Chourmo (18 page)

“Had you ever seen them together?”

“No.”

“Was he Algerian?”

“No. Looking at him, with his dark glasses, I thought he was a Tunisian. So I wasn't suspicious . . . ”

“But was he an Arab?”

“I don't know. He didn't speak Arabic.”

“My father was Italian, and when he was young people thought he was Tunisian.”

“Yes, he might have been Italian. But from the south. Naples. Sicily. That's possible.”

“What did he look like?”

“About your age. A good-looking man. A bit shorter than you, and heavier. Not fat, but stronger-looking. Graying temples. A salt-and-pepper mustache . . . And . . . he had this big gold signet ring.”

“He must have been Italian,” I said, smiling. “Or Corsican.”

“No, not Corsican. The other man, yes. The one who jumped on me when I opened the door. All I saw of him was his gun, which he stuck under my chin. He pushed me backwards, and I fell. He definitely had a Corsican accent. I'll never forget it.”

His strength was fading.

“I'll let you sleep now. I may be back to ask you some more questions if I need to. Don't worry. It'll all work out.”

He smiled contentedly. That was all he wanted right now. A little comfort. The assurance that everything would work out for Naïma. Mourad leaned toward him and kissed him on the forehead.

“I'll stay with you.”

 

In the end, it was Mourad's mother who stayed with the old man. I suppose she was hoping Naïma would come back. But mainly, she didn't much want to find herself face to face with Redouane again. “She's a little afraid of him,” Mourad said as we drove back.

“He's gone crazy. He forces my mother to wear a veil when he's there. And at mealtimes, she has to serve him with her eyes lowered. My father doesn't say a word. He says it'll pass.”

“How long has he been like that?”

“Just over a year. Since he got out of jail.”

“How long was he in for?”

“Two years. He held up a hi-fi store in Les Chartreux. With two friends. High as kites, they were.”

“And you?”

He looked me in the eyes. “I'm on the team with Anselme, if you're interested. Basketball. We don't smoke, we don't drink. It's the rule. Nobody on the team does that kind of thing. If we did, Anselme would throw us out. I often go to his place. To eat and sleep. It's cool there.”

He fell silent. The thousands of lighted windows in North Marseilles looked like the lights of ships. Ghost ships lost in the darkness. It was the worst time of day. The time when people come home to these concrete slabs. The time when they know they're really a long way from everything. And forgotten.

My thoughts were all over the place. I needed to absorb all the things I'd been hearing, but I couldn't. What bothered me most was these two guys who were after Naïma and who'd beaten up her grandfather. Were they the ones who'd killed Hocine and Guitou? Were they the ones who'd followed me last night? A Corsican. The driver of the Safrane? Balducci? No, impossible. How could they have known I was looking for Naïma? And so quickly? How had they been able to identify me? It was unbelievable. Obviously, the guys last night were connected with Serge. They'd followed me when the cops had taken me in. The fact that I was there meant I was a friend of Serge's. And his accomplice in whatever he was involved in. As Pertin had assumed too. If that was the case, then logically, they might want to kill me. Or just see what I was made of. Right.

At Notre Dame-Limite, I braked hard, jolting Mourad out of his thoughts. I'd just noticed a phone booth.

“I'll be two minutes.”

Marinette answered at the second ring.

“Sorry to bother you again,” I said, after telling her who I was. “But this afternoon, did you by any chance notice a car that was a little out of the ordinary?”

“The one that belonged to Monsieur Hamoudi's attackers, you mean?”

She certainly didn't beat around the bush. In a neighborhood like hers, just like in the projects, people noticed everything. Especially a new car.

“No, not me. I'd just had my hair done. So I didn't go out on the street. But Emile, my husband, he saw it. I told him what had happened, and he told me that when he went out, he saw a big car. Around three o'clock. It was coming down the street. He was on his way to Pascal's. That's the bar on the corner. Emile plays
belote
there every afternoon. It keeps him occupied, poor man. Naturally, he took a good look at the car. You don't see a car like that every day. And I don't mean just in this neighborhood! It was the kind of car you only see on TV.”

“Was it black?”

“Hold on a minute. Emile!” she called to her husband. “Was the car black?”

“Yes! A black Safrane,” I heard him reply. “And tell monsieur it wasn't from around here. It was from the Var.”

“It was black.”

“I heard.”

Yes, I'd heard. I felt a chill run down my spine.

“Thanks, Marinette.”

I hung up, mechanically.

I was stunned.

I didn't understand what was going on, but there couldn't be any doubt now, it was definitely the same people. Since when had those two bastards been tailing me? A good question. Answering it would explain a lot. But I didn't have the answer. What I did know was that I'd led them to the Hamoudis'. Yesterday. Before or after the time I'd spent at the station house. They'd let me go last night, but it wasn't because they'd thought I was cleverer than they were. No, they'd assumed, correctly, that I wouldn't go anywhere when I left Chez Félix . . . Shit! Did they know where I lived too? I dismissed that question as soon as I'd asked it. The answer was likely to give me the creeps.

OK, I told myself, let's start again. This morning, they'd gone to La Bigotte and waited for things to start moving. And the one who'd moved was Redouane. He'd gone to see his grandfather. How did they know it was him? Easy. You slip a hundred francs to any kid who's hanging around, and it's done.

“We'll go straight to your place,” I said to Mourad. “Pack enough things for a few days and I'll take you back to your grandfather's.”

“What's going on?”

“Nothing. I'd just rather you didn't sleep there, that's all.”

“What about Redouane?”

“We'll leave him a note. It'd be better for him if he did the same.”

“Couldn't I go to Anselme's place instead?”

“If you want to. But phone Marinette. So your mother knows where you are.”

“Are you going to find my sister?”

“Yes, I want to.”

“But you're not sure, eh?”

What could I be sure of? Nothing. I'd set off to find Guitou like someone going to do the shopping. Hands in my pockets. Taking my time. Looking around. The only reason I'd wanted to find him quickly was because Gélou was worried. Not because I'd intended to put an end to the two kids' love affair. And now Guitou was dead. Shot at point blank range by a couple of hitmen. At the same time, an old pal of mine had been shot down by a different bunch of killers. And two girls were on the run. Both in mortal danger.

There was no doubt about it anymore. And the boy too. Mathias. I had to see him. Put him somewhere safe too.

“I'll go with you,” I said to Mourad, when we reached La Bigotte. “I have a few calls to make.”

 

“I was starting to worry,” Honorine said. “You haven't called all day.”

“I know, Honorine. I know. But—”

“You can talk to me. I read the newspaper.”

Damn!

“Oh!”

“How are such horrible things possible?”

“Where did you read the newspaper?” I asked, evading her question.

“At Fonfon's. I went there to invite him. You know, for Sunday. To eat
poutargue
. You remember, don't you? He told me not to mention Guitou. To let you do what you think is right. But do you know what you're doing? Eh?”

I didn't know much of anything anymore, to tell the truth.

“I talked to the police, Honorine,” I said, to reassure her. “And did Gélou read the paper too?”

“Oh no! I didn't even switch on the local twelve o'clock news.”

“Isn't she worried?”

“Well . . . ”

“Put her on, Honorine. And don't wait for me. I don't know what time I'll be back.”

“I've already eaten. But Gélou isn't here anymore.”

“She's not there? You mean she left?”

“No, no. I mean, she's not at your place. But she's still in Marseilles. He phoned her this afternoon, her . . . friend.”

“Alexandre.”

“That's it. Alex, she calls him. He'd just gotten back to their house in Gap. He saw the note on the boy's bed. So he put two and two together, got back in his car, and drove to Marseilles. They met in town. Around five, it must have been. They've gone to a hotel. She called me to tell you where to reach her. The Hotel Alizé. That's on the Vieux-Port, isn't it?”

“Yeah. Just past the New York.”

All Gélou had to do was open a newspaper and she'd find out Guitou was dead. Just the way I had. There couldn't be many Fabres with a son named Mathias. And even fewer who owned a house where a sixteen-and-a-half-year-old boy had been killed.

Alexandre being around changed a few things. I could think what I wanted of the guy, but he was the man Gélou loved. The man she wanted to keep. They'd been together for ten years. He'd helped her to raise Patrice and Marc. And Guitou, in spite of everything. They had their life, and just because they were racists it didn't give me the right to deny them that. Gélou depended on the man, and I had to as well.

They had to know about Guitou.

Well, maybe.

“I'll call her, Honorine. So long.”

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Are you OK?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Because I know you, that's why. I can tell from your voice you're not too good.”

“I'm a bit irritable, that's all. But don't worry.”

“Of course I worry. Especially when you talk to me like that.”

“So long.”

What a woman! I loved her. The day I die, I'm sure that when I'm in my hole, she's the one I'll miss the most. It was more likely to be the other way around, but I preferred not to think about that.

Loubet was still in his office. The Fabres had admitted lying about Guitou. They had to be believed now. They'd had no idea the young man was in their house. It was their son, Mathias, who'd invited him and lent him his key. On Friday, before leaving for Sanary. They'd met this summer. They'd gotten on well, and exchanged telephone numbers . . .

“And when they got back, Mathias wasn't with them, he was in Aix. And they didn't want to upset him with what had happened . . . They were spinning me a line, I know. But it's progress.”

“You don't think it's the truth?”

“This thing of ‘Now we're telling you the truth' always puzzles me. When you lie once, it's because there's something going on. Either they haven't told me everything, or Mathias is still hiding something.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because your Guitou wasn't alone in the apartment.”

“Oh,” I said, innocently.

“There was a condom in between the sheets. And it wasn't that old. The kid was with a girl. She may have been the reason he ran away from home. Mathias must know something about it. I think he'll tell me when I see him tomorrow. Eyeball to eyeball, a kid and a cop, I don't think he'll hold out on me for long. And I'd like to know who the girl was. Because she must have a few things to tell, eh? What do you think?”

“Yeah, sure . . . ”

“Imagine it, Montale. They're both in the sack. Can you see the girl going home after that? At two or three in the morning? Alone? I can't.”

“Maybe she had a moped.”

“Stop kidding!”

“No, you're right.”

“Maybe—” he went on.

I didn't let him finish. I knew I had to appear really dumb here. “She could still have been there, hiding. Is that what you're saying?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“A little unlikely, don't you think? The guys whack Draoui. Then a kid. Surely they'd have checked to see if there was anyone else there.”

“Even pros screw up sometimes, Montale. I think this was one of those times. They were planning on killing Hocine Draoui, nice and easy. But they hit a snag. Guitou. What he was doing in the hall butt naked, God alone knows. The noise, I guess. He was scared. And everything got out of hand.”

“Hmm,” I said, as if I was thinking about it. “Do you want me to ask my cousin about Guitou? Whether he had a girlfriend in Marseilles. She's his mother. She should know.”

“You know something, Montale? I'm surprised you haven't already done that. If I were in your shoes, that's where I'd have started. A boy runs away from home, there's often a girl behind it. Or a close friend. You should know that. Or did you forget you used to be a cop?”

I said nothing.

“I still don't see how you managed to find out it was Guitou,” he said.

Montale in the role of village idiot!

That's the problem when you lie. Either you take your courage in both hands and tell the truth. Or you persist until you find a solution. My solution was to get Naïma and Mathias somewhere safe. A hideout. I already had an idea where. Until I had a clearer idea of what was going on. I trusted Loubet, but not the police force in general. The cops and the underworld had been in bed together for a long time. Whatever anyone said, the lines of communication were still open.

Loubet had put me on the spot. I sidestepped by asking, “Do you want to question Gélou?”

“No, no. You do it. But don't keep the answers to yourself. They may help me gain time.”