Impure Blood (10 page)

Many had taken on Darac over the years. A few had got the better of him. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the whistle and throb of the air-con.

‘I… have no reason to escape.’ Mansoor spoke in perfect French, with a North African accent. ‘None whatever.’

‘Coffee? I have sugar. And mini bar-style milk.’

‘Espresso. No sugar.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

Darac tamped sufficient coffee into the holder for two doubles.

‘It’s a chocolatey little number, this. Guatemalan. Single estate.’

‘Chief?’

Officer Max Perand knocked on the open door and loped lazily into the room.

‘A note for you.’ He handed it over. ‘Confirms what you were thinking.’ Scratching his armpit, he gave Mansoor a knowing look as Darac read it.

‘Thanks. That’s all.’

His eye still on the suspect, Perand mouthed ‘Busted!’ and padded out of the room.

‘What did he mean? I’ve done nothing…’

‘You can drop the pretence,’ Darac said. ‘We know you’re staying in this country illegally. As you have tried to do in several others.’

As if a plug had been pulled, all the light and animation went out of the boy’s expression. He slumped back, exhaling so deeply, it was as if his life breath was something he felt he no longer needed. Darac drew not one scintilla of satisfaction from the moment. What would it feel like, he wondered, to be shunted around the world, unwanted except in the one place in which you were most vulnerable?

‘What’s the deportation quota now? Twenty-five thousand a year?’ Mansoor’s words were heavy with accusation. ‘Congratulations, you can subtract one.’

It was a reasonable supposition. But he had chosen the wrong target. Darac hated the whole concept of the quota. Hated it for what it was and for its knowing cynicism. Getting rid of people was so much easier when you reduced them to the status of numbers. And when given numerical targets to hit, law-enforcement officers almost always strove to hit them. It went with the uniform. The plaque on the perimeter wall commemorating the round-up of Jews in 1942 was just one instance of many.

‘Listen, I can see how difficult it must be for people in your position. I sympathise.’

‘If that is true, then let me go. Give one back from the twenty-five thousand.’

‘I can’t, quite obviously.’

Mansoor seemed to have another thought. He leaned forward.

‘I… could make it worth—’

‘Don’t offer me a bribe, you idiot!’

The boy slumped back, staring at the floor.

‘And I strongly suggest you don’t make a similar offer to Immigration when you’re handed over. In the meantime, I would ask you to remember that this is still a murder investigation.’

Mansoor sat up suddenly, as if the true precariousness of his situation had only just occurred to him.

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘Let’s start with the switch. We know your cousin wasn’t praying next to the victim at the time of his death – you were.’ Darac knew the answer to his next question but he had to ask it. ‘So why did you get Slimane to lie for you?’

‘You already know why I asked Slimane to… help.’

On the filing cabinet, the Gaggia began siphoning twin streams of black liquid into a pair of white porcelain cups.

‘Still want it black and unsweetened?’

‘Milk. And three spoonfuls of sugar. Look, Captain… through nothing but ill fortune, I was present at a man’s death and knew I would have to talk to the police about it. I knew that meant my papers would be routinely checked so I rang Slimane and asked him to swap places with me. I didn’t think anyone would notice – not even members of the congregation. I’d been to pray there only a couple of times before.’

Darac peeled back the foil from an eyebath-sized carton of UHT milk and squeezed it into one of the coffees. When he turned, Mansoor’s eyes were levelled at his.

‘Captain, I have never committed a violent act against another human being. Never in my life. And if I had killed that man, do you think I would have put my cousin in the position of chief suspect? Do you think I would have remained in the street and then put myself in your hands the moment you began accusing and manhandling him?’

Darac returned Mansoor’s gaze as if the truth of his words could be read in it.

‘I’ve questioned a Monsieur Dhin, the café owner who hands out the pizza boxes some people use as mats. The man in the white suit was very nervous, he said. Kept looking over his shoulder as if he’d seen someone he was afraid of. Was that your impression?’

‘I didn’t see him beforehand. I was aware that someone had appeared on my right-hand side to pray but I paid no attention to him until later.’

Observing religious practice, Mansoor took three separate sips of his coffee.

‘You were aware of the old woman who had to make a detour around the congregation? The one pushing the shopping trolley?’

‘Of course. She was shouting.’

Leaning back against the filing cabinet, Darac took a sip of espresso as he studied the young man’s face. The last time he’d seen a creature with such sharp-eyed alertness, it was perched on a falconer’s glove.

‘I have a couple of questions that would never be allowed in court because they call for speculation on your part concerning someone else’s intentions. But I’m interested in your answer because even when you’re praying, I’d bet you miss very little. Alright?’

Mansoor nodded warily.

‘Was it your impression that the old woman ran her trolley into the man in the suit because he just happened to be occupying the most vulnerable position – the corner of the rearmost rank – or was there anything about it that made you believe she had picked him out specifically?’

‘I… think it was coincidental.’

‘So if he hadn’t arrived on the scene, you think the woman would have run the trolley into you, instead?’

‘I think so.’

‘And if she had, Mansoor, do you think that it would be you lying in the morgue now and not him?’

Mansoor took three more sips of coffee, considering the question. His concentration was broken by a woman’s voice from the doorway.

‘Captain – a brief word?’

Attaché case in one hand and a couple of loose folders in the other, Agnès Dantier shared a look with Darac and stepped back out of Mansoor’s eyeline.

Wearing a resigned expression, the boy proffered his wrist. Darac thought about it as he downed his coffee. Sometimes, trusting a suspect was the way to go.

‘I know you’ll stay in your seat but I’ll be right outside watching you, anyway. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ His eyes lowered for a moment. ‘No, I don’t. I don’t think it was the old woman who killed the man. She hardly touched him.’

‘Thanks.’

He gave the boy’s shoulder a pat and stepped out into the corridor.

‘Paul – Deanna’s office just rang.’ Agnès didn’t bother lowering her voice – the air-con in Darac’s office made an effective sound insulator. ‘The first results on Emil Florian are starting to come in. Expect a call from her, shortly.’

‘Already? Fantastic.’

‘So who’ve you got in there? The “now you see him, now you don’t” Monsieur Mansoor Narooq?’

‘The same.’

‘And is he the murderer, do you think?’

‘I very much doubt it. I think it’s just a papers thing. Mansoor’s an illegal – cousin Slimane isn’t.’

‘Hence the switch.’

‘Yes. I’m pretty sure Hamid Toulé and some of the others knew about it. But under the circumstances, I don’t massively blame them for lying. We’ve closed ranks around people ourselves, at times.’

Taking a half step, Agnès looked past Darac into the office.

‘We have indeed,’ she said absently, fixing Mansoor in her feline gaze. The boy’s head was bowed, his eyes closed. She moved back. ‘He reminds me of someone.’

‘Slimane, perhaps? They’re practically doubles.’

Pressing her lips together, she gave Darac a chastening look.

‘That was idiotic.’ Darac gave a little involuntary laugh. ‘Sorry.’

Agnès took a second look at the boy, thought about it for a moment, then with a shake of her ash-blond bob, tossed the thought away.

‘No, I don’t know him. Probably just the type.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Right. I’m away.’

‘Bunking off early? I won’t tell that old dragon of a boss, don’t worry.’

‘Guess where I’m going.’

‘To buy your ticket for the quintet’s gig on Thursday. We’re playing three entire jazz suites.’

‘Close. I’m off to the Tour briefing in Monaco, after all.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Summoned officially.’

‘So your own little switch routine didn’t work either?’

‘Sending Papa? Seems not.’ She gave a rueful shrug. ‘Serves me right, I suppose. See you later.’

He watched her walk away.

‘Listen – if you bump into Alberto Whatever-His-Name-Is over there, give him my love. I’ve got him in the sweep.’

‘Forget it. I drew Carlos Sastre. He’s getting any love that’s going.’

Darac’s mobile rang. He kept his eyes trained on Mansoor as he took the call. The boy was still sitting calmly, eyes closed.

‘Captain? I’ve got Professor Bianchi for you. Just hold a second, please.’

‘Thanks, Patricia.’

As he waited for Deanna to come on the line, he looked back along the corridor. He couldn’t make out what Agnès and the duty officer Alain Charvet were chatting about but whatever it was, it was making them both laugh. An unrepentant sentimentalist, the moment gave Darac pause. The Brigade Criminelle was a disparate bunch of people. That they worked so well together was entirely due to Agnès’s stewardship, he believed. Although it sometimes didn’t seem like it, he knew this was something of a golden age for the Brigade; one that would surely fade under a standard-issue commissaire.

Following their own submerged logic, his thoughts began to stray to Angeline. How on earth could things…

A rasping voice interrupted his thoughts.

‘Darac? Deanna. Sorry for the wait.’

‘It’s fine. So you’ve got something on Emil Florian?’

‘Couple of things. First: I found that the abrasion on his right arm does conceal a fine needle puncture mark. Tomorrow I’ll be able to tell you what the injectant was, possibly.’

‘You managed to extract a sufficient urine sample, then?’

‘Nobody takes the piss like me, Darac.’

He laughed out loud.

‘How long have you been waiting to say that, Deanna?’

‘Oh, about twenty years. Anyway – second: remember I found traces of a substance between Florian’s toes?’

‘Yes?’

‘It was sugar.’

‘Sugar?’

‘Sugar.’

Darac recognised the tone.

‘You’ve got more, haven’t you?’

‘Indeed I have. A lot more.’

Commandant Lanvalle gazed into the auditorium over the rims of his half-glasses and took a long draught of water. The man needed it – he’d been speaking for almost fifteen minutes.

Wedged into his seat in the stalls, Roland Granot was tugging angrily at his moustache. So the terrorists were going to ‘reap a bloody harvest’, were they? On the streets of
his
city. How dare they?

In the seat directly in front of him, Garde Républicaine senior officer Yves Dauresse feinted a punch to Roger Lascaux’s jaw and then roughed up his carefully crafted blond hair.
That’s good leadership
, Granot reflected. A dose of normality was just what the kid needed.

On the platform, Lanvalle signalled he was ready to continue. The audience hushed.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, on the face of it, we can respond to this ultimatum in three ways. We can seek to identify and apprehend the group, the Sons and Daughters of the Just Cause, in time to prevent them carrying out their plan. That would be largely a covert operation, unseen by the general public. However, we have less than forty-eight hours to accomplish the task.’

A voice behind Granot said, ‘We’ll get the bastards.’

‘We’ll never get them in time,’ said another.

‘Alongside that,’ Lanvalle continued, ‘we can increase surveillance and security on and around the race route itself with the intention of foiling the attempt live, as it were, should the first approach have failed to meet its objective. This would make us a more visible presence, but unless we went completely over the top, the public shouldn’t be unduly aware of the situation.’ With what looked suspiciously like studied nonchalance, he sat back in his seat. ‘And of course, the third response would be to divert the Tour stage away from Nice. Or cancel it altogether.’

Shouts of ‘No!’ and ‘Never!’ flew like shrapnel in an explosion of protest. Lanvalle milked the moment with magnificent inscrutability. He waited for the air to clear before going on.

‘Bearing in mind, ladies and gentlemen, that the vast majority of you are seasoned law-enforcement professionals, imagine how the public at large might react to such news. The consequences could be devastating and far-reaching.’ He let the thought sink grimly in. ‘Happily, the solution is a simple one. I want to say this to you unequivocally: the Tour stage through Nice will go ahead as scheduled.’

A relieved buzz; calls of ‘Yes!’; isolated pockets of applause – the line was a winner.

The GR trio’s reaction was slightly different. Mugging a look of excited anticipation, Dauresse mimed opening an envelope.

‘And the winner is… Commandant Georges Lanvalle!’ He rolled his eyes. ‘What a star.’

Jarret and Lascaux seemed to enjoy the gag. Granot felt too churned up to go with it.

On the platform, Lanvalle took another swig of water.

‘These three responses are predicated on a factor we haven’t yet touched upon. That factor is the credibility of the ultimatum itself. So should the threat be taken at face value? In a word, we do not believe that it should.’

Another buzz ran around the auditorium. Granot sat forward in his seat, anxious to hear what was coming next. So what that Lanvalle was a pompous windbag? He was The Man.

‘I will explain our thinking to you all. The so-called Sons and Daughters of the Just Cause make five demands. Let us consider them.’ Lanvalle referred to the sheet of cut-out letters. ‘The first is for the immediate severance of diplomatic ties between France and the State of Israel. Second – the immediate imposition of blanket trade sanctions against that same nation. Third – the immediate release from detention in the US Government’s Guantanamo Bay Naval Base of one Meier Al Zatdin. Fourth – the immediate establishment of a dedicated mosque in the city of Nice…’