‘Hold it a second, Erica.’ Darac finally ran his hand out of his hair. ‘There’s a better way, isn’t there?’
‘Is there?’
‘If Manou turns out to be neither Mansoor nor Slimane…’
‘I’ll bet you he is.’ Perand smiled his lopsided smile. ‘Monsieur Manou Narooq to be exact.’
‘He may be,’ Darac continued. ‘But supposing he isn’t. The real Manou will think Florian’s ringing him, won’t he? We could verify the Slimane/Mansoor connection simply by comparing their mobile numbers with the number for Manou on Florian’s phone.’
Erica’s hair escaped the anchor of her ears as she weighed the point.
‘Slightly less showbiz but I agree, it’s safer.’ She handed over Slimane’s phone. ‘Here, you take that one, Captain. And you take Mansoor’s, Perand. I’ll bring up Manou’s number.’ She began scrolling through Florian’s address book, found the number for Manou and left it displayed. ‘There you go.’
A moment later, Darac had come up with Slimane’s own number. He checked it against the number on Florian’s screen. It didn’t match.
‘Manou isn’t Slimane.’ With a loose fist, Darac began tapping out a little Latin rhythm on the filing cabinet as they waited for Perand. And waited.
‘I can find every shitting number but Narooq’s own.’
Erica reprised her teacher’s voice.
‘From the main menu, find Address Book and then select T for This Mobile.’
‘I tell you what’s better still.’ Perand was tiring of playing the loser. ‘Why don’t I just ask the guy? He’s only sitting ten metres…’
As if in reaction, the sound of Mansoor’s voice piped up from Darac’s office next door. It was loud and getting louder. Sounds of a scuffle now. Chairs scraping. Shouting. Darac was first out of the door, the others following hard behind.
‘What the…?’
They found Mansoor’s custodian looking helplessly out of an open window. His gun was still holstered, Darac noticed, pushing him quickly aside. But as he looked down into the compound, the question of whether Mansoor had absconded with a loaded weapon became an academic one, anyway. The boy was lying on his back, his legs twisted under him. There was no blood but he wasn’t moving.
‘What the hell happened, Dax?’
‘I don’t know, Captain. He suddenly flipped. Got past me somehow… Opened the window and jumped. Completely out of the blue. I swear, sir.’
‘Shit. He’s dead,’ Perand said, nudging in next to Darac. ‘But it’s only a few metres down.’
Dax put his hands together as if in prayer.
‘I grabbed at his ankle as he jumped and it upended him. He landed… all wrong.’
Looking for any sign of hope, Darac stared hard into the boy’s expressionless face.
‘Come on!’
Perand stepped back from the window, allowing Flaco in. He turned to Erica.
‘Jesus. Frènes nearly had a heart attack when he thought a civilian had killed a Muslim. Now one of us has.’
Figures from all over the compound were advancing towards the body. Darac kept staring, willing the boy to open his eyes. ‘Give one back from the twenty-five thousand,’ he’d said. Maybe Darac should have tried.
Quite suddenly, Mansoor’s face contorted in pain.
‘He’s alive!’ Darac quickly ran an eye over the advancing officers. As far as he could see, none had drawn a weapon. ‘And unarmed!’ Better safe than sorry.
Mansoor tried to get to his feet as the first officers arrived on the scene. He almost made it but, holding his left shoulder, he slewed and sank back on to his right side. A woman Darac recognised as one of the dispatchers exchanged a few words with the boy and then tentatively tested his limbs for movement.
Flaco looked back into the room over her shoulder.
‘He’s moving.’
In the doorway, Erica exhaled deeply and uncrossed her fingers.
‘But what made him do that?’
Perand turned to her.
‘How about hearing his mobile being turned on in the next room? He’s our Manou, alright. And he’s an all-action guy, you’ve got to say. Running out of crowds, jumping out of windows…’
The dispatcher looked up at Darac.
‘What happened, Captain?’
‘It’s unclear. What’s the damage?’
‘Don’t think he’s broken anything but there is some trauma to the shoulder. And to his right leg. There’s soft-tissue damage in a number of places and he’s concussed, I think. Apart from that, he looks in reasonable shape.’
‘I’m sending someone down. Hang on.’ He eyeballed Dax. ‘You’ll have to pen a detailed account of what just happened. Obviously.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
Still standing well back from the window, Erica waved a mobile to catch Darac’s eye. Mouthing ‘Give me two seconds,’ he turned to Flaco.
‘In a moment, I want you to get down there and detail a uniform to help you escort Mansoor over to St Roch. Stay with him. Assuming the medicos release him within an hour or two, bring him back here. I’ll talk to him later. If they want to keep him in, call Charvet to arrange your relief. Someone must be with Mansoor at all times.’
Realising that with every week that passed, more and more trust was being placed in her, Flaco’s full lips betrayed just a hint of a smile.
‘Right, Captain.’
‘Before you do that, though –’ Darac gave Erica a nod ‘– back to our identity crisis.’
‘Hang on a second, Captain.’ Perand looked uncomfortable suddenly. ‘The trolley woman – supposing we get a hit from Lartou’s photo and Flaco’s still over at the hospital. What do I do?’
‘Is that a serious question?’
‘Well…’
‘You’ll just have to go and interview the woman without your big sister to look after you, won’t you? In the meantime you can catch up with your paperwork.’ Eyebrows high in amazement, Darac gave a clearing shake of the head and turned to Erica. ‘Finally.’
‘Yes – so. This is the Manou number on Florian’s phone which we discovered didn’t match Slimane’s.’ Like a conjurer showing an audience a secret card, she let them all see the displayed number. Now she held up the second phone. ‘And this is Mansoor’s own number.’ It didn’t match. ‘So unless they have other mobiles, which of course they could have, Florian’s best friend Manou is neither Slimane nor Mansoor.’
‘That is a relief.’ For Darac, at least. ‘Thanks, Erica. Okay, we’ll have a team meeting to discuss progress later on – time TBA. For now, Flaco – off you go.’
‘I’ll report back, Captain.’
Darac turned to Erica.
‘It would still be useful to find Manou. Did the service provider give any idea when their computer will be up and running?’
‘They didn’t.’
‘Okay.’ Darac ran a hand through his hair. ‘Maybe we’ll find out all about him at Florian’s apartment.’
‘We might be able to take the maybe out of it.’ Erica opened a new message on Florian’s phone. ‘What shall I put – “come to the apartment”?’
‘Proactive.’ Perand had the look of a punter who knew he’d finally picked a winner. ‘I like it.’
‘If Manou happens to live in Nantes or Naples or New York, he might find that an odd message to receive.’ Darac picked up his desk phone. ‘But once I’ve made a few calls, there is something you can do, Erica. Something far more useful.’
5.10 PM
Still 21.2.
There was a new one on duty. A redhead. Pretty. Scatty. A comedian. Everything was funny to her. Especially herself. ‘What am I like?’ she kept saying. I could tell you what you are like. You are a moron. At least, I would say it if I could. But I can still communicate. I can blink. Once for yes, twice for no. And I can hear. God, how I can hear. I can hear and understand every puerile utterance you spew into the air. Don’t you realise that?
Oh yes, if I stay alive long enough, I will k
now all about you, won’t I? In a few captive minutes, I already know that you don’t like fish; that your boyfriend is a plumber; that he’s very handy in general and plays football. I know that you fancy William from Télématin and once dreamed that you shared a hot-air-balloon ride with him over Paris. You were nude. I know your mother had rheumatoid arthritis before a visit to Lourdes completely cured her. And I know that you like your job because it’s so meaningful, yet you can still have a great laugh with everybody.
The moron’s face.
‘Isn’t that right, darling?’
She didn’t wait for a response.
‘I thought he was getting the TV?’ she said to the black one.
‘As a matter of fact, he didn’t want it.’
No! That is not a matter of fact. It was a mistake.
‘Didn’t want it?’ the red-headed one said, surprised.
Ask me if I’m sure. Please.
Her face.
‘I don’t blame you, darling. Who wants to watch a lot of stupid cyclists all day?’
I do. I want it more than anything in the world. That’s what I’m like.
‘Right. He’s all done and dusted, bless him.’
Her face.
‘See you soon!’
Yes. No doubt you will.
The lovely fat one. She is my only hope.
Wait a minute. Is that 21.3?
No.
21.2.
My mistake.
5.52 PM
Born and bred in nearby Vence and living in Nice itself for the past ten years, Darac was about as local as a local police officer could be. But familiarity hadn’t immunised him against the extraordinary beauty of the Côte d’Azur. Nowhere else gave him the same lift. He was driving along the palm-shaded arc of Boulevard des Anglais, a perfect parabola within which the Baie des Anges glittered like shards of silver-flecked sapphire. In his pocket were the keys to Emil Florian’s apartment in Magnan. In the passenger seat was Erica Lamarthe. She glanced at her mobile.
‘Still nothing from the service provider. You should have let me send that text.’
‘We’ll get to Manou one way or another, don’t worry.’
‘It might have done more than just give us an address for him, it might have brought him to Florian’s apartment.’
‘It might but what if he knows Florian is dead? He hasn’t rung his number since, note. Even though Florian tried to call him just before he died.’
‘How could Manou know Florian’s dead? He couldn’t have heard it in the media. A non-Muslim was killed during a prayer service – that’s all they said. There was no description – nothing.’
‘True, but word can still get around. And what if Manou was there when it happened? What if he was the one who actually killed Florian? All a text message would do is alert him to the fact that we’re on to him. Or her.’
Feeling a little too easily outplayed, Erica drew down the corners of her finely lined mouth and shrugged.
‘“What if? What if?” Don’t you ever tire of asking that?’
‘Seeing where “what if” might lead is probably why I enjoy policing. Despite all the crap.’
Boulevard des Anglais’ most celebrated landmark, the pink-domed Hotel Negresco, shimmied exotically into view on their right. Turning her back on it, Erica held Darac in an almost accusing look.
‘I thought you became a policeman because you have a deep-seated need to right injustices?’
‘You’re mixing me up with Superman. As unlikely as that seems.’
Erica gave a dry little laugh.
Darac slowed to a halt just beyond the Negresco, waiting for pedestrians to clear a zebra crossing. Bringing up the rear of the group was an unlikely-looking couple: the man was round-shouldered and sported a long grey ponytail, baggy shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. The woman looked to be in her mid-twenties and was wearing her skimpy black bikini with all the panache of an off-duty beachwear model. In the middle of relating something of great importance to her, Ponytail had no intention of hurrying. And neither had Bikini Girl, who seemed riveted by the account and by the elaborate, rhythmical hand mime that accompanied it. As they gained the traffic island in the middle of the road, Darac pulled slowly past them, rolling down his window.
‘A broken clock keeps better time than him,’ he called to the girl, startling her.
Ponytail appeared in his rear-view mirror, laughing and giving Darac the finger.
‘That was Marco. Drummer with the quintet I play in.’
‘Ah, yes?’
Erica’s tone was bright and approving. His eyes on the road, Darac missed the slightly half-hearted smile that accompanied it.
After a further five minutes of stop-start progress, they finally reached Magnan. Cut in two by the twin conduits of the Nice–Cannes railway line and four lanes of road traffic, it was a mixed, largely residential quarter. There was no ‘other side of the tracks’ here. It was the degree of proximity to the tracks that mostly delineated the area. Darac had visited Florian’s apartment block on a couple of previous occasions. He remembered it as a clean-lined, low-rise building, a short uphill pull from the action.
Erica turned the air-con up a notch as they headed away from the promenade.
‘What’s his building called?’
‘L’Horizon Bleu. Imaginatively.’
‘Don’t know it. Nice cool underground parking? Say yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God.’
‘But it’s a ground-level lot.’
The lee of a high wall was the shadiest spot he could find.
‘Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
Thrown in among the laptops and other gear in the boot was a promising-looking box.
‘I don’t suppose there’s anything cool in that, is there? And no gags this time.’
‘Of course there is.’ He took off the lid. ‘Still or sparkling, Mademoiselle?’
‘Sparkling.’
‘Still?’
‘Still.’
They shared the sole remaining bottle, collected their gear and set off at a lazy pace towards the building’s canopied entrance.
‘This is what it must feel like to be Max Perand.’
‘Poor boy.’ The thought made Erica chuckle. ‘Maybe he’ll speed up once he’s grown into his strength or something. God, I sound like my mother.’
Darac’s mobile rang.
‘Chief?’
‘Granot – so how’s my boy Muntanor looking? Fit and ready to win me five hundred euros?’
‘It’s Contador, chief. Con-ta-dor. Right?’
‘Well how’s Contador looking, then?’
‘Dunno, haven’t seen him. But I tell you who I have seen. Half the security chiefs in the country. There’s been a terrorist threat issued against the Tour. And Nice is the designated target.’
Darac came to a dead stop.
‘What?’
Erica drifted back to his side. Darac put the phone on speaker.
‘According to an outfit called the Sons and Daughters of the Just Cause, come Sunday they will – and I’m quoting – “reap a bloody harvest in the city” unless various demands are met.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
Erica’s hand went to her throat.
‘Go on, Granot.’
‘But the powers-that-be are absolutely sure it’s a hoax.’
Darac let his phone hand fall.
‘A hoax.’ He gave Erica a look. ‘Would you believe it?’
‘Now he tells us.’
‘I know…’ He returned the phone to his ear. ‘Granot, why the hell didn’t you say that to start with?’
‘Hey – we had to sweat for what seemed like hours before we got the good word.’
‘Well thanks for sharing.’ Darac and Erica set off once more. ‘Back in the real world, we’re just about to search Florian’s apartment. You get the updates?’
‘Looks like Florian was using the prayer meeting as cover, doesn�
�t it?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘On the other hand, Florian’s pray mate has risked death trying to escape since then.’
‘Mansoor’s an illegal – that could be reason enough to make a run for it.’
‘And what about this GHB thing? I didn’t see that coming. Hope it doesn’t have anything to do with kids.’
‘Did you know Frankie was on board?’
‘No. Best news I’ve had all day.’
‘Me too.’ Darac glanced at his watch. ‘Listen – is Agnès still over with you?’
‘Yes – talking with the big brass. There’s an aspect of the thing that concerns us, apparently.’
‘We’re going to be playing Find the Hoaxers, by the sound of it. On top of everything else.’
‘No doubt. Anyway, chief – me and Vincent have got canapés and champagne waiting for us. Must fly.’
‘Enjoy yourself. Skiving bastard.’
It was banter. Darac believed that if anyone in the unit deserved a break, it was Granot. Despite the ubiquity of screen-based IT, every case the Brigade tackled still generated mountains of paper. Granot, the most indomitable paper mountaineer in the force, had cleared range after range of the stuff over the past few months.
Darac and Erica entered the building.
‘I don’t expect it but we may yet find the famous Manou waiting for Florian in his apartment.’ They stepped into the lift. ‘Or perhaps outside it.’
‘I’m ready for anything,’ Erica said, a nervous catch in her throat.
Darac gave her a smile and hit the button for floor three.
‘Anything?’
‘Almost anything.’
‘It’ll be fine.’
The doors opened. They got out. No one was around.
‘Almost monastic,’ Erica said, as they made their way along the silent, white-painted corridor towards Apartment 38. ‘That’s appropriate for a rapist.’
Darac reached out and shook her free hand.
‘Always glad to meet a fellow cynic.’
‘I’m not cynical about everything. I’ve just got no time for the Church. Or politicians. Or celeb culture. Or corporate America.’ She crossed herself extravagantly. ‘Except for Apple Mac, of course.’
Until this moment, Darac had had no idea Erica was such a kindred spirit.
Impure Blood Page 10