A rustling of cloth.
It’s the fat one! My beloved fat one! I thought she was gone for ever.
‘Hello.’ That smile. ‘You got your TV after all. That’s wonderful.’
He blinked once.
‘You’re enjoying it?’
He blinked once.
‘Of course. Perfect for you. And being able to watch your son and everything.’
He blinked once.
‘I’m on another ward now but I thought I’d just pop over to see how you are. May I look at your mouth?’
He blinked once.
The familiar smell of her fingers. The loosening of the plate. He felt air cool his lips. What was happening? He felt air on his lips.
Felt it.
‘That’s looking much better. Just a little more cream and we’re there.’
The smell of the cream. He expected that. Come on, let’s feel its greasy softness now.
‘And now the gauze.’
He hadn’t felt the cream. Another false summit.
‘Here we go.’
Warmer. And a covering sensation. Almost imperceptible. But it was there.
‘And now the plate.’
Pressure. Tightening. Strong words for what were the most delicate of sensations. But sensations they were.
‘Upphhh…’
The fat one’s eyes widened. Her mouth fell open.
‘What?’
‘Upphhh…’
‘No. Don’t try to speak.’ Her face a study in concentration, she looked at the bank of readouts on his monitors. And smiled, excitedly. ‘In a moment, I’m going to prick the back of your hand. Is that alright?’
He blinked once.
‘I want you to blink once if you can feel it; twice if you can’t. I’m going to do it on three. One, two… three.’
He blinked once.
‘Yes!’ she said, her eyes almost disappearing behind the rising crescents of her cheeks. ‘Let’s try it again.’
7.30 AM
Yves Dauresse jinked neatly between two whip-cracking towels. A Garde Républicaine shower area was no place for the slow of wit and limb.
‘Missed, you sad bastards!’
Roger Lascaux and David Jarret were almost changed into their inspection overalls as he joined them at their lockers.
‘I don’t know why my bare backside seems to fascinate everybody.’
‘Fair play to it.’ Lascaux slipped his watch over his wrist. ‘It is a decent arse.’
‘Thank you, Roger.’
They shook hands.
Jarret was drying his hair.
‘Except you’ve got to remember who the towel-flickers, the ones who hang around in the shower at the end, are. They are benders. That is why they go for it.’
‘Any arse in a storm, eh? I thought I was special there for a minute.’
Lascaux gave him a look. He knew just how special the man was. And then he realised something was missing.
‘I hate to think where you’re hiding my watch.’ He held out his hand. ‘Give.’
‘What? No, you must have dropped it.’ Looking for a likely spot, Dauresse finally settled on his riding boots. He reached into one of them. ‘Well look at that. Imagine finding it there.’
With exaggerated gratitude, Lascaux took it and walked away.
‘Shouldn’t wear it on your right wrist!’ Dauresse turned to Jarret. ‘Lefties. Eccentric people.’
It was Jarret’s turn to look Dauresse up and down. Gags, cryptic remarks, unsuspected knowledge, sleight of hand: there seemed to be no end to the man’s capacity to surprise.
‘They’re not the only ones, mate.’
The banter and general horseplay continued through all the routines and rituals that marked the start of the GR’s day.
And what a day it promised to be for the three of them.
7.45 AM
The mannequins had been removed by the time Agnès woke for a second time. Or perhaps it was a third. Or tenth.
She was wearing a nightshirt now. It was short, thin and filthy but it covered her nakedness. And there were better messages from her body: it hurt like hell. She was sitting with her back drawn up against the side wall of some vehicle. Releasing an avalanche of pain down her spine, she tried to get up. She couldn’t. Her wrists were manacled to a chain that ran through an eyebolt fixed behind her. In the dim light of what she now realised was a panel van, her eyes began to focus more securely. The sharpening image she saw almost broke her heart.
‘Thank God you’ve come back to me.’ Vincent’s words were shot through with tears. ‘Thank God!’
She tried to hold out both arms to him but the chain was too short to allow it. One arm would have to do.
‘It’s alright, Papa.’ Agnès’s throat was dry and the effort of raising her voice made it crack. ‘It’s alright.’ She was scared to death but she was even more scared of showing it. ‘I’m feeling much better now.’
‘Thank God, thank God…’
Their reaching hands were well out of touching range but the look that passed between them felt strong enough to walk on – a suspension bridge across the nightmare. In her head, Agnès was herself enough now to realise that whatever was happening, it was the product of someone else’s madness, not hers.
Thunder rolled overhead.
‘We’ll get out of here, Papa. We’re not going to die trussed up like this. They’re out there now looking for us – Darac and the others. The Brigade, our brigade is looking. And they’ll come through for us, Papa. They’ll save us. But we mustn’t give up in the meantime. Do you hear me? We must keep going. We mustn’t give up. You taught me the value of that. Like so many other things.’
Vincent’s head dropped.
‘Come on, Papa. We’re in this together. As always.
Let’s think about it. Let’s think about what we can do to help ourselves.’
For the moment, the thunder rolling overhead subsided.
‘There’s no…’
‘Yes there is! Look at me.’
His head remained bowed. When he spoke, his voice was a desiccated replica of itself.
‘I meant there’s no… toilet or toilet paper. I… had to go just to the side here.’
A proud and fastidious man, her beloved papa, reduced to this. Somehow, Agnès managed to stop herself from weeping. Calling on every resource she had, she spoke out in a strong, clear voice.
‘Pee-pee and ca-ca aren’t going to kill us, you know.’
He didn’t respond.
‘Hey – remember when I was a toddler? I don’t remember it but you and Mama used to say that when I’d finished on my potty, my favourite game was pouring everything I’d done over my head. Do you remember that?’
He looked up, the slightest smile of recognition lightening his face.
‘Yes. For a time, you were the most disgusting child.’
‘Bodily emissions aren’t going to kill us. And our hair will grow back. Well, mine will. And things could be worse, Papa. Thanks to these gorgeous bon chic, bon genre nighties, at least we won’t have to look at each other’s wrinkly old bodies now, will we?’
Vincent gave a little laugh.
‘That’s it. We’re not beaten. We haven’t even begun to fight.’ Rasping the chain through the eyebolt, she looked carefully at the way it attached to her wrist restraint. Whatever the fight was going to consist of, she realised, it wouldn’t involve freeing themselves from their manacles. It would be a waste of valuable energy to try. ‘We’ll get out of this, Papa. I’m absolutely certain of it.’
More thunder from above, rolling in the opposite direction this time.
‘The van is parked under a rail viaduct, isn’t it? That’s why they haven’t bothered gagging us.’
Vincent’s face seemed more animated suddenly. Anger was a great galvaniser.
‘They were wrong, weren’t they? The so-called experts. They said the Sons and Daughters of the Just Cause were “a joke”. Or a smokescreen.’ He
essayed the neutral Parisian accent. “They’re not terrorists.” Well look at us! I go to the door. A man in a ski-mask pushes me over, then injects something into my arm. Next thing I know, I wake up in this hell hole. Who do they think has done that? Children?’
Agnès smiled.
‘That’s better, Papa. Much better. My experience was the same. The injection part anyway.’
‘Exactly!’
‘But the people who’ve taken us are not terrorists, Papa. What sort of targets are we? And there are numerous other factors. Whoever is doing this is doing it to punish us personally. So who? Come on. Let’s get our brains in gear. Who hates us? Who have we wronged? No, let me rephrase that. Who might think they have been wronged by us?’
‘No, no, no, it’s… terrorists, isn’t it? Fanatics. Lunatics. No?’
Agnès calmly returned his look, saying nothing. After a long moment, he shook his head.
‘You’re right. It’s not terrorists.’
‘No, it isn’t. And that’s good news because it’s not our field. Whoever has done this is a bank robber, an enforcer, a rapist – a murderer. We’re in our comfort zone here!’
A bitter smile played on Vincent’s lips.
‘That’s been our lives, alright.’ He shook his head. ‘I should never have let you join the Brigade.’ The chain rasped through the eyebolt behind him as he raised a hand. ‘Look where it brought you.’
‘Hey. You didn’t let me join. I joined. And it was the best move I ever made. Now let’s move on. Forwards, Papa, remember? We go forwards. So let’s think about those who might have done this. It might help us later.’
‘How?’
‘What did you always say? “Knowledge is…?”’
She let him complete the phrase.
‘“Knowledge is power.” It’s true, yes.’
‘We may find ourselves in a position where we can use that power.’
He looked sheepish.
‘I need to go to the… Just to pee this time.’
‘Do it. I’ll look the other way.’
Agnès’s back was an inquisition of pain and turning her head to the side brought a new torment. But she was determined not to show it; not to show any weakness or negativity. Thank God I’m my father’s girl, she said to herself. The Dantiers had never given in. They had always pushed that little bit harder. Always been winners.
‘Are you alright, Papa? All I can hear is grunts. I want to hear a nice steady psssssssssssss.’
Vincent was finding it hard to manoeuvre himself into position. But by moving his left hand as close to the eyebolt as he could, there was sufficient play in the chain to allow his right hand to do the needful.
‘I’m alright.’
‘Good. And if it turns out to be more of a trickle than a torrent, don’t worry about it.’
‘It’s not coming out at all. Come on, damn you.’
‘Listen, Papa. I’m going to go as well, alright? Maybe that will help.’
His whimpering started up again but this time, it wasn’t through the effort of moving.
‘Sweetheart… sweetheart… You’re so…’
‘Hey, stop that. Come on.’
‘Yes… Yes, you’re right. Positive. Positive is the way forward.’
It was all Agnès could do not to cry out in pain as she turned on to her side.
‘When we get out of here, I’m going straight to the osteopath,’ she said, relieving herself. ‘Back’s a little sore.’
‘You poor darling.’
‘There you are. Listen to that flow. No problem.’
Her strategy worked.
‘Better, Papa?’
‘Better.’
Accompanied by more rasping of chains and grunts from Vincent, they set about righting themselves. For a moment, Agnès thought she might vomit with pain but she held on.
‘Now – to work. I can think of at least… five people I sent down who swore they would come for me when they got out.’
More thunder, rolling in the opposite direction.
Vincent suddenly looked stronger.
‘Who were they? Bastards.’
‘Benoit Greuze is the first one that comes to mind.’
‘Greuze, Greuze… Strangled a man he swore blind was burgling his house.’
‘He did. Strangled the burglar, note. It was obvious he’d lured the man to the house for the express purpose of murdering him – he was convinced he was having an affair with his wife. Greuze always maintained I tricked him into confessing. He’s out now. Been out almost a year.’
‘He could never organise a thing like this. Without help, anyway.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Who else?’
As the unrecorded minutes ticked by, the pair began to compile an impressive list of candidates. Eventually, they cast their vote.
‘So who do you go for, Papa?’
‘Cyrille Monceau,’ he said.
7.58 AM
Bodies lay sprawled over desks in the squad room like victims of a mass poisoning. Only Darac, revived by a shower in the Caserne, was awake.
He flipped his mobile.
‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘Cabriet, Captain.’
The boy sounded about seventeen years old.
‘And you’ve relieved Captain Tardelli’s man, yes?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘You have the Delage house in clear sight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any activity to report?’
‘No, I’m under orders to ring you if Madame Delage or anyone else turns up. No one has.’
‘I’m coming over. Do you know what I look like? I don’t want you ringing me to tell me I’m standing on the doorstep.’
‘I do, sir. I’ve seen you play at the Blue Devil a few times. And I’ve got some of the quintet’s CDs as well.’
Darac was stunned. In almost fifteen years on the force, he had come across only three other officers who were jazz fans.
‘Practically unique, Cabriet. That’s what you are. We’ll get together over a beer and a couple of albums sometime. Or the other way around.’
‘I’d love that, sir.’
‘I’ll see you shortly.’
* * *
Darac had read Corinne Delage’s letters over and over again; every name in her somewhat scanty address book had been rung or visited; her financial accounts had been scrutinised; and her most recent employer, much to the woman’s annoyance, had been disturbed at eleven the previous evening for an interview. One or two call-backs aside, there didn’t seem much that could be added to the picture of Delage – not in time to help find Agnès and Vincent. And yet Darac was persisting. She was the key to it, he was certain. He put on gloves, went in through the back door of Delage’s house, and called Cabriet.
‘Yes, I saw you go round, Captain.’
‘Let me know straight away if anyone turns up.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The photos. The personal effects. Even Angeline’s god-damned soap – Darac intended to look at everything again. Maybe they had missed something.
Twenty minutes went by. Thirty. And beyond. It wasn’t until he was on the point of leaving that he noticed the foot stool that lived under a nest of tables in the living room. Sitting on stubby wooden legs, it was a leather drum-shaped object – Delage in furniture form, Darac reflected. More for the sake of completeness than in the hope of finding anything useful, he decided to give it a closer look. Reaching under the tables, he felt its top lift slightly as he pulled it out. The top wasn’t just a top. It was a lid. For a moment, he was back with Medusa’s plinth. He lifted it off.
‘How did we miss this?’
The stool doubled as a work basket. An upper tray contained all the typical accoutrements of sewing. A collection of more diverse objects lived in the compartment below, most of them in need of some sort of repair. Kneeling on the floor, he removed them item by item.
One piece immediately intrigued him. Wi
th screw holes cut into lugs protruding from either end, it was a small, flat metal case. A vaguely arabesque design was incised into its japanned upper surface. He wondered what the thing was and why it was in the basket – it didn’t appear damaged. A bag containing a couple of matching screws was taped to its rear side.
Holding the base, he slid off its lid. Inside was a rolled-up piece of parchment-like material bearing a handwritten text. The script was exotic. He looked at it for a moment, uncomprehending. But then, although he couldn’t remember what such things were called, he suddenly realised what it might be. He took out his mobile and photographed the object from all sides. His mind alive with ideas, connections and possibilities, he forsook the floor and went to sit at the bureau. Turning on an Anglepoise lamp, he directed the beam at the screw holes in the lugs attached to the case.
Getting to his feet, he moved quickly to the kitchen door and carefully examined the frame. Nothing. The door to the staircase was next. Nothing. And finally, the door into the front lobby. No better news there. Now what? He went over to the bookcase. He’d been through it once already, shaking out each title to see if anything had been hidden between pages. This time, his attention was directed to the titles themselves. He scanned them one by one.
‘Shit.’
So far, nothing had reinforced the theory that was taking shape in his head.
He flipped his mobile.
‘Cabriet – alright to step out of the front door?’
‘Have you finished then, Captain?’
‘No. I just want to stand on the front doorstep for a minute.’
‘Alright. Yes, everything’s clear.’
Darac went to the front door and opened it. It took two seconds to find what he was looking for. At about shoulder height on the right-hand side of the doorframe, there were two small holes, one above the other. He offered up the parchment case. The holes in the doorframe appeared in the dead centre of the screw holes on the case’s lugs. Another matching pair of holes appeared lower down. He went to the back door and repeated the experiment. Three pairs of matching holes there. He was already calling Frankie as he went back inside.
‘Paul?’
‘Yes, I’m over at the Delage house. Are you at home, Frankie?’
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