Eight

by James R. Vance

  The usual advice and words of gratitude for flying with Ryanair spilled from the public address system as the aircraft made a final circular turn to settle opposite the glass fronted arrivals and departure building. Passengers stretched and stood to rescue cabin baggage from the overhead lockers. Airport staff wheeled out and positioned steps at the front and rear exits.

  Within ten minutes, the majority of the passengers were in baggage reclaim before entering the main concourse of the airport. The car rental offices were adjacent to the extensive car parking area facing the exit doorways of the terminal building. As they crossed to hire a vehicle for their stay, Massey noticed that the signs in and around the terminal were in French and English, doubtless signifying that the Brits were here in numbers.

  After checking availability, Harcourt settled on a Peugeot 307 from Hertz. They picked up a route map, consulted with the car hire staff for directions and headed for Limoges city centre. Thirty minutes later, they were checking in at the Hotel Mercure Royal. After settling in their rooms, they met in the hotel bar, Le Renoir, where Jean-Marie Fauchet joined them.

  There was no restaurant at the hotel. Jean-Marie walked them the short distance to La Vache au Plafond on the Avenue Garibaldi, where they lunched before driving to La Bastide for the afternoon match.

  Petra spent Sunday morning trying on her purchases from Mim, Blue Box, H & M, Naf Naf and Boutique Jennyfer. They were only some of the many fashion shops that she had explored in Saint Martial shopping centre. Saturday morning's spending spree had been a successful expedition. Now it was time to decide on an outfit suitable for spectating and socialising at a football match.

  The weather was warm and sunny. Something casual and fitting for a student of culture seemed to be the order of the day. She concluded that she should wear something chic, subtly sexy but practical. She chose Levi jeans that she had purchased from Blue Box, a white cotton tunic in broderie anglaise from H &M, a black belted trench jacket and suede ankle boots from Mim. She had also treated herself to a pair of dark Ray-Ban sunshades, having concluded that they seemed to be fashionable amongst French women. She spent an hour parading before a mirror until she was satisfied.

  Petra arrived at La Bastide fifteen minutes before the match was due to start. Leaving the Clio parked on the Rue Détaille, she walked to the ground, her jacket slung over her shoulder. She wore her Ray-Bans. Her impact was immediate. She sensed a wall of male eyes, the whole gamut of ages, staring at her.

  I'm over-dressed, she thought. Shit! There's no turning back now. Stay cool, ignore them and walk confidently past them. I must remain in control.

  She had inadvertently achieved her objective to stand out from the crowd, even before opening her mouth. Her appearance was far from subtle. Jean-Marie's advice to stay close to the bar area was intended to be conducive to keeping an initial low profile. Such anonymity was difficult to achieve considering the continued stares in her direction. Certainly, it was some distance away from the players’ changing rooms, an area crowded with participants, officials and supporters of the two teams. However, she opted to position herself in a quieter area of the ground, somewhere devoid of people. She considered it more prudent to drift towards the bar when all eyes focussed on the game.

  When the match eventually kicked off there was still no sign of Jean-Marie. Cautiously, intent on attracting as little attention as possible, she edged her way towards the bar. She chose a spot at a corner of the building where she could watch the game in the comfort of her own space. La Bastide had already scored one goal when Jean-Marie arrived with a couple, a man and a woman, whom she assumed were the detectives from England. She was unsure. Perhaps they had failed to arrive and he was with some friends. They made their way to the far side beyond the changing rooms. She was still on her own, dreading the half-time whistle.

  Ignoring the action on the football pitch, Jean-Marie was attempting to explain the role of Louise Charrière, the young woman sent over by the security services. He pointed her out to the two detectives.

  “From this distance, she looks more like a French tart to me,” Harcourt remarked disdainfully.

  Jean-Marie shrugged his shoulders. “I find ‘er very pleasant and sensible. Maybe she is a little nervous, but that I understand with ‘er limited knowledge of the language.”

  Harcourt fixed Massey with a sideways quizzical look. “She's not French then?”

  The ex-gendarme shook his head. “I am surprised also.”

  Massey wondered at the lack of common sense with regard to the strategy of her employers. He addressed Jean-Marie. “Do you think she'll have any success?”

  “Maybe she ‘as more chance than I ‘ave. Already I ask questions quietly at the club, but always the players say I must speak with Ludo. When I ask, ‘e tell me it is for ‘im to decide who play, who stay and who leave the football club. Always ‘e say that it is scouters who find and send ‘im the players?”

  Massey smiled. “Scouts.”

  “Thank you. ‘e ‘as big ideas, I think. ‘e want this club to become the top club of Limoges, to play in the Championnat. ‘e think ‘e is Arsene Wenger.”

  Harcourt appeared slightly bemused. “Who is Ludo?”

  Jean-Marie pointed towards the touchline. “Ludovic Roche, that large man in the blue tracksuit over there with the other players. Ludo is the trainer.”

  Roche sat on a bench with three substitute players. A large muscular man with close-cropped dark hair, he looked quite Mediterranean with deep-set brown eyes and a dark skinned complexion. He constantly leaped from his seat, forceful and animated as he bellowed instructions towards his players.

  Massey leaned over the barrier to get a better view of Roche before turning to Jean-Marie. “How long has he been in charge?”

  “This is the second season. ‘e is from Marseille but live ‘ere long time, several years now. The gendarmerie believe that ‘e ‘as still connections in Marseille where ‘e get a criminal record.”

  “And here?” Harcourt asked.

  “The gendarmerie watch ‘im, but no, not ‘ere.”

  Massey was concerned about the man's background. “What were his offences in Marseille?”

  “Not serious: robbery, assault, but no crime with a weapon. They gaoled ‘im two or three times. Perhaps there are other crimes but nothing is proved.”

  Harcourt was surprised. “If he's an ex-con, how was he allowed to become the trainer here?”

  Once again, Jean-Marie shrugged his shoulders. “There is no opposition, no-one with ‘is football experience.”

  Massey was intrigued. “I assume that as a trainer for a small football club, this is only part-time and he has another full-time job.”

  “I believe ‘e get benefit from the state. Also, it is known that ‘e work the markets but is never there. Others manage the markets for ‘im, but ‘e take profit from the sales. It is easy to cheat the system in France. Always one pay with money, cash. Nothing is in ‘is name, but always Roche buy expensive clothes and big car.”

  “Are these permanent markets?” Harcourt asked. “Surely, they must be monitored by the tax authorities?”

  Jean-Marie smiled. “The man knows ‘ow to cheat the system by using vide-greniers and the marchés aux puces. You say empty lofts and markets of fleas?”

  Massey laughed. “We call them car boot sales, but perhaps cash in the attic is closer and we have flea markets like you.”

  “In France, there is little control over these affairs, but that is not important. I think that bigger income for Roche come from this other business, but again nothing is proved.”

  Suddenly, Harcourt became more attentive. “When you say ‘this other business’, you mean people trafficking into the U.K.?”

  Jean-Marie lowered his voice. “It is known that immigrants from the African continent come into Spain, Italy and France. We try prevent this, but it is difficult. Why you think we build Sangatte in Pas de Calais before?” He shrugged in response to his own question. �
��It is possible that some connections in Marseille send to Roche young black people because of this football club. At La Bastide, the most players are young black Frenchmen. It is easy to conceal and to lose new ones in this area. Perhaps ‘e provide the false passports and football identity cards that you say you now find. It is also possible that ‘e organise the travel to England.”

  Massey shook his head in amazement. “That, in itself, is illegal. Why not arrest him?”

  “Yes, you are right, but we ‘ave no proof. Now, your people think that these young black people are Moslem extremists trained to be suicide bombers. Again, there is no proof. That is why the young woman over there is ‘ere…to find the proof. You come because you find two dead French boys perhaps from La Bastide and you must investigate the deaths.”

  Harcourt and Massey remained silent. Jean-Marie was right. Everything regarding Roche was either circumstantial or based on supposition. With no evidence, any case against him was a non-starter. Nevertheless, thought Massey, it seemed strange that the local gendarmerie had not investigated him more thoroughly. Perhaps their presence and the arrival of an agent from the security services might prompt some action.

  Dark clouds drifted in from the west, obscuring the afternoon sun. The temperature cooled as spots of rain began to fall. La Bastide scored two more goals with only a few minutes left before half-time. The referee blew his whistle ending the half. La Bastide were leading three goals to nil against a lower league team from Magnac Laval. This was a cup match that provided little contest between two mismatched teams.

  To avoid the rain, Petra edged under a large Perspex canopy overhanging the bar area. The players and the trainers of both teams trudged towards their respective changing rooms. Petra decided to buy a drink quickly as the majority of spectators were gravitating towards the shelter of the bar area to avoid the rain. A teenage boy and a formidable looking woman with dark red-dyed hair were serving drinks.

  “Un Coca-Cola, s'il vous plaît,” Petra said to the woman.

  A voice to one side surprised her. “You must be English.”

  She turned to see one of La Bastide's substitutes behind her. He was one of two white players who had been on the bench. In his hands, he was holding empty water bottles that he passed to the young boy behind the bar to fill. “Plus de l'eau.”

  Petra smiled at him. “How did you know that I was English?” she asked.

  “Easy. The French would merely ask for coca and they rarely say please. I've not seen you here before. You on holiday?”

  “I'm on a secondment, studying at the university.”

  He looked around. He seemed puzzled. Was it because a young English woman was at the match, apparently on her own? It was as if he expected her to be accompanied. “Has someone brought you? Are you staying locally?”

  Stick to your story, she thought. “I like football. Someone told me that La Bastide was the best team around here, so I decided to come along and see for myself.”

  The young boy from the bar passed the refilled containers to the footballer.

  “Look, I have to go. It's team talk time in the changing room.”

  Petra was interested. She had to ask him. “Are you French or English?”

  “Er, French, but American with a bit of Russian thrown in for good measure. It's complicated. Can I talk to you later? Stick around until the end of the game. My name is Alexis. What's yours?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Alexis. I'm Louise.”

  As he ran off with his water bottles, she could not believe her luck. An English-speaking player, she thought. That'll make life easier. I must cultivate him…and he's dead fit.

  The weather had steadily worsened. She huddled under the canopy with the other spectators and quietly sipped her coca. She looked across the pitch. Jean-Marie and his companions had disappeared, probably because of the weather.

  Not to worry, she thought, I'll be meeting them later at the hotel. In the meantime there's a second half to endure, now pleasantly enhanced by the prospect of chatting to Alexis.

  At four forty five, the referee blew his whistle to signal the end of the match and a resounding win for La Bastide. Petra ordered a jus d'orange and edged back towards the end of the bar. She remained sufficiently below the canopy to shield herself from the rain. Some spectators began to drift in her direction for refreshments where they indulged in small talk and friendly banter with each other. Many had already departed, doubtless in a rush to avoid any further deterioration in the weather. The players and officials crossed towards the changing rooms.

  Eventually, players from both teams began to emerge from the shower blocks and joined those gathered at the bar. Petra distanced herself, hoping to deter any others who might try to engage her in conversation.

  Alexis extricated himself from amongst his team-mates and joined her. “So, what are you studying at uni?”

  Oh God, thought Petra. I hope he's not a student there also. No matter, I must stay with the game plan.

  “European Cultural Studies. I'm only here for a short-term secondment as part of a project at home. Are you a student?”

  “Not any longer. I'm a trainee accountant. I work for a company in Limoges.”

  “You said that you were part American. I didn't think that Americans played football. I thought they were more into rounders, netball and their weird version of rugby.”

  Alexis laughed. “You mean baseball, basketball and American football. I'm part American, part French and even part Russian and all those nationalities play football, especially here and in Russia. In the States, it's becoming more popular since Beckham went over there. I assume you've heard of him?”

  “Along with Ryan Giggs, he was my favourite when I used to watch Manchester United.”

  “You watched Manchester United and saw David Beckham,” exclaimed Alexis. “Lucky you. I've only seen them on TV, apart from when they played Lyon in a European game in 2008, but Beckham had left by then. I went with a friend. We bought our tickets from France Billet. Unfortunately we were with the Lyon supporters.”

  Petra needed to turn the conversation in a different direction. “Your team here seems to consist of mostly black players. Why is that?”

  “This part of Limoges has a large immigrant population and, of course, they're brilliant players. That's why we win so many matches.”

  “Do you live locally?”

  “Not too far away. I can show you if you like.”

  Petra was in two minds. Perhaps she should have accepted his offer, but was wary of appearing too pushy. She was desperate to spend time with him to pursue her enquiries but this moment was inappropriate. There were far too many people around.

  “Thanks. Maybe some other time.” Her remark left it open for him to suggest another time. Would he grasp the opportunity? She did not have long to wait.

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “I thought that you worked in Limoges.”

  “I mean tomorrow evening. I could meet you somewhere near here. Look, there's a bar-tabac called Le Capricorne, not far from where I live. How about meeting up there, say at seven or I could pick you up at uni after I leave the office?”

  “The bar will be fine. I'll need directions, of course.” The other option was out of the question.

  He acquired paper and a pen from the redhead behind the bar and sketched a plan showing the location of the rendezvous. Luckily, it was on the main road from the city centre before the turn for La Bastide. They also exchanged mobile numbers in case any problems arose.

  Alexis rejoined his team-mates, excited by the prospect of a date with such a beautiful young woman. Petra left to meet up with Jean-Marie and the detectives, pleased with the opportunity that she had created.

  8888

  Petra parked the Clio in a side street alongside La Place de la République. There were plenty of spaces available; the city centre was quieter on Sunday. Although the rain had eased slightly, she hurried across the square to the hotel. When damp, her long hai
r lost volume. She wanted to be at her best to make a good first impression. At reception, she asked the whereabouts of the English couple who had checked in that morning. The receptionist indicated the bar.

  The two detectives sat at a table with Jean-Marie. He spotted her as she entered. He waved to her. “Ici, Louise.”

  The woman facing her seemed quite attractive, thought Petra, probably in her mid-thirties. She wore a bright red cotton blouse with long sleeves turned back at the cuffs and black tailored trousers. The man, casually dressed in sweatshirt and jeans, had his back to her.

  Jean-Marie stood. “I like to introduce Louise Charrière.”

  Petra was about to shake their hands when Massey turned to greet her.

  “Oh, my God,” she uttered. “You again.”

  Recognising her instantly, he spun in his chair. “That's not Louise Charrière, that's Petra Rebovka.” He squared up to her. “What the hell are you up to?”

  Harcourt was bewildered. “What's going on?”

  Petra edged around the table, tactfully choosing a vacant chair between Jean-Marie and Harcourt, where she could sit facing her one-time nemesis.

  Disturbed by the raised voices, other customers in the bar were glancing towards them.

  Jean-Marie spread both hands, pushing them downwards in an effort to deflate the situation. “Doucement, doucement. It is necessary to be calm.”

  He turned to Petra and addressed her with the more intimate tu as opposed to using the more general vous. It was his way of showing concern for the young woman, as a caring father would speak to his daughter. “Qu'est-ce que tu veux boire?”

  Petra was determined to answer in French, principally to upset and maybe quieten Massey. “Jus d'orange, s'il vous plaît, Jean-Marie.”

  He summoned a waiter and ordered the orange juice.

  Ignoring Massey's glare, Petra leaned forward across the table towards the ex-gendarme. She explained that she had met a player and arranged a meeting with him. “Cet aprés-midi, j'ai rencontré un joueur. J'ai parlé avec lui. Nous avons un rendez-vous demain.”