Babazouk Blues, page 3
‘Thought so. Alright, one detail is odd here, I grant you, but when you add it all up, what does it look like to you?’
‘Heart attack. Stroke, maybe.’
‘And when you factor in the empty Bollinger bottle?’
‘I didn’t know about that. Maybe she drank too much and passed out.’
‘And as a result?’
‘Drowned accidentally.’
‘Making all this a waste of?’
‘Police time, money and effort?’
‘Isn’t it, though?’
To say nothing of the waste of a great evening’s jazz, Darac thought.
Patricia turned in time to proffer the clipboard to Dr Barrau with the expected decorum.
‘So – what do you make of this Jeanne Mesnel woman, then, Doctor?’ Darac said. ‘Dead, is she?’
Stifling a grin, Patricia was suddenly fascinated by her clipboard. If Barrau had registered the dig, he didn’t let it show. ‘They can take her.’
Darac gave the trolley dollies a nod. ‘Anything to add?’
‘My preliminary report will be ready within an hour of returning to the lab,’ Barrau went on, part of a litany Darac could recite verbatim. ‘A full report will follow once the autopsy itself has taken place.’
‘Email the preliminary to me as well as to the commissariat, will you?’
A request to perform one of the seven labours of Hercules would hardly have been greeted with less enthusiasm. ‘Very well.’
Young Officer Max Perand loped lankily between them. ‘We’ve just got an address for one Cristelle Daviot, the deceased’s next of kin. Granddaughter.’
Barrau glanced at his watch. ‘Local?’
‘Wait a minute. Granddaughter? She’s not a youngster, is she, Perand?’
‘No – she’s…’ He checked the message. ‘Thirty-one. And she lives over in Saint-Laurent-du-Var.’
Job done, Barrau was on his way. ‘See if they can get her to the morgue by midnight.’
Darac followed him. ‘Not everyone works nights like you, Barrau. Surely the ID could wait at least until the morning?’
Barrau kept walking. ‘The sooner formal identification has taken place, the better.’
Darac caught the man’s sinewy arm, halting him. ‘In fact, do you need to drag her over to the morgue at all?’
Barrau’s eyes slid to the hand that held him. Darac exhaled deeply but let go.
‘Captain, I only consider waiving the personal identification procedure in the most extreme of circumstances.’
‘What do you call this? And how do you expect even a close relative to positively ID a body in that condition?’
‘Leave that to me.’
Casting scalpel-sharp shadows in all directions, Barrau strode away into the night.
‘Thank you,’ Darac called after him, adding, ‘Shithead,’ scarcely sotto voce. It sounded more professional than ‘fuck off’. He turned to Patricia. ‘One of these days…’ He gave her arm a comradely pat. ‘I’ll be in the house if anyone needs me.’
‘The detail, Captain?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You mentioned one detail that seemed odd? About the death?’
‘Ah yes. It’s probably nothing but have you ever known a colder couple of weeks? Around here, I mean.’
As if prompted by the question, Patricia shivered suddenly. ‘I don’t suppose I have.’ In lieu of asking the question, Darac raised his eyebrows. ‘I see what you mean. But perhaps that’s all the more reason to get in a hot tub.’
‘I’m thinking of Madame Mesnel being naked.’
‘Only her head would’ve been exposed, though.’
‘Once she was in the thing, yes. But where’s her robe? Where’s her coat? Where are her sandals or flip-flops? There’s no clothing at all next to the tub. She could have come out of the house with only a champagne bottle and a glass to keep her warm but at her age and in this weather? Seems unlikely, don’t you think?’
‘It is a good few metres. But that’s what she must have done, I suppose.’
‘It’s nothing, I’m sure. Thanks, Patricia.’
He found Granot sorting through an old-fashioned drop-down cabinet in the kitchen.
‘Sent Madame Loret home, then?’
‘Seeing her there tomorrow morning.’
‘Very wise.’ Granot extracted a bottle. ‘Mapin cognac, no less. And it’s an XO.’
‘Pricey.’ Darac looked over the kitchen. Apart from a new washing machine, nothing in it looked up to date. ‘This is modest.’
‘Same story upstairs. Back garden’s good though, isn’t it? Spacious, split-level.’
‘And furnished with a brand-new hot tub. In which Madame sipped Bollinger.’
Darac’s mobile rang. ‘It’s Frènes. I’ll put it on speaker.’
‘Apologies that I had to call you in, Captain. And apologies also that I had to cut away before you arrived. But we all— sacrifices. Anyway, I’ve— your work for you— occasion. But what—?’
‘Bear with me a moment, monsieur – you’re breaking up.’ He waved to Granot to follow him back onto the upper patio. ‘Should be fine now. Continue, please.’
‘I said, what have you discovered?’
‘Monsieur Frènes, Lieutenant Granot and I have been here ten minutes. What can possibly be learned in that time?’
‘A good deal if you know what to ask,’ Frènes said. ‘And of whom.’
An impromptu lecture on the theme of ‘Best Practice on Arriving at a Crime Scene‘ proved too much for Granot. Mugging that the breeze was starting to penetrate his trench coat, he mouthed, ‘Two minutes,’ and set off in the direction of his car.
‘Another issue, Captain. Have you located the next of kin, the granddaughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. The Palais is looking for a quick wrap-up on this.’
‘And just what is there to wrap up?’
‘The murder of Madame Jeanne Mesnel, of course.’
‘What evidence do you have to support that theory?’
‘It is not merely a theory. I learned from a key witness that a neighbour threatened to kill Madame Mesnel and three weeks later, she finds her dead.’
‘And that key witness is?’
‘The victim’s cleaner, Madame Loret. She witnessed the threat being made.’
‘The woman is hysterical and one could hardly blame her. Besides, I suspect she may not be the most reliable of witnesses at the best of times.’
‘She witnessed the threat and she will repeat it in court.’
‘What did she hear exactly?’
‘She heard the suspect threaten to drown the victim in her hot tub.’
‘Which, a few weeks later, he or she obligingly did. I see.’
‘These things happen, do they not?’
‘What motivated the threat?’
‘The hot tub has a music console. Warnings about noise had been issued and ignored. Ignored once too often, it would seem.’
‘Monsieur, this sounds at best—’
‘I have the suspect’s name for you, here…’
In the background, Darac heard a sleepy, Asian-sounding voice. Whoever the woman was, she wasn’t Madame Frènes. Perhaps she was part of the ‘heavy case load’ the public prosecutor was always complaining about.
‘It’s Battail. Marcel Battail.’ Frènes gave the address. ‘They should have him over at Commissariat Joinel by now. The man has a record, by the way. Of violence.’
Darac heard the woman murmur something. Even down the line, it sounded seductive.
‘Uh… Duty calls, Captain. Good evening.’
‘Enjoy.’
Granot reappeared. Producing a hip flask from one of the endless pockets in his trench coat, his eyes slid to a bench set against the rear wall of the house. ‘Let’s have a couple of snifters.’
‘Good idea.’
‘What did Frènes have for us, then?’
‘The whole package.’ Darac took one of the cups. ‘Murder suspect, witness – the lot.’
‘Don’t make me laugh while I’m pouring… Who is the so-called suspect?’
‘Guy by the name of Marcel Battail. A neighbour. Santé.’
‘And the witness?’
‘Madame Loret, who else?’
‘She didn’t say anything about witnessing a murder.’
‘That’s because she didn’t. She witnessed the suspect threaten to murder the victim. Three or so weeks ago. Allegedly.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything. Odile threatens to kill me, regularly.’
‘Just the once will do, tell her.’
‘Funny.’
The morgue boys appeared from the lower depths. As the laden trolley rolled by, Darac and Granot raised their cups in salute.
‘Can’t see this scenario appearing in one of those Mapin cognac ads, can you?’ Granot mimicked the voiceover. ‘“Mapin – for those special moments.”’
‘Nothing like the guy.’ Darac took another sip. ‘What are you on tomorrow?’
Granot shook his head. ‘I can’t be on this.’
‘You won’t need to be but as I’m pretending to be in charge, I’m supposed to know these things.’
‘It’s paperwork for me tomorrow. All day.’
‘Bonbon will be back from lunchtime on. Any idea what he’ll be picking up?’
‘More paperwork, obviously.’
‘Why did I even ask?’ Darac handed back the cup. ‘Much needed. Ready?’
‘What, to go and interrogate this Marcel Battail? You don’t think Frènes’s come up with a live one, do you?’
‘I doubt it but he thinks he has so the sooner we talk to Battail, the better. I suppose we’d better check the coffins before we go.’
‘There’ll be hardly anything in them.’
‘Humour me.’
As well as the boxes for the path lab, there were three evidence cases still at the scene. One contained all the portable objects that were going back to Raul Ormans’ crime lab for further analysis. A second contained tested items already cleared into the Brigade’s custody. The third contained Madame Mesnel’s personal documents taken from her bureau by Jean-Jacques ‘Lartou’ Lartigue, the crime-scene coordination officer.
The boxes were stacked on the upper patio. Darac glanced around for their keeper.
‘Where’s Lartou got to?’
‘He’s checking out the hot tub.’
‘For what?’
‘I think his missus wants one.’
‘Lartou!’ Darac called out. ‘When you’re ready.’
‘Right away, chief,’ came a voice from below.
Granot poured himself another one while they waited. ‘What is it you’re looking for?’
‘Did you notice the tub has a built-in music console?’
‘Quite the fun palace.’
‘An eight-CD changer, no less. I just wanted to check what the discs were.’
Granot had no peer in performing what was known the world over as a Gallic shrug. ‘So the old dear pegged out to the strains of Charles Trenet or Jean Sablon. So what?’
Lartou arrived on the scene. Burly and bald, the man from Ghana was wrapped up so completely against the cold he looked like a walking mummy. ‘Sorry, chief.’ He handed Darac a release form. ‘It’s a fine machine, that hot tub.’
‘Good. You all finished?’
‘Yes I am.’
‘OK, shut the site down. Post just a couple of uniforms. They can alternate, maybe.’
Darac opened one of the cases and found an entry specified as ‘Zone One: Disc A’. Seven separate discs were listed next, labelled ‘B’ to ‘H’. He took Disc A out of its sealed poly bag. ‘Well, well… I think we’ll go and sweat this Marcel Battail, not just talk to him.’ He handed it to Granot. ‘Look at that.’
Featuring the Duke Ellington Orchestra in its brassy pomp, the album was a movie soundtrack entitled Anatomy of a Murder.
The big man essayed astonishment. ‘The word “murder” in the title? Yes! Madame Mesnel was trying to alert us.’ He mimicked an old woman’s voice. ‘“Would you hang on a second, Monsieur Battail, while I put this incriminating CD into the console?”’ He shook his old bulldog chops. ‘Ridiculous.’
Darac checked out the other discs from the player. ‘I do realise it doesn’t mean that.’
‘Then why have you got so interested in this nonsense all of a sudden?’
Darac gave Granot an almost cheery look. ‘Because we now know that that inflated, maggoty sack on her way to the morgue wasn’t just any anonymous old lady. She had good taste in music.’
‘Ye gods.’
‘And anybody who threatens to drown an old lady for trying to turn the neighbourhood on to the Duke deserves a good kicking, don’t you think? Let’s go.’
Granot didn’t move for the moment. ‘Battail threatened to drown Madame Mesnel?’
‘Allegedly.’
‘Threatened to drown her if she didn’t turn her music down – is that it?’ Granot’s eyebrows tramlined his forehead. ‘It was obviously just an idle threat.’
‘Madame Loret found what was left of her in the hot tub, didn’t she?’
‘Oh yes, she did.’ Granot was still unconvinced. ‘Absolutely.’
‘You can carry the heavier case, I’ve got a damaged hand.’
‘Use your other one.’
A crowd had gathered in the street, clustered against the dark night like a colony of bats. A few may have been there in solidarity with their departed neighbour. Most were rubberneckers. Although they couldn’t see into the rear garden itself, there was still plenty to entertain them: police radios chattering away like electronic cicadas; uniforms and non-uniforms coming and going; the thought that esoteric forensic activity was going on just over there.
As always, the highlight of the show had been the Body Removal Sequence. Craning necks; gasps; signs of the cross. Darac had no time for it. Indeed, he often felt more contempt for murder-scene groupies than he did for murderers themselves.
‘Keep a lid on it, chief.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
Darac scanned some of their faces. He knew that for the less prurient ones, life on this gently winding cul-de-sac of small, pastel-washed houses would never be quite the same again. It would always be the place where it happened. Weird death left a taint on innocent walls.
More cicada chatter, this time from Granot’s radio.
‘Lieutenant?’ The speaker’s neutral Parisian accent identified him even through the electronic mush.
‘Go ahead, Malraux.’
‘I’ve taken statements from most of the neighbours. Nobody but Madame Loret saw or knows anything.’
‘Surprise, surprise.’
‘But the suspect Public Prosecutor Frènes ordered us to detain?’
‘Marcel Battail. Yes?’
Granot turned the ignition, cutting out the radio for a second.
‘…wasn’t there.’
‘Who wasn’t where, Malraux?’
‘Battail wasn’t at home. His woman suggested a couple of places he might be. He wasn’t there either. And he’s not in the house. We’ve looked everywhere.’
In the passenger seat, Darac turned to stare out of the side window, eyebrows raised, head shaking. Frènes had just assumed Battail would be at home? Or did the gibbering wreck that was Madame Loret assure him of the fact?
‘We’ll see what we can get out of her,’ Granot said.
‘You won’t get any more than I did.’
Granot rolled his eyes. ‘Find anything else, Malraux?’
‘No.’
‘Weapon?’
‘He drowned the old dame, didn’t he?’
‘I was forgetting. You take shoes and clothes for forensics?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘Hey! Mind your manners.’ The team’s newest signing was a taste Granot hadn’t yet acquired. ‘Lieutenant Intern.’
‘Anyone posted near the house?’ Darac said.
Granot relayed the question to Malraux.
‘Yes. He couldn’t get back into the house unseen or even into Rue Balmette itself. And he isn’t in the crowd where you are, either. I’ve checked.’
‘Alright, that’s it.’ Granot turned to Darac. ‘Home? Back to the club? Battail’s?’
Darac checked his watch. Eleven twenty. The band would still be playing. If Granot stepped on it, they could be back at the club in fifteen minutes. He ran a hand through the black wavy thicket that was his hair.
‘Battail’s.’
4
Closing her eyes, the woman rotated her pelvis and began sighing ‘Yes!’ in time with her partner’s thrusts. A moment later, ‘Yes!’ gave way to a crescendo of squeals as she went into her default orgasm. During it, she held up her wrist behind the man’s grunting head and glanced at her watch.
Forty-five minutes later, she was back in her apartment, enjoying a cigarette on the balcony. An al-fresco smoke was something she reserved for night time. By day, it just wasn’t relaxing: planes blasting in and out of Nice airport; the ricocheting rattle of trains; and worst of all, traffic screaming along the highway right under her nose. It was like having a front-row seat at a never-ending parade of fumes and noise. It might kill you eventually, she believed. A sort of drip-feed, drive-by slaying.
She took a deep drag on her cigarette and peered through the sprawl toward the marina. A breeze was rippling the inky black water, scattering silver necklaces of light between the hard white shells of yachts tied up at their moorings.
‘Would you like one of those boats?’ Léo had said to her just after she had moved in.
A penthouse in one of the quieter, swankier blocks nearby was what she really wanted; or a garden apartment at Villeneuve-Loubet further down the coast. In the meantime, somewhere without a stinking drag strip outside her window would do. At least she knew that was coming. And soon.
It had been a decent workday, although, for once, Full-on Freddie, the only client capable of giving her a genuine orgasm, had misfired badly. The evening had been given over to her favourite part of the job: escort work. Fixed-rate, one-shot-deal stuff. Tonight, the john had sprung for cocktails at Lapis in Juan-les-Pins, then on to dinner at Bleu in Antibes. After all that, he had managed less than two minutes on the job. She calculated how much she had made. On top of a free evening out, it came to eight hundred euros. Four for her, four for Léo.
