Babazouk Blues, page 31
It hit Darac that for the first time he could remember, no music was playing in the room. It was a lonely sound. It might be lonelier still when the sizeable financial penalties Ridge faced started hitting him. Fighting closure was a daily reality for most jazz club owners. The Blue Devil, the only club like it left on the Côte d’Azur, had itself been dark at various times in its sixty-year history, sometimes for months on end. In the almost thirty years Ridge had been at the helm, though, it hadn’t missed a week. What now?
‘Get your jacket. Has Pascal got keys to the place?’
‘Yes he has but… I was hoping to be back later.’
‘Possible but unlikely.’
Ridge looked steadily into Darac’s eyes. ‘And tomorrow? I don’t want to miss your opening number.’
Darac didn’t know how he felt about it. Did he even want to play for Ridge again? Hadn’t their bond of trust been shattered? But then he thought of Rama. Darac hadn’t trusted Ridge with news of the boy’s true fate or trusted any of the members of the quintet, come to that. There was just too much going on to make any definitive judgements. ‘I won’t be joining the band tomorrow; that much is certain. I’m playing like shit, anyway. Get your jacket.’
On their way out, they hesitated as they passed under the poster but neither could face confronting Jeanne. Gaining the pavement, Ridge closed a hand around Darac’s forearm.
‘There’s one mercy. It was better she died with me than with that butcher Voska.’
The raft of emotions taking a white-water ride through Darac’s head took another jolt. ‘Yes. It was.’ They got into Darac’s Peugeot but he didn’t drive away immediately. ‘I wasn’t planning on telling you this yet but our young friend Rama? He’s still alive.’
‘He is?’ Ridge closed his eyes. ‘Thank the Lord.’
Turning the ignition fired the Ellington orchestra into orbit. Ridge lowered his head into his hands and wept once more.
48
It promised to be a different style of squad meeting but, first, Darac needed to get an unlikely ally on board.
‘Barrau? Darac.’
‘Dr Barrau speaking.’
Good start. Across the desk, Granot rolled his eyes.
‘Doctor, of course. I’d be grateful for your assistance with something. It’s about your autopsy report on Madame Jeanne Mesnel. The question of the sexual encounter.’
‘Ye-es?’
‘Finding slight tearing in the vagina, you concluded that sex had been non-consensual. But might consensual sex have caused similar effects in a woman of her age?’
‘Lovers, Captain, do not tend to kill their partners, fail to report the death and then remove all signs of their presence at the scene. A rapist might well do that, mightn’t he?’
‘Doctor, Madame Mesnel was seventy-one years of age, yes? And so, might—’
‘Yes, she was seventy-one and had not, in my estimation, experienced penetration in some years. In perilous health latterly, it seems unlikely that she would have chosen a cold January day to rekindle a long-dormant interest in sex and do so outdoors. Weighing all the evidence, is it not reasonable to conclude that she was raped?’
A misanthrope and a prude, Barrau couldn’t imagine any older person engaging freely in sex, Darac believed, and it had skewed his judgement. ‘Reasonable, perhaps.’ Knowing he didn’t entirely have Granot’s backing in what he was doing, Darac kept his eyes on the big man. ‘But based solely on the condition of Madame Mesnel’s body, is it forensically possible that sex was consensual?’
‘Forensically possible, of course. But the point of this is what?’
‘Just wrapping up the case, Doctor.’
Darac hung up, pressed stop on his digital recorder and played back the conversation.
‘Working for the defence now.’ Granot’s forehead buckled like a car’s crumple zone. ‘It takes Paul Darac, Maverick Flic to a whole new level.’
Darac copied the file to his mobile. ‘Our job is to gather evidence. We gathered it.’
‘Considering all the trouble that Monsieur Eldridge Clay has caused us, you’re very forgiving. Not to say indulgent. Not to say—’
‘Well don’t say it. Ridge is a good man, Granot. He was completely misguided in what he did but he’s paying for it, believe me.’
Granot shrugged. ‘How did Frènes respond to your glowing testimonial for him?’
‘He said he’d take it on board.’ Darac glanced at his watch. ‘The interrogation should be over. I had a word with the custodial at the break. Frènes seemed to be leaning in Ridge’s favour, he thought.’
‘Could’ve been a tactic. We do it all the time.’
‘Maybe, but he hasn’t heard Barrau’s inadvertent testimony yet.’ Feeling slightly better about things, Darac slipped his mobile into his pocket and stood. ‘Shall we?’
Like a derrick lifting a roped cargo, Granot gathered his bulk and hoisted himself on to his feet. Before he got underway, a printer in the corner of the office began spitting out a document. A panel light indicated it was an incoming fax.
‘Hold it, Granot, I’ve been waiting for this. It’s from your mate Dubroqua.’ Darac’s voice trailed off as he scanned the document. ‘Or rather from Cécile, his secretary…’ Feeling a surge of energy release up his spine, he gave the air a stiff uppercut. ‘This is it! The last link in the chain.’ He handed it over. ‘One of the chains, anyway.’
A sort of proud certainty lit up Granot’s eyes as he read. ‘Don’t you just love our country? Eh? Vive le dossier!’
‘For once, I agree.’ Darac put his arm around Granot’s shoulder as they left the office. ‘I’m not going to refer to this in front of Frènes, though, alright? Immediately after the briefing, round up the inner circle. We’ll reconvene back here.’
The briefing had been scheduled for Joinel’s conference room B. Trying to look more confident than he felt, Darac filed in behind Erica and Officer Serge Paulin. There was quite a turnout for the performance. Apart from the place reserved for Frènes, there was scarcely a spare seat in the house. He glanced at his watch.
‘Ready, everyone? I’ve called this meeting partly to clear the air. By now, you should all be au fait with the situation with Monsieur Eldridge Clay. Public Prosecutor Frènes will be joining us shortly but, in the meantime, any questions or comments?’
In the centre of the front row, Malraux seemed perplexed. ‘Yes, Captain, I want to make sure I’ve got it.’ His tight little mouth smiled. ‘So it wasn’t your friend Rama N’Pata who raped the famous Madame Mesnel. It was your friend Monsieur Clay, right?’
Darac could handle criticism. He could handle insubordination. He couldn’t handle small-mindedness. But now wasn’t the time to lose it with Malraux. He dug deep.
‘If you’d read the statement, you would know we now have grounds to question the rape verdict on Madame Mesnel. Dr Barrau himself has just confirmed that possibility. When Monsieur Frènes is apprised of this, I think his inclination toward Monsieur Clay’s position will only be strengthened. But I welcome your question. Yes, Ridge Clay is a friend of mine. And I hope Rama N’Pata might in time become one.’
‘A friend?’ Erica’s forehead was scrunched in disbelief. ‘Sorry, but he—’
Darac looked into her earnest blue eyes. ‘Took part in the Brigitte Andreani sex video? I know. None of us would have done that but none of us knows what it’s like to be in the clutches of someone like Voska.’
Malraux squirmed in his seat. ‘Here we go.’
Flaco raised her hand. ‘Do you think they argued with Voska over his proposed video? Is that why Modibo and Voska fought to the death?’
Darac ran a hand through his hair. ‘Now that there’s better word on the condition of Rama N’Pata, we may yet learn a definitive version, or at least his account of it, but I doubt if they knew anything about Voska’s plan. Romping around with a willing partner like Brigitte is a very different scenario from raping an old lady – however great the coercion on them. I suspect Voska intended to film himself committing the act.’
‘People are capable of anything, though,’ Malraux said. ‘Isn’t that what you believe, Captain? In fact, you did believe your drummer mate might have done it.’
‘Now we know how Madame Mesnel died, we no longer have to consider that.’
Frènes entered the room. With the air of a priest heading to the pulpit, he processed to his place next to Darac and sat down. But not without first touching his pen against the frame of the chair. Conference room B was a highly charged environment.
‘Before we go on, monsieur, I think you should hear this recording of a conversation I had earlier with Dr Barrau.’
As he listened, Frènes absently fingered his cufflinks, a design of chisels set in gold.
‘Thank you for that, Captain. In fact, I had already arrived at the conclusion that sex between Clay and Madame Mesnel might have been consensual.’
‘Excellent. So I take it…’ It was worth a shot. ‘…you’re releasing him?’
Frènes’s forbearance was not an infinite resource. ‘In not coming forward as he should, Clay has cost this department thousands. He will be in custody for two full days. Possibly, a further two.’
As the group dispersed at the conclusion to the meeting, Frènes called Darac aside. ‘While you were following your nose, struggling with your conscience and then following your nose again this morning, I was receiving a reprimand from the Chief Examining Magistrate for the way in which the case has been conducted. A reprimand!’
‘That was uncalled for. I hope you gave him short shrift.’
‘Everything is a source of amusement to you, isn’t it, Captain?’
‘Oh, absolutely everything. Yes indeed.’
Suddenly, Frènes had the look of a general who was about to dispatch a troublesome subordinate to the Front. ‘You won’t find this so amusing. Counterfeit currency is flooding the area. Now the Mesnel case is effectively over—’
‘Forged bills? That’s not for us. Foch can handle it.’
Frènes smiled. ‘I know but I’m assigning the Brigade.’
It was punishment and Darac knew it. He also knew Frènes had the right to assign cases to any unit he saw fit. ‘Alright, monsieur, but it will have to wait. The Mesnel case is far from over. There’s a whole other dimension to it.’
Turning an alarming shade of puce, Frènes jabbed his pen into Darac’s arm. ‘I work on nine, ten cases at once! Has it ever occurred to you that I…?’ As if a circuit had blown in his head, Frènes’s eyes stared and his mouth fell open. When the power came back on, his mood had defaulted to a different setting. ‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur Acting Commissaire. That was indefensible.’
Darac realised he’d been given a break. ‘Forget it, even though what just happened technically constituted an assault.’ He indicated Granot, looking on. ‘An assault in front of witnesses.’ He massaged his arm.
Mugging that he had indeed witnessed the attack, Granot gave a rueful nod.
‘I don’t think I’ll bring charges,’ Darac said. ‘On this occasion.’
Frènes opened his mouth but, recognising that his subordinate was well and truly back from the Front, whatever he was intending to say remained unsaid.
‘Especially,’ Darac went on, ‘if you give me a further twenty-four hours on the Mesnel case. At the end of it, I guarantee we will have something remarkable. The Chief Examining Magistrate, the Head of the Police Commission, the Most Worshipful Club Hammer in the Sacred Order of Masons – everyone will love us for it.’
Frènes chose to ignore the rib. ‘One more day?’
‘And then I’ll get to it.’
‘Alright, but I need to make a start now. Let me have Granot.’
At last, Darac reflected, Frènes was learning; he hadn’t bothered asking him to elaborate on the ‘whole other dimension’ to the case. ‘I need Granot. I could spare Malraux. And perhaps Flaco and Perand eventually. They’re well up to the task.’
Frènes adjusted his tie while he considered it. ‘Very well.’
Darac thanked him and left the briefing room, resolving to go and see Ridge later if there was time. The thought prompted another consideration. He swiped his mobile. ‘Didier? I won’t be able to make the gig but you’re used to doing without me so let’s not worry about it.’
‘You sound stressed.’
‘There’ll be another absentee and this one’s a first.’
Darac led the bandleader through as much of the story as he could squeeze into the trip back to his office. The conversation concluded in the way he knew it would.
‘Will the Blue Devil still exist after all this, Darac?’
‘I sincerely hope so.’
Finding Granot, Bonbon, Flaco and Perand waiting for him in his office, Darac got straight to it.
‘What we’ve got here is not one case but three joined together. Apologies for not realising that sooner. To recap, case one: the death of Jeanne Mesnel. Despite compelling evidence to the contrary, we now know that Voska wasn’t responsible. Case two combines Voska’s murder of Modibo N’Pata; the attempted murder of his brother, Rama; the murder of Brigitte Andreani; and numerous other serious offences including abduction. Case three: the Villa Rose connection. As you know, I was always dubious about Taylor Walters-Halberg’s purchase of the Mesnel property and at various times, we’ve looked into different aspects of it. We’re now within a gnat’s eyelash of solving what is quite a complex case in its own right.’
Bonbon offered his sweet packet to Granot. ‘We’re so good. Sherbet lemon?’
Darac continued. ‘As so often, the breakthrough began with an isolated clue – in fact, not even a clue, just an observation. And you provided it, Bonbon.’
‘Not about the clock? That was a dead end.’
‘No, not the clock. It was you who first noticed that one of Alain’s paintings at the house was ‘Cézanne-like’. Remember?’
‘Yes?’
‘Combined with other details, that observation eventually acquired new significance. I’ll talk you through the sequence.’ He opened his notebook. ‘First, we have an object of fascination locked away in a secret cabinet owned by art historian Philippe de Lambert; we have a Cézanne-like work painted by Alain Mesnel, an electrician who had also painted Lambert’s home patch; we have Lambert vehemently opposing the inclusion of a key work, Woman at Asilah, in an exhibition dedicated to his favourite artist, Matisse; we have Alain and his seamstress wife Jeanne Mesnel buying jazz LPs on a luxury trip to New York in the sixties, the first indication they had come into a lot of unexplained money; we have confirmation from the Musée Granet in Aix that in his faux Cézannes, Alain had successfully imitated the techniques of the master. And finally, we have this.’ He held up the fax. ‘Just received it. It’s a copy of a fifty-year-old job sheet from the Mairie. It reveals that Alain, an electrician, you remember, had rewired the very floor of the Musée Matisse in which Woman at Asilah was hanging.’
‘Vive la France!’ Granot proclaimed, not altogether tongue-in-cheek.
‘And so we arrive back at the object of fascination locked in the secret cabinet. No prizes for guessing that it’s that same work. Lambert commissioned Alain to paint a fake version of Woman at Asilah which, because of his job at the Musée Matisse, Alain was able to substitute for the real thing. Lambert paid Alain for his handiwork and took possession of the masterpiece, which has been living in his secret cabinet ever since. After a quick session with my lock picks, I saw it there today.’
Once the hubbub had eased, Granot teed-up the ‘What next?’ question. ‘We’ve got a problem now, haven’t we?’
‘Better have another sherbet lemon,’ Bonbon said.
The big man took one. ‘Considering the status of Philippe de Lambert, the only way Frènes would grant a warrant to search that cabinet would be if we had incontrovertible, not circumstantial, evidence. The only incontrovertible evidence we have is sitting in the cabinet for which we need the search warrant.’
Perand extended a hand to Bonbon. ‘Two of what he had.’
‘Better take three.’
‘In fact,’ Granot continued, ‘you can’t even mention it to Frènes. The only reason we know the painting is there is because you broke into the place. Once that was established, the case would be thrown out.’
‘You’re right.’ Darac glanced at his watch and then picked up the phone. ‘Fortunately, I have another way into the thing.’ He keyed in a number. ‘Taylor? Just ringing to check you’re on schedule?’
‘For your treat? I certainly am.’
‘I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
49
Philippe de Lambert capped his pen, straightened his cravat and without so much as glancing at his secret cabinet, walked resolutely out of the room. Once out on the terrace, he passed between the ranks of statuary as deliberately as a general inspecting his troops. There was even time to stand and look at the view, but after a moment he understood why he so rarely did that any more. His eyes were not as they once were and nothing looked clear. Returning to what seemed very clear to him, he took a deep breath and continued on his way.
* * *
Trusting his team to leave no stone unturned, Darac had assigned a range of tasks to Granot and the others before he had taken his leave.
He had another great team player along for the ride. Hank Jones began to open out on ‘Bluebird’ just as Darac swung on to Avenue Denis Seméria and began following its sweeping curves up on to the lush crest of Cap Ferrat. Above the green-tiled roof of one of the Cap’s most spectacular mansions, he turned and took the narrow leafy lane that wound up to the main entrance of Villa Rose.
Nearing the top, a beige Citroën seemed to speed up as Darac’s Peugeot came around the bend toward it. He made eye contact with the Citroën’s driver. It wasn’t, was it? Yes, it was Cristelle. He lost control, suddenly, slamming on the brakes. The Peugeot skidded on the loose surface, its nearside offering itself broadside to the inevitable collision. Somehow, the Citröen slipped past. Darac watched as it slid, wheels locked, toward the retaining wall flanking the villa’s gardens. Closer. Closer still. He held his breath. And then let it out: the Citroën had stopped, juddering to a halt just shy of the stonework. For a moment, the two drivers did nothing, then Cristelle restarted her engine, reversed a few metres and got out. She was wearing a caramel-coloured trouser suit, the sort of outfit Taylor might have worn for a meeting. Darac wondered what business she had at Villa Rose as he got out of his car. Giving Taylor grief over buying her grandmother’s house? But unless the solicitor had spoken out of turn, she couldn’t have known the identity of the buyer.
