Babazouk Blues, page 25
At the commissariat over in Aix, Bonbon had picked up his clearance for the lab and was wrapping things up with the duty officer when the desk phone rang.
‘More reinforcements?’ He rolled his eyes at Bonbon. ‘I’ll patch you through.’
‘You’ve got a lot out looking for Voska, then?’
The duty officer re-routed the call. ‘We’ll have no bugger left here, soon. You’ve heard about the phone business?’
So much for Chevalier keeping them informed. ‘Not as such.’
‘Eight o’clock last night, they traced young Madame Simon’s mobile to a half-kilometre square just south of Mauran. An hour later, they found the phone. Old model. The last thing on it was a text to her husband saying she was scared but OK.’
‘Good news? I’d forgotten what that was.’
‘Don’t get excited. The phone was switched on but the message hadn’t been sent. And then, they found a pair of women’s shoes nearby.’
‘Ah.’
‘They reckon she was trying to type the message while Voska’s back was turned and dropped the phone in panic. She couldn’t pick it up without alerting him, so she left it. Or maybe he caught her, she threw it away, and Voska was in too big a hurry to go looking.’
‘Got a copy of the message?’
‘Don’t go anywhere.’ The duty officer put in a call.
‘Where were the phone and the shoes found?’
‘The phone and one of the shoes were picked up on the bank of a water-filled ditch off the Étang de Berre. The other shoe was in the ditch itself. They dragged it for the poor woman. Nothing. Now they’re dragging the whole Étang.’
‘What? Be like dragging the Atlantic.’
‘Naturally, they were hoping to find her in the ditch. If you see what I mean.’
Bonbon saw it all too clearly. ‘Where is Mauran, exactly?’
‘On the eastern side of the Étang. About ten kilometres north-west of Marseille airport.’
‘With all the added security, Voska couldn’t have flown out of there, could he?’
‘No way. He didn’t even fool poor old Clerc at the restaurant, did he?’
‘A boat, maybe?’
‘Not unless he’s got a private submarine.’
A uniform came in with a transcript of young Madame Simon’s text message. Bonbon signed the appropriate form and ran his eye over the message. ‘Is this exactly how it appeared?’
‘Yes.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He stared off for a moment, then feigning panic, cast a spurious glance at his watch. ‘Look at the time! They won’t thank me at your crime lab if I’m late.’
‘Only take you ten minutes. You’ll get there easily.’
Bonbon thanked the duty officer and took his leave, anyway. He may have had time to spare. But there was something he needed to do first.
* * *
Darac was arriving for his meeting with Deanna when his mobile rang.
‘Bonbon? Wasn’t expecting anything from you for a while yet.’
Bonbon updated him.
‘What was the exact wording of the message?’
‘I just emailed it to you.’
‘It hasn’t come through. Read it to me.’
‘Here goes: darling i am kidnapped. he is treating me ok but i cannot see where I am and i’m scared he does not know i send this tell the police! I love— And then it stops. I have to say, it looks completely bogus to me.’
The message finally pinged into Darac’s inbox. ‘Hang on, Bonbon, it’s just come in.’ He read it. ‘Yes, I’ve got a lot of time for Chevalier but she’s got this one round her neck, hasn’t she? A message typed in panic would be barely readable. All this has is a few missing capitals.’
‘It has an apostrophe and an exclamation mark, as well. And look at the length of it. Most people in young Madame Simon’s position would have keyed in one or two words, not twenty or thirty or however many it is.’
‘And one quick key stab and she could have actually sent the message. She didn’t do anything in panic. What fits better is that Voska keyed in the message, himself. And there’s a second significance in the fact that it wasn’t sent. He wanted to be well clear of the area by the time the phone was found.’
‘And think of the location, chief: a ditch next to a huge lagoon. OK, it’s a water-filled ditch but the phone was above ground. Voska wanted to draw the police to the area. I bet you Madame Simon is either still alive, and let’s hope so, or she was killed elsewhere.’
‘Agreed. Voska is making us play Russian dolls in reverse. First we have to search the ditch, then the Étang, then its boundaries which include another vast area, the airport.’
‘Which, as a bonus, has a huge workforce for us to question. This whole Étang thing is a decoy designed to drain as many officers as possible away from wherever Voska is.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Madame Simon’s shoes were found near the phone, incidentally. Stilettos.’
‘Anyone looked at footprints?’
‘No stud marks from heels were found. Here, they’re thinking Voska either made her take them off so as not to leave prints, or he’d already killed her and was carrying her over his shoulder.’
‘But equally, she might never have been there at all. He planted them.’
‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall when you tell Chevalier all this,’ said Bonbon.
‘She’ll see our point. Listen, ring me as soon as you’ve watched the DVDs, OK?’
‘I’ll be at the lab in about twenty minutes.’
Initially, Darac’s call to Chevalier went better than he’d imagined. But although she saw the sense in his argument, officers had already been deployed so she could do nothing, she said, but stick to Plan A. Darac ended the call with a reminder to keep him abreast of all developments in future. That went down less well. Tant pis.
* * *
Chief pathologist Deanna Bianchi took the offering in her small, rubber-gloved hands. ‘So what have we got here, Darac?’
‘It’s a towel.’
Behind her exam glasses, Deanna’s keen black eyes flared with amusement. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, yeah. It’s a towel that lives with a drum kit set up at the Blue Devil. You’ll find at least four individuals’ sweat soaked into it. And maybe some hairs, et cetera.’
Deanna took off the glasses and slipped them into the breast pocket of her lab coat. ‘The individuals being?’
‘One Marco Portami, whose towel it actually is; club owner Eldridge Clay who used it last night; and there may be something of mine on it. I wasn’t able to put gloves on.’
‘The fourth?’
‘A young man named Rama N’Pata. For elimination, my sequence is on the DNA database, obviously. Marco had a drink-driving charge last year so his might be. Ridge Clay’s I assume isn’t. But I have a horrible feeling that Rama N’Pata’s may be and it’s him I’m interested in.’
‘A horrible feeling?’
‘I’ll tell you about the kid if it checks out.’
Her eyes slid to her prized La Marzocco espresso machine. ‘Time for a coffee?’
‘Always. But make it a quick one.’
As they talked, she carried out the rituals of knocking out the used grounds, grinding the beans and then tamping the powder into the holder with clinical precision.
‘You haven’t been over to our temporary home yet, have you?’
‘Haven’t had the pleasure.’ Deanna’s tobacco-rasped voice lent a deliciously earthy edge to words like ‘pleasure’. ‘Enjoying it?’
‘Working in a sealed glass box with nothing but koffee with a k to drink? It’s great.’
‘You’ll soon be back at the Caserne.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘This Rama N’Pata. You think he’s the one who took a dip with Madame Mesnel?’
‘That’s not an especially nice way of putting it.’
Deanna nodded. ‘So it’s true what some are saying.’ She coughed; not such a deliciously earthy sound. ‘Captain Irreverent has lost his sense of humour.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Of course not. It’s everyone else.’
He dragged a hand through his hair. ‘Well if I have, maybe it’s no bad thing.’
‘Yes it is. Humour is insulation, a much-needed commodity in our business.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You know it is.’
The espressos were soon ready. As Deanna handed over the cup, she took a close look at Darac’s right temple. ‘Who’s been throwing stones at you?’
Darac gave her a wry look. ‘You ever considered pathology as a career, Deanna?’
‘No. Too difficult.’
His signature smile made a brief comeback.
‘It was just kids.’
‘Lucky the just kids missed your just eye.’
‘I suppose it was.’ Darac downed his espresso in one. ‘Perfect.’ He got to his feet. ‘Will you get back to me on the towel as soon as you can?’
‘I will.’
He gave her arm a squeeze.
Darac headed back to his car. This time, he would gain entry to the N’Pata apartment whether the brothers were at home or not.
40
‘I know you’ve asked me to ring before calling in person but this is urgent.’
Taylor’s pulse quickened. Perhaps Philippe had delivered at last. ‘Come in.’
Opting for the intimacy of the small sofa, Ivo headed to the far corner of the room. Taylor went no further than her desk.
‘What do you want?’
Retracing his steps with exaggerated graciousness, he sat down opposite her. ‘I must say everything looks magnificent for Sunday.’ He grinned. ‘Never has a preview here been so well organised.’
‘Save your backhanded compliments, Ivo.’
‘As so often, you misunderstand.’
‘I understand only too well. Why do you want to see me?’
‘Any man with blood in his veins would want to see you if he could.’
Taylor exhaled deeply. The situation, it seemed, had not yet changed. ‘Get to it.’
‘Alright. I’ve come to offer you my help. In advance.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of our beloved leader – what’s the term? – passing away. I want you to understand that when “that day dawns”, as you put it, I shall be here to help you.’
‘If I need a shoulder to cry on, I shall look elsewhere.’
‘You might need more than a shoulder.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let us just say that after Philippe dies, I stand every chance of being appointed the curator of this museum piece— sorry, museum. There are people at the Academy, you see, who think—’
‘The sun shines out of your ass?’
‘If you like.’
‘I do not like.’ She stood. ‘I think we’ve said all we need to say.’
He stayed put. ‘We haven’t even begun, Taylor.’
Ivo clearly had a card to play. She decided to let him play it. ‘You have one minute.’
‘I know you’re concerned about the future so I have an offer. How would you like to be my assistant in the new Villa Rose?’
‘Your assistant?’
‘I can make it happen. And, to be blunt, it is the only chance you have of securing such a post here or anywhere else. You are beautiful, Taylor. But I’m sure you realise that as a scholar and as a gallery executive, you’re so far below average, it is laughable. However, I would overlook that. I would still appoint you. And all you would have to do for it is one thing.’
Taylor’s eyes were a blazing blue fire. ‘Get out.’
‘Think! When Philippe is gone, I will be here and you will not unless you agree to my suggestion. And if you do, Taylor, you will not regret it.’ Ivo’s wolfish grin returned. ‘Like our current exhibition, I, too, am very well hung.’
‘I would rather lick shit off a spoon.’
‘You don’t have to decide now,’ he said, rising. ‘It’s not as if Philippe is likely to drop dead just like that, is it? Although, of course, he might. I think you’ll change your mind.’
‘Get out!’
Ivo looked more wolf-like than ever as he loped away. If Taylor had had a pistol to hand, his making it to the door would have been an evens call. As it was, she had to quell an urge to hurl something heavy at his back. She picked up the phone instead.
41
Sound systems yet to be powered up, Rama’s apartment block was pulsing to a different rhythm this morning: the sound of bodies on the move. As Darac entered the lobby, the lift disgorged a gang of school-bound kids of diverse ages. Flying out of the stairwell with a loud clack! clack! a daredevil on a skateboard came surfing up behind them. The kid put Darac in mind of Madame Mesnel’s errand boy, Henri Lepic, the young man with the fractured leg and the self-righteous mother. How was he getting on? he wondered.
The price for taking the lift up to the top floor was another encounter with Eat Shit! As he stepped out, the doors closed behind him. A couple of young dreads came running up. Multiple button-punching and cursing did not bring the lift back. The boy gave Darac the once-over.
‘I apologise for the language, Monsieur Flic.’
He spoke in the same delicately articulated French as Rama. An octave lower, Darac reflected, and their voices wouldn’t have been easy to tell apart. The girl smiled cheekily.
‘Don’t arrest him.’
Darac hadn’t expected chattiness. ‘That obvious, eh?’
The pair gave him a pitying look.
Darac indicated the graffiti. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘Eat shit? Personally, I think it’s puerile.’
‘Me too,’ the girl said. ‘On the seventh floor landing is something super brilliant. Death Of The Vertical Neighbourhood, it’s called. Check it out.’
‘I might. Did you paint it? Is that why?’
‘No. It wasn’t us.’
‘It wasn’t Rama N’Pata’s work was it, by any chance? I’m a great fan of his drumming. Wouldn’t have surprised me if he could paint brilliantly as well.’
‘I don’t know anyone with that name.’
‘Me neither,’ the boy said.
‘I call him Sticks. Others Bones or Stretch? You get the idea. Lives with his brother Modibo. Apartment 1207 just along there.’
‘We never go that way.’
He showed them Voska’s photograph. ‘Know him?’
‘No.’
More kids arrived. A few eyed the dreads suspiciously. And then something was said in the backwards argot known as verlan. Something sharp and threatening. For some of these youngsters, Darac realised, co-operating with a flic was a serious offence.
‘Anybody ever see this man?’ He held up the photo. ‘No? Alright, anybody here know Rama N’Pata or his brother, Modibo? Apartment 1207.’
A couple of head-shakes was as close as Darac came to a response. He picked up his bags and weighed his options vis-à-vis the dreads. He could either preserve their cred with the others or promote a gentler image of the police. Not both. He eyeballed them.
‘Any more like that out of you two and I’ll arrest you. Got that?’
The pair playing up to the act, Darac pushed through the crowd and set off along the landing. From the outside, the curtains at 1207 appeared not to have been touched since his last visit. Checking the safety on his automatic was off, he knocked, rattling the door in its frame. No one answering, he took out his lock picks and slipped inside.
‘Sticks? Darac from the DMQ.’ Looking only for signs of life – particularly the armed and dangerous kind – he moved smartly through the apartment. ‘Modibo, you here?’ No one. Holstering his gun, Darac slipped on a pair of bootees and gloves. The reason for the give in the door soon became clear. The room-side edge of the strike plate was depressed deep into its slot; its leading edge, anchored by partially ripped-out screws, was standing proud. Conclusion: the door had been forced from the outside. Where the impact had cracked the paint layer, the colour and smell of the bare wood and paint flecks suggested it had happened recently.
Evidence of forced entry wasn’t necessarily sinister. Many people had locked themselves out and broken in. But more disturbing possibilities began to occur to Darac as he picked up the car repossession notice from the mat.
The small lobby opened into a living room off which doors led to a kitchen and a bathroom. Two further doors led to the bedrooms. Darac sniffed. The place evidently hadn’t been aired for a day or two and there was a staleness to the spice notes emanating from the kitchen. His father would no doubt have identified all of them but Darac Junior compiled a reasonable inventory. Of one thing he was certain: weed was not regularly smoked in the living room.
Sparsely furnished, the place was clean and aside from a slew of magazines and newspapers on the sofa, it was tidy. Darac checked the periodicals for dates. The previous Saturday’s Nice-Matin was the most recent. That was the day of the Joao Pinsa gig – the day Voska had absconded; and the last time anything had been seen or heard of Sticks.
Darac walked through into the kitchen and checked the fridge. No drugs or other surprises. The bathroom proved clean, also. The two bedrooms were next.
A Spartan with OCD would have felt at home in the first. Just about the only personal item on view was a Hotel Grande Scarabée ID sitting on a bedside cabinet. Bearing the name Modibo N’Pata, the photo showed a young man with a thick neck and a strong, broad-boned head. A certain humour about the eyes relieved what was a tough-looking face. Reflecting that Modibo looked like a black version of him, Darac opened the cabinet and laid out the contents on the bed. A photo of Rama and Modibo posing outside the Hotel Negresco caught his eye. With their beaming smiles and arms raised in a sort of victory wave, they seemed to be saying: Here we are, we’ve made it! Whether it celebrated arrival or reunion or just captured a randomly happy moment, it was a touching shot.
He examined the remaining items: a gold chain; a broken, fake Rolex, by the look of it, the same one Modibo was wearing in the Negresco photo; a copy of Kahlil Gibran’s Sand and Foam; a motorcycle magazine. That was it. Darac turned to the wardrobe. A different story here: everything was neatly hung but there was scarcely space for one more item. The boys evidently shared it, Modibo’s bulkier garments taking up just over half the rail. If they had skipped for good, they had left a lot of clothing behind.
‘More reinforcements?’ He rolled his eyes at Bonbon. ‘I’ll patch you through.’
‘You’ve got a lot out looking for Voska, then?’
The duty officer re-routed the call. ‘We’ll have no bugger left here, soon. You’ve heard about the phone business?’
So much for Chevalier keeping them informed. ‘Not as such.’
‘Eight o’clock last night, they traced young Madame Simon’s mobile to a half-kilometre square just south of Mauran. An hour later, they found the phone. Old model. The last thing on it was a text to her husband saying she was scared but OK.’
‘Good news? I’d forgotten what that was.’
‘Don’t get excited. The phone was switched on but the message hadn’t been sent. And then, they found a pair of women’s shoes nearby.’
‘Ah.’
‘They reckon she was trying to type the message while Voska’s back was turned and dropped the phone in panic. She couldn’t pick it up without alerting him, so she left it. Or maybe he caught her, she threw it away, and Voska was in too big a hurry to go looking.’
‘Got a copy of the message?’
‘Don’t go anywhere.’ The duty officer put in a call.
‘Where were the phone and the shoes found?’
‘The phone and one of the shoes were picked up on the bank of a water-filled ditch off the Étang de Berre. The other shoe was in the ditch itself. They dragged it for the poor woman. Nothing. Now they’re dragging the whole Étang.’
‘What? Be like dragging the Atlantic.’
‘Naturally, they were hoping to find her in the ditch. If you see what I mean.’
Bonbon saw it all too clearly. ‘Where is Mauran, exactly?’
‘On the eastern side of the Étang. About ten kilometres north-west of Marseille airport.’
‘With all the added security, Voska couldn’t have flown out of there, could he?’
‘No way. He didn’t even fool poor old Clerc at the restaurant, did he?’
‘A boat, maybe?’
‘Not unless he’s got a private submarine.’
A uniform came in with a transcript of young Madame Simon’s text message. Bonbon signed the appropriate form and ran his eye over the message. ‘Is this exactly how it appeared?’
‘Yes.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He stared off for a moment, then feigning panic, cast a spurious glance at his watch. ‘Look at the time! They won’t thank me at your crime lab if I’m late.’
‘Only take you ten minutes. You’ll get there easily.’
Bonbon thanked the duty officer and took his leave, anyway. He may have had time to spare. But there was something he needed to do first.
* * *
Darac was arriving for his meeting with Deanna when his mobile rang.
‘Bonbon? Wasn’t expecting anything from you for a while yet.’
Bonbon updated him.
‘What was the exact wording of the message?’
‘I just emailed it to you.’
‘It hasn’t come through. Read it to me.’
‘Here goes: darling i am kidnapped. he is treating me ok but i cannot see where I am and i’m scared he does not know i send this tell the police! I love— And then it stops. I have to say, it looks completely bogus to me.’
The message finally pinged into Darac’s inbox. ‘Hang on, Bonbon, it’s just come in.’ He read it. ‘Yes, I’ve got a lot of time for Chevalier but she’s got this one round her neck, hasn’t she? A message typed in panic would be barely readable. All this has is a few missing capitals.’
‘It has an apostrophe and an exclamation mark, as well. And look at the length of it. Most people in young Madame Simon’s position would have keyed in one or two words, not twenty or thirty or however many it is.’
‘And one quick key stab and she could have actually sent the message. She didn’t do anything in panic. What fits better is that Voska keyed in the message, himself. And there’s a second significance in the fact that it wasn’t sent. He wanted to be well clear of the area by the time the phone was found.’
‘And think of the location, chief: a ditch next to a huge lagoon. OK, it’s a water-filled ditch but the phone was above ground. Voska wanted to draw the police to the area. I bet you Madame Simon is either still alive, and let’s hope so, or she was killed elsewhere.’
‘Agreed. Voska is making us play Russian dolls in reverse. First we have to search the ditch, then the Étang, then its boundaries which include another vast area, the airport.’
‘Which, as a bonus, has a huge workforce for us to question. This whole Étang thing is a decoy designed to drain as many officers as possible away from wherever Voska is.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Madame Simon’s shoes were found near the phone, incidentally. Stilettos.’
‘Anyone looked at footprints?’
‘No stud marks from heels were found. Here, they’re thinking Voska either made her take them off so as not to leave prints, or he’d already killed her and was carrying her over his shoulder.’
‘But equally, she might never have been there at all. He planted them.’
‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall when you tell Chevalier all this,’ said Bonbon.
‘She’ll see our point. Listen, ring me as soon as you’ve watched the DVDs, OK?’
‘I’ll be at the lab in about twenty minutes.’
Initially, Darac’s call to Chevalier went better than he’d imagined. But although she saw the sense in his argument, officers had already been deployed so she could do nothing, she said, but stick to Plan A. Darac ended the call with a reminder to keep him abreast of all developments in future. That went down less well. Tant pis.
* * *
Chief pathologist Deanna Bianchi took the offering in her small, rubber-gloved hands. ‘So what have we got here, Darac?’
‘It’s a towel.’
Behind her exam glasses, Deanna’s keen black eyes flared with amusement. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, yeah. It’s a towel that lives with a drum kit set up at the Blue Devil. You’ll find at least four individuals’ sweat soaked into it. And maybe some hairs, et cetera.’
Deanna took off the glasses and slipped them into the breast pocket of her lab coat. ‘The individuals being?’
‘One Marco Portami, whose towel it actually is; club owner Eldridge Clay who used it last night; and there may be something of mine on it. I wasn’t able to put gloves on.’
‘The fourth?’
‘A young man named Rama N’Pata. For elimination, my sequence is on the DNA database, obviously. Marco had a drink-driving charge last year so his might be. Ridge Clay’s I assume isn’t. But I have a horrible feeling that Rama N’Pata’s may be and it’s him I’m interested in.’
‘A horrible feeling?’
‘I’ll tell you about the kid if it checks out.’
Her eyes slid to her prized La Marzocco espresso machine. ‘Time for a coffee?’
‘Always. But make it a quick one.’
As they talked, she carried out the rituals of knocking out the used grounds, grinding the beans and then tamping the powder into the holder with clinical precision.
‘You haven’t been over to our temporary home yet, have you?’
‘Haven’t had the pleasure.’ Deanna’s tobacco-rasped voice lent a deliciously earthy edge to words like ‘pleasure’. ‘Enjoying it?’
‘Working in a sealed glass box with nothing but koffee with a k to drink? It’s great.’
‘You’ll soon be back at the Caserne.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘This Rama N’Pata. You think he’s the one who took a dip with Madame Mesnel?’
‘That’s not an especially nice way of putting it.’
Deanna nodded. ‘So it’s true what some are saying.’ She coughed; not such a deliciously earthy sound. ‘Captain Irreverent has lost his sense of humour.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Of course not. It’s everyone else.’
He dragged a hand through his hair. ‘Well if I have, maybe it’s no bad thing.’
‘Yes it is. Humour is insulation, a much-needed commodity in our business.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You know it is.’
The espressos were soon ready. As Deanna handed over the cup, she took a close look at Darac’s right temple. ‘Who’s been throwing stones at you?’
Darac gave her a wry look. ‘You ever considered pathology as a career, Deanna?’
‘No. Too difficult.’
His signature smile made a brief comeback.
‘It was just kids.’
‘Lucky the just kids missed your just eye.’
‘I suppose it was.’ Darac downed his espresso in one. ‘Perfect.’ He got to his feet. ‘Will you get back to me on the towel as soon as you can?’
‘I will.’
He gave her arm a squeeze.
Darac headed back to his car. This time, he would gain entry to the N’Pata apartment whether the brothers were at home or not.
40
‘I know you’ve asked me to ring before calling in person but this is urgent.’
Taylor’s pulse quickened. Perhaps Philippe had delivered at last. ‘Come in.’
Opting for the intimacy of the small sofa, Ivo headed to the far corner of the room. Taylor went no further than her desk.
‘What do you want?’
Retracing his steps with exaggerated graciousness, he sat down opposite her. ‘I must say everything looks magnificent for Sunday.’ He grinned. ‘Never has a preview here been so well organised.’
‘Save your backhanded compliments, Ivo.’
‘As so often, you misunderstand.’
‘I understand only too well. Why do you want to see me?’
‘Any man with blood in his veins would want to see you if he could.’
Taylor exhaled deeply. The situation, it seemed, had not yet changed. ‘Get to it.’
‘Alright. I’ve come to offer you my help. In advance.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of our beloved leader – what’s the term? – passing away. I want you to understand that when “that day dawns”, as you put it, I shall be here to help you.’
‘If I need a shoulder to cry on, I shall look elsewhere.’
‘You might need more than a shoulder.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let us just say that after Philippe dies, I stand every chance of being appointed the curator of this museum piece— sorry, museum. There are people at the Academy, you see, who think—’
‘The sun shines out of your ass?’
‘If you like.’
‘I do not like.’ She stood. ‘I think we’ve said all we need to say.’
He stayed put. ‘We haven’t even begun, Taylor.’
Ivo clearly had a card to play. She decided to let him play it. ‘You have one minute.’
‘I know you’re concerned about the future so I have an offer. How would you like to be my assistant in the new Villa Rose?’
‘Your assistant?’
‘I can make it happen. And, to be blunt, it is the only chance you have of securing such a post here or anywhere else. You are beautiful, Taylor. But I’m sure you realise that as a scholar and as a gallery executive, you’re so far below average, it is laughable. However, I would overlook that. I would still appoint you. And all you would have to do for it is one thing.’
Taylor’s eyes were a blazing blue fire. ‘Get out.’
‘Think! When Philippe is gone, I will be here and you will not unless you agree to my suggestion. And if you do, Taylor, you will not regret it.’ Ivo’s wolfish grin returned. ‘Like our current exhibition, I, too, am very well hung.’
‘I would rather lick shit off a spoon.’
‘You don’t have to decide now,’ he said, rising. ‘It’s not as if Philippe is likely to drop dead just like that, is it? Although, of course, he might. I think you’ll change your mind.’
‘Get out!’
Ivo looked more wolf-like than ever as he loped away. If Taylor had had a pistol to hand, his making it to the door would have been an evens call. As it was, she had to quell an urge to hurl something heavy at his back. She picked up the phone instead.
41
Sound systems yet to be powered up, Rama’s apartment block was pulsing to a different rhythm this morning: the sound of bodies on the move. As Darac entered the lobby, the lift disgorged a gang of school-bound kids of diverse ages. Flying out of the stairwell with a loud clack! clack! a daredevil on a skateboard came surfing up behind them. The kid put Darac in mind of Madame Mesnel’s errand boy, Henri Lepic, the young man with the fractured leg and the self-righteous mother. How was he getting on? he wondered.
The price for taking the lift up to the top floor was another encounter with Eat Shit! As he stepped out, the doors closed behind him. A couple of young dreads came running up. Multiple button-punching and cursing did not bring the lift back. The boy gave Darac the once-over.
‘I apologise for the language, Monsieur Flic.’
He spoke in the same delicately articulated French as Rama. An octave lower, Darac reflected, and their voices wouldn’t have been easy to tell apart. The girl smiled cheekily.
‘Don’t arrest him.’
Darac hadn’t expected chattiness. ‘That obvious, eh?’
The pair gave him a pitying look.
Darac indicated the graffiti. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘Eat shit? Personally, I think it’s puerile.’
‘Me too,’ the girl said. ‘On the seventh floor landing is something super brilliant. Death Of The Vertical Neighbourhood, it’s called. Check it out.’
‘I might. Did you paint it? Is that why?’
‘No. It wasn’t us.’
‘It wasn’t Rama N’Pata’s work was it, by any chance? I’m a great fan of his drumming. Wouldn’t have surprised me if he could paint brilliantly as well.’
‘I don’t know anyone with that name.’
‘Me neither,’ the boy said.
‘I call him Sticks. Others Bones or Stretch? You get the idea. Lives with his brother Modibo. Apartment 1207 just along there.’
‘We never go that way.’
He showed them Voska’s photograph. ‘Know him?’
‘No.’
More kids arrived. A few eyed the dreads suspiciously. And then something was said in the backwards argot known as verlan. Something sharp and threatening. For some of these youngsters, Darac realised, co-operating with a flic was a serious offence.
‘Anybody ever see this man?’ He held up the photo. ‘No? Alright, anybody here know Rama N’Pata or his brother, Modibo? Apartment 1207.’
A couple of head-shakes was as close as Darac came to a response. He picked up his bags and weighed his options vis-à-vis the dreads. He could either preserve their cred with the others or promote a gentler image of the police. Not both. He eyeballed them.
‘Any more like that out of you two and I’ll arrest you. Got that?’
The pair playing up to the act, Darac pushed through the crowd and set off along the landing. From the outside, the curtains at 1207 appeared not to have been touched since his last visit. Checking the safety on his automatic was off, he knocked, rattling the door in its frame. No one answering, he took out his lock picks and slipped inside.
‘Sticks? Darac from the DMQ.’ Looking only for signs of life – particularly the armed and dangerous kind – he moved smartly through the apartment. ‘Modibo, you here?’ No one. Holstering his gun, Darac slipped on a pair of bootees and gloves. The reason for the give in the door soon became clear. The room-side edge of the strike plate was depressed deep into its slot; its leading edge, anchored by partially ripped-out screws, was standing proud. Conclusion: the door had been forced from the outside. Where the impact had cracked the paint layer, the colour and smell of the bare wood and paint flecks suggested it had happened recently.
Evidence of forced entry wasn’t necessarily sinister. Many people had locked themselves out and broken in. But more disturbing possibilities began to occur to Darac as he picked up the car repossession notice from the mat.
The small lobby opened into a living room off which doors led to a kitchen and a bathroom. Two further doors led to the bedrooms. Darac sniffed. The place evidently hadn’t been aired for a day or two and there was a staleness to the spice notes emanating from the kitchen. His father would no doubt have identified all of them but Darac Junior compiled a reasonable inventory. Of one thing he was certain: weed was not regularly smoked in the living room.
Sparsely furnished, the place was clean and aside from a slew of magazines and newspapers on the sofa, it was tidy. Darac checked the periodicals for dates. The previous Saturday’s Nice-Matin was the most recent. That was the day of the Joao Pinsa gig – the day Voska had absconded; and the last time anything had been seen or heard of Sticks.
Darac walked through into the kitchen and checked the fridge. No drugs or other surprises. The bathroom proved clean, also. The two bedrooms were next.
A Spartan with OCD would have felt at home in the first. Just about the only personal item on view was a Hotel Grande Scarabée ID sitting on a bedside cabinet. Bearing the name Modibo N’Pata, the photo showed a young man with a thick neck and a strong, broad-boned head. A certain humour about the eyes relieved what was a tough-looking face. Reflecting that Modibo looked like a black version of him, Darac opened the cabinet and laid out the contents on the bed. A photo of Rama and Modibo posing outside the Hotel Negresco caught his eye. With their beaming smiles and arms raised in a sort of victory wave, they seemed to be saying: Here we are, we’ve made it! Whether it celebrated arrival or reunion or just captured a randomly happy moment, it was a touching shot.
He examined the remaining items: a gold chain; a broken, fake Rolex, by the look of it, the same one Modibo was wearing in the Negresco photo; a copy of Kahlil Gibran’s Sand and Foam; a motorcycle magazine. That was it. Darac turned to the wardrobe. A different story here: everything was neatly hung but there was scarcely space for one more item. The boys evidently shared it, Modibo’s bulkier garments taking up just over half the rail. If they had skipped for good, they had left a lot of clothing behind.
