Babazouk Blues, page 4
Out in the marina, the breeze had stiffened, whipping rigging wires against their metal masts. It sounded like a round of applause.
5
The police database contained a lengthy entry for Marcel Battail. He lived in Rue Balmette, a winding lane that ran more or less parallel to Madame Mesnel’s Chemin Leuze. As Granot pulled up outside a small, neglected-looking property, he glanced across at Darac’s laptop screen. ‘Is that a zip in his forehead?’
‘Scar. I think.’
‘Looks like a sweetie.’ Granot climbed out of the car. ‘Mind you, mug shots can be deceptive.’
‘The camera adds seven convictions, they say.’
There seemed to be no one in the street.
‘What’s the lady friend’s name?’ Granot said.
‘Brigitte Andreani, proprietor of a local hairstylist’s. You open with her, I’ll check out the back yard. It might share a boundary with the Mesnel villa, mightn’t it?’
‘Don’t think Chemin Leuze goes quite this far.’
Opening the yard gate triggered a night security light. Darac was grateful for it: the patio was littered with dog crap. Checking out possible entrance and exit points supported Granot’s feeling that there was no common boundary with Madame Mesnel’s property. Her hot tub was probably no more than thirty metres away on the diagonal but high walls and dense greenery rendered it inaccessible. The upshot was that Battail couldn’t have sneaked into her back garden from his own, unseen. He would have had to use her side entrance in Chemin Leuze.
At the door, Darac was met by a fleshy peroxide blonde of about fifty. Heavily made-up and wearing a leopard-print halterneck over tight white trousers, her appearance, tattoos and all, put him in mind of a drag queen he’d once known.
‘I’m Brigitte.’
He followed her into the house; the dog house, by the smell of it. The beast in question, a Rottweiler, was stretched out on a sofa. In front of it was a low table strewn with beauty magazines and empty beer bottles. Each bore a lipstick smear around its throat. If anyone had been sharing them with Brigitte, it presumably wasn’t Battail.
‘You don’t mind doggies?’ she said, giving the detective some serious eye now she could see him in the light.
‘No, I like them.’ The baby-pink blush on her left cheek bore a raised, purplish hem, he noticed. ‘As a rule.’
‘There’s no need to worry about Thierry. He’s as harmless as a kitten.’
Harmless or not, Darac saw that Granot had taken the seat furthest from the animal.
‘Fancy a beer? Your boss is having one.’
Amused at his battlefield promotion, Granot smiled graciously.
‘Why not?’ Darac looked around for a seat. ‘Thanks.’
‘Thierry, get off the sofa. Good boy. Now!’ The Rottweiler let out a toxic yawn and padded away into the kitchen. She followed it. ‘I’ll have one with you.’
She returned with a couple of Peronis and sat next to Darac.
‘So, Madame Andreani, where is your partner?’
‘I’d tell you if I knew. We’ve got nothing to hide. He’ll be back when he’s ready. And before you say anything, I know he’s got a temper. He can be rough sometimes. But I wouldn’t have him any other way. Do you know what I mean?’
‘What about the year he served for assault? Or the three for malicious wounding?’
She took a swig. ‘That all happened before I knew him. Anyway, he told me they were scumbags who were trying to cheat him. Marcel doesn’t take shit like that.’
‘What would you call spending time behind bars?’ Granot said. ‘Taking the waters?’
‘OK, you’re right. But I swear on my mother’s eyes that Marcel didn’t do anything to poor old Madame Mesnel. He couldn’t. Not to a defenceless old lady.’
Darac’s gaze lowered to Brigitte’s bruised cheek.
‘I am not old, monsieur. And I’m not defenceless either.’
‘When did you see him last?’
‘Listen, do you think if he was going to drown her, he would have come out with it in front of that gas bag Loret?’
‘When did you see him last?’ Darac repeated.
‘This morning, when he set off to the parlour.’
‘Parlour?’
‘Tattoo parlour. Blood Brothers in the Babazouk.’
‘Ah, yes, Rue Jules Gilly. I’ve passed it.’
‘This is Marcel’s work.’ She sported a shoulder all a-flutter with butterflies and lovebirds. ‘And I’ve got others in more…’ Raising her pencilled-on eyebrows, she gave Darac a look. ‘…interesting places.’
‘Anybody work there with him?’
‘Sometimes a guy helps him out at weekends: Dagger. Don’t know his real name.’
‘Could Marcel be spending the night with him?’
‘I suppose he could. Never has before.’
‘Do you know where Dagger lives?’
‘Somewhere in Nice. I don’t know.’
‘How did he get the name of Dagger?’
‘Big tattoo on his arm. Crossed daggers.’
‘Uh-huh. Marcel have any relatives?’
‘No.’
‘And you’ve been together how long?’
‘Just over a year. And I tell you this.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’ve had more fun with Marcel in that time than I had with my husband in fifteen years of so-called marriage.’
‘Any other friends?’
‘Loads, sweetheart.’
‘Marcel, I meant.’
‘No. And I’ve said this already. To that nice young officer.’
Darac shared a look with Granot. Both thought Christian Malraux a potentially useful recruit to the Brigade. But ‘nice’ wasn’t a quality usually attributed to former members of the Paris riot squad.
Brigitte collapsed her features into a masterpiece of sympathy. ‘When did the old dear die, exactly? Because whenever it was, I was with Marcel. And I’ll swear to it in court.’
Granot stared at her. ‘You’re admitting to perjury before you’ve even committed it.’
‘I know.’ She stared back, fierce as an old cat in her faded leopard-print top. ‘So?’
Darac’s beer bottle made a dull, sticky sound as he set it down on the table. ‘Have you got a pen and paper somewhere, madame?’
‘Somewhere. Why?’
‘Get them.’
She returned with an A4 jotter. Darac handed her his pen.
‘Write on that sheet everything you know about your boyfriend’s movements for the past fourteen days. Be especially accurate about the times you have spent together.’
‘Two whole weeks? Why should I?’
‘The carte blanche alibi you’re willing to give Marcel has no value. A blind alibi, one given before other timings are known, is far more likely to convince a jury.’
‘We-ll.’
‘You’re certain he didn’t kill Madame Mesnel?’
‘Listen, if he went round there at all, it was just to get her to turn her music down. He’s very sensitive, is Marcel.’
Granot snorted.
‘Then if you want to help him,’ Darac said, ‘fill that in. And list your own whereabouts as well.’
Brigitte’s thin lips curled cheekily at the corners. ‘Alright.’
‘If Marcel gets in touch, don’t bother alerting him to what you’ve written. He is chief suspect in a murder case. Accordingly, the public prosecutor has already authorised the monitoring of your landline, mobiles, emails and post.’
‘Tapping our phones and everything? That’s nice.’ Brigitte looked as if she could spit but she began the task.
Granot found it almost painful to watch. ‘You’ll find it easier if you make a grid of squares for the different hours and days.’
Brigitte started again. ‘You know where the fridge is.’
At the end of the task, she sank back in her seat as if she had completed a final exam. Darac stood and brought her a beer.
‘Thank you, darling.’ She smiled, pulling back her shoulders to raise the puckered Titanic that was her bosom. ‘Listen, if you ever feel like having your hair cut, my salon is just over the way. I have a room upstairs, as well. Your boss wouldn’t mind you having a little time off now and again. Would you, sweetheart?’
‘Actually, the captain here is my boss,’ Granot said. ‘And we must be going.’
‘Thanks for the drinks and for this.’ Darac brandished the sheet. ‘We’ll no doubt be seeing each other again.’
‘Any time, as I say.’ As they left the lounge, Thierry padded in from the kitchen and resumed his seat on the sofa. Brigitte took Darac’s arm as she showed them out. She smiled, suddenly. ‘Something’s been nagging me about you ever since you came in. It’s just come to me. You look like that old Hollywood actor. The strong but sensitive one. In that film – you know. The one about the postman always ringing twice. What’s it called?’
‘The Postman Always Rings Twice?’
‘Yes – that’s it. John … John… Garfield! Yes, you’re his double, darling.’
‘You’re dating yourself.’
‘It was on TV just last week.’
Brigitte pressed herself into Darac as she deliberated over opening the front door.
‘Bye, madame,’ he said, gently extricating himself. Once they were out of earshot, he swiped his mobile. ‘Malraux? You’ve checked Brigitte Andreani’s salon for Battail? There’s a private bedroom above it.’
‘I did that already. Anything else?’
Darac flexed his left hand. It was feeling easier. ‘That’s it.’
Granot let out a phlegm-rattling chortle. ‘Brigitte must think our public prosecutor is quite the human dynamo. Five seconds’ notice and he gets all those wiretaps in place.’
‘Touching.’
‘Just for argument’s sake, let’s say Battail did do it. They’ve probably concocted the story already. Before the body was even discovered.’
‘You think Brigitte’s that good an actress, Granot?’
‘He could’ve done it without her knowing.’
‘Well, we’re yet to meet Marcel Battail in the flesh but… we’ll see.’
Pausing at the car, Darac scanned the apparently empty street. ‘Malraux’s got his men well hidden, hasn’t he? Or maybe they’ve all just gone home.’
Granot gave Darac a look. ‘How about Brigitte referring to Malraux as nice?’
‘Says something about her day-to-day experiences of men.’
‘Maybe the boy has hidden talents.’ They got into the car. ‘And while we’re on this, I’m surprised you didn’t take Brigitte up on her offer. Nobody’s baked your baguette since Angeline… in months, I mean.’
Darac turned to him. ‘Do you know what the key stages of the “grieving process” are supposed to be?’
‘When my wives ditched me, it went cognac, wine, beer.’
‘First comes denial, followed by anger, depression and, finally, acceptance.’
‘If you say so.’
‘But it’s not until crass comments from members of your inner circle bounce harmlessly off that you realise you’re finally over it.’
‘Glad I could help.’
Another key stage for Darac had been the blues. Somewhere along the line between depression and acceptance, he’d taken a guitar out on to his roof terrace and played until the button-hard calluses on his fingertips, eighteen years in the making, had split apart and bled. They were healed now. Another layer had grown over them.
‘So home, then, chief?’
‘Yeah. I can look through Madame Mesnel’s papers while I’m waiting for Barrau’s preliminary.’ His broad brow lowered. ‘Got a favour to ask.’
‘Ye-es?’
‘I was thinking about Madame Mesnel’s granddaughter having to ID the corpse. After you’ve dropped me off, you’ll be passing the morgue.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t.’
‘You’ve got a big shoulder, there. And your trench coat’s shower-proof.’
‘I’m a chaperone now?’ Granot pulled away. ‘As well as everything else?’
Something moving in Brigitte’s back garden triggered her night security light.
‘Hold it, Granot. This could be…’
In sharp silhouette, they saw Thierry pad out on the patio and squat.
‘Drive on.’
6
The doorbell rang. And rang again. Léo had a key and no john knew the address. Stubbing out her cigarette, she went to the door and peered through the spy hole. It was a policeman. Uniformed, the safer kind. And in a hurry by the look of it. She took a moment to compose herself and then opened the door sharply to the limit of its chain.
‘Yes?’
‘Mademoiselle Daviot?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Mademoiselle Cristelle Marie Daviot?’
* * *
Granot arrived at the morgue just in time to oversee the ID process. He and Darac had decided to tell Cristelle only that her grandmother had drowned in her hot tub. On seeing the look in the young woman’s eyes, it was the correct decision.
‘You don’t have to do this, mademoiselle.’ Sod Dr Carl Sodding Barrau. ‘We could get dental records.’
‘It’s alright.’
‘You sure?’
She set her jaw. ‘Yes.’
‘This way, please.’
He led her into a small room containing only a TV monitor. The screen was blank.
‘May I smoke?’
‘Sorry.’ Granot reached up and removed the battery from the smoke alarm. ‘It’s not permitted.’
Cristelle lit up, offered him one – he declined – and sucked in a lungful of familiarity.
‘Are you ready?’
A nod.
Granot turned on the TV. He had to admit that in such a short time, Barrau had done a remarkable job on the right-hand half of the drowned woman’s face. And with the mutilated and missing parts of her skull hidden by cloths arranged to mimic bedclothes, the effect was as natural as could be imagined.
‘Mademoiselle, do you recognise your grandmother, Jeanne Honorine Mesnel?’
Shaking, Cristelle blew smoke, whispered that she did and then lost her cordon-bleu evening all over the floor.
‘Léo.’ She groped around in her handbag. ‘I need Léo. I have to call.’
‘What’s his number? I’ll ring him.’ Granot steadied her as she found a tissue. ‘There’s a bathroom across the hall if you want to use it.’
‘No, no.’ She closed her bag. ‘I’ll ring later, it’s alright. Across the hall?’
‘Hang on to my arm, I’ll take you.’
‘You’re very kind, Lieutenant.’
* * *
Cristelle’s stomach had settled by the time the police driver returned her to her apartment. She went to bed wondering how long she would have to wait. How long before she could enjoy stretching out in the sun? How long before gazing at the sea through a curtain of fumes would be a thing of the past? Not long, presumably. A smile giving way to a smirk, she lit a cigarette. ‘Thank you, Grand-mère,’ she said aloud. ‘Thank you, at last.’
7
It felt warmer as Darac closed the heavy black door of his apartment building and stepped out into the glorified courtyard that was Place Saint-Sépulcre. As often seemed to happen when he set off to work, he met his neighbour Suzanne returning home. A bright, auburn-haired woman in her mid-thirties, she was a nurse at the nearby Saint-Roch hospital.
‘Hey, Paul.’
They exchanged greeting kisses.
‘Still working nights then, Suzanne?’
‘I can see why they made you acting commissaire.’ She made a pillow of her hands, closed her eyes and laid her head momentarily upon them. ‘This will be me for the next eight hours. I hope.’
‘Me too, probably.’
He left the Place through a locked gate and followed a narrow, doglegged passageway into the broader Rue Neuve. The oyster shuckers were already at work at their stand outside the café at the end of the street but as a swish new tram whirred across the elegant Place Garibaldi beyond, Darac turned back into the tangle of alleyways that made up the old town, a quarter known to cognoscenti as the Babazouk. Living on the cusp of the old and the new Nice suited Darac. It offered the best of both worlds, didn’t it? It was a view not shared by everyone. Granot and his other trusted lieutenant, Alejo ‘Bonbon’ Busquet, had more than once warned him about the potential dangers of the Babazouk, especially at night. Replete with hiding places, it was, they believed, an ideal location to carry out a quick, quiet hit. Darac’s feeling was that if he was going to wind up with a knife in his back, it could just as easily happen outside the Negresco in broad daylight.
Maybe.
A zigzag route brought Darac to Bar Cantron. A bustling shoebox of a place adjoining the fish market, it had become his regular breakfast stop since the break-up with Angeline. The viennoiseries were not to the standard of their beloved Pâtisserie Fantin but the coffee was among the best around. Calling ‘Bunjou!’ – bonjour in the local Nissart – Darac headed for a perch at the bar. Carrying a tray of croissants in from the kitchen, owner Jean Cantron bellowed his reply. Announcing comings and goings at top volume was part of the swagger and machismo of the quarter.
Without having to ask, Darac was presented with a pain aux raisins and a double espresso, a combination for which he hadn’t paid a cent since Jean had discovered that the boy from nearby Vence was also a flic. ‘What do you make of all these immigrants?’ Jean had once asked him. Darac hadn’t paid him the compliment of telling him what he really thought. One day, the cover might prove useful.
There was only one topic of conversation in the bar this morning: the Nice–Paris Saint-Germain football disaster of the previous evening. Easily shutting out the debate, Darac began mulling over Barrau’s preliminary report on Jeanne Mesnel. Like all homicide detectives, Darac first turned to the page citing the cause of death. Expecting a tick in the ‘Natural causes’ box, he’d been disappointed to find ‘Awaiting further tests’ written at the head of the page. As he read on, there seemed little doubt about the eventual verdict, though, especially as ‘Consistent with natural causes’ appeared in most of the detailed entries, just as Darac had judged.
