heard a word.
‘Samira’s dead,’ he said, half-shouting, half-whimpering. ‘She’s been... murdered.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
On the return journey to the Stade, Darac suffered the profound displeasure of having to swap the melodious explorations of pianist Bill Evans for the odious posturing of Public Prosecutor Jules Frènes. With their mutual disregard to the fore, the call went the way of virtually every other since their first coming together twelve years earlier and it ended on the same unspoken understanding. As long as Commissaire Agnès Dantier’s homicide clearance rate remained the highest in the region and just about the speediest in the whole country, her chief investigating officer Darac would continue to be granted freedoms unheard of elsewhere. Were Agnès’s squad ever to be knocked off that top spot, Frènes had made it clear that everything would change for them.
Darac well understood that a successful outcome to the current case was not Frènes’s only requirement and when he joined Bonbon, Flaco, Lartigue and Raul Ormans outside the mobile incident truck, he wasted no time in making the point. ‘Should this murder prove a hit at the box office, and less face it, it has all the hallmarks, our plucky public prosecutor has volunteered to position himself front and centre for the media.’
‘Good,’ Bonbon said, ‘The longer he sticks himself in front of the cameras, the less he’ll get in our way.’
‘Agreed.’ Darac indicated the truck. ‘Comms up and running yet?’
Bonbon essayed his “what a dumb question” look. ‘With Bé twiddling the knobs?’
Darac nodded. ‘Of course they are. Shall we?’
The trio boarded and, after warmly greeting its crew of three, Darac opened his notebook and got on with things.
‘Alright, I’ll summarise where I think we’re at in a moment but R.O, you’ve been able to work your magic on the victim’s watch?’
‘A Vignot, no less. I have indeed. Lartou here has logged it back in for further examination but I have some photos.’ He reached for his tablet. ‘I’ll just retrieve them.’
Through the truck’s open rear doors, a skinny young man with a blue chin loped lopsidedly into Darac’s eyeline. Gaining with every stride, a second figure appeared behind him, alert-looking and strongly built. It was as oddly matched a pair as had ever worked out of the Caserne Auvare.
‘Hang fire a second, R.O,’ Darac said. ‘Perand and Serge Paulin are joining us.’
As greetings were exchanged, Darac felt a slight frisson of guilt at welcoming Serge back from leave. Forgetting that he and partner Erica had told him they were spending it home was one thing; not realising that the pair were back at work from today, quite another. ‘I’ve already had to enlist Erica’s help this morning,’ Darac said. ‘Child’s play for her but I suspect her superior IT skills will be called upon later.’
‘Superior to those even of her superior?’ Ormans said, feigning outrage. ‘Actually, I wholeheartedly endorse the assessment.’
‘And… scene,’ Darac said, gently sending up Ormans’s theatricality. ‘Now we’re all here, I think we’ll begin with my summary, then go on to your watch findings, R.O. Alright with you?’
Ormans graciously inclined his head.
‘Alright, mindful that the victim’s ID is still to be officially verified, here’s how I think we stand at the moment. Bonbon? Flak? Chip in if I leave out anything.’
No interventions proved necessary and by the end of Darac’s summary, everyone was au fait with what had been factually established or at least credibly posited so far. Four details from Eric Cauvin’s account particularly exercised him and he stressed them to the team: the “lovers’ spat” between Samira and the temperamental Julien Baille; her unexplained detour to the far end of the players’ car park on the night she was killed; Baille’s unseen departure on the same night; and the fact that anyone using the changing-cum-storeroom had access to instruments capable of delivering the ultimate blunt force injury. Darac voiced a further observation. Although there was as yet no justification for suspecting the man himself, he couldn’t shake the thought that shot putter and keyholder Emil Arcot had ready access to, and great dexterity with, those blunt instruments. Against this, he reminded the team that until Eric arrived back in his caravan after locking up the players’ car park, any keyholder could have gained access to the changing rooms without triggering the alarm.
‘As we gather more evidence,’ Darac went on, ‘we’ll be continuously reassessing all these concerns, obviously. I’m hoping Map will be able to firm up the victim’s ID for us shortly but, until he does, I think we should delay paying a visit to Samira’s address.’ He turned to Ormans. ‘OK, you’re on, R.O.’
‘First, a thought about the meaty Monsieur Arco’s metier. We’re working on a number of things but I could add testing the shots to the list. Even the minutest traces of blood, tissue fragments and so on would be easy enough to find. And providing there’s an inventory, determining if one is missing would be easier still.’
‘Add them – absolutely. For now, tell us about the stopped watch you’ve been examining.’
‘Your own misgivings about it being?’
‘That there were no contusions or other marks on the victim’s wrists or forearms consistent with her attempting to fend off a violent attack. And, quoting Map, bear in mind that the fatal blow was sudden, devastating and administered from immediately behind her. Yet the watch itself, a delicate analogue piece, has clearly taken a bash. There are a number of possible interpretations but the most likely hinges on that quality of delicacy. What do you call the little capstan thing on the side of the watch that moves the hands?’
Ormans shook his head. ‘I know how it works but I’m not sure I know its proper name.’
‘The crown,’ Bonbon said.
‘The crown?’ Darac repeated, giving Bonbon an acknowledging nod. ‘Even on my full-sized wristwatch, turning it can be quite a fiddly operation. The crown on the victim’s watch is tiny, so she would have taken it off to adjust the time, wouldn’t she? Frankie wears a not dissimilar watch and that’s what she does. I think the evidence shows that’s what the killer did, too. The motive? Probably to support an alibi yet to be provided by said killer, and/or to implicate someone they knew would have been with the victim at the time selected. The killer then bashed the watch to stop it, wrecking the crown in the process, and not realising that the likes of us would notice such an anomaly, refastened the damaged watch on the quite undamaged wrist of his victim.’
‘Bravo, Darac – my findings entirely support your analysis and I discovered another factor that both supports it and it gives further evidence of the killer’s competency or lack of it.’ Ormans gave it an actorish beat. ‘There were no fingerprints on the watch or the strap.’
Perand scratched his chin. ‘You mean there were too many prints to isolate just one?’
With imperious disdain, Ormans turned to the young man. ‘I mean there were no prints, Max. Not one, including, therefore, the victim’s own prints. Ergo, the watch has been wiped. Under my travelling ‘scope, one can make out the characteristic smears. Wiped presumably by the killer who evidently hadn’t been wearing gloves either to commit the murder or to handle the watch. Yes?’
Perand shrugged. ‘Alright, R.O.’
‘So that’s two misjudgements by the killer,’ Darac said.
Flaco was in full scowl of concentration mode. ‘Suggesting, Captain, that the murder was unpremeditated?’
‘And in trying to cover things up, he then made some poor decisions? It’s happened before.’
Bonbon nodded. ‘It’s the percentage play.’
Other possibilities were already trading fours in Darac’s head but he needed to move things on. ‘The percentage play? Definitely.’ He turned to Ormans. ‘Got anything else on the watch, R.O ?’
‘Indeed I have.’ He brought up an image on his tablet and displayed it to the group. ‘As you can see, this shows the watch’s..?’ He turned to Bonbon. ‘Proper term?’
‘Case back,’ he said. ‘Sorry it’s not more esoteric but there it is.’
‘And I am sorry that what is inscribed upon it is such a miniature testament to the engraver’s art. However, all is not lost.’ Ormans brought up a second shot. ‘There.’
Peering at the enlarged image, Darac read the inscription aloud: ‘ “Had we but world enough and time.” Hmm. Poetic language. Without revisiting Lit Crit 101, I think it’s a safe bet that the watch was given as a love token of some kind, wasn’t it?’
‘An engagement gift, maybe?’ Serge said. ‘It is an ideal sentiment to have engraved on a watch.’
Ormans grinned, archly. ‘Never come across the source before, but I discovered the words were extracted from a poem by an Englishman by the name of Marvell, of all things, and it’s less classy than one might have first thought. Entitled “To His Coy Mistress”, it’s certainly earthier.’ He brought up a page of text. ‘Listen to the opening couplet: “Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime.” The message is clear, isn’t it?’
Perand grinned. ‘He’s basically saying “we haven’t got all the time in the world darling so stop your nonsense and get ’em off.” ’
Flaco’s cornrows appeared more acutely aligned than ever as she nodded in agreement with Perand – a rarity, Darac reflected.
‘The language may be cleverer,’ she said. ‘But unless things develop differently in the rest of the poem, it sounds like coercive sexual harassment in disguise.’
Ormans scrolled to the end. ‘It doesn’t appear to veer off, actually. Here’s the final couplet: “Thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run.”
Serge gave Flaco a look. ‘I take it all back.’
‘“Make him run?”’ Bonbon said. ‘Seems appropriate, considering where we are.’
Darac saw a further connection. ‘It’s more appropriate still when we remember the “lovers’ spat” between Samira and Julien Baille that Eric Cauvin reported witnessing a week ago. The nature of that disagreement seems to chime perfectly with the theme of Mister Marvell’s poem. He wanted sex; she didn’t.’
‘How much does a Michel Vignot watch retail for, Bonbon?’ Perand asked.
‘For the quality, they’re not unduly expensive, actually. The Vignots are not part of a conglomerate or anything. They’re watchmakers exclusively and so we’re talking… 500 euros or so here? Nevertheless, it would make a very extravagant gift – if gift is the word in this case – for one student to give to another.’
‘Baille may well come from money, Bonbon,’ Serge said.
‘Perhaps. Even so. Chief?’
‘We need more on this, obviously. Interestingly, Eric Cauvin recalls Samira wearing only a “chunky sports watch” to training. He never once saw her wearing a dress watch but as he pointed out himself, that doesn’t mean she never did. Naturally, we’ll need corroboration on anything of note that Eric came up with earlier, but he’s an observant type not given to exaggeration and I sense that that corroboration will come.’
Serge nodded. ‘Particularly observant of him to have recognised those little pin prick marks in the victim’s ear and from them, identified her. Nothing we’ve learned since contradicts his conclusion.’
Perand appeared to be considering a darker interpretation. ‘Too observant, do you think? He wouldn’t be the first old man to become totally obsessed with a young beauty. She rejects him, perhaps humiliatingly, and he kills her as a result. He was in Position A to do it, let’s face it.’
Darac appreciated the suggestion but he had already dismissed it as a possibility. ‘And left her body where he did? I have a number of other objections, too. Let’s move on. We’ll get official confirmation from Map in due course but it’s certainly looking that the victim was Samira.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I shouldn’t think we’ll have to wait long to hear from Erica. And now that telecom carriers yield so much data, she’ll be pinging over far more than just a list of incoming and outgoing numbers from Samira’s phone. Next – her car.’ He turned to the personification of attentive diligence that was Béatrice Lacquet. ‘Bé, you’ve got both Dilip and Samira Padar’s personal details, there?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘Samira was driving Dilip’s roughly five-year-old grey Renault Mégane last night. Find the registration and APB the full description, would you? We need to find it soonest.’
‘Understood.’
Darac turned back to the team. ‘We’re still largely in conjecture mode at the moment but I’m sure we all realise that once we start interviewing those who were here last night, and other interested parties, the situation will quickly become a lot clearer. So let’s keep an open mind on things for the time being and I’m very much including myself in that. For instance, I keep referring to the killer as male. We don’t know that. And look at the image I have in my head of shot putter Emil Arcot wielding one of the things to perform the deed. That doesn’t cut the mustard even as conjecture. It’s painting by numbers thinking driven by presupposition, prejudice and good old-fashioned ignorance, probably.’
Flaco raised a hand. ‘Don’t forget that Grace Nahili is a heptathlete, Captain. Shot putt is one of her disciplines, too.’
‘Is it? Well, there’s a case in point.’
Darac’s mobile rang once more and as he went to answer it, Perand leaned in to Flaco. ‘Good to see your championing of women’s rights includes putting them in the frame for murder,’ he whispered.
‘A black woman, too,’ she whispered back. ‘You missed an opportunity there, Perand. I’ll be happy to discuss these things more fully with you but after work, alright? After.’
Darac’s call connected. ‘Agnès?’ He gave Perand a hard stare. ‘We’re all listening.’
‘With resources as they are, it was more a question of who was available rather than whom to select but I’ve assembled a nine-strong squad to slog through the bulk of the less critical interviews.’ The announcement was welcomed warmly. ‘Have you had time to triage those out yet?’
‘We’re just about to start.’
‘Armani has been able to spare Farid incidentally, so I’ve put him in charge of them.’ More approbation from the team. ‘I’ll share their details with Bé in a minute.’
‘Thanks so much for this, Agnès.’
‘Pah. How would you like to brief Farid and his team? In person at the Stade? Or would you rather I set up a conference call on video? They’re all here at the Caserne at the moment.’
