Murderous Mistral

by Cay Rademacher

  Blanc shook hands very formally with the mayor, told him why they were there, and handed him a copy of the search warrant. The other gendarmes got out of their cars, timidly. Not one of them made any attempt to go into the house. The forensics team piled out of their van. They really all were wearing their masks.

  “I’m aware that a lot of cops are naturally right-wingers, but I wasn’t expecting you in particular to be in the pay of the Front National,” Lafont said, handing back the search warrant as if it were a dirty photo. He spoke loud enough for all of them to hear him.

  “I am in the pay of the French Republic,” Blanc replied.

  “For now at least, mon Capitaine,” Lafont said, and nodded toward the house. “I do hope you have adequate insurance. To cover any breakages.”

  Marble floor, white walls, wooden ceilings with LED lighting, casting soft light even at midday on old oil paintings of landscapes in gilded frames. Tonon took a look around and inconspicuously nodded toward the living room: Louis XVI chairs, a cabinet from the same period, an ancient table sparkling from multiple coats of oil. It all must have looked good when it was still in the town hall, Blanc thought to himself.

  The gendarmes followed him, as shy as schoolchildren visiting a museum. The forensics team opened two cases and took out a few instruments, chosen completely arbitrarily, it seemed to Blanc. Lafont could have a battle tank in his kitchen and this lot wouldn’t find it, he thought, increasingly feeling uncertain. Tonon disappeared through a door, which probably led to a visitors’ bathroom or a broom cupboard. Souillard spotted an iMac on a side table and turned it on. At least one of them is a pro, Blanc thought.

  Then he heard the noise of a car on the gravel. It was a dark Citroën C5. Blanc closed his eyes for a second. At least I’m not completely on my own, he thought with a touch of relief.

  “Marcel, I’m so sorry for all this inconvenience,” Aveline Vialaron-Allègre said to the man of the house, proffering her cheek for him to kiss. It sounded as professional as a doctor informing a patient that he had been diagnosed with a fatal illness. Then she nodded perfunctorily to the gendarmes. “Go ahead, mon Capitaine.” Blanc hoped he had noticed the smallest of smiles toward him, but realized he was probably imagining it, out of lust as much as nervousness.

  “This Paris cop has no idea what he’s doing,” Lafont replied. He sounded relaxed, as if he found the search wearying but something that didn’t concern him. But as the search continued he gave Blanc a look that said, Wait until I’m done with you.

  “Thank you for being so cooperative, Marcel,” the juge d’instruction said. It was less than clear if she was being reassuring or sarcastic, but one way or another it seemed to shut him up.

  Blanc avoided looking at her. She remained in the living room while he went around the rest of the house giving instructions to his men. It was the most lackluster house search he had ever seen. “You could at least open the cupboards and drawers,” he badgered one of them, who seemed content with just glancing into the bedroom.

  His Nokia rang. A Paris number that he didn’t recognize. “Should I post you to Guyana? Or maybe you’d like to become a police training officer in Afghanistan? If you absolutely insist on behaving like an idiot in Provence, then you could at least do me the favor of not involving my wife.”

  Vialaron-Allègre. How did he get my private cell phone number? Blanc wondered, hurrying through the rooms and out into the garden. The minister was screaming so loudly down the phone that everyone could hear him. How does he know his wife is here? Did Aveline tell him? Once out in the open, Blanc took a deep breath. Suddenly he was overcome with a remarkable light-spiritedness—that of a condemned man standing on the scaffold with a view of the guillotine. It was all over. There was no point in fighting it anymore. He gave the minister the facts in the most relaxed manner. Two of the gendarmes and one of the forensics team had strolled out into the garden and were lighting up cigarettes. They were never going to find a Kalashnikov. Merde.

  Abruptly Vialaron-Allègre halted his tirade of threats and curses. Maybe his new tone of apparent resignation was really just self-confidence. “Has this whole thing even the slightest trace of credibility?” he asked, unexpectedly calmly.

  “It had enough credibility to convince the juge d’instruction.”

  Blanc thought he could almost hear the wheels of Vialaron-Allègre’s brain whirring. As if the politician was rapidly working through possibilities, strategies, alternatives. “Pass me to my wife,” he said suddenly.

  Blanc located Aveline on the terrace near the pool, standing smoking on her own, and handed her the phone, then retreated so as not to eavesdrop. She seemed relaxed and continued smoking as she talked. Her husband must have been able to hear her inhale. Maybe that would calm him down. One way or another he didn’t seem to be saying much, as she was doing nearly all the talking. She seemed hardly to expect him to say anything or reply to any questions. After ten minutes she handed Blanc his phone back. The minister had hung up.

  “What did you say to him?” Blanc asked, unable to restrain his curiosity.

  “I told him to distance himself from Marcel as quickly as possible. Before this thing makes it into the press.”

  “We’re not going to find the damn Kalashnikov.”

  “My husband is very grateful to you for advising him in advance.”

  Blanc stared at Aveline Vialaron-Allègre, tapping the ash from her Gauloise onto the gravel. So cool and calm. I’ve seen you in a different mood, he thought to himself.

  “We are already on a one-way street, mon Capitaine. U-turns are not an option.” Her dark eyes sparkled fire. He thought back to the upstairs room in her house, to her presence by his side, and the words she had said: Do you love taking risks? She’s dancing on a high wire over an abyss, Blanc suddenly realized, and enjoying every moment of it. That’s why she’s here, making an enemy of the most powerful man in town.

  Just at that moment an old green Toyota Corolla came through the gate. As soon as the old crate had come to a stop, out sprang Gérard Paulmier with notebook, pen, and a camera round his neck.

  “Merde,” Blanc swore, going over to him. “Who told you about this?” he hissed.

  “It was an anonymous call, but it sounded so crazy that I had to take a look. In thirty years I’ve never come across anybody prepared to take on Lafont. You’ll be on page one tomorrow. Tell me what it’s all about, or should I just work it out as I go along?”

  Blanc’s mind was whirring. Who could have told him? Somebody who wanted to see the back of Lafont? Or somebody who wanted to see the new boy come down from Paris dragged into a police misconduct scandal? “You can have the story all to yourself,” he said reassuringly. “Just give me a few minutes first.”

  “Is it okay if I take photos in the meantime?”

  “Obviously not.”

  Paulmier laughed, walked back over to his car, and leaned against it. Blanc ordered one of his men to go over and stand by the reporter to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. Then one of the others came over to him, shaking his head. The forensics team were creeping out of the house, putting their kit back in the van. Paulmier took a few photos anyway, and the gendarme standing next to him did nothing. Tonon had somehow made it from the guest bathroom to the patrol car without anybody noticing. Blanc had no idea how long the man had been sitting in the Mégane’s passenger seat. It looked as if he was asleep. Fabienne came out onto the terrace and shot a brief glance at the juge d’instruction.

  “Tell me you found Lafont made an online Amazon order for a Kalashnikov,” Blanc joked wearily. “Or made an e-mail request for an assassin from Marseille? Otherwise we may as well pack it all in, in more than one sense.”

  “Don’t give up yet, mon Capitaine. About two weeks ago Lafont looked at aerial shots of the garbage dump on Google Earth.”

  “That’s hardly a crime.”

  “Are you laughing at me?” Fabienne hissed. “We turn the guy’s house over and I’m t
he one giving you proof he was checking out the scene of the murder a few days before it happened.”

  “The virtual scene of the murder.”

  “So? What normal person looks at satellite pictures of a garbage heap? Lafont could have worked out the access routes, the layout of the parking lot, even the position of the scrap metal container, all without needing to go down there and without any witnesses.”

  Blanc glanced at Aveline Vialaron-Allègre. “Is that enough?”

  “It’s certainly interesting. But no, it’s not enough. Not to arrest him. And certainly not to convict him.”

  “Lafont also used Google Maps to check out the routes to the dump,” Fabienne exclaimed, increasingly frustrated. “I can prove that. The shortest route, the route from the town hall to the dump. And an alternative route. Goddamn it, surely that’s enough to—” She stopped when she saw the look on Blanc’s face.

  Doors banged closed. The gendarmes were piling back into the cars, swearing because the hot sun had turned them into ovens. None of them bothered to report to Blanc. The forensics team’s van was already on its way out of the gate. Paulmier looked at them in confusion. Lafont was nowhere to be seen. “Connards,” Blanc muttered. “The operation is just getting started. Come on!” He ran over to the Mégane where Tonon was dozing away. “The three of us will do it on our own.”

  “Where are you going?” called Fabienne, running after him.

  Blanc threw open the driver’s door, noticing that Aveline Vialaron-Allègre was hurrying over to her Citroën at the same time. She had got the message, he realized. Okay, now there are four of us. “We’re going to produce the Kalashnikov!” he growled triumphantly.

  * * *

  “Are you taking off?” Tonon spluttered, trying in vain to fasten his seat belt as the Mégane swayed across the road. Fabienne, in the backseat, hadn’t even bothered to try. They raced over a pothole so fast that the shock absorbers groaned. “This is only a Renault!” the front-seat passenger shouted. “It would fall apart if you shouted too loud. One more pothole like that and—”

  He fell silent as with a screech of brakes Blanc swerved out onto the route départementale, sending Tonon crashing into the door. Blanc looked in the rearview mirror. Nothing. Then the other Méganes with the gendarmes in them appeared. They all turned right, toward Gadet. Then the dark blue Citroën, which turned left. And Paulmier’s old green Toyota. Also left. He was just turning his eyes back to the road ahead, when he saw something white in the mirror. The forensic team’s van? Then he recognized it as the big Audi Q7. No sooner had it pulled out of the gate than it soared past the Toyota so close and so fast that Paulmier only just managed to regain control of his swerving vehicle before it nearly crashed into a pine tree. The elderly journalist let himself fall behind them.

  “You’re heading for Caillouteaux!” shouted Fabienne, who seemed to be enjoying herself.

  “I owe you two lunches!” Blanc replied, ramming his foot down on the gas pedal while trying at the same time to turn on the flashing blue lights.

  “Just keep at least one hand on the wheel!” screamed Tonon, bending over and turning on the blue lights himself.

  “The town hall!” Blanc explained. “Lafont checked out the route from the town hall to the dump. Not from his house. What better hiding place than the town hall. Who’s going to search for a Kalashnikov in the office of Monsieur le maire?”

  “The new steel filing cabinet,” Marius said. “That horrible thing he only had installed recently.”

  “In the same week as Lafont was down in Marseille in his wife’s red Mini. To visit his old friends.”

  Blanc raced up the hill, cutting the corners. It was a good thing that Provence was dead over lunchtimes. From somewhere beneath the hood there came a loud clank. He hoped the old jalopy would make it the last mile or so into the town. They came to a straight stretch, and the Q7 flashed past the Citroën, its monstrous radiator grille now filling the Mégane’s rearview mirror—like a shark’s maw catching up on a diver. He could hear the heavy diesel engine ramped up on maximum revs even over the noise the Mégane was making and the roar of the mistral. Blanc weaved from side to side to stop it from overtaking.

  “Putain!” Tonon swore. His forehead was bleeding from where he had hit it against the door frame.

  “I’m not going to let him pass us,” Blanc hissed through clenched teeth. “Lafont mustn’t get to the town hall a single second ahead of us.”

  “We don’t have a search warrant for the town hall,” Fabienne reminded him, not that it seemed to bother her.

  “We do have a juge d’instruction behind us.”

  “Providing she hasn’t ended up in a ditch.” Tonon turned round and shook his head. “I can’t see her car any longer. Just this goddamn white monster.”

  Aveline. Blanc no longer looked in the mirror. His T-shirt stuck to his ribs, salty sweat ran down his forehead into his eyes, adrenaline pumped through his veins. He felt as if he were flying a jet fighter through the forest. “We’ll show this scumbag!” he growled to let off steam.

  The streets of Caillouteaux. The clunking sound under the hood was getting louder by the minute. The police siren reverberated off the walls of the houses. An elderly cyclist on a racing bike appeared out of nowhere. Where did he come from? Blanc swore. The Mégane just managed to swerve past him. A few seconds later, however, the big Q7’s right wing mirror hit his elbow and sent him flying. Blanc kept his foot on the gas.

  He only brought the vehicle to a screeching halt when they had reached the little square next to the town hall, nearly knocking the headless naked statue off her pedestal. The shutters on one house opened and an elderly woman peered out in curiosity. Blanc didn’t even bother to turn the engine off. He sprang out, followed by Fabienne and Marius. They had reached the first steps on the way into the town hall when the white Audi appeared, slowly now. He spotted Lafont behind the wheel, red in the face and glistening with sweat, his sunglasses at an angle. They stared for a few seconds at each other. The mayor had realized he had lost the race, that he wouldn’t overtake the cops. The heavy 4×4’s engine suddenly resumed its howling as, with tires smoking, he did a U-turn in the one-way street they had just come down.

  Blanc suddenly stopped. He’s doing a runner, he realized. The Kalashnikov is more important, he told himself. Someone like Lafont can’t just disappear. We’ll get him.

  Then a horrid screeching of metal set his teeth on edge. The Q7 had forced its way down the alley at the same time as the dark Citroën came up it. The massive Audi had scratched a long curve all along the driver’s side of the Citroën from the front bumper to the trunk, shattering the side windows. Aveline turned away to avoid the hail of glass. Then the Audi was gone. Blanc heaved a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t a head-on crash. He ran down the steps to help Aveline out of the car. But then the Citroën’s motor started up again. The juge d’instruction had done a handbrake turn in the alleyway and set out back down the alleyway Lafont had just disappeared from.

  “Merde,” swore Blanc. She’s going after him. Do you do it for the thrill of the risk? For a moment that seemed to last forever he stood there on the square, uncertain what he should do. Then he turned back to Fabienne and Marius, who were still standing on the steps, numb from shock.

  “Into the town hall,” he ordered. “Get your hands on this damn Kalashnikov, even if you have to blow open his steel cabinet. Call the forensics team and the other gendarmes back. And tell Nkoulou. Go on, get on with it.”

  Then he ran back to the Mégane, jumped in, and put his foot down, just as Paulmier came into the other end of the alley. Blanc braked abruptly and let the journalist past onto the square. “You’ll have the story of your life!” he called out to him. Beyond the alley he came across the cyclist Lafont had knocked down. A small crowd had gathered around him and someone waved him to stop. Blanc made a gesture of excuse and turned on the blue lights. Then he put his foot down again, roared down the narrow street a
head, which Aveline and Lafont had to have taken. Neither car was to be seen. The only certain proof that they had come this way was the fresh black tire tracks on the first dangerous corner.

  Fire

  The siren was howling. Blanc honked his horn whenever he dared take a hand from the steering wheel, which wasn’t often. He raced down the hill on the route départementale. When he came to a straight stretch, he spotted the two cars for a second or two, maybe five hundred yards in front of him. The white Audi almost filled the width of the road, the Citroën tight on its tail. Lafont had the more powerful car, but Aveline was the more audacious driver. He watched as both cars came to a crossing and swerved onto an even smaller rural road, one he had never taken before. “Merde!” he swore. With every second he fell farther behind both of them. By the time they reached the next roundabout, he would have lost sight of them altogether. He was having so much trouble keeping the Mégane on the track that he didn’t dare make a grab for the radio to call for backup.

  He reached the first roundabout and turned. Suddenly there was a yellow mail van to his right. He spun the wheel at the last moment, sending stones flying on either side of the road. For a fraction of a second he glimpsed a young, blond woman behind the windshield, her mouth wide open in a ghostly silent scream. She braked so hard that the van slid obliquely across the road, its tires smoking.

  Blanc glanced into the rearview mirror to check that the mail van hadn’t actually hit a tree. His ears echoed with the howl of the siren, his hooting of the horn, the roaring of the vehicle’s overstressed four-cylinder engine, the hammering noise still coming from under the hood. Then there was smoke, thin ochre plumes drifting between the pine branches on either side, at head height above the ground. There was a burning smell in the air. “This old crate’s going to blow up on me,” Blanc shouted out to nobody.

  He stood on the brakes. The tires screamed in protest. Right in front of him on either side of the track were two wrecks. The Audi Q7 had gone nose-first into a ditch by the roadside, its wheels in the air, still spinning. The driver’s door hung open. The Citroën had traveled a few yards farther into the undergrowth. Its windshield was shattered. The doors were closed. Blanc had passed the wrecks before the Renault came to a halt. He ran back, jumping over the ditch. “Aveline!” he called out, ripping open the driver’s door.