Confession

by Martin O'Brien

  ‘So, no work then?’

  Haggar shook his head.

  ‘That’s a “no” then,’ said Gastal, indicating the tape recorder.

  ‘That’s right. No work.’

  Gastal seemed to give it some thought. ‘So what kind of work . . . when you’re not sick?’

  ‘This and that. Whatever comes along. Cars mostly.’

  ‘You know Jules Valentine?’

  The name didn’t faze him.

  ‘Sure, do some work for him when he needs me.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  Haggar gave it some thought. ‘Couple of weeks back?’

  ‘Is that a question or an answer? How am I supposed to know your fucking schedule?’

  ‘A couple of weeks then. Must be.’

  ‘But not this morning?’

  Haggar shook his head.

  Gastal knew why. He’d never have managed to get the word out without his voice breaking on it. Gastal pointed at the tape recorder. ‘For the record, Coco . . .’

  Haggar swallowed, gave it a go: ‘N-no . . .’

  ‘So you’re sick in bed with two thousand francs in your pocket,’ said Gastal, pulling out the roll of notes, waving it in front of Haggar. ‘Mint fresh. You can still smell the ink on ’em. Lot of money, that. Lot of cash for a pissy little mec like you. Drugs, is it? You dealing?’

  Haggar straightened up when he heard the words ‘drugs’ and ‘dealing’. Gastal knew he hadn’t been expecting that.

  ‘Not me. Not drugs.’ The boy’s voice was low and urgent, cracking a little.

  ‘So where did it come from? And why did you try and do a runner when my colleague found it?’

  ‘I didn’t know he was a cop. He could have been anyone. And I was sick, right? Asleep. Not thinking straight, you know?’

  There was a tap on the door and Peluze came in with a mug of coffee.

  Gastal looked up at him. ‘According to our friend here, you didn’t show your badge when you went round to his place. Didn’t tell him you were a cop. Is that right?’

  Peluze gave Haggar a look. ‘I told him. He knew.’

  ‘Okay. So we’ve got that straight,’ said Gastal, smiling at the kid. Then, ‘You want a coffee? Some water maybe?’ he asked.

  The lad shook his head.

  Gastal felt a ripple of disappointment. He’d have loved to send Peluze on another coffee run. Especially for the boy. He didn’t bother to look round at his colleague. ‘That’ll be it, then,’ he continued, waving Peluze away. ‘Now, Alam, where were we?’ Gastal took a sip of his coffee. ‘That’s right. Not working because you were sick. That’s what you’re saying?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘Well, now we got a problem, see,’ said Gastal, sliding away the fold of notes into an inside pocket. ‘Cos that’s not what your friend Ibin is telling us. Ibin Hahmoud? According to him the both of you were at Valentine’s garage working on Monsieur Gideon’s Renault. This very morning.’

  Gastal saw the boy’s shoulders slump. Peluze might not have got hold of Hahmoud yet but Gastal had reckoned that bringing up his name was worth a bet. It had paid off. He wondered whether Hahmoud, wherever he was, would have been as much of a pushover as Haggar. He doubted it. It looked like they’d brought the right one in.

  ‘So let’s forget your sick leave and talk about the garage, okay? And Monsieur Gideon’s Renault. The exhaust, wasn’t it?’

  Haggar nodded.

  Gastal flicked his fingers. ‘I need to hear you. It’s a tape recorder, not a fucking camera.’

  ‘That’s right. Yeah. The exhaust.’

  ‘Okay, so we’re getting somewhere at last. Now how long does a job like that take? In your experience. Couple of hours?’

  ‘About that, I suppose.’

  ‘And what time did you start this morning?’

  ‘Eight . . . just after.’

  ‘But you didn’t finish the job, did you?’

  ‘No. Monsieur Valentine told us to leave it. Said he’d finish it himself.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Eleven. Round about. Maybe a bit earlier.’

  ‘And there were just the three of you in the workshop?’ Gastal pushed back his chair and got to his feet. He picked up his coffee, and walked behind Haggar.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And it was Valentine who gave you the money, was it?’

  ‘Yeah. It was Valentine.’

  ‘For not finishing the job?’

  Haggar took a moment or two to answer. ‘He owed us. From another time.’

  ‘That’s not what it says in his records. Says clearly your pay was up to date. Didn’t owe you a sou.’ Another lie, but worth a try. And once again it paid off.

  Haggar said nothing.

  ‘Do you know where Jules Valentine is right now?’

  ‘I dunno . . . The garage? Home?’

  ‘The morgue, Alam. Lying on a steel tray. Au revoir, Jules. And it turns out you and Ibin were the last people to see him alive.Which I’d say puts the two of you in a very difficult position. Especially with two thousand francs of his money in your pocket. Doesn’t look good, Alam, I’m telling you that.’

  ‘It wasn’t his . . . the money!’

  ‘So whose was it?’

  Haggar didn’t answer.

  ‘You know Baumettes, Alam? You ever been there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you know where I mean, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Well, see, if you don’t help me along here, Alam, you’re gonna get to know it very well, that’s my guess. First hand. You and Ibin. Robbery . . . murder. Call it fifteen years, if you’re very lucky. By the time they let you out, your arsehole’ll be the size of a beer mat.’

  There was a long silence, save the rubbery squeak of Haggar’s trainer tapping away under the table. He brought an oil-rimmed thumbnail to his lips and started chewing.

  Gastal sat down again and waited.

  ‘I never said a thing, okay? You didn’t hear it from me,’ began Haggar, leaning forward, almost whispering. ‘There were these two guys, right? Never seen ’em before. Tough guys. I mean, vrai dur, real hard cases. One of ’em takes Valentine to the office, the other tells us to get out from under the Renault. He tells us he wants us out of there, fast. And here’s some cash to make sure we never saw them. Counts out two grand each, then pulls his gun. Blows out the radio, blows out the inspection lamp, then tells us he’ll do the same to us if he so much as dreams we say anything. Well, we’re out of there, Ibin and me.’

  ‘What did they look like?’

  ‘White, shaved heads, dressed in black coats. Big fuckers, I’m telling you. And not locals. A real island accent.’

  ‘Caribbean? Corsican?’

  Haggar shrugged. ‘Like I say, they weren’t from round here.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Haggar gave it some thought. Now he’d spilled the beans, he felt braver, as though keen to help the police in any way. Show how observant he was. And maybe get his money back. Not that he was holding his breath on that one, not with this flic.

  ‘When we’re leaving, out on the street, there’s this car, right, turning out of rue Chatelier? Big limo thing – English. And you don’t see too many of those in the fifteenth, right?’

  ‘Model? Registration?’

  Haggar spread his hands, remembered the tape. ‘No.’

  ‘You get to see who was driving?’

  The question caught Haggar; he hadn’t thought it through that far.

  ‘Tinted windows,’ he managed at last. ‘Couldn’t see a thing. Too busy getting the hell out of there.’ He looked pleased with himself.

  And Gastal knew he was lying again. ‘So the windscreen’s tinted too, is it?’

  Haggar’s smile vanished. ‘It may have been a woman driving. Maybe.’

  ‘Anyone with her?’

  ‘Someone in the back, like she was some kind of chauffeuse.’
r />   ‘And you’d recognise them, right? The two of them in the car, and the gorilles?’

  Haggar’s face fell. He suddenly realised he’d dug himself right in.

  ‘Good,’ said Gastal, without waiting for an answer. ‘You’re free to go,’ he continued, switching off the recorder and slipping the tape into his pocket, pushing aside the chair and getting to his feet. ‘Only don’t go taking any holiday. You try to skip and I’ll get you that beer mat to try for size, compris?’

  Haggar nodded, and watched Gastal head for the door. ‘What about my money, then?’ he called after him.

  Gastal didn’t bother to turn round.

  ‘What money?’

  24

  MADAME BONNEFOY WAS WAITING for Jacquot, as arranged, behind the ticket barrier at Marseilles’ Gare Saint Charles. He spotted her at the gate as he stepped down from his carriage and joined the stream of passengers heading along the platform. She stood taller than most of the crowd and was wearing the same coat she’d worn the night before at Kuchnia, wrapping it round herself in the chill night air, her complexion even paler in the harsh station lighting. He passed within a metre of her, almost brushing her elbow, but she failed to recognise him. A dozen steps past her, Jacquot dropped his duffel bag and turned round. She still had her back to him, tipping her head this way and that, peering ahead, trying to spot him. Jacquot felt a ripple of pleasure. It had worked.

  With two hours to spare after his meeting with Georges Lafour and before his train left, Jacquot had visited a military surplus store off rue Morzine and kitted himself out with a change of clothes and a rough old duffel bag. He kept the new clothes on and stowed the old ones, along with his briefcase and boots, in the duffel. Two blocks from the station he found a small barber shop and when he’d sat in the chair and the hairdresser had secured the cape round his neck, Jacquot had circled his head and said, ‘Le tout, s’il vous plaît.’

  Since this meant the removal of his signature ponytail, it was something of an operation, begun with comb and scissors and finished with buzzing clippers. As he sat in the chair and the onslaught began, Jacquot let his eyes drift over the framed rugby-team photographs and pennants and newspaper clippings that covered every inch of wall space. To his right, high up, there was even a picture of himself, his first and last appearance in the national squad, standing in the back row between Sidi Carassin and Simon Talaud.

  ‘How short?’ asked the barber, his eyes catching Jacquot’s in the mirror.

  Jacquot held up his thumb and bent it. From the knuckle to the top of the nail. ‘Comme ça.’

  ‘Used to be a player with a ponytail,’ the barber continued, combing out the hair and snipping with his scissors. ‘Forget his name now, but he scored a try you’d never forget. Won the match. Against Les Rosbifs. That run . . . length of the pitch it was. Mud and guts. Christ, I nearly pissed myself! Never thought he’d make it.’

  ‘Jacquot,’ said Jacquot. ‘Daniel Jacquot.’

  ‘That’s the one. Jacquot. Christ, what a player. And just the one game, wasn’t it? Whatever happened to him, eh? Where is he now?’

  Jacquot couldn’t help but smile.

  And now, back in Marseilles, it had been the same with Madame Bonnefoy. She hadn’t recognised him either.

  He went up to her, stood next to her, like someone waiting to meet a friend, digging his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the cold. Aware of someone beside her, Madame Bonnefoy glanced round, then turned back to the last few passengers straggling down the platform. Then she looked back at him, more closely this time, and frowned.

  ‘Daniel? Is that you?’

  ‘À vot’ service, madame.’

  ‘Why . . . Whatever have you done to yourself?’ she asked, stepping back to take in the buttoned pea-jacket, the woollen beanie, the speckled roll-top sweater, working boots and thick blue canvas trousers. ‘You look like that McQueen fellow, in that film, The Sand Pebbles? And your hair. What have you done to your hair? Your ponytail!’

  ‘All in a good cause, madame. The best cause.’

  Ten minutes later, the two of them were sitting in a booth at Bernard’s. There may have been an excess of plastic and Formica in this diner-style brasserie midway between the station and the Vieux Port, but the food was good and hearty. Over a shared brandade de morue, Jacquot ran through his day, the meetings with Madame Bonnefoy’s sister and her husband.

  ‘How was Estelle?’ asked Madame Bonnefoy, dipping her toasted bread into the pearly white purée.

  ‘Very tired. Very anxious,’ replied Jacquot truthfully. ‘But the family likeness was unmistakable . . .’

  ‘She was always much prettier than me,’ sighed Madame Bonnefoy.

  ‘And you are entitled to your opinion, madame. All I can say is what I found.’

  Despite herself, and despite the horror of a missing niece, Jacquot could see that his companion was flattered, a small smile hovering around the corners of her mouth. But it was for a moment only.

  ‘And Georges?’ she asked, abandoning the smile, all business again. ‘What did you make of him?’

  Jacquot thought back to his brief time with Lafour on rue Baranot. He’d been pleased to get out of that office, to be on the street again. He did not like the man – too smooth, too pleased with himself, too . . . controlling. But he was Madame Bonnefoy’s brother-in-law, so Jacquot weighed his words carefully.

  ‘Impressive. Ruthless,’ he said at last, the least offensive words he could come up with. ‘Almost . . . untouched by it,’ Jacquot continued. ‘Either he’s convinced that Elodie will be found safe and sound, or come home of her own accord. Or – and I am sorry to say this – that he’s not . . . unduly concerned.’ Jacquot spread his hands. ‘It’s as if he hasn’t got the time for it. I explain myself badly. It’s just how he came across. Concerned, but somehow . . . not concerned. I didn’t feel any . . . sympathy for him. I should have, but I didn’t. He seemed to preclude it. As if his work, his position, were more important. Everything else just lining up in a queue.’

  ‘But you have him in one,’ sighed Madame Bonnefoy. ‘And you didn’t like him, did you?’

  ‘No, madame, I can’t say that I did. He is not my sort of man.’

  She smiled regretfully. ‘Like an icicle sometimes. He infuriates me. I just don’t know what my sister saw in him. She was infatuated when they first met, and if you ask me, she’s infatuated still. Nothing has changed. It’s always Georges this and Georges that . . . But there we are,’ she said, dabbing at her lips with a paper napkin. ‘Water under the bridge.’

  ‘What about Elodie?’ probed Jacquot. ‘What does she think of him?’

  ‘She doesn’t really say. Doesn’t talk about him. I think . . . I think, maybe, she’s a little scared of him. He can be very intimidating.’

  ‘And Lafour, is he good with her?’

  ‘From what I have seen and heard, he is very good. Like you, I may not like him very much – too rigid and contained and selfregarding, and . . . creepy, if you ask me. But as a stepfather he seems most attentive. Very protective, too. He really involves himself as much as he can – what she’s reading, how she’s getting on at school, sport, her friends.’

  ‘Then he hides his concern well,’ said Jacquot, as a gust of rain spattered against the window. ‘He also . . .’ Jacquot paused.

  ‘He also what?’

  ‘It seemed to me that, for him, Elodie is still a little girl. When I would say she clearly isn’t. She has pretty underwear, hides her scent, her make-up . . . I would say she is a girl who can keep secrets, who can play a part.’

  Madame Bonnefoy nodded, a little distractedly. ‘Perhaps. Maybe I am too close . . . I don’t see it.’

  ‘Tell me, does Elodie like choucroute?’

  ‘Choucroute?’ Madame Bonnefoy sat back and chuckled, her bruised, sad eyes suddenly sparkling. ‘How did that come out? Every birthday, Estelle and Georges take her to Lipp. Brasserie Lipp. For their choucroute. It’s her fav
ourite thing in the whole world. I like to think it’s her Polish roots showing through.’

  ‘So she’d like Kuchnia?’

  ‘She loves it. Adores it.’

  For a moment, Jacquot was dumbstruck. ‘She’s been there? I mean, she’s been here to Marseilles?’

  Madame Bonnefoy blinked in surprise. ‘Of course she’s been here. Many times.’

  ‘And the last time?’

  ‘Just a few months back. The first week of her summer vacation.’

  ‘With her mother?’

  ‘By herself. The last two times, she’s taken the train by herself. I meet her at Saint Charles, just like I met you.’

  ‘And how long did she stay?’

  ‘A week. That first week. Why?’ And then, ‘Do you think she could have met someone down here?’ Madame Bonnefoy looked stunned. ‘I never thought . . . I mean, she went missing in Paris. Not here.’

  ‘While she was here, Elodie did what? While you were working?’

  ‘I took the week off. We were together the whole time. Except the last two days. A pre-trial hearing I couldn’t get out of.’

  ‘And what did she do while you were in court? Do you remember?’

  Madame Bonnefoy paused, tried to think. ‘Elodie was not good in the mornings. It was always eleven before she made it out of bed. Probably because Georges makes her get up much earlier at home. I didn’t think it did her any harm to slouch around, so I didn’t make a fuss. Most days we started with lunch and then shopped, just . . . walked around. She loved Le Panier, she’d walk there for hours. All those little galleries, the artisan shops. I seem to remember that that was what she did while I was in court.’

  And somewhere on those lonely walks, thought Jacquot, or on the train coming south, or going home, maybe Elodie Lafour met someone, maybe she fell into conversation, maybe someone picked her up, paid her some attention. Who could say? What he did know was that he would find out sooner or later.

  ‘So, madame, have you got what I wanted?’ asked Jacquot as the waiter brought their bill.

  Madame Bonnefoy leant down and drew up her bag from under the seat. She unzipped it, dug in a hand and came out with a large yellow envelope. ‘New name, new passport. With a matching union card and maritime service log. Matelot de deuxième classe, as requested. The log shows voyages taken over the last four years with references from a dozen skippers and various shipping lines.’