Babazouk Blues, page 29
It wasn’t surprising: Pazzo didn’t exist. Deriving, as did many of Voska’s tactics, from an old Legion ploy, Pazzo was a fiction designed to divert and delay the enemy.
When Darac finally spoke, it was in answer to: ‘How would you describe Voska?’
‘Dangerous and resourceful.’
‘Yes I am,’ Voska said, feeling an even greater connection to the officer. A moment’s thought told him he had no alternative but to reprise his heroic efforts of the past weekend. Reprise them but more so. He had to stop the man at the centre of the investigation. The real man, not the mouthpiece. He had to stop Captain Paul Darac.
That, he swore there and then, he would not botch.
44
On Jean Jaurès, tail lights streaming like red vapour trails led Darac back to the car park. His eyes felt heavy. His head felt heavy. His heart felt heavy. Maybe Map and the others were right. Maybe he was overdoing it.
The chill early evening air brought him round a little as he crossed the boulevard and headed into the Babazouk. In the teeming Rue Pairolière, his mobile rang.
‘Captain Darac? This is Dubroqua from city maintenance.’
Darac stood still. ‘Listen, it was an unfair challenge I set, monsieur. I’m sure you haven’t been able to rise to it.’
‘On the contrary.’
‘You still have Monsieur Mesnel’s job sheets from fifty years ago?’
‘All of them, yes. I’ve collated them into a dossier.’
Darac gave an involuntary laugh. Even if the outcome proved inconclusive, he knew this could have happened only in France. ‘May I come and examine it?’
‘It’s too late for that today but I could have Cécile fax it to you, tomorrow?’
‘I don’t suppose she would have time to look for one docket in particular?’
‘Cécile is my secretary, not my wife, Captain. She will look.’
Darac gave the details. ‘Monsieur, I am indebted to you both.’
As Darac rang off, encouragement gave way to unease. Out of nowhere, he had the strongest impression that someone was watching him. He walked on, waiting until he’d covered ten metres or so before jetting a glance behind him. No one dodged into a doorway or held up a newspaper. A little further along, he repeated the manoeuvre. Still no one. Yet he could have sworn… No, he was overwrought. And tired. Tonight’s gig would restore him.
Reaching the last of the kinks in Ruelle Fente, he took out his keys and, as automatically as a Pavlov dog, closed his eyes and yawned. The keys weren’t needed. Not for the first time, someone had left unlocked the iron gate that gave into Place Saint-Sépulcre. Checking no stray tourists were still inside – the Place’s sundial-topped wellhead had found its way into a couple of guidebooks – he returned to the gate. As he locked it, he thought he saw something move smartly away back down the ruelle. ‘Hey!’
Quickly unlocking the gate, he ran back the way he’d come. At each new turn in the alley, Darac expected to catch a glimpse of a fleeing back. It wasn’t until the junction with Rue Neuve that he finally did see someone. ‘Suzanne. I…’ Breathing hard, he looked around. ‘Did you see anybody… come running out of the ruelle just now?’
‘Only you.’ She took his hand. ‘You alright?’
‘I’m not sure. According to… one medical opinion I’ve had today, I’m overtired.’
‘Want a second opinion?’
‘You’re going to give it whether I want it or not.’
‘I am.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘Keeping busy can help someone who’s going through a bereavement or a break-up. But overdoing it can cause a complete crash.’ She glanced at her watch. It was only then that Darac realised she was taking his pulse. ‘Have you been downing double espressos all afternoon?’
‘Me?’
‘You’re getting out of shape. And have you had your blood pressure checked lately?’
They walked back to the Place, locking the gate behind them. Before they separated, Darac promised to go on a health jag ‘once the case is over’. Suzanne said the last part in unison with him; another woman who knew him only too well.
* * *
It was a cool evening and it was about to get cooler. Darac didn’t much care for the cerebral approach of the Sven Nordin trio but maybe tonight was the perfect time to see them. First, he had to pass under the poster. For a moment, it held him like a force field.
Ridge’s voice rumbled through the open lobby door. ‘That you, Garfield?’
‘Have you seen TV or Nice-Matin yet, Ridge?’
‘Haven’t had time.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Those Swedish meatballs have had me running round like a blue-assed fly. I’m thinking of changing my name to Rochester.’
‘Come outside a second.’
He joined him. ‘Any news on Sticks?’
‘No and when there is, it won’t be good.’
‘How come?’
‘I’m going to break a ground rule. I’m going to tell you something about the case I’m working on.’ He kept quiet as a young couple bounced past them and continued into the club. ‘You remember Madame Mesnel, the lady who bequeathed you her LP collection?’
Ridge’s brow took on an extra couple of furrows. ‘Of course.’
Darac reached up and touched the poster. ‘That’s her. That’s the lady.’
Ridge didn’t reply immediately. ‘You are kidding me.’
‘It’s her and it was her husband who took the original photo back in the early sixties.’
‘Olga, the woman I bought the place off in ’84? She was the one who came up with the title Blown Away by the Brass Section, you know. She never knew anything about where the photo came from or anything.’
‘I told you Madame Jeanne Mesnel had drowned accidentally.’ Darac paused at the sound of light, quick footfalls from above. They belonged to Jacky, a local artist and one of the club regulars. The three of them shook hands.
‘We’re in the middle of something, man,’ Ridge said.
‘Looks serious. The quintet after more money?’
‘Pas is on the door.’
Jacky continued down the steps. ‘Three’s a crowd. For this place, especially.’
They were alone again.
‘Ridge, Jeanne Mesnel did not die accidentally. We believe she was raped in her hot tub while a psycho named Gilles Voska filmed it. As a result, she suffered a heart attack and drowned. Raped to death, in effect.’
Ridge’s mouth moved but no words came out. He staggered slightly. Darac put his arm around his shoulders, trying to steady him.
‘I… I’m alright.’
‘It gets worse, Ridge. It could be that Rama and/or his brother Modibo were responsible for the rape itself. I saw them performing in a video with a woman who was later murdered, we suspect, by the same Gilles Voska. Then this morning, we found Modibo’s body, also we suspect, murdered by Voska. We’re still looking for Rama.’
Ridge shouldered his support aside and staggered past him up the steps. Darac followed him onto the street. They stood together for some time before words came.
‘How do you know what they did to Jeanne… Jeanne Mesnel?’
‘I can’t go into details but we know Voska had been setting it up for some time.’
‘No, no. Rama is as sweet as sugar and he has everything going for him. I can’t believe he would be mixed up in shit like that.’
‘I don’t know what the story is but I’m sure Voska had them in some sort of bind.’
A car drew up at the kerb. The driver’s door opened. Darac looked up. It was Frankie.
‘Listen, man.’ Ridge’s words emerged as if quarried from a pit of sorrow. ‘It can’t be.’
Reading Frankie’s expression sent a chill down Darac’s spine. ‘Just a second, Ridge.’
‘Paul,’ she said, softly. ‘It’s Rama N’Pata. He’s been found.’
45
Witnessing the diggers’ skein-by-skein exhumation of Modibo’s corpse had been slow torture for Darac. Rama revealed all at once was another thing again. ‘Extreme trauma’ was written on the form but it didn’t convey the scale of the damage. ‘Smashed’ said it better. Swollen monstrously, his face looked like a morphed caricature, a blue-black mass stained in strangely gorgeous whorls of wine-red.
Darac wondered what Rama would have made of the ventilator’s rhythm: a beep on the one; a phhht on the three. At the measured tempo of ‘Lil’ Darlin”, it was as basic a four-beat as could be imagined.
Dr Sibile was a short, round man, long on smiles and helpfulness. ‘He was lucky.’
‘And will he stay that way, Doctor?’ Darac said.
‘Too early to say. Excepting the possibility of aneurysms… Sorry. Excepting dangerous rupture-prone arterial bulges, the multiple corporeal fractures pose no great threat. The punctured lung, spleen damage and so on, should not prove an insuperable problem. The critical issue is the fracture to the skull and associated injuries to the brain.’
Frankie turned to him. ‘And that’s why the patient is in a coma?’
‘Yes. A coma can act as a healing state, a sort of time-out, if you will. But it is essential that we monitor as many factors as possible during it. We can’t allow large subdural haematomas to develop, for example.’ He made a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘We don’t want the brain to bleed a lot is what I mean.’
‘I see.’ Frankie had understood him perfectly the first time. ‘Prior to the eyewitness coming forward, you had already deduced that the victim had been hit by a vehicle that was bigger than a car?’
Sibile held up his hands, palms facing, then made a fist with one of them. ‘When a car hits a pedestrian frontally, there is typically a forward jack-knifing of the body.’ He ran his fist into his palm, demonstrating the effect. ‘Our patient’s injuries are not consistent with that.’ He unclenched his fist. ‘This is the vehicle now, high and flat-fronted. This, the pedestrian as before.’ He clapped one palm against the other. ‘That’s the difference. It was as if our patient ran into a wall, not fell over a fence, if you will.’
‘Thank you.’
Darac had been taking in the array of equipment wired, piped or clamped to Rama’s broken body. Or to the body of Barthelmy Sokora, according to the tag on his cot. It was as good a name as any.
‘How long might he be in the coma, Doctor?’
‘A day, a year, indefinitely. We cannot say.’
‘If he does regain consciousness, is it possible he could make a complete recovery?’
Sibile smiled. ‘Let’s take it one step at a time.’
Noises off indicated that one of those steps was about to be taken.
‘Time to leave now, please. My colleague Dr Tan and I are going to set up a line so we can keep an eye on the pressure in his skull.’
‘You’ll let us know if… of any major change, Doctor?’ Without thinking, Darac extended his hand but Sibile took it and shook Frankie’s, also. ‘I needed to scrub, anyway. Yes, we will, of course.’
Darac gave Rama a final look.
Beep… phhht. Beep… phhht. Beep… phhht.
‘Once again, apologies to you both for not identifying him sooner but with all the oedema and without a carte d’identité… And we had, let’s say, other priorities.’
‘Of course. We’ll list Rama N’Pata as having been killed in the hit and run but we’ll leave his in situ ID as Sokora. It might prove safer for everyone. We’ll be in touch.’
Once outside, Darac turned to the burly uniform guarding the room. ‘Officer…?’
‘Marque, sir.’
‘You know what Gilles Voska looks like, Officer Marque?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘He’s already tried to kill the patient once. In fact, he thinks he has killed him, probably. But just in case he has second thoughts, turns up here and sees through the name switch, be ready, OK? You won’t be flying solo. I’ll arrange appropriate back-up as soon as I get to the lobby.’
Darac was expecting to receive a call, also. Bonbon had been dispatched to interview the van driver Alain Gasquet, who had witnessed the hit and run that had all but killed Rama N’Pata.
Darac said nothing further as he and Frankie made their way out of the intensive-care suite. She threaded her arm through his.
‘You know, people are worried about you. And with good reason.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Not if you keep breaking Agnès’s number-one rule, you won’t.’
‘Engage with facts; keep your distance from people? I’m doing that.’
‘Of course you are.’
Darac was suddenly aware that, in Frankie, he’d found the eye of the storm. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘I was in with the dispatchers when the call came in. I knew where you would be.’
They walked in silence for a moment. And then without giving it proper thought, Darac said, ‘We probably shouldn’t be walking like this. I could get very used to it.’
A half-reproving look; a nervous little laugh; the remark seemed to unsettle Frankie.
‘Don’t be silly.’ For a moment, it seemed she might withdraw her arm but she kept it where it was. ‘What do you think happened, Paul?’
He was back out in the storm. ‘We know some things.’ They got into the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor. ‘Modibo was meant to pick up Rama outside the club. They’d obviously arranged to go up to the campsite together but Modibo doesn’t show and drives out there by himself. Voska kills Modibo in the subsequent fight…’
A couple of nurses joined them, stilling the conversation until they got out on the ground floor and headed for the lobby.
‘Following the fight, Voska buries the body. Then, perhaps driving Modibo’s car back to L’Ariane, he goes up to the apartment expecting to find Rama. No answer. He shoulders the door, takes all the DVDs, or so he believes, and makes his way back to L’Ancienne Bastide. There, he picks up the RV he left down the road from the site. Now he spots Rama who’s been looking high and low for Modibo. Voska floors the pedal and we know what happened next.’
‘Bit of a coincidence, running into him like that.’ Frankie rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry. Isn’t it more likely that Voska called Rama? To lure him to the scene.’
‘Lured him to the roadside? Why not the woods where he could have made absolutely certain of killing him?’
Frankie drew down the corners of her mouth. ‘And then hidden the body, true. The boy’s phone has gone over to Forensics, by the way. The SIM card might still be in one piece. And Télécom might be able to come up with a trace on the call.’
‘Whether Voska rang Rama or not, once he’d hit him, he must have thought he’d killed him. Nevertheless, I think he would have gone back to make sure but for Monsieur Gasquet following in his van.’
Reaching the lobby, Darac made the call to strengthen the guard detail on Rama’s room. Then he played a message Bonbon had left summarising his interview with Gasquet. On seeing Rama, Voska had speeded up and ‘ploughed straight through the guy’, he reported. And he would testify to it. ‘Especially if there was a reward.’
Darac next rang Frènes and explained the need to go with the fiction that Rama N’Pata had died of injuries sustained in a hit and run perpetrated by Voska. For once, Frènes agreed without argument.
‘Now let’s get out of here, Frankie. Hospitals… I dislike them, don’t you?’
‘Only the bad ones.’
Darac gave her a look. Did she always have to be so sensible? Rama stayed with him every step of the way to Frankie’s car. Had they started monitoring the pressure in his skull yet? How did they do that? Drilling a hole and inserting some instrument through it? No, ‘introducing’ was the word they always used, wasn’t it? Harmless-sounding. They did brilliant work, these people. But Jesus Christ.
‘Shall I drop you back at the Blue Devil?’
Bonbon had interviewed Gasquet. There was really nothing Darac could do until the morning. And he had unfinished business at the club.
‘I need jazz. And people. And below-average food at above-average prices.’
Frankie’s contralto chuckle was an infectious sound. For once, Darac didn’t catch it: Armstrong’s ‘(What Did I Do to Be So) Black and Blue?’ had started up in his head. He needed to go to a different thought.
‘Uh… The pianist Sven Nordin and his trio are at the club this evening.’
As Frankie turned into Boulevard Carabacel, a drift of night-blooming girls edged off the kerb in front of her. ‘Sven Nordin?’ she said, without missing a beat. A couple of dabs on the horn sent the girls fluttering back to safety. ‘Never heard of him. Good?’
‘Bit cerebral for my taste but you might go for it. I don’t suppose you…’ He turned to her. ‘And Christophe, naturally.’
‘He’s out of town and I’m on duty, anyway.’
‘Yes, of course.’
They hit slow traffic along Boulevard Risso. Drawn by the yellowish glow from its windows, Darac looked across at his favourite lunch spot, Café Avanti. The evening crowd consisted of six diners. All were sitting apart, all were seemingly lost in their own thoughts.
The traffic cleared, they were off and running again.
‘I know what I was going to ask you, Paul. Any closer to understanding what the Walters-Halberg woman was up to in buying the house?’
‘Thanks partly to a Monsieur Dubroqua from the Mairie, I think I could be, yes.’
She turned to him. ‘Really?’
‘Hey, eyes on the road! You’ve nearly totalled one lot of pedestrians tonight already.’
Frankie’s full mouth widened into a smile. ‘Women drivers.’ She waited for a tram to clear the junction before peeling off into Avenue des Diables Bleus. ‘But you are closer?’
‘With everyone drowning in paper, I need a little more before I throw it open, though.’
‘Well, you know where I live if you think I can help.’
‘You always help.’
They pulled up outside the club.
‘Why do people say, “Here we are,” whenever they arrive somewhere? I nearly did it myself, then.’
