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. ‘Contador, 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.
‘Some physique. No. I don’t know him.’
‘Frankie?’
‘No. Sorry.’
Armani flexed his biceps.
‘So let me go have a chat with him.’
Agnès gave him a look.
‘What about your cover?’
‘Have a uniform tell him a guy from Prisoner Welfare has turned up to see him. Spot check to catch the police arseholes out.’
Agnès gave a nod to the desk officer. The set-up was arranged.
Armani turned to Darac.
‘The guy has had his half-hour
with a lawyer?’
‘They all have.’
Following a further exchange with the desk officer, a guard took Armani off to the cell. The rest of them gathered around the DO’s monitor. Despite Armani’s convincing performance, the encounter made poor TV and he was back in a couple of minutes.
‘He’s on something, alright, but it’s difficult to say what. There was nothing but the GHB at his place?’
Darac had been waiting for the question.
‘A whole sack of stuff went over to the lab.’
Armani grinned at everyone in turn.
‘I must be hearing things. There was a drugs cache at the place and you didn’t think to call us?’
‘We did think of it. But going through it, we didn’t find anything suspicious.’
‘Oh, you didn’t find anything suspicious?’
‘It was mainly just caffeine tablets and things.’
‘Was it? How would you know?’
Agnès sighed in exasperation.
‘Boys?’
‘And you, of course, might have come up with more, Armani. But whatever the other stuff was, the lab will let us know, anyway.’
Looking only partly placated, Armani gave a shrug.
‘The blood result will come first. That will tell us what he’s on. But he might wind up telling us himself before then. He might scream at us to get him some.’
Darac winced. Of all the many and various expressions of human frailty, drug addiction touched him particularly. Some of his jazz heroes would have sold their souls for a fix.
Agnès glanced at her watch.
‘I think he’ll tell us all he knows about Florian well before that point. Anything else strike you about him, Armani?’
‘One thing did, yes. I didn’t recognise him, as I said. But I’m pretty sure he recognised me. I think he knew I was in Narco the moment I walked in.’
10.38 PM
It was a good thing the Blue Devil jazz club didn’t rely on passing trade. Occupying the site of an old print works, there were few outward signs of the joint’s existence. By day, a set of garishly graffitied roller shutters hid the place from the street, Avenue des Diables Bleus. By night, there were no neon signs or flashing lights to draw the eye – just a few photos lining a stairway that led down to a pair of scruffy, red-painted doors.
But then you saw it. Captioned Blown Away by the Brass Section, the club’s signature poster was based on a photo taken at the Blue Devil in 1963. For Darac, no other image better conveyed the atmosphere of a hot live jazz date. He never entered or left the place without reaching up and touching it for luck.
In the lobby, the American club owner, Eldridge Clay, was sitting at the battered card table that served as the Blue Devil’s cash desk. Absorbed in the day’s Nice-Matin, the big man’s eyes stayed on the page as Darac’s shadow fell over it.
‘Garfield.’ Ridge’s pet name for him emerged in a distracted murmur, the pitch of the voice somewhere down with the double basses. He held out a hand. Darac slapped his palm into it. ‘You shoot anybody today?’
‘No, but it’s still early,’ he said, looking down on the man’s head, its nap threadbare as old baize. ‘Are you doorkeeper as well as everything else now?’
‘Pascal went out for a second.’ Ridge folded the paper and tossed it to one side. ‘Miss Dinah Graham.’ He nodded reverently. ‘You see her in the States ever?’
‘Tonight’s a first.’
‘Then go learn.’ He held the look. ‘I’ll join you in a minute.’
There was a good house in for the veteran singer. Her trio began the intro to Ellington’s ballad ‘Solitude’ as Darac circled round the back of the room and made for the bar. He wondered how many times the band had played the tune. Drums, bass and piano sounded like one instrument – that was how many times.
Dinah stood centre stage, listening with a rapt smile on her lined, heavily made-up face. Squat and square in her gold lamé dress, she looked almost like a parody of what she once was. But then she started to sing.
‘In my solitooooood…’
The voice sounded less smooth than in its silky prime, and after just a few bars it was clear her range had shifted south a little. But the simplicity of her approach to the song’s melody and lyrics conveyed its theme of isolation and longing so palpably, it brought Darac out in goosebumps. As the final notes died away, all he could think of was Angeline.
A hand touched Darac’s shoulder as the room erupted in applause.
‘Hey.’
Darac exchanged greetings kisses with Khara, the club’s Senegalese waitress. Without asking for his order, she opened the chiller cabinet behind her.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Fantastic.’ She opened a Leffe Tripel and turned to pour it. ‘You?’
‘Not bad.’ He gave a little nod at the stand. ‘What do you think?’
‘Sublime. Nice lady, too.’
At the mike, Dinah began to introduce the next number.
‘Sorry, folks, I can only do this in English. Ridge Clay and I are New Yorkers, right? The Bronx. Anybody ever been there?’
A few voices called out.
‘And you made it back. Congratulations.’
Darac shared a smile with Khara as he took his drink.
‘Well, he and I first met in 19…’ She flicked a finger across her lips, blurring the rest. ‘…Okay? Now if you’d told me that the man would move to Nice, France, take on a club and run it for twenty-five unbroken years, I would have said you were ca-ray-zee. So come on – put your hands together for Ridge. The guy’s a hero.’
There were no dissenters. The Blue Devil was just about the last old-style jazz club left in the South of France. Its longevity was all down to him.
‘So this next one’s for Ridge.’
As if on cue, the man came into the room as the band went into ‘All The Things You Are’. Darac turned to Khara.
‘And a cognac for Ridge on me – his favourite.’
Khara’s eyebrows rose.
‘It’s Mapin XO, you know.’
‘Make that his almost favourite. How many of the quintet are in?’
‘Two, three…’ Khara closed one eye. ‘…seven… nine with you.’
A collective of local players anything from three to twelve in number, it was their little joke always to refer to themselves as a quintet. Darac spotted the bandleader, Didier Musso, sitting at a table with their alto sax player, Charlie Pachelberg. Opened-out LP sleeves were draped over the two chairs next to them – the club’s way of denoting the seats were reserved. For a moment, Darac was back with the pizza boxes on Rue Verbier.
‘Put a round together, will you, sweetie? I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘I’ll bring them. The guys are dotted all around the room.’
Darac touched base with Marco the drummer until Ridge’s number ended, then picked his way around to Didier’s table.
‘Finally.’ The two of them embraced. ‘No Angeline?’
‘No Angeline.’
Darac slipped Our Man in Paris off his chair and bent to kiss Charlie.
‘My God, she’s missed something special,’ she said, her Berlin-accented French just about intelligible. ‘Such a shame.’
‘Yeah.’
On the stand, Dinah began a lengthy introduction to a number designed to showcase her long-time pianist, Wilfred Jones. In time-honoured fashion, she left its title until last.
‘So people, close your eyes and drift away to the beautiful… “Blue in Green”.’
The announcement itself brought a prolonged ovation. The man began to play, the melody emerging through the fading applause like a butterfly from a chrysalis.
Didier disobeyed Dinah. His eyes were wide open.
‘Wilfred Jones… Talk about touch! He’s barely breathing on the keys.’
‘Wilf’s barely breathing, period,’ Ridge said, joining them. ‘Thanks for the drink, Garfield.’
A few numbers later, the band prov
ed they could still tear a place up as they ripped through ‘Squeeze Me’ at break-neck speed.
Didier’s quiff nodding in time with his clapping hands, he leaned in to Ridge.
‘Got a question for you – something only an American club owner would answer.’
‘You want to know how much I’m paying these geniuses for the gig. Right?’
‘Exactly.’
Ridge took a slow sip of his cognac.
‘More than stoop labour; less than a living wage.’
The faintest lines creased Didier’s boyish brow.
‘They’re playing just for expenses?’
It wasn’t the first time American artists working the summer festival circuit had done this. A favour to Ridge, a gift for everyone else.
Darac stayed until the final encore. Dinah was alone when she returned to the stand. One hand on the piano, she closed her eyes.
‘You… don’t know what love is…’
Immediately, Dinah was speaking to each member of the audience as if only the two of them knew what she was feeling. She was certainly speaking to Darac. Three minutes of shared pain later, she brought the number to a close, her voice fading as if she were taking her final breath. Silence. And then the place erupted. The trio waited a good couple of minutes before following her out on the stand. More rapturous applause. And then Ridge joined them, hugging Dinah until the ovation finally subsided. He turned to the audience.
‘Now go home,’ he said, eliciting laughs. But he had a word for Didier. ‘Didi – round up the guys and stick around, will you?’
A perfect evening just got more perfect. It seemed Dinah and the boys were up for an after-hours jam session with the quintet. Only Darac declined the invitation. Nothing lost. He’d played with legends before. There would be another one along sometime.
* * *
Angeline was in bed by the time he arrived home. Unsure of how deeply she was sleeping, he slipped in next to her as gently as he could. But she stirred anyway, her arm brushing across his chest as she turned towards him. She was sound asleep.
Feeling her breath against his cheek, he lay there looking at her in the half-light: the face he knew better than his own; the body whose rises, falls and hollows were hidden under a nightdress.
You don’t know what love is… But Darac knew, alright. He had known what it was for the past four years.
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