Babazouk Blues, page 37
‘For God’s sake, tell me you’re not serious.’
‘I wish I could.’
‘He cycled all the way from Marseille?’
‘In two day-long stages. On the Thursday, when he jumped you, he’d ridden in from Draguignan where he kept a couple of rooms. And it looks as if it was there that he spent the night after his bloody encounter with the N’Pata brothers. It was also from there that he rode incognito to Beaulieu and back, in order to murder Brigitte Andreani. And then he drove to Aix where things got more complicated for him, for Lieutenant Henri Clerc, and for a young mother called Alicia Simon.’
‘Just a minute. Draguignan must be eighty-odd kilometres from here. Marseille further still. How did he complete all those journeys unseen? He wore an invisibility cape?’
‘Just the opposite. Under that black skin suit he had on, he was wearing a complete pro-cycling outfit. Garish pink and blue. You could see it for kilometres.’
‘Jesus Christ. What is it with this country and fucking bicycles?’
‘He was so ludicrously visible and he so looked the part, nobody thought to—’
‘“Nobody thought to.” There’s been far too much of that in this case.’ Granot gave him a look. ‘I’m including myself in that. If I’d picked up Berthe Lepic’s use of the word “ambulant”, obviously a medical term, we might have got to the stunt she pulled at the hospital sooner.’
‘Rubbish. Alright, we never asked her what kind of work she did but she could have picked the word up watching hospital dramas on TV.’
‘Let’s move on. What’s been the outcome for Malraux?’
‘He’s going to be decorated.’
‘Good.’
Nothing was said for a moment, then Granot decided he’d waited long enough.
‘Haven’t I always predicted this would happen? Eh? I’ve told you time and time again that it’s too dangerous for a flic to live in the Babazouk. Haven’t I? And so has Bonbon.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Move out! And here’s a final thought for you. Take that Suzanne with you. She’s sexy, caring, bright. Everybody thinks she’d be perfect for you. Why look any further?’
Granot the matchmaker. If it didn’t hurt to laugh, Darac would have been in pieces.
‘She’s a friend. And I’m very fond of her. But that’s all.’
‘At the moment.’
‘She was a mate of Angeline’s, anyway.’
‘And that disqualifies her?’
‘I think it disqualifies me.’
* * *
‘Don’t get up.’
‘Suzanne. Great to see you.’
The woman’s cheery disposition was therapy in itself.
‘Just a flying visit, I’m on my way to Endoscopy. You’re doing very well, I hear.’
‘I hear that too. And a lot of that is due to you. If the ambulance had turned up a couple of minutes later, I could’ve been spending the rest of my life in a wheelchair, peeing into a bag and generally feeling sorry for myself.’
‘You can thank the fact that I was changing shifts from nights to days. I couldn’t sleep so I got up to read. About ten minutes later, I heard this big rumpus. The rest you know.’
‘I won’t forget it, Suzanne. And are you alright? I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen anyone shot dead before.’
‘I’m fine. It was a shock, though. It even shocked the officer who fired, I think.’
‘Ah, yes?’
‘He froze. Just stood there, looking around, not knowing what to do. Then he wanted to move you, for crying out loud.’
‘You can train all you like for these things but it’s different when it happens for real.’
Suzanne didn’t buy it. ‘That young female officer knew what to do. He panicked. She didn’t. And it made all the difference.’
‘Yvonne Flaco is her name. A top girl.’
‘Listen, I’ve got to run.’
‘Suzanne, would you do me a favour? On my bedside cabinet at home there’s a book, Another Country by James Baldwin. Could you bring it in for me?’
‘Sure.’ She indicated his locker. ‘Keys in here?’
‘There’s a fob in the drawer at the back.’
Suzanne found them. ‘Right, I’m on my way. Oh, I nearly forgot. I so enjoyed seeing Angeline again.’
Darac’s pulse quickened.
‘Angeline? She came?’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘No. Was she—?’
‘She was just the same,’ Suzanne said, smiling.
‘Did she give any…? Did she say—?’
Suzanne squeezed his arm. ‘Paul. She was just the same.’
* * *
Three days later, Darac was sufficiently recovered to take a slow spin around the hospital in a wheelchair. His first port of call was Intensive Care. As a favour to Suzanne, a nurse allowed him access to Rama’s room. There was no longer any beep… phhht, beep… phhht measuring out the boy’s existence: the ventilator had been turned off the day before. The heart-rate monitor had been set to silent. Rama still looked broken, swollen and bruised and he was still connected up to metres of tubing but he was awake and breathing normally.
Their eyes met but Rama’s reaction was way behind the beat. When it came, the slightest of smiles, it moved Darac to tears. Before he could say anything, Dr Sibile craned his head around the door.
‘You’re allowed visitors now? I don’t remember authorising that.’
‘Sorry. You get used to going where you’re not supposed to in my line.’
‘One minute then, Captain.’ Sibile glanced at his watch. ‘Just one, I mean it.’
After all that had happened, what could be said in sixty seconds? The clock ticked on.
‘So… not listening to the Elvin?’
Rama’s words came out in a blurred, slow-motion monotone. ‘Aren’t I? I can still hear it in my head. They told me you brought it. Thanks.’
Darac wondered if he should mention Modibo. Or Voska. No, it could wait.
‘Why are you wearing… that?’ Rama said.
‘I had an accident, also. Be out in a day or two.’
‘Visiting over!’
Darac’s spine felt a tremor of pain as he looked to the door. ‘I’m leaving now, nurse.’
He turned back to Rama. ‘Take care of yourself, Sticks. I’ll be in again.’
* * *
With each day that passed, Darac witnessed Rama regain more and more sovereignty over his body and mind. Finally, he felt able to broach most of the questions for which he needed answers. Frènes had agreed to postpone formal interviews.
Darac’s reading of the N’Patas’ relationship with Voska proved correct and he accepted Rama’s statement that he had never heard of Madame Jeanne Mesnel nor knew of any plan to shoot a video involving her. The revelation that Voska had murdered Modibo on that dark night came as no surprise to the young man. It devastated him, nevertheless. News of Brigitte’s fate only deepened his grief.
‘What’s the story with Voska, Sticks? What did he have over you?’
‘My name is Rama N’Pata and I am a French citizen. Modibo wasn’t.’
‘He wasn’t your brother, then?’
‘Not by blood. My real brother died back in Mali. The man you knew as Modibo was his best friend, Moctar. They were so alike, everyone used to call them “the twins”. Moctar always looked out for him. And then he looked out for me. I loved them both.’
‘So that’s how Moctar could pass as Modibo. But how did Voska come to know that?’
‘With the tightening up on immigration, the quotas and everything else, Moctar got cold feet about being here. He needed better papers than a borrowed passport. He talked to a man. That man talked to someone else. Talk, talk, talk until finally, he talked to Voska. It was the biggest mistake of his life.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Of both of our lives.’
There was a rhythmic knock on the door.
Rama opened his eyes. Darac turned his wheelchair. A man with a beer belly and a ponytail was standing there.
‘Fancy a jam?’ Marco said.
57
The club was packed, the evening was spring-like, and Pascal the doorman had been looking forward to his break for the past half-hour. He was firing up a second cigarette when across the avenue, a woman got out of a car, walked around to the passenger door and began escorting a hobbling figure toward him. Pascal grinned.
‘Darac! Good to see you.’
‘Same here, man.’
Pascal turned to Darac’s escort, running his eye over her with scarcely disguised approval. Full-figured women with luxuriant black hair and green eyes had that effect on him.
‘I’ve never seen a couple with heads of hair like yours! You two ever have kids, they’re going to be the super locks babies! The hair world champions, man!’ Producing his toothiest grin, he extended his hand. ‘You must be Suzanne.’
‘Sorry.’ The woman shook Pascal’s hand. ‘But thanks for the thought.’
‘Ah. I thought you must be his nurse friend. Nurse neighbour. Just nurse, I mean.’
‘Pas?’ Darac put his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘It’s alright. This is Captain Francine Lejeune of the Brigade Criminelle. We’re colleagues. OK?’
Frankie confirmed the remark with a smile.
‘Got you.’ Pascal grinned at her once more. ‘But you still have great hair. And also—’
‘Many in?’ Darac said.
‘For Gilad Atzmon? You can’t move. And, for once, not just on the bandstand.’
‘Great. See you later.’
They walked toward the light and the sounds spilling up from below. Frankie paused at the top of the steps.
‘These risers are very deep. With your back, it won’t be easy.’
Blown Away by the Brass Section wouldn’t make it easy, either. Darac stood for some moments before he accepted Frankie’s arm and took the plunge. ‘This guy Atzmon’s great but he can be pretty full on. Hope you’ll be able to stand it.’
‘So do I.’
They came to a dead halt under the poster.
‘What are you thinking, Paul?’
There was so much to say, he didn’t know where to begin. But he knew where not to.
‘I’m thinking it’s a pity Christophe couldn’t make it tonight.’
Their eyes met in a way they never quite had before.
‘Me too,’ she said, at length.
A slow-burning smile morphing into an effortful clench, Darac reached up and touched the poster as they passed underneath it and continued into the club.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My wife Liz has been there for me during every stage of the creation of the Captain Darac novels. Without the benison of her discerning eye, good humour and encouragement, the experience of writing this second book in the series, Fatal Music, would have been a very different one. Our immediate family, Rob, Clare, Katey and Bryan, has also been a huge source of inspiration and help. First call players, all.
Others, too, have played a significant role. For somehow finding the time, once again, to share her invaluable insights on the text, my thanks go to Susan Woodall. For their many and various kindnesses, thanks to Lisa Hitch, Alex Carter, Jacky Ananou, and Richard Reynolds.
A particular debt of gratitude is owed to Commandant Jean-Baptiste Zuccarelli of Nice’s Commissariat Foch. And as ever, special thanks to Katherine Roddwell for her all-round support and for her translation work both from texts and during in-situ interviews with officers of the Police Nationale.
Finally, for their professional expertise, thanks to my agent, Ian Drury at Sheil-Land; and my editor at Titan Books, Miranda Jewess.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Peter Morfoot has written a number of plays and sketch shows for BBC radio and TV and is the author of the acclaimed satirical novel, Burksey. He has lectured in film, holds a PhD in Art History, and has spent thirty years exploring the life, art and restaurant tables of the French Riviera, the setting for his series of crime novels featuring Captain Paul Darac of Nice’s Brigade Criminelle, the first of which, Impure Blood, was named as Library Journal’s Pick of the Month. He lives in Cambridge.
AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS
IMPURE BLOOD
A CAPTAIN DARAC NOVEL
PETER MORFOOT
In the heat of a French summer, Captain Paul Darac of the Nice Brigade Criminelle is called to a highly sensitive crime scene. A man has been found murdered in the midst of a Muslim prayer group, but no one saw how it was done. Then the organisers of the Nice leg of the Tour de France receive an unlikely terrorist threat. In what becomes a frantic race against time, Darac must try and unpick a complex knot in which racial hatred, sex and revenge are tightly intertwined.
“Engrossing… an auspicious debut for Darac”
Publishers Weekly
“A vibrant, satisfying read”
The Crime Review
“Glorious setting and taut writing – a real winner”
Martin Walker, bestselling author of Bruno, Chief of Police
TITANBOOKS.COM
Peter Morfoot, Babazouk Blues
