Impure Blood

by Peter Morfoot

  ‘You’ll be telling me you love jazz next.’

  Erica’s one and only visit to a jazz club had proved one of the longest evenings of her life.

  ‘Uh… I wouldn’t exactly say “love”.’

  ‘Well, you need to hear jazz live.’

  ‘I’m sure that makes all the difference.’

  They arrived at number 38. Shepherding her well to one side, Darac rang Florian’s doorbell.

  ‘What’s our worst-case scenario?’ she whispered. ‘Manou is Florian’s accomplice in the GHB business and he is in there raping some half-unconscious girl?’

  ‘And then he answers the door carrying a syringe full of pancuronium. That would worsen things a little.’

  ‘Pancuronium?’

  ‘Or perhaps vecuronium, rocuronium. Or one of the other curoniums.’

  She looked none the wiser.

  ‘Lethal paralytics. Deanna’s pretty sure one was used to kill Florian.’

  Erica almost dropped her laptop case. ‘I knew I should’ve stuck to my No House Calls rule.’

  ‘Look, I really don’t expect Manou to be in there. And even if he is, he’ll probably turn out to be some guy Florian played boules with or something.’

  ‘That doesn’t rule out violence.’

  No one answered the door.

  They let themselves in using Florian’s keys and headed straight for his computer.

  6.31 PM

  It had been a steady 21.2 for some hours now. Since the time of the Romans, possibly. He’d made up his mind. He was ignoring the temperature. He closed his eyes. What was worse, he wondered – being hooked up to a ventilator in an ICU, or pedalling up Mont Ventoux in a headwind? Both made you feel like a living corpse. But it was no contest. The pain of Ventoux was only temporary.

  Helplessness. That was the real killer. It felt to him as if there was no difference between having things done for you, and having things done to you. And it was hard to live with the sense that any minute, it may be decided that you have no useful life left. Your ride ended by others.

  A swish of linen. A bright face. The red-headed one.

  ‘Letter for you, darling. Shall I read it?’

  I don’t want you of all people to read it.

  But he wondered if he might lose it altogether if he blinked no. He blinked once.

  The tearing of the envelope. The rustle of paper. The clearing of the throat.

  ‘“Dear Papa, Well…”’

  Her face.

  ‘Have you noticed how often people say “well” as the first word of a letter?’

  No, no, no. Just read out the letter. Please.

  ‘Do you know what I mean? Well, here I am; Well, we finally made it…? Oh, what am I like? You don’t want to hear that, do you?’

  No. I don’t. Read or don’t read, you stupid, stupid girl. Do not comment. Do not editorialise. And above all, do not interpret what you’re reading.

  ‘I’ll start again. “Dear Papa, Well…”’

  Crash!

  The shout came from another room. The red-headed one left immediately, tossing the letter on to his chest like a flower onto a coffin.

  6.35 PM

  Lycée Principal, André Volpini, was an energetic individual of about fifty, short, and with a head of thinning hair that was too black to be natural. Small, restless eyes shone out of a face so bronzed and glossy, it appeared varnished.

  ‘Captain Lejeune, I… I don’t know what to say, as you can see. I cannot imagine that Emil could possibly have been involved in such a sordid – sordid? – evil business. It’s unthinkable.’

  Frankie Lejeune had heard it all before. But she smiled sympathetically.

  ‘You’ve never entertained any doubts about Monsieur Florian?’ Her lullaby-soft voice took the leading edge off the question. ‘Not even for a moment?’

  Before Volpini could answer, a black cat jumped up on the sofa and decided to make a bed of Frankie’s lap.

  ‘Please, shoo Cin Cin away, Captain.’ He seemed genuinely irritated on his visitor’s behalf but his eyes said he envied the animal. Frankie was a round-figured woman with a head of luxuriant black hair and large, pale-green eyes.

  ‘No, no. I love cats.’ As if to prove the assertion, she began tickling its neck. ‘You stay, Cin Cin.’

  ‘Then that’s… fine. But no, I have had no concerns about Emil whatever, and I must say, I’m inclined not to believe this. There must be some other explanation.’

  ‘Have parents or any of your students ever come to you or to other members of your staff with questions about Monsieur Florian’s behaviour?’

  ‘Certainly not. As I mentioned to your colleague, Lieutenant Granot, Emil wasn’t the sort of person everyone liked. He could be difficult. But I always found him amenable, conscientious. In summary, a decent man – yes, decent – and a very good teacher.’

  ‘I see.’

  Volpini got to his feet.

  ‘A drink, Captain…?’ He smiled expectantly. ‘Look, I’m André and I can’t keep calling you Captain, can I? A drink…?’ He raised his too-black eyebrows.

  ‘No, thank you. We’re exploring a number of avenues, of course.’

  He sat down.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But you do understand that our investigation must include questioning staff at your school, the students, and their families.’

  Volpini threw up his hands.

  ‘My staff – well, yes, I see that. But the students and families? No, no. That is unconscionable. In any case, this is vacation time. Many people will be away.’

  ‘The timing is unfortunate. Nevertheless, we must press ahead. Your staff, if available, will be interviewed quite briefly and without fuss. As far as the children and their parents are concerned, a lower-impact strategy will be employed.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘In the guise of a standard feedback exercise, a questionnaire will be emailed out to each student and family member. Questions will cover a variety of topics relating to what I think your brochure refers to as “the whole school experience”.’

  Volpini waved the idea away. Frankie continued unabashed.

  ‘Obviously, no reference will be made directly to Monsieur Florian or to this investigation. Nevertheless, those filling in the questionnaire will be given opportunity to air, confidentially of course, any concerns they may have on the theme of sexual harassment, deviant behaviour and so on. Contact details will also be provided for anyone preferring to call, email, or write to us on the issue.’

  Volpini was a picture of supercilious amusement.

  ‘Captain – do you realise that clearance from the very highest levels would have to be sought before I could even consider implementing such a scheme?’

  ‘Oh indeed so.’ Frankie smiled, as if to mollify him. ‘But that’s already been taken care of.’ She handed Volpini a print-out of an email from the relevant authority. He took it with all the enthusiasm of someone receiving a repossession order. ‘And no need to worry about the implementation. We will be doing that. All I need is a copy of the school register.’

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t acquired one already.’

  ‘I tried, naturally. But the relevant office at the Department of Education was closed and doesn’t reopen until Monday. Have you a copy here?’

  ‘No.’ In one syllable, Volpini managed to convey that he felt usurped, manipulated and now totally indifferent to his inquisitor’s womanly charms. ‘I do not.’

  ‘The school is what – a fifteen-minute walk away?’

  ‘You surely don’t expect me to go there now?’

  Frankie raised her eyebrows pleasantly. Volpini thought about it.

  ‘Well I can’t leave at this precise second. I have to wait… until my wife gets back.’

  ‘And when might that be?’

  ‘Soon! Half an hour. An hour at the most.’

  Frankie handed him a card bearing her contact details.

  ‘That’s very
kind, thank you. Use the lower of the two email addresses if you would.’

  He grunted.

  The meeting was over. At the door, Frankie left Volpini with an even less happy thought.

  ‘In the unlikely event that no progress is made on any fronts of the investigation, we may yet have to talk directly to the children and parents.’ A final smile. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  As Volpini went to close the door, Cin Cin’s tail gave his leg a disdainful flick as she followed Frankie out into the corridor.

  ‘Get out.’ It was a stone aimed at two birds. ‘And stay out.’

  Shaking his shiny head, Volpini walked purposefully back into the lounge and picked up the phone.

  6.52 PM

  Darac and Erica left Emil Florian’s apartment building and walked wearily through slanting sunlight to the parking area. Neither said much until they had stowed the stuff they’d removed from Florian’s apartment.

  ‘Right.’ Darac closed the car boot. ‘Let’s get in and get out of here.’

  It would have been cooler to have opened an oven door.

  ‘So glad you parked in the shade.’

  Darac set the air-con to maximum and pulled slowly away.

  ‘So what have we learned for certain?’ Erica said, fanning herself with one hand, holding her hair away from her neck with the other. ‘Florian’s gay – that’s about it.’

  ‘If he is a sex offender, he’s not typical. You never find a small porn cache, do you? These people collect images like a dead cat collects flies. It’s an expression of the scale of their abnormality.’

  ‘Dog.’

  ‘Dog?’

  ‘It’s “like a dead dog collects flies”.’

  He looked across at her.

  ‘But I like dogs.’

  She gave a little chuckle.

  ‘But now take Florian. Not one pornographic image on the hard drive. Not one shot of him or anyone else abusing a victim. Not one hard copy of anything hideous. Scarcely anything racy, even: photos of a guy who just has to be Manou strutting his stuff in a posing pouch; a book of arty male nudes more or less anybody might own. That’s all. It doesn’t fit.’

  They bisected a Cannes-bound train as it rattled over the viaduct above them.

  ‘And there was no hint of chemicals to make GHB or any other drug. So here’s a thought – maybe Florian never hurt anyone. Maybe he did find that bottle of water, after all. Instead of feeling we’ve wasted our time, we should be rejoicing.’

  They turned into Avenue de la Californie and headed for the city.

  ‘I don’t think we can break out the champagne quite yet. You’re sure no images could have existed on the computer and been deleted?’ Darac ran a hand through his hair. It didn’t spring back with its usual force. ‘Maybe there’s a new programme that really does kill stuff on the hard drive.’

  ‘No. None exists. Physical destruction is the only way, believe me.’

  ‘Then there’s a second computer. Someone, possibly Manou, may have known Florian was dead, beat us to the apartment and removed it. A laptop probably.’

  ‘No one around saw anything suspicious. And there’s no CCTV in the place to help us.’

  ‘It’s early days.’

  As the air-con began to tame the heat, Darac pulled up in the no-parking zone outside Le Bouton, a takeaway spot known for its spécialités Niçoises.

  ‘Leave the engine running. Just starting to cool down.’

  ‘You read my mind. Coffee? Snack? Have to have it on the move, though.’

  ‘Fine with me.’ Tilting her head back over the seat rest, Erica let out a long sigh. ‘I’ve got loads to do in the lab.’

  ‘Want to come and see what there is?’

  Murmuring settling-down sounds, she closed her eyes.

  ‘You go. I’ll stay and guard the car.’

  Despite all that was breaking under the surface of his day, Darac couldn’t resist a smile.

  ‘So what do you fancy?’

  ‘Uh… a noisette, easy on the froth. And… a slice of pissaladière. A large one. And… a tarte aux pommes. And an Orangina. No, water. Sparkling.’

  ‘Anything else for the mademoiselle? Boeuf en daube? Nice bottle of Beaujolais?’

  Allowing her head to fall to the side, Erica opened her eyes.

  ‘Think they’d have those?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  No sooner had he got out of the car than he was confronted by an arm-waving traffic warden. Following a shouted exchange, Darac had to play his Police Judiciaire ID card to win the debate. Erica lowered her window.

  ‘And don’t forget the serviettes!’

  Her mobile rang.

  ‘Erica Lamarthe… Oh hello, thanks for calling… Yes, let me have it, please. Just a sec.’ Realising her notebook and pen were locked in the boot along with her laptop, she tried the glove compartment. Taking out handfuls of CDs, she found a pen that had rolled to the back. She was just wondering whether to use a jewel case insert to take down the info – a jolly round-faced man named Oscar Peterson looked as if he wouldn’t have minded – when she spotted a screwed-up till receipt. That would do. ‘Sorry about that. Go ahead.’

  In the takeaway, Darac downed a double espresso while he waited for Marcel, the place’s veteran owner, to complete his order. Angeline was always telling him he drank too much of the stuff. She favoured green tea. There were several packets in Emil Florian’s kitchen, Darac had noticed. The antioxidants hadn’t saved him.

  Wearing a baggy T-shirt that showed off his stringy, mahogany-brown arms, Marcel grabbed a couple of serviettes from a dispenser.

  ‘So who do you fancy for the Tour, Inspector?’

  ‘It’s Captain now – we don’t have inspectors any more. The Tour? Uh… Contador. He’s the one, I reckon.’

  The old man looked incredulous as he handed over Darac’s change.

  ‘Good choice. To be honest, I only asked that to get a rise out of you.’

  ‘A string of previous offences doesn’t guarantee current guilt, Marcel.’ He picked up his stuff. ‘Vivà!’

  ‘Vivà!’

  Erica welcomed him back to the car with the note.

  ‘It just came in.’

  ‘Manou’s details?’

  ‘Swap you for the pissaladière.’

  Darac read the name out aloud.

  ‘Imanol Esquebel. A Basque, obviously. Apartment 7, La Masarella, L’Ariane.’

  ‘That’s in the low rent area, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s one of the blocks. The roughest of them, in fact.’

  ‘Bit lower down the social ladder than Florian, then?’

  ‘Practically off it altogether.’

  Wolfing down a piece of socca, Darac went to the boot and returned with his laptop.

  ‘Let’s see who he is. How’s the pissaladière – good?’

  ‘My own version’s better.’

  ‘You don’t make a hundred at a time though, do you?’

  ‘In this heat, can you imagine?’

  ‘Here we go – Imanol Esquebel… twenty-six years old… born in Biarritz… string of minor offences… bit of a rough pup by the look of it… no weapons used… bare-knuckle boy… found guilty of aggravated assault three years ago… served four months.’

  A photo flashed up. Short but with a weightlifter’s tapered torso, Manou’s sharp-eyed face smouldered with self-regard. Darac angled the screen for Erica.

  ‘He’s the guy in Florian’s photos alright.’ She dabbed a rash of crumbs from her mouth. ‘Really street, isn’t he? A rent boy?’

  ‘Rent-controlled boy, perhaps – it seems he’s been offence-free for the past two years. Judging by the album shots, that’s more or less the time he was with Florian.’

  ‘You know, it’s in the back of my mind that I’ve seen him somewhere.’ She took a sip of her noisette. ‘Maybe it’s just the type.’

  ‘That’s funny. You’re the second person today to say that.’


  ‘Who was the first?’

  ‘Agnès. Of Mansoor Narooq.’

  ‘I only quote from the best.’

  Darac shut down the laptop and then, earning a horrified stare from Erica, tossed it on to the back seat.

  ‘It’s good for them. Okay, I’m off to L’Ariane. I’ll drop you at the Caserne.’

  ‘What – you think La Masarella is no place for a delicate flower like me?’

  ‘Not at all. But you have to be getting back to the lab, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I do.’

  Thank goodness, she thought to herself.

  * * *

  Having dropped off Erica, Darac was on his way out of the Caserne when he ran into Bonbon driving in. They rolled their windows.

  ‘I was going to borrow a local but are you free?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  A car drew up behind Darac.

  ‘L’Ariane. See if I can scare up one Imanol Esquebel.’

  ‘He the Manou of myth and legend?’

  ‘The same. Not a particularly bad boy as far as we know. Twenty-six years old. Born in Biarritz. Street kid. Bit of a hard case. Bodybuilder. Some form but none lately. Florian was sweet on him.’

  ‘Classic bit of rough for the nice teacher?’

  ‘Maybe. Imanol’s clean-up act coincides more or less with Manou and Florian being together, interestingly.’

  A horn blast from behind. Darac signalled he needed another couple of seconds.

  ‘So the man in the white suit teaches Muscles how to behave; in return, he gets to learn a lot of stuff he never even dreamed of.’

  ‘Could’ve been that way.’

  ‘Okay, I’m in.’

  ‘Park yours. I’ll wait for you by the gate.’

  Bonbon’s foxy perkiness enabled him to cope with most terrain but his eyes narrowed warily.

  ‘We go in yours?’

  ‘And bring a jacket.’

  ‘You’re not planning to put on any…’ His face crumpled. ‘…jazz, en route, are you?’

  Darac gave a sad little shake of the head. ‘Ai, ai, ai…’

  ‘Well, are you?’

  ‘Bonbon, have I ever mentioned Madame Treuil to you?’

  ‘The woman who juggled vegetables?’