Blood Summer, page 19
‘You didn’t press her on what they were running away from?’
‘It wasn’t my business.’
Benoit stared at Bertrand. ‘Did anyone ask after them?’
‘No, I kept her secret,’ said Bertrand.
‘An extraordinary level of confidence to place in a bar owner you barely know, don’t you think?’ said Benoit.
Something boastful played around Bertrand’s eyes. ‘Women are drawn to me because I’m a good listener. She needed to talk - I listened.’
‘Did she speak about her relationship with her husband?’ said Benoit.
Bertrand turned to the young woman standing behind the bar and signalled for a drink with a finger and a thumb. ‘What was there to say? She was unfaithful. Clearly, she was unhappy.’
‘Because she had to leave her old life or was there something else?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Do you think her husband knew about you?’
‘Charlotte said not and I had no reason to disbelieve her.’
‘And you told no-one about your affair?’
‘Not a living soul.’
‘I would have thought a woman that beautiful was a conquest to boast about.’
‘To do so would have been a betrayal.’
‘So noble,’ sneered Benoit.
Anger flashed across Bertrand’s eyes. ‘I was in the Legion, putain. How have you served your country?’
‘By hunting killers and putting them in prison,’ growled Benoit. He leaned forward with menace. ‘Provided they survive the hunt.’
‘I have work…’ snapped Bertrand, standing up.
‘Sit down!’ barked Benoit. He laid a note on the table. ‘You’ve not had your drink. My treat.’
A young woman emerged with a generous measure of cognac and set it down on the table. Bertrand sat, wrapped his fist around the glass and took a calming sip.
‘What else did Madame Butler talk about?’
‘The weather, the villa, the pace of life, the food. She loved Seillans and France.’
‘But something was wrong.’
‘I was her escape from all that. We didn’t speak of it.’
‘Was she bored? Homesick? Did she even tell you where home was?’
‘Commandant, I barely knew her…’
‘Yet you claim you were lovers,’ said Benoit.
‘For a handful of snatched hours.’
‘I need dates and times.’
Bertrand nodded at the photograph. ‘It started the week before the Easter feast. After she became upset, I invited her back into the apartment to compose herself…’
‘To take full advantage of her distress…’
‘It wasn’t like that!’ shouted Bertrand, standing abruptly, his chair hurtling backwards. The hum of conversation ceased. Bertrand looked around at all the curious faces awaiting further drama, righted his chair and sat down. He was silent until people resumed their conversations. ‘That’s not the way it happened. I’m a soldier. There are rules of engagement.’
Benoit considered him. ‘But you were bold enough to embrace her in public at the fête.’
‘The village was full of revellers and her husband had gone for a walk.’
‘Did she say where?’
‘No.’ A strange smile hovered around Bertrand’s lips. ‘Although, on my way through the village, I saw Monsieur Butler in the square.’
‘So, you knew him?’
‘I’d seen him around.’
‘Did he know you?’
‘No.’
‘What was he doing?’
Bertrand smiled again. ‘Talking to someone.’
Benoit leaned forward. ‘Who?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Someone from the village?’
‘He had his back to me. I couldn’t see. But they knew each other.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘The way they were talking. The lack of stiffness, formality.’
‘Like friends?’
‘Not friends, exactly. Close colleagues maybe. And Butler was doing most of the talking, like he was in charge.’
‘Describe the other man.’
Bertrand drank more cognac. The sun was dipping behind buildings and the evening light draped a golden glow over Seillans’ ancient structures. ‘I wasn’t close enough.’
‘Tall, short, old, young?’
‘Taller than Butler. Well built. Not old but not young. And he was wearing a baseball cap and a dark sweatshirt. I remember that much.’
‘Any insignia on the cap?’
Bertrand shrugged. ‘I only saw the back of his head.’
‘Did you ask Charlotte who it might be?’
‘I didn’t mention I’d seen him. We only had a moment and I didn’t want to spend it talking about her husband.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
Bertrand finished his cognac and gestured for a refill. ‘In the morning, Friday before last. She bought bread, more than usual, but didn’t sit for coffee. She said she was too busy.’
Benoit made the calculation. ‘April 26th.’ The day of the drinks party.
19
Benoit drove back to the ICP, the light failing quickly, though the day’s heat was barely diminished in the absence of a breeze. Long before the turn-off to the villa, Benoit saw the lights of vehicles, including TV trucks, lined up along the tiny lane all the way from the junction to the barrier, now further removed from the crime scene.
When he turned onto the single-file lane, onlookers blocked the road and Benoit was forced to crawl past the crowds to the barrier, all the while hounded by journalists calling out questions and taking photographs as he passed. Beyond the barrier, he pulled up beside a high-powered Mercedes and its owner, Directeur Seigner, was listening intently to Latour’s briefing, arms folded, her face a mask of concentration.
‘Serge,’ she called, when she saw him.
‘Valerie,’ said Benoit, greeting her with a kiss on both cheeks.
‘Gabriel has brought me up to speed. I see the media have become a nuisance. You haven’t given them anything?’
‘We’re still collating information.’
‘Serge, Serge,’ she sighed. ‘If you don’t feed the rats, they’ll eat you instead. You know this.’
‘It’s recent,’ said Benoit. ‘Since victim ID this morning.’
‘Killing wealthy tourists is always big news,’ said Seigner. ‘And I hear you’ve been annoying local dignitaries as well.’
‘Not intentionally,’ said Benoit.
‘I’ll bet,’ said Seigner. ‘I’ve told the mayor to stand next to me when I speak to the media, help smooth things over.’
‘If you think it’s necessary,’ said Benoit.
Dugrippe emerged from the ICP, the colour around his nose and eyes resembling an overripe pear. ‘Gabriel,’ said Dugrippe, signalling a phone call at Latour, who excused himself to follow Dugrippe inside.
‘Never did Depardieu any harm,’ observed Seigner.
‘My exact words,’ said Benoit.
‘Where are we on the case?’
‘We’ve ruled out robbery,’ said Benoit. ‘We’re pursuing all leads, including possible mob connections.’
‘A bit too well-planned for a gangland killing, no?’ said Seigner.
‘How do you mean?’
‘When they execute their enemies, the mafia usually want people to know about it.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Benoit.
‘Yes, you had,’ said Seigner. ‘And if you’ve ruled out the mobs, this starts to look like a routine murder enquiry.’
‘It’s anything but that.’
‘Don’t mistake me, Serge. I’m not stupid enough to pull your team off a murder as heinous as this. You’ve detained a Canadian suspect, I hear.’
‘Moss Tyler,’ confirmed Benoit. ‘We’re holding him under an anti-terror warrant but he’s not a suspect.’
‘He broke into the crime scene and assaulted your officers.’
‘But he didn’t kill the Renfrews,’ said Benoit. ‘If he had, there was no valid reason to return. I think the Renfrews were clients and his actions motivated by a duty of care.’
‘Clients, how?’
‘He helped them disappear from their life in Singapore.’
‘He didn’t do a very good job.’
‘That’s not a crime.’
‘Is this to do with this Russian bank Gabriel was telling me about?’
‘On the face of it.’
‘So, this…Tyler came back to find out what went wrong? What does he have to say?’
‘Nothing, yet. I haven’t interviewed him.’
‘What’s the hold-up?’
‘Moss Tyler is an alias,’ said Benoit. ‘That’s the hold-up.’
‘Have you tried asking him who he is?’
‘He had a car full of fake passports, Valerie, including that of the male victim. Deceit is the default setting for this guy. I’ll ask him who he is when I know.’
Seigner smiled. ‘Never ask a question to which you don’t know the answer.’ Benoit shrugged. ‘Is he a professional?’
‘From the fight he put up, I suspect he’s ex-army. Marines? Special Forces?’
‘So, his prints will be in the system somewhere.’
‘We expect a hit soon,’ said Benoit.
‘From the look of Dugrippe’s face, I assume Tyler has skills.’
‘It took five of us to subdue him and if we hadn’t had Daniel with us, we might still have lost.’
‘Daniel?’
‘Auger. Local gendarmerie and our liaison in Seillans,’ said Benoit. ‘A good man in a fight.’
‘The marksman I’ve been hearing about?’ said Seigner. Benoit gave a faint nod, bracing himself. ‘Talking of marksmanship, Serge, do you know anything about a TV network drone being shot down this afternoon?’
‘Drone?’ he said, trying not to overdo the curiosity.
‘Like the drone shot down when you investigated that terror cell in Villefranche six months ago.’
‘I remember that,’ said Benoit. ‘Channel One got wind of our destination and flew a drone over the suspects’ location then broadcast it live on national television. The suspects were gone when we got there.’
‘I appreciate…’
‘Took us an extra week to hunt them down and we were lucky nobody got killed in the meantime,’ continued Benoit. ‘Has somebody lost a drone?’
‘France24 had one shot down earlier today, according to their lawyers.’
‘Where?’ said Benoit.
‘Flying over the crime scene,’ said Seigner. She held up a hand to forestall his objection. ‘Don’t bother. Their press officer felt the full force of my indignation, believe me. But there are protocols to be followed on our side too, Serge. We cannot have people shooting drones out of the sky.’
‘Quite right,’ said Benoit. ‘Do you want me to make enquiries?’ He waved an arm at the dense trees behind the ICP. ‘This is hunting country. A stray shot...’
‘Don’t shovel it too hard, Serge, you’ll hurt your back,’ replied Seigner. ‘But if one more drone gets shot down, you’re on your own.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Come on. It’s time to throw the rat pack some scraps and tell them where to get all their future meals.’
Benoit watched on from the shadows as Seigner, with Mayor Ruggieri standing close beside her, spoke to the assembled cameras and microphones at the barrier. The unearthly light from the media’s cameras threw grotesque shapes onto the trees.
Seigner gave them the bare bones of the case as well as confirming victim ID and made an appeal for witnesses to phone the usual helpline that press and TV would display on their bulletins. She concluded with a promise to give daily evening briefings on the case at Police Judiciaire Headquarters on Avenue Marechal Foch in Nice and made a point of thanking Mayor Ruggieri for all his help.
‘I will be in constant contact with Mayor Ruggieri and Commandant Benoit so I’ll have up-to-the-minute information daily. There will be no further briefings from Seillans. The victims’ remains have been removed to Nice for further examination and most of the investigative work will follow.
‘Blocking access to the crime scene and relentlessly questioning busy officers, who have difficult and skilled work to do, will be fruitless. Thank you for your co-operation.’
Hands were raised in the throng.
After ten minutes of questions that Seigner answered with the same information in a variety of different ways, the impromptu press conference was over and Benoit walked Seigner to her car.
‘Thank you.’
‘I was overdue a visit,’ said Seigner. ‘Besides, it’s a pleasure to get out of the sprawl for a day.’
‘Join us for dinner,’ said Benoit. ‘The restaurant is pleasingly bucolic.’
‘And have everyone in your team on their best behaviour?’ She shook her head with a measure of regret. ‘I wouldn’t do that to them. The way you drive your people, they’ll need to unwind.’
‘They’d love to see you.’
‘Didn’t I tell you to stop shovelling? Speaking of which…’
‘Mayor Ruggieri,’ nodded Benoit.
‘Make the effort,’ said Seigner. ‘It helps them help you.’
‘I couldn’t do your job.’
‘We both know you could do it in your sleep,’ said Seigner. ‘You just wouldn’t enjoy it. If things had been different…’
‘Life happens while you’re making plans, Valerie.’
‘Death too.’ She blushed. ‘Sorry. You know what I mean.’
‘Death is my craft,’ said Benoit. ‘Pointless denying it.’
She kissed him on both cheeks. When she withdrew, Seigner pointed an accusatory finger. ‘No more shooting at drones and daily contact, you hear?’
‘I’ll have Gabriel email developments every day.’
Benoit watched as she drove away in her sleek Mercedes, through the dispersing crowd.
Back at the ICP, Latour was waiting in the shadows by Benoit’s car.
‘Got him. Michael Trent from Chicago, late forties, a former marine who did a tour in the first Gulf War,’ said Latour. ‘Sent home after being wounded by shrapnel, hence the scar.’
‘Good work,’ said Benoit.
‘That’s just it,’ said Latour. ‘All I did was file a request through channels but, when they got a hit on the prints, the FBI phoned me. I just finished speaking with them.’
‘He’s on their wanted list?’
‘Try Most Wanted,’ said Latour. ‘After leaving the Marines, Trent became a decorated FBI field agent in Chicago. He was suspended then dismissed in 2002, after a witness protection detail went bad.’
‘What happened?’
‘There were deaths, including the witness.’ Latour glanced at a notebook. ‘Gwen Beaumont - shot to death in a hotel room in Chicago. Also, a maid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Trent took full responsibility, was suspended then sacked and a few months later he dropped off the grid and left the country for Canada.’
‘Doesn’t explain why the FBI want him so badly,’ said Benoit.
‘No and they’re not telling,’ said Latour. ‘But they want us to hold him under maximum security until we can put him on a plane. Boss, Trent’s a killer and the FBI are being cagey because…’
‘…France doesn’t extradite prisoners who might face the death penalty,’ said Benoit, nodding.
‘Exactly,’ said Latour.
‘Request more information about a possible charge and, if they continue stalling, refer them to the Directeur,’ said Benoit. ‘If they want him that badly, they’ll have to talk to us.’
Half an hour later, the two detectives got into the Citroen and set off into the darkness, through the thinning crowd to the main highway, heading for the village.
On the curve of a bend, a large furry animal shot powerfully across the car headlights and Benoit slammed on the brakes.
Fortunately, there was no sickening thud and, after a pause to catch his breath, he and Latour jumped out to confirm the car had missed the animal. Despite flashing their iPhone torches into the thick vegetation, the creature was nowhere to be seen. Benoit climbed back into the car, with a quick glance at the layby where he’d stopped for a smoke on his first night in Seillans.
‘What was that?’ said Latour.
‘A dog scavenging in the bins.’
‘Or one of Daniel’s summer wolves,’ suggested Latour, with a grin.
Dinner was a muted affair as the previous night’s exertions had taken their toll and the team mostly sat in silence throughout a meal that opened with a vegetable terrine with pungent shards of truffle, followed by a perfectly cooked magret de canard - crisp skin and pink meat - scented with honey and rosemary and served with garlic potatoes.
Fortunately, this was all washed down by several carafes of hearty red wine and, after a few glasses, spirits began to revive so Benoit went around the table to make sure everyone was up to date with the progress of enquiries.
‘Did you believe Bertrand?’ said Auger.
‘Not entirely,’ said Benoit. ‘He knew Charlotte Butler, as he knew her, was running away from something but he was too quick to volunteer their intimacy.’
‘Put a photograph of him next to one of her and you’ll see he’s lying,’ said Caron. ‘No way they were lovers.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Dugrippe. ‘Stress does funny things to people.’
‘Assuming you believe him about Madame Renfrew being afraid.’
‘Remember her husband was a similar age to Bertrand,’ said Gagnon. ‘And he was no oil painting.’
‘But Renfrew had money,’ said Rolland. ‘Bertrand is an underachieving, middle-aged sex pest.’
‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Adele,’ said Latour.
‘Yeah?’ sneered Rolland. ‘Well, when I walked past Bertrand’s bar yesterday, he was doing plenty of beholding, believe me. Especially my arse and my tits. Gave me the creeps.’
‘Everyone gives you the creeps,’ mocked Dugrippe.
‘That’s because we’re miles from civilisation and the men around here haven’t been taught not to stare and drool at the same time,’ said Rolland, provoking laughter.
