Impure Blood (18 page)

‘As directed.’ Slipping on her spectacles, Agnès held up a copy of the evening edition of
Nice-Matin
. ‘This is in the personal column. “SAD: we are most seriously considering your requests. Talk to us about it.” And then there’s a phone number which goes through all manner of electronics to Commandant Lanvalle’s people. If the so-called Sons and Daughters are a bunch of half-wits, as many suspect, they may be just dumb enough to ring it.’

‘Back on our normal territory, boss,’ Bonbon said. ‘Why are you disinclined to believe the smokescreen theory?’

‘No one in their right mind is going to pull a major job on the day the Tour comes to town, are they? For petty thieves, pickpockets and so on, yes – it could be a field day for them. But we’re not talking about that level of activity here. The Tour brings ten times the number of forces into an area than are normally present. By issuing a threat, all the criminals would achieve is to attract more forces still. Highly trained, commando-style forces, at that…’

Freddy Anselme nodded vigorously.

‘…Even if the vast majority of them were detailed to line the Tour route – so what? They’re still in the area, ready to be deployed.’ Drawing her lips together, Agnès shook her ash-blond bob. ‘Put it this way – if I were a villain and I wanted to, say, clean out the main branch of Crédit d’Azur, the last thing I would do is issue a terrorist threat.’

Agnès took a long sip of water and then invited the examining magistrate, Albert Reboux, to give his take on things.

The man began in his deep, authoritative tones; a voice made to pass judgement, Darac always thought. He found the content itself invariably less impressive and it came as some relief when after no more than a few moments, his mobile throbbed silently in his pocket. He flipped it discreetly open. The incoming text was from Didier Musso, leader of the quintet in which Darac played guitar.
Where the hell are you?
it began – a familiar refrain from his band members and police colleagues alike. Tonight, Darac and Angeline had reserved seats at the Blue Devil – American legend Dinah Graham and her trio were in town. After just one number, Didier was predicting it was going to be one of those special nights. He urged Darac to drop what he was doing and hit the club ASAP.
And what’s happened to Angeline?
For some moments, Darac’s head was elsewhere. He knew the simple answer: she was out enjoying an impromptu dinner with colleagues. At a deeper level, he had no idea.

It wasn’t until Reboux had almost finished speaking that Darac tuned back in to the meeting.

‘And so, in relation to the local situation, I agree with your assessment of the smokescreen theory, madame.’ Reboux moved his head from side to side suddenly, as if it were weighing too heavily on his neck. ‘However, has anyone considered the possibility that the perpetrators’ real target may lie further afield? By deploying special forces in the Alpes-Maritimes area, the authorities would obviously be reducing their availability elsewhere. I am unaware of the complements of the various units involved but perhaps our colleagues in Marseilles, Lyon, or even Paris may prove to be the ones in danger of facing a major crime incident with inadequate police resources to back them up.’

Agnès nodded thoughtfully.

‘At the earlier meeting, some made that very point. Once again, I have an objection. If I were a criminal seeking to
really
draw forces into our area, I would issue a far more potent threat than the one the “Sons and Daughters” came up with. And I have a further comment. Without wishing to sound too parochial, if the threat did leave another region vulnerable to attack, that’s not really our problem, is it?’

‘Reading between the lines, Commissaire Dantier, am I right in thinking that you believe the threat to be a hoax, pure and simple?’

Agnès shook her head.

‘Not necessarily. I could easily believe that it’s the work of disgruntled locals trying to influence the Mairie into cooling on the mosque project. But if it turns out that it’s the work of a practical joker, a child, or even what my papa refers to as a “poor unfortunate”, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

Armani clasped his large hands behind his head.

‘A poor unfortunate with a bomb could still blow up the peloton as it pedals by. And several rows of fans to go along with it.’

Untypically, Perand’s voice was the loudest in a chorus of disquiet.

‘Too right. A bomb’s a bomb, for Christ’s sake.’

Freddy Anselme dispatched the possibility with a chopping motion of his hand.

‘Not going to happen. Firepower. Increased firepower and surveillance. Those are our watchwords. Let them try to detonate a bomb. They’ll find out what happens to them.’

‘Okay, I think that covers the basics. Just have a few practicalities to go over…’ Agnès referred to her notes once more.

‘Yes, what does this all mean practically, boss?’ Armani said. ‘Are we going to be on for the whole weekend? Roaming around looking for action?’

‘That’s what we do most weekends, isn’t it?’ his second-in-command, Lieutenant Thierry Martinet, said.

‘One way or another.’

Agnès found the relevant note.

‘Alright – those normally rostered for the weekend and anyone working on the Florian case will be on. Some officers expecting to be off won’t be. Your duty officers will have lists immediately after this meeting. The rest of you will be on standby. No one will be completely off.’

A groan went up. Armani gave Frankie a knowing look.

‘Welcome to our world, eh?’

‘On that,’ Agnès said, ‘will you come over to the cell block with us after the meeting? I want you to take a look at a suspect.’

‘Sure.’

‘And that goes for you too, Frankie, if you would.’

‘Certainly.’

‘The man in question is one Imanol Esquebel, known as Manou. Name mean anything?’

Neither recognised it.

‘But we may have another ID for him,’ Frankie said.

Armani pursed his lips.

‘Was a blood sample taken?’

‘Yes but it won’t be analysed until tomorrow. Alright, back to Sunday…’

The meeting rolled on for another five minutes. As it broke up, Frènes made an immediate beeline for Darac. A bad card player with a killer hand might just have looked more pleased with life.

‘Do you think he subscribes to
Complete Arsehole Magazine
or does he just buy it at the stand?’ Darac said to Granot. ‘What can I do for you, Monsieur Frènes?’

‘You can tell me how a suspect in your charge came to find himself lying in a twisted heap under your window. Name of Mansoor Narooq. A genuine real-live Muslim.’

‘You can tell me how you came to know that.’

‘I don’t have to tell you anything. Imagine what the press would have made of the incident if they had got hold of it. Imagine what that appalling Annie Provin woman on TV would have said about it on her news programme. Once again, tell me how a—’

Granot had heard enough.

‘Narooq was in the care of another officer at the time. Copies of the report are on the way to the Commissaire, to Monsieur Reboux and, finally, to you.’

Frènes’s face didn’t so much fall as crash.

‘How can I put this?’ Granot eyeballed him. ‘Your intelligence is suspect.’

They left Frènes assessing the degree of the hurt he’d suffered.

‘Who do you reckon dropped you in it? To that creep?’

‘Someone who wasn’t very close to the action. Nor took the trouble to find out what had actually happened.’

‘Or someone setting Frènes up for a fall, perhaps?’

‘Another hoax caller?’ Darac ran a hand through his hair. ‘It’s an epidemic.’ Bonbon came up on his blind side. ‘Yes, mate?’

He updated him on Manou’s GHB admission.

‘Interesting.’

‘I got on a bit of a roll so I decided to tell him about Florian’s death. He looked straightforwardly stunned. No playacting. Then he cried. Then he laughed when I suggested he might have done it. Then he cried again.’

‘So that all adds up to…?’

‘I’m ninety-nine per cent certain he didn’t know Florian was even dead, let alone murdered him – just like we thought. But we’ve got him until Sunday evening. Let’s see what we get out of him in the meantime.’

‘Absolutely.’

Bonbon glanced at his watch.

‘It’s got a bit late but I’m off to meet Marie Lacroix, the holiday apartment owner from Rue Verbier. You don’t need me over in the cells, do you?’

‘No, no. That’s good – you go and see her.’

‘What a carry-on this all is, eh? Terrorists – non-terrorists; threats – non-threats.’ Normality returned in the shape of a striped paper tube. ‘Lemon honey cup?’

‘From Cours Saleya?’

‘Of course.’

The pair helped themselves as Armani joined them.

‘What’s that rubbish you’re slobbering over?’

‘Have one.’

‘And ruin my teeth?’

As they filed out of the room, Armani threw an arm around Darac’s shoulder.

‘As the man said – I have an offer you can’t refuse.’

‘If you’re fed up with your new shoes already, put them on eBay.’

‘Darac, it’s nothing to do with my new shoes…’ He modelled them. ‘…which are quite magnificent by the way. No, my offer is this: I will give you fifty euros
right
now in
cash
for your five-euro sweepstake ticket.’ He brandished the note. ‘What do you say?’

Granot laughed derisively. But he wished he’d thought of the idea himself.

‘So you fancy Fun—’ Darac hadn’t made the mistake in hours. ‘
Con
tador, do you?’

Cluelessness was one of Armani’s least convincing expressions.

‘Who? No, no. It’s just that you drew ticket twenty-one and that’s my lucky number. Fifty for five. How about it?’

Catching Darac’s eye, Granot gave a discreet shake of the head.

‘No coaching,’ Armani said, turning to cut off their sightline. ‘The nerve!’

‘I tell you what – give me… four hundred and you can have it.’

Armani withdrew his arm.

‘Four hundred? First prize is only five! Five hundred after three weeks of anything-can-happen racing.’

‘We-ell, it is your lucky number twenty-one.’

‘Forget it.’

‘Alright. If you’re sure…’

‘Not even if you throw in a toe suck.’

Darac shook his head.

‘I
sucked
her toes now – see what happens? It’ll be full-blown sex by tomorrow.’

Armani laughed and threw his arm around Darac’s shoulders again. Exchanges with the Italian tended to begin and end physically.

The conversation had moved on by the time Agnès joined them.

‘Let’s go and see Manou Esquebel.’

They trooped out of the building and took the steps down into the compound. Above them, squadrons of insects were buzzing around the floodlights. It was going to be a humid night.

Armani had a belated thought about the Tour.

‘Got a question. What about the riders? Were they told about the threat?’

Granot shook his head.

‘They won’t know anything. It would only interfere with their performance, wouldn’t it? For no good reason.’

A patrol car rolled past them, heading for the street.

‘They’ll see something’s going on though, no? Paris might think the threat’s a fake but they still drafted in extra firepower.’

‘I don’t think the riders will be aware of it,’ Agnès said. ‘Most of the uniformed units they’re bringing in are going to be on standby in the barracks. And armed plain-clothes officers obviously look no different from any other fan.’

Kicking a pebble out of his path, Granot nodded.

‘The riders will have their eyes on the road, anyway – not on the fans.’

Darac was entertaining a ‘what if?’ question from further out in left field.

‘You know, this whole thing could be an exercise dreamed up by the Suits, couldn’t it? To test force co-ordination in the event of a terrorist crisis or whatever. And we guinea pigs won’t find out a thing about it until months later. If we ever do.’

‘Interesting idea,’ Frankie said. ‘You could be on to something there.’

Out on the street, the patrol car blurted a single
whoop
and sped off towards the city.

Agnès watched its flashing light for a moment.

‘I must say, similar thoughts have crossed my mind.’

Armani turned to her.

‘You really think the threat was penned by some arsehole in Paris?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past the State to mount such an operation. Would you?’

Darac had a coda.

‘Possibly codenamed Operation Peloton or something.’

‘Exactly.’

For Granot, conjecture was one thing; idle speculation another. He brought the thing back into centre field.

‘Operation Peloton is what the Garde Républicaine guys are on every day.’ There was another pebble on the path in front of him. He tapped it away with his foot. ‘Lucky swine.’

‘Ah yes.’ Granot’s pebble had come to rest in front of Armani. He essayed an air shot at it – he was wearing brand-new loafers, after all. ‘Those supposedly chic GR boys.’

‘No “supposedly” about it. Thanks to the Monaco briefing, I’ve got friendly with some of them. Pretty cool guys. In the main.’

Darac gave Granot a look.

‘
Pretty cool guys
? How old are you? Fifteen?’

The idea seemed to delight the big man.

‘Definitely!’ He gave it the full phlegm-rattling chortle. ‘Where the GR is concerned, that’s exactly how old I am. And by the way, Armani? They get to wear the most superb leather riding boots.’

‘Calf length?’

‘Knee length.’

‘See if you can scrounge me a pair, will you?’

They arrived at the cell block.

‘Esquebel?’ Agnès said to the desk officer.

‘Cell… twelve, madame.’

‘Go to him on the monitor, will you?’

The officer pressed a button on a control panel, changing the camera shot on his screen.

Darac remembered the cool, menacing Manou who had opened his apartment door earlier.

‘Looks as restless as a caged animal, doesn’t he?’

Granot gave a snort.

‘That’s just what he is.’

‘Recognise him?’

Armani studied the young man.