A Death in Time, page 33
I have occasionally asked the doubters if they had noticed that mine is the sole name on the company’s masthead. Most reply that they thought some sort of tax dodge was behind it. How telling is that? And if it strikes you as disappointing that anyone should make such a regressive assumption in this day and age, I agree. But I must also report witnessing at least some improvements in this area over time.
It’s almost fifteen years since I decided to leave my position as the only female computer science-trained manager employed in one of Nice’s most successful IT companies. Had I received a better offer elsewhere? No. Indeed, when I left the firm in question, I had no other job to go to. Married and with an 11 year-old child in school, I knew that if I could make it work, running my own business would provide the perfect solution to the problems I had been experiencing both in and away from the workplace. I had no illusions that going it alone wouldn’t be a tough hill to climb. But tough hills had never beaten me in my VTT days. And I was determined they weren’t going to beat me now.
But let’s rewind a little. Why did I so want to strike out on my own? First and foremost, I needed to repair myself but I don’t mean that in a physical sense. Working the long hours increasingly expected of technical managers in my field had not worn me down as it had some of my male colleagues. My problems fell into four categories: ethical, logistical, cultural, and last but by no means least, sexual.
Let’s look at ethics first. From embracing turnover-driven methodologies that inevitably vitiated the quality of work I could produce, to recommending expensive and unnecessary upgrades to clients, I had over time perpetuated any number of sub-ethical working practices. In talking with my child one day, it hit me just what a corporate mule I had become and it sickened me. That was one turning point. As was discovering that although I was one of the higher-grade “techies” in the company, I was working for only a medium-grade salary.
As to logistics, any working woman with children will be familiar…
Darac’s heart sank. He shook his head. Shit! Everything he and Bonbon had so carefully put together on the case so far had just gone out of the window. Flown out of it, in fact. Flown first class one-way and was almost certainly not coming back. He took a moment to compose himself, then picked up the phone.
‘Morning, Erica. Have you got Zoë Laborde’s laptop out on your bench?’
‘No, but it’s still here. Why?’
‘I need to come over and check a couple of text files – the original of the piece you printed out being one of them.’ He could picture Erica’s raised right eyebrow. ‘Not checking on your work, obviously.’
‘Good to hear but I’m not infallible, you know. Can’t believe I said that! Anyway, I’ll get it ready for you. Five minutes?’
‘Five it is.’
Darac ended the call and he was already finishing another when Bonbon walked back into the office.
‘So, Laborde time, chief?’
‘No. Erica time. I’ll tell you why when we get there.’
FIFTY-NINE
Erica was on the phone when Darac and Bonbon strode into the lab. Mouthing “Agnès,” the news didn’t appear to be good. There were a number of devices undergoing investigation on the bench but only one laptop had its lid open. Erica’s eyes swivelled to it and an exchange of looks confirmed it was Zoë Laborde’s laptop. ‘Yes, they’re here now. Would you like a word?’ She listened. ‘OK, I’ll pass that straight on. Uh-huh? Yes, I’ll get back to you soonest.’
The call ended, Erica was already tapping in another number. ‘Worrying news,’ she said, cupping the phone’s mouthpiece. ‘Alain Terrevaste hasn’t turned up for today’s final shift on the Place Wilson surveillance. One of the guys he was supposed to be working with rang Terrevaste’s wife. He hasn’t been home since yesterday. She assumed he’d been on a night job and hadn’t bothered to call. Not unusual, that, she reports.’
‘When was he heard from last?’
‘Late yesterday afternoon. As to where he was when his phone shut down, I’m just going to sort out a fix but there’s a complication. For reasons best known to himself, he always had his GPS disabled, apparently.’
‘Watchers always hate the thought of being watched themselves,’ Bonbon said.
‘So we’ll be on triangulation,’ Erica made a moue. ‘Nowhere near as precise.’ The Caserne’s queen of all things digital gave her phone a very analogue shake. ‘Come on, answer for God’s sake!’
‘The guys are continuing the surveillance without him?’ Darac said.
‘Yes. Armani’s off today but Agnès has already let him know. Noëmi’s off too, by the way.’
‘Both of those things are a comfort.’ He indicated the laptop. ‘Sorry – how do I get in?’
‘I’ve neutered the ID. Press any of the number keys and the file you mentioned will appear. You’ll find other text files in the documents folder.’
‘Excellent.’ As the Boss Women piece pinged into view on the screen, Erica’s call was picked up and she left them to it.
‘The Invisible Man, missing?’ Bonbon said, looking concerned. ‘It could be nothing, of course.’
Darac shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. Terrevaste not calling his wife may be his usual practice; not signing on for his shift is not like him at all.’
‘Agreed.’ Bonbon turned his attention to the laptop screen. ‘What are we looking at here?’
SIXTY
Occupying a shady site on the banks of the Loup a few kilometres to the west of Vence, the perfume house of Maison Darac was very much a boutique operation. And if its weekly tour and taster sessions could not match the scale of those offered by the behemoth houses that had built the nearby city of Grasse, visitors invariably found the personal touch with which they were conducted made for a far richer experience.
For Martin Darac, no experience in his life could have felt richer than taking his granddaughter on a tour of the perfumery his remarkable talent as a “Nose” had created from nothing. If Lily was impressed by the Maison’s state-of-the-art solvent extraction drums and enfleurage frames, she kept it to herself but being introduced to her grandfather’s 12 full-time employees, many of whom had been with him from the beginning, proved a different story. In short, little Lily was a big hit with everyone and Martin sensed that in some inchoate way, she appeared to realise it.
As the visit drew to a close, Martin’s Head of Sales and Marketing, Joséphine, spoke for them all. ‘You’re not taking her away already?’ The follow-up was an invention of her own. ‘She hasn’t signed up for the newsletter yet, for one thing.’
‘Sorry, Fifi. I need to whisk her back to Chantal. She’s due to set off to Frankie’s by 11 o’clock and before you say it’s only 9.30, preparing to ferry babies around these days takes forever.’
‘Just the Q.A. form, then.’
At various times in his life, Martin had been described as a true romantic, a starry-eyed dreamer, and as a boy who never really grew up. Perhaps the truth lay somewhere in between. Whether it did or not, he drove away from the perfumery entertaining the thought that one day, it might be granddaughter Lily who took over the business that had never interested his son. Who knew? It could happen.
Slanting sunshine after spring rain brought a particular magic to the wooded landscape flanking the Route de Vence: buds breaking on branches glimpsed through steamy mists; birdsong carried on warm currents of air up into its feathery canopy; tiny creatures parting leaves and cracking twigs as they scuttled unseen through the undergrowth. But as the greenery began to thin out and drifts of apartment blocks began to appear in the distance, the landscape opening up all around was no less inspiring. Ahead, its rocky summit the shape of a raised eyebrow, the Baou des Blancs was the first of three peaks standing as gatekeepers to the higher ground to the north. Away to the right, the walls of Vence formed a ligature of stone tight as a tourniquet around the medieval heart of the city. Vence had been home to Martin all his adult life. And what a life it was continuing to be.
Sandrine came into his mind at that moment. Lord, wouldn’t she have loved her granddaughter? Loved her every bit as much as she had loved Paul. Martin felt overcome suddenly but he told himself to snap out of it. Sandrine had died 26 years ago. The here and now. And the future. They were what mattered most.
‘Almost home, darling,’ he announced, taking the fork signed to St Jeannet and La Gaude. He glanced at Lily in the rear-view mirror and what he saw jolted him with such force, he lost all connection with the here and now. It can’t be happening. It can’t! A car beeped behind. Providence intervened – a one-vehicle wide chevroned area for parking appeared on Martin’s nearside. He braked hard and jinked into the rearmost space. Horn blaring, the car behind roared past. He looked again, not so much at but into the mirror and there was Sandrine sitting alongside Lily, smiling happily, stroking her foot, kissing her forehead. Martin turned quickly around. Lily gurgled, happy to see him. She was quite alone. He turned off the engine and, slumping on to the steering wheel, tried to make sense of what had just happened before he got out of the car and joined Lily on the back seat.
At the house, Chantal appeared to be well on schedule for Lily’s return home. The baby herself was fast asleep.
‘Ah, Martin.’ She made an almost comically sympathetic moue. ‘You’re all overcome, aren’t you? So did they coo over her? Of course, they did. Silly question.’
‘Oh, yes. Lily was a huge hit.’ He handed her over. ‘There.’
‘As you’re heading straight back to the perfumery…’
‘Uh, no, actually. Changed my mind. I’ll go in later.’
‘Oh, alright.’ She looked him up and down. ‘You know, you don’t have much colour. Feeling alright, sweetheart?’
‘Never better.’
Lily began to stir.
‘If you say so.’
‘I do.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Still a good hour before you’re off. But I may as well transfer the baby seat now. Then it’s done.’
‘We should put one in both our cars, you know. Make life easier.’
He kissed her cheek.
‘It would. But in the meantime…’
He went back out on to the drive still coming to terms with the trick his imagination had played on him earlier. Resisting the temptation to jet sudden glances all around him, he opened the rear door of his car and got on with the job in hand.
SIXTY-ONE
He had seen this man before. Seen him on the day that had changed everything for him.
‘You’ve been mainly useless Carmen,’ he said, concentrating on keeping the rubber eyepiece hoods of the binoculars a cigarette paper’s width away from his eye sockets. ‘But at least you attached the magnetic trackers where I said.’
‘I always do what you tell me.’
‘And you did clear everything out of the place?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you take it?’
‘Where you told me.’
‘Where? I said.’
‘The dumpster on Beaumont. Opposite the second-hand shop.’
‘Good. You’ve earned a reward.’
Cassie didn’t have the stomach to enquire what his idea of a reward might be. She had prayed this might be the last day she would have to rub ointment over the parts of his body he couldn’t reach, a procedure that despite the pain the bastard was in frequently aroused him. Not having to go through all that again– now that would be a reward.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice pitched right up. And it sounded trembly. He hated weakness in any form. It scared him. It made him want to lash out. But he hated shows of defiance, too. You had to obey in just the right way, without making any kind of fuss; obey until an opportunity presented itself that you might just be able to exploit. She had blown one of those opportunities the previous day. All that blood? She just couldn’t bring herself to stab him. Anyway, what were the chances of her getting away with his murder? But there wouldn’t be many more chances. And there wouldn’t be any more if she ceased to be needed.
Yesterday had been a near thing, Cassie reflected. At the time, she thanked God for the car radio he’d had adapted to listen in to the police mobile control unit. If he hadn’t needed to check immediately if the police were in contact with the officer he’d killed, he wouldn’t have shot off, leaving her to gather her thoughts alone. Now, every time the radio beeped, her heart missed a beat.
In the passenger seat, he winced and caught his breath. He was in pain. Good. Die, you bastard. But he would never die, would he? Never.
‘In case you’re wondering, I still need you. ‘That is your reward.’
SIXTY-TWO
Erica had pinpointed Terrevaste’s last known location as precisely as she could and if it had been in open countryside, finding traces of the man would have been relatively easy. Approximately two square kilometres of four and five-storey city blocks presented an altogether more difficult challenge. The search team Agnès had put together under Granot was made up of experienced officers but for most of them, showing residents and passers-by a photo of a man dubbed “invisible” and asking if they had seen him was a thankless task.
Serge Paulin had a more positive take on things. ‘You know, Tee-Vee is going to go nuts when he finds out we’ve been blowing his cover all over Riquier.’
‘I love your optimism,’ Farid said, as they turned the corner into rue Scallero. ‘I guess that’s what comes of playing on the wing, does it?’
‘Hoping someone’s going to pass to you, you mean? When did you last see a rugby match? We wingers have to go looking for the ball these days.’
‘Sounds like hard work.’
‘No, not really but I take your point about our man. Out-of-character behaviour for a bloke like him isn’t exactly hopeful.’
They had arrived at the foot of a smart-looking four-storey block with a row of commercial properties underneath.
‘Is this number…? Yes, it is. Alternate doors, then, Serge.’
Sweeping the parallel rue Smollet, Granot and his ad-hoc team had not had the slightest sniff of a lead so far. But each of them knew that just one observant, serendipitously placed, or just plain nosey person was all it might take to change things. And that person might be the very next one they approached. Failing that, the flyers they were posting through doors and attaching to lampposts and the like might yield something.
Across the street, Granot’s eye was taken by the entrance to rue de la Malonnière. It was just the sort of glorified alleyway in which anyone could go missing. ‘Kaz?’
‘Yes, Lieutenant?’
‘You carry on along here. I’m going to head up there. Let Bertrand know when he comes out of the building, will you?’
‘Will do, Lieutenant.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’
SIXTY-THREE
Three members of the Laborde family were now helping police with their enquiries at the Caserne. Following his Damascene moment earlier, Darac had decided to leave Gilles Laborde in the cells and re-open proceedings with daughter Inès. Meanwhile, back in La Ginistière, forensic teams were already subjecting the family’s villa to a searching examination of their own.
‘Doctor, you are certain you do not wish to have a lawyer present?’
‘None is necessary. And do please get on with your questions. Neither my mother nor I have the vaguest idea why you have brought us here. You have my… You have the killer in custody already, after all.’
‘You genuinely have no idea why you’re here?’
‘No. We have already made complete statements. You and Officer Flaco here took them. I can’t think of anything to add to what we already told you.’
‘One thing would be the truth about how you and your mother spent the evening of Monday, March 17th.’
Inès froze. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Quite apart from our statements, your IT people have tested everything fully and I’m sure it all checked out.’
Darac set down a document on the desk.
‘I take it you recognise this? It’s a photocopy of a prose piece which your mother told us she had spent a couple of hours typing up on the evening in question – a transcription of an audio recording she had made of her thoughts on the subject of women in business.’
Inès no more than glanced at the top page. ‘Haven’t actually read it but we’ve talked about it, certainly.’
‘It’s an interesting piece. Well written, too, we all think. Would you be kind enough to look at it more carefully? Just the first couple of paragraphs will do.’
Her brows lowering in puzzlement, Inès began reading:
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!
I have occasionally asked the doubters if they had noticed that mine is the sole name on the company’s masthead. Most reply that they thought some sort of tax dodge was behind it. How telling is that? And if it strikes you as disappointing that anyone should make such a regressive assumption in this day and age, I agree. But I must also report witnessing at least some improvements in this area over time.
Inès sat back. ‘As I said, I’ve never read it before but I recognise it as the way my mother writes. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to have noticed.’
