A Death in Time, page 32
‘I suppose so.’
‘Look, why not come to Cambridge for a while? It’s only a two-hour flight to Stansted. Three-quarters of an hour in a cab and you’re in the city.’
‘And drag the press core and the media along with me?’ Zoë looked fully switched on for the first time in hours. ‘Bless you but no. When it’s all over, then I’ll come. Not before.’
‘Sue’s going to videocall me in about twenty minutes or so.’
‘Give her my love.’
The women embraced, declared their love for one another, and drifted away to their beds.
A sound like a boxer punching a speedball served as Sue’s walk-on music. ‘I have never been so happy to see you, sweetie,’ she said, for once her words and mouth movements in perfect synch. ‘Oh God you look terrible.’
‘You don’t. You look beautiful.’
Tears once more, and not the kind that ended with both parties laughing at how silly and dramatic it all was.
‘You in bed?’
‘Yes, but let’s forget this weird place. I need grounding. Show me our place. Maybe just the living room. Every little corner.’
On her screen, the image of Sue and the scene behind her swayed up and away and suddenly it was there – the four walls Inès had come to know and love more than any other. It wasn’t until the tour was drawing to a close that she realised something precious was missing.
‘Where’s the photo? The one of you with your arm around your hero? Alan What’s-His-Name?’
‘Shearer? In the bedroom. You have to take what you can get in a crisis, pet.’
Inès smiled. It was small. But it was a smile. The world was still there, wasn’t it? And her funny, gorgeous, talented lover was right there in the centre of it. The final reveal of the tour proved to be the highlight. Opened out on the piano was a score annotated in Sue’s hand and although Inès herself hadn’t the faintest interest in music, the sight moved her.
‘What’s the piece you’re working on?’
If Sue was startled by the question, she hid it.
‘It’s Debussy. His First Arabesque. I’m arranging it for a small chamber group from Trinity. Early days but it sounds bangin’ so far.’
‘That’s wonderful. And thank you for understanding me so well.’
‘Innie, if not me, then who?’
‘Turn it round – the tablet. I want you back.’
It was done but nothing was said immediately.
‘Shall we talk about it?’
Inès nodded. ‘So… I can’t believe I’m saying this but it does look as if it was my father who murdered the young woman.’ She set out the evidence as she saw it, concluding with a summary of both the form and content of the televised press conference.
‘And is he still denying he was having an affair with her?’
‘When the police came to arrest him, do you know what he shouted as they dragged him away?’
‘Tell me.’
‘ “How could I have killed Samira? She was the love of my life! I worshipped her!” I can’t recall the exact wording that one of the officers – a foxy individual with a shock of extraordinary red hair – came out with but it was something like: “Pity she wanted shot of you, then.” And of course, that is what got her killed. My father couldn’t have her. He is a man used to bending everything and everyone to his will. He couldn’t handle the rejection.’
‘But to murder someone over it? It’s mad.’
‘He is mad, Sue.’
‘How is Zoë taking all this?’
‘She feels destroyed by the whole thing. And of course, she’s going to be pitied now on top of everything else, isn’t she? The woman who couldn’t keep her man interested to the extent that he did that.’
‘Is she capable of telling people to fuck right off?’
‘Oh, she can fly off the handle at times, and keep right on going. But over this? It’s too tragic, I think.’
‘You know we should invite her here. Soon. Straightaway, if you want.’
‘Bless you. As and when, she says. Thinking of us, actually. The media, and so on.’
‘That’s sweet.’ Sue looked as if she had something to add but couldn’t quite voice it. But she was a Geordie, after all. ‘Innie, in your mind, is there even the slightest doubt that your father is the one? The murderer, I mean?’
‘I’ve thought about it, of course. It seems that Samira was a honeypot around which a lot of bees were swarming. With their stings well and truly up, to labour the analogy. But quite apart from my father’s sick psyche, there’s a lot of incontrovertible technical evidence against him, too, apparently.’
‘I see.’
‘Oh, I nearly forgot. In all this weirdness, there’s a – what do you call it – a humdinger of a sidebar to this morning’s arrest.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, the officer in charge is named Paul Darac. That ring a jazzy bell?’
‘Paul Darac? No!’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s the guitarist in the band I’m looking forward to seeing at the club soon.’
‘I said it was a humdinger.’
‘That’s crazy. Unbe-cocking-lievable.’ Sue let the thought sink in a moment. ‘Actually, I’ve become a quite a fan of Monsieur Darac’s band. They’re great listeners. To each other, I mean. But it’s the way they manage to be tight yet loose at the same time that’s most interesting. I’d like to talk to the bandleader about it – Didier Musso, the pianist.’
‘Well, you’ll get your chance, Sue. I should think.’
FIFTY-SIX
Picture the scene! Picture it exactly!’
But all Cassie could picture was a man writhing in his death throes. And blood. Blood dripping, pouring, spurting, soaking the stair carpet. Blood everywhere.
‘Carmen! Pull yourself together and pay attention!’
She couldn’t help it. She was still in shock. She had never seen a man killed before. Killed? Executed. Butchered. Is this how he had killed Dédé? Butchered her? At Port Lympia, Cassie had realised that when she was of no further use to him, he’d kill her, too. And now she had actually witnessed him kill the cop – one who wouldn’t have appeared if she hadn’t allowed herself to be followed to the meeting place – that was another reason to kill her. So she must still be essential to his plan, mustn’t she? It made her feel a little better.
‘I… I’m sorry. I’ll do better.’
‘Forget about that snoop, alright? Police radio was cold. Not a word to or about him. So they don’t know what happened or even where he was. His phone was switched off, too. Now it’s in a drain nowhere near the place. Got all that? We’re in the clear. So pay attention!’
‘Yes, right.’
‘Good. Let’s warm up again. What’s your name? Come on!’
‘Noëmi.’
‘Noëmi What?’
‘Noëmi Tardelli.’
‘Husband’s true name?’
‘Jean-Pierre.’
‘Known as?’
‘Armani.’
‘Why?’
‘He likes fashion.’
‘Where was he born?’
‘Nice.’
‘Which football team does he support?’
‘Uh… The one from Turin.’
‘There are two teams there. Which one?’
‘Ju… Ventus. Juventus.’
‘Why does he support them?’
‘Because his father’s family comes from Turin and he really hates the other team from there.’
‘Back to the new plan now. And you’d really better pay attention now, Carmen. Because we go tomorrow. Got that? Tomorrow, we do it.’
Cassie shuddered at the thought of it.
‘I said, have you got that?’
Wednesday, March 19th
FIFTY-SEVEN
Yes indeed – Zoë Laborde’s piece is interesting,’ Frankie said, slipping a wad of A4 pages back into their folder. ‘And I can certainly see what Erica meant by “sobering” .’
‘I’ll have a look at it myself, later.’ Darac joined Frankie at the breakfast table. ‘Loved last night,’ he said, setting down her mint tea. ‘Obviously.’
‘I’m glad to hear that, sweetie.’
‘And now, having the time just to chat and do things without breaking off to change a nappy or whatever? It makes life easier, I suppose, in a sense. And it’s… not empty, of course, but it is really strange not having Lily here with us this morning.’
‘Isn’t it? It’s not just anxiety, either. We know she’s being beautifully looked after by people who love her and know what they’re doing. Well, Chantal does.’
Darac grinned. ‘And it’s not the lack of spending time with Lily, per se. If this were a normal working day for us both, we would be handing her over to the likes of the wonderful Mariette shortly and wouldn’t be seeing her again until the early evening, probably.’
‘That’s true. I’m sure it’s good for her, you know. Ideal, in fact – to be cared for by two loving parents and a coterie of loving surrogates stepping in when needed.’
‘Studies do show that, I think. When are you hooking up with Chantal?’
‘Noon.’
‘Excellent.’
He picked up his work bag. ‘OK, I’m off.’
‘Good luck with Laborde this morning. You one hundred percent sure he’s guilty, by the way?’
‘As Agnès says, “a hundred’s a big number” isn’t it? And along with Granot, I don’t much like one aspect of the case against him. But I’d need a hell of a lot of convincing it wasn’t him. The guilty evidence is just too strong. Anyway, see you both later.’
‘Don’t forget this.’ Frankie handed over the folder. ‘I promised Erica.’
The couple embraced and Darac had reached the apartment door when Frankie said: ‘So, shall we have a few more?’
‘A few more what?’
‘Kids, of course.’
‘There’s a thought,’ he said, as if it had never occurred to him that such a thing were possible. ‘How can I put it best? You know Kenny Barron’s duo album with Dave Holland, The Art of Conversation?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Take it from me it’s a glorious, perfectly formed thing. For Kenny and Dave, read Paul and Frankie – right? Now consider their Without Deception album. It’s Kenny and Dave again but with the addition of Johnathan Blake, for whose rhythmical majesty, read Lily.’
‘Ri-ight.’
‘Now, did adding Johnathan’s drums bring much to the Kenny-Dave party? Of course, but mainly, it just made the magic happen in a different way. Kenny and Dave were perfectly wonderful all by themselves. With Jonathan they were no more or less wonderful, but they were different.’
‘That’s rather lovely and it makes me realise I should have phrased the question differently. How do you fancy adding a few players to our band?’
‘Hmm… What do you reckon? Make it a quintet eventually?’
‘As long as it’s not a quintet along the number-without-end lines of the DMQ, I think it could work out.’
‘You’re on. We’ll allocate the instruments later.’
Darac’s mobile was already buzzing in his pocket and with duty literally calling, he blew a gotta-go kiss and closed the door behind him. Frankie had set aside the morning to think seriously about the “quick word” Agnès had had with her following last evening’s team meeting but as she returned to her tea, her mood of playful contentment was keeping things light. A moment later, the door opened and still clutching his mobile, Darac reappeared. ‘I forgot to ask. Agnès – what did she want to see you about last night?’
Frankie mimed concern for Darac’s call.
‘It’s just Didier.’
‘Oh.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘Alright. Love to Chantal.’
Darac was gone for a second time and what looked set to be a momentous day was finally underway.
FIFTY-EIGHT
On the bandstand, Darac was such a daringly inventive improvisor that it frequently struck bandmates and friends alike that his propensity to follow set patterns in almost every other avenue of his life was, well… strange. His usual response was to say that if you wanted to fly, first you needed the ground, didn’t you? He had no comparable explanation for a rather more mundane trait: his tendency to notice how long it took to accomplish repetitive, routine tasks. His daily commute to work was a case in point. Unless he ran into his neighbour Suzanne with time to talk – a rarity for them both in the mornings – or his wine merchant chum Denis Martini breakfasting al fresco somewhere en route – far more likely – it usually took Darac seven minutes to walk his preferred route from the apartment through the old town to his below-ground space in the Promenade des Arts car park. As queues for the exit were usually short at that time in the morning, he was invariably back up on the street within four minutes. Some flexibility in route selection was then required but depending on traffic conditions, the Caserne was typically a ten-minute drive away, a journey he almost always set to music.
This morning had proved an exception. As Darac reversed into his designated space, he hadn’t listened to a note: he was still chatting to Didier on his mobile.
‘Hang on, Didi – I’ve arrived at work. Just grab my bag.’
With the forecaster’s prediction of sunshine and showers so far only half right, Darac kept his shades on as, exchanging greetings with those coming on and off shift, he made his way to the Brigade’s Building D. ‘So it was Luc who had the Mingus scores?’
‘True to form.’
‘There’s a good piece focussing mainly on him in this month’s Jazz Beat, by the way.’
‘On Luc?’
‘On Mingus, you chump. It questions whether bassists tend to favour compositional approaches that stress the harmonic over the melodic.’
‘Interesting. Pass that on, would you?’
‘If you’re in the vicinity, I’ve got it in my bag now.’
‘Tomorrow night’s gig will be soon enough. And speaking of The Blue Devil…’
‘Just a sec, Didi. And to you… Both on lovely form, thanks… Sorry, carry on.’
‘Our gig. With the usual rider, how free are you likely to be?’
‘Could be tricky.’
Darac found Granot ruminating grumpily at his desk.
‘Before you ask, breakfast was once more not to my liking.’
‘I sensed that.’
‘I don’t know which geniuses dreamed up the so-called foodstuff named Cranberry Crunch but I’d like to get them in the interview room.’
The question of “stunt cereals” was debated for a good five minutes.
‘Before we put out an APB for those responsible, anything from Path overnight?
‘No but Map’s due to ring later. Once we’ve got the DNA match for Cragnat and Medot’s killer, we’ll be well underway.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Laborde?’
‘What about him?’
‘Overall, I agree with you that he probably is guilty of Samira’s murder. He’s proving impressively sticky despite everything you and Bonbon have got on him, though, isn’t he? Typical of sporting types. I love the likes of say, Franck Ribéry, but can you imagine trying to break him down?’
‘As I’m sure you realise, I’m not familiar with the work of Monsieur Ribéry but I’ll take your word for it. Time will tell. Later, man.’
Bonbon was already in situ in Darac’s office.
‘Lieutenant Busquet? Paul Darac, Brigade Criminelle. Nice to meet you.’
‘Morning, chief.’
‘Any news?’
‘Haven’t heard anything from below so I don’t think Laborde decided to save us all a lot of bother and confess, overnight.’
‘Pity.’ He indicated his trusty Gaggia machine. ‘Let’s have a couple of doubles while we review where we’ve got to and work out how we’re going to crack the bastard.’ He set down his bag by the desk. ‘And I say that with all due disrespect.’
Coffees were made and consumed; key elements of Laborde’s story were re-scrutinised; and new plans and ploys to spice up the interrogation were thrashed out. It was while Bonbon absented himself on an errand that Darac opened his bag and took out what was in some ways an unusual piece of evidence – a document written by the wife of a prime suspect in a murder enquiry which, by dint of the multifarious technical data generated by the process of its creation, established with absolute certainty the writer’s own innocence. And although under the circumstances there seemed no need of it, the data also served to corroborate Inès Laborde’s account of her mother’s movements on the evening.
Encouraged by Frankie’s and Erica’s reactions to Zoë’s piece, Darac had meant to read it himself but hadn’t found the time. Now seemed the perfect moment to check out a page or two. No slouch when it came to naming his own compositions for the DMQ, Darac’s first thought was to compliment whoever had come up with the punchy and resonant title Boss Women for a compendium work on its subject. Zoë’s contribution began well…
Zoë Laborde
Founder and Managing Director of Zed-Elle Computer Services
My business card says it all. I’m female and I run my own company. Just to underline those two points, there’s a clue in the phoneticized spelling of the initials which form my company’s name. Crystal clear, isn’t it? One would think so. But think again, everyone. New clients arranging a home call still occasionally ask me when Monsieur Laborde might be available to fix their problem. Considering my husband’s greatest IT triumph remains mastering the steps necessary to send text messages, such requests have been known to make me LOL!
