Impure Blood (36 page)

For Granot, the ‘what next?’ question trumped ‘what if?’ every time.

‘So when shall we kick the boy out?’

‘I’ll get back to you on that in a minute.’

Darac ended the call and made another.

‘Frankie? It’s go.’

By one o’clock in the morning, the Brigade Criminelle had been on duty for seventeen hours. No one had gone home. No one except Manou Esquebel. Everything was in place.

Working out of Commissariat Foch, Alain Terrevaste was a slightly built, slightly balding, slightly bland individual. But not too bland – that might have made him more conspicuous. And remaining as inconspicuous as possible was the stock-in-trade of a tail man. Following subjects on foot was his speciality. As things stood, the brief was a simple wheel job but he was certain his talents as a pavement artist would be called upon before the night was out. He was parked in a side street off Avenue Romaine, a kilometre or so south of Esquebel’s apartment.

‘What’s he doing?’ he said into his mobile. ‘He should have driven off by now.’

His partner from Foch, Denis Sôtenne, was parked within sight of Manou himself.

‘He’s had the bonnet up. Now he’s on his back underneath the vehicle. Looking for a tracker, obviously. Suspicious bastard. No need to get yourself all dirty – it’s in your mobile, you nonce.’

‘He’s got it with him, then? Pity.’

‘Trouser pocket. Front right.’

‘As far as I’m concerned, he can find Mademoiselle Lamarthe’s little toy.’

‘Now don’t be like that, TeeVee. She’s a sweetie, that Erica. Sweet and slinky. I’d like to track her right into bed.’

Terrevaste sighed heavily.

‘Keep what passes for your mind on the job.’

‘I
have
got my mind on the job. I’m thinking about our so-called command vehicle. Erica and Frankie Lejeune in harness. Now can you imagine a threesome with those two? The girl and the woman; the skinny-assed blonde and the busty brunette…’

‘Sôtenne – do me a favour, will you? Don’t talk again until Esquebel moves off.’

‘Just winding you up, you miserable sod. Hang on, looks like we’re in business. Yes… he’s shimmying out from under… he’s getting in… and he’s driving away…’

Sôtenne allowed Esquebel to get well clear before he pulled away from the kerb.

‘He’s heading into the city on Boulevard L’Ariane. I’ll just wait to see if he takes Turin or Raybaud.’

‘Check.’

‘It’s Raybaud. Okay, mobiles off, let’s go public.’

‘Let’s show them how the professionals do it.’

‘Oscar Quintal One – suspect moving south on Avenue Raybaud. Copy everyone? Over.’

Sôtenne’s radio message registered simultaneously in three other vehicles: OQ2, driven by Terrevaste; OQ3 in which Flaco was leading a trio of the Caserne Auvare’s burliest male uniforms; and OQ4, the command vehicle, driven by Frankie Lejeune.

Working on the theory that Esquebel would initially head to the Peerless Taxis office to pick up his hidden key, OQs 3 and 4 were already parked downtown.

Frankie watched the cursor on her screen move unerringly on to Avenue Joseph Raybaud.

‘It’s brilliant.’ She squeezed Erica’s knee. ‘And that’s not from page one of the
Positive Reinforcement Handbook
. It really is amazing.’

Erica took the compliment with a modest shake of the head. For all of two seconds.

‘I know! And the cursor will continue to flash however much we zoom the map. That will be invaluable later.’

‘Absolutely.’

Erica looked up for a moment. A little to their left, an interesting vehicle was slowing for a red traffic light.

‘Frankie – look.’

Every patrol officer and CCTV watcher in the city was on the lookout for a white Mercedes long-wheelbase panel van.

‘OQ Three.’ It was Flaco from the other Caserne car. ‘A white Merc LWB just pulling up at the lights. Can’t read the plate from here. Come in, Four, over.’

Frankie picked up her handset.

‘OQ Four. Yes, we see it. If it has an A-31 plate, Operation Manou’s going on temporary hold. Come on, roll forward… Got it. No – no go. The plate is the new type.’

She read out the number. ‘And it’s local. They could have changed it, of course, so call it in. They’ll probably tell you they’ve stopped the van several times already this evening but never mind. Over.’

‘OQ Three. Copy. Over.’

The lights turned to green. The van pulled away.

‘Landing right in our laps?’ Erica gave a little shake of the head. ‘That’s not going to happen, is it?’

Frankie exhaled deeply and returned to the map showing Manou Esquebel’s progress along the avenue.

‘OQ One. Suspect turned into Maccario. His mobile’s in his trouser pocket, by the way. Front right. In case you were wondering. Come in Two. Over.’

‘Two. I’ll let him turn at the cross junction and then I’m go. Over.’

The women could follow the move perfectly. But then quite suddenly, the cursor veered slowly off the road.

Frankie gave Erica a look. The cursor continued to drift.

‘He’s turned off, Frankie. Somehow.’

‘Are you sure? There’s no road shown on the map.’

‘I’m certain. It’s spare ground or something. It has to be.’

‘OQ Two. Where the hell has he got to? Over.’

‘OQ One. Can’t you see him? Over.’

‘Two. No, I can’t. Over.’

‘One. Fuck – he must have shot off round the back of that building site. Over.’

‘Two. Well, get in there after him. He’s trying to lose us. Over.’

Erica grabbed Frankie’s wrist. Her words came out in a single burst.

‘Manou’s
not
trying to lose them – he’s slowed right down, look. He thinks he may be being followed. It’s a test. I’m certain of it.’

Decision time. No gizmo was glitch-proof but in her short career, Erica had never yet let the Brigade down. Frankie picked up the handset.

‘OQ Four. Don’t chase him. Stop the tail. Now.’

For a moment, radio protocol broke down.

‘No, no, no,’ Terrevaste said. ‘Esquebel might be going off anywhere.’

‘Sorry, Captain, but TeeVee’s right, we can’t just—’

‘OQ Four. Listen – I know what’s happening. I’m following it on our screen here. Maintain your speed and direction or you’ll give the game away. You’re stood down, both of you. Over.’

‘That’s not the right—’

‘Four. Do you want me to add “that’s an order” to what I’m saying? Because if you do, you’re both on a charge. Over and out.’

Frankie rammed the handset back into its cradle. Both women gazed at the cursor.

‘He’s still crawling,’ Erica said.

A few more seconds elapsed. And then, slowly but surely, the cursor began to head back to Avenue Maurice Maccario. It stopped at the junction for what seemed an inordinate amount of time and then continued towards the city.

Frankie hit the talk button.

‘OQ Four. Erica one – Foch nil. Over.’

‘OQ Three. Awesome, ladies. Uh… over.’

Frankie and Erica couldn’t resist a smile.

On the screen, turn after turn brought Esquebel inexorably towards them. Finally, he turned into Rue de Bruges, parked outside Peerless Taxis and went in. ‘OQ Four. Okay, we can all see where he is. Let’s just sit tight for the moment. Over.’

‘OQ Three. Check. Over.’

A couple of minutes later, he came out, drove his cab around to the back of the building and returned on foot. Looking all around him, he stepped off the kerb and walked quickly away down the street.

‘OQ Four. He hasn’t ditched the mobile so we can still track him. Once he’s disappeared around the corner, we’ll rendezvous and continue on foot. Craxe? You stay in the vehicle and sweep behind us.’

‘Three. Understood. Over.’

Erica kept her eye on the screen as they got of the car.

‘I’m on him,’ she said, following the cursor. ‘Rue d’Alsace, left-hand pavement.’

‘Better give Darac an update.’ Frankie took over the laptop. ‘Want to do it, Erica? I can follow the bouncing ball.’

* * *

Back in the squad room, a tired and frustrated team was in need of a lift. Perhaps the call just in from Rue Vaulesne would provide it.

‘Alright – thanks for that.’ Martinet hung up. ‘Still no sign of Corinne Delage.’

Max Perand was loping his way around the desks, doling out coffees.

‘She was an accident waiting to happen, wasn’t she?’ He set down a couple of noisettes. ‘Now she’s happened. Beard’s got rid of her to stop her screwing up anything else.’

When Granot’s eyes were tired, they had the look of raisins dropped in crème pâtissière. Tonight, a splash of red wine seemed to have found its way into the mix.

‘It’s possible.’ His words floated away on the ebb tide of a long, exhaled breath. ‘Likely, even.’

‘Was yours the flat white?’

‘Do I look like a drag queen?’

Granot grabbed an espresso.

‘Sweet Jesus.’ Bonbon tossed his pen on to the pile of papers in front of him. ‘Just taken me ten minutes to realise I’ve been over this case once tonight already.’

Darac’s mobile rang.

‘It’s Erica.’

Heads turned as he put the phone on speaker.

‘Looks as if Manou’s picked up the key. He’s just left the office on foot so he can’t be going far.’

‘Fantastic. So your device is working well?’

‘Of course. And the beauty of it is even if Manou looks behind him, he won’t see us. We’re not there. We’re strolling along quite happily around the corner.’

‘
Chapeau
,’ Granot said, sharing a smile with Darac. A tired smile but a smile, nevertheless.

‘No need for Terrevaste and his mate, then?’

‘Frankie stood them down ages ago. In disgrace, practically.’

‘Good. Very good. But listen, Erica – things could get rough later. If the guys go in after Manou, you make sure you’re well back. Promise?’

‘Frankie’s already laid down the law on that.’ Darac heard a distinct catch in her voice as she went on. ‘When we get to wherever Manou’s headed, he might be the only one there, you realise.’

‘Understood. But if he isn’t and things get ugly, you might get hurt. Or protecting you might be the reason one of the guys gets hurt. Stay well back.’

‘I will.’ She still sounded a little unsteady. Perhaps it was the combination of care and authority in Darac’s voice that was getting through to her. ‘I… cross-checked Delage’s phone records against the others, by the way. There were no matches.’

‘Ah. Thanks for trying.’

‘The raid – if raid’s the word – Frankie’s going to call you the minute it’s over.’

‘Good. Stay safe.’

Darac flipped his mobile.

‘Who’s in the second car with Flaco – Arnaud, Craxe and who else?’

‘Serge Paulin.’ Granot gave a nod. ‘Rugby player. Big future for him in the game, they think, if he decides to go that way.’ He gave Darac a knowing look. ‘Of course, he might just be mad enough to try and combine two careers.’

‘Whether he’s a
sportif policier
or not, it sounds as if they’ll get the job done, alright.’ Darac raised his espresso cup to Perand. ‘Double?’

‘More like a quadruple.’

‘Good man.’ Darac downed it in one and returned to his notes. But after just a few lines, he thought better of it. ‘I think we all need a break. Let’s take a minute.’

There were no dissenters and for the moment, the only sound in the room was the rattle and hum of the air conditioning. Darac got to his feet, his mind already defaulting to the situation with Angeline. He hadn’t yet read the remainder of her goodbye text. But was now an appropriate moment? Would there ever be an appropriate moment? He decided to risk it. Three texts had come in since he had last checked: two from the quintet leader, Didier Musso; one from Marco, the drummer. Safety first. Didier’s opener was a list of the numbers he’d selected for Monday evening’s band rehearsal. They completed a cycle of jazz suites the quintet had been working on for several months – Thursday’s gig promised to be quite something. The other two messages were timed at 9.25 and 9.38 respectively. The gist of them was that Darac was missing another sensational night at the Blue Devil. The guys knew he loved the percussionist Lucas Van Merwijk and his band was tearing the place up.
Okay – crime and shit is important
, Marco asserted.
No question. But we’re talking Lucas, man! Rim shots that’ll take your head off! One-handed rolls! Clave like you wouldn’t believe! The guy’s a genius!

And then Darac turned to Angeline’s message. He managed to read one more sentence.

Nothing but rattle and hum in the room. And every so often, an arrhythmic thump.

Bonbon and Granot were standing around like victims of a stun bomb.

‘Cancellara won the time trial.’

Granot nodded.

The rattle, hum and thump went unchallenged for a while.

‘Sprinter’s day today.’

Rattle. Hum. Thump.

‘Probably.’ Bonbon gave the matter prolonged consideration. ‘Hushovd maybe.’

Hum. Thump. Rattle.

‘Or that English kid.’

‘Cavendish.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Thump. Thump. Rattle. Hum.

‘I’m going to throw some cold water on my face.’

‘Good idea.’

They shuffled out of the room together.

Once they had safely gone, Perand gave Darac a sly grin. ‘There they go – the ox and the fox. Like in the kids’ books. Or maybe the hog and the…’ A look from Darac persuaded him to go no further. ‘Chief – don’t get me wrong.’ A little colour showed through the boy’s stubble-blackened cheeks. ‘They just look funny together, that’s all I meant.’

‘Perand, I need to spell something out to you. Because I don’t give a shit about matters of form or hierarchy or – fill in the blank, basically – I let a lot of things go. Right? But that doesn’t mean I suffer fools gladly, sadly, or in any other way when the chips are really down. At this stage, I don’t expect your written work to be anything like as perfect as Granot’s or Bonbon’s. But I do expect you to record information as clearly and concisely as your ability allows. A murder case report is not the place for jokes, irrelevant comments or ironic little asides about one-horse towns, et cetera. At best, it’s an irritation; at worst it could slow things down or even become a source of confusion. I don’t want to see any more of it. Understood?’