42
‘ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?’ ASKED Jacquot, glancing over his shoulder to see what she had seen, what had startled her. A man had come in and was brushing the rain from his jacket. He waved to a friend at the bar and went over to join him, two friends meeting up for a drink. He was thick-set and swarthy, his face darkly stubbled, a black and white checkered keffiyeh scarf wound around his neck and tucked into the collar of his jacket.
Jacquot turned back to Marie-Ange. ‘Do you know him?’
She leant forward, elbows out, almost cowering over the table. For a moment she looked frightened, as though the man might recognise her, drawn too close to danger and wanting to be clear of it.
‘He was in my dream,’ she whispered at last. ‘I’m sure of it. The man chasing Lucienne . . . Le même . . .’
Before the affair in St Bédard, Jacquot would have been as doubtful, as sceptical, as the next man – at the blatant improbability of such a coincidence, this figure from a dream coming into the bar where they sat, greeting a friend, sitting down with him and falling into conversation. But Jacquot knew better now. He remembered the time they had spent together in the Luberon, and had experienced at first hand the strange gift this woman possessed.
‘If it is him,’ confided Marie-Ange, ‘and I am sure it is, he will have a scar . . . like so.’ She drew a finger in a slanting line down the side of her face.
‘Stay here,’ said Jacquot, shuffling himself along the banquette and getting to his feet. He pulled a ten-franc note from his pocket and crossed to the bar.
‘Some change, boss?’ he asked, proffering the note. ‘For the cigarette machine.’
The barman took the money and turned to the till. As he rang it open and sorted through his change, Jacquot glanced over to the end of the bar where the two men were still deep in conversation. The one in the checkered scarf had his back to Jacquot, elbow on the bar. All Jacquot could see was his companion – blond hair cut short at the sides, a thin moustache, eyes that darted to left and right, even catching Jacquot’s, lingering for a moment then moving on.
‘Voilà,’ said the barman, tipping a handful of coins into Jacquot’s palm. ‘The machine’s in the corner, over there.’ He nodded along the bar, towards the two men, and Jacquot saw the cigarette machine behind them, almost hidden beside a rack of coats. It was a lucky break; now he could go to the machine and, on his way back, get to see the other man’s face.
Sorting through the coins, he made his way down the bar.
‘’ Scusez–moi,’ he said, sliding past the two of them. The one with the scarf leaned into the bar without looking at Jacquot, giving him just enough room to squeeze past. At the machine, he fed the coins into the slot, selected his brand and pulled out the drawer. In no rush, now directly behind the blond man, he turned back to the bar and slid the wrapping off his cigarette packet. Crumpling it up, he leaned over the bar and tossed it into a bin.
And there was the scar.
Just as Marie-Ange had described it.
An old scar, white, not pink and puckered as he had imagined, slanting through the dark stubble on the man’s right cheek.
A chill passed through Jacquot.
‘Pardon, je m’excuse,’ he murmured, squeezing out past the two men, giving Scarface a nod of thanks and a smile that was not returned.
As he headed back for their table, Jacquot felt a quiver of excitement. Earlier that evening, on his way back to the Auberge des Vagues, everything had seemed to conspire against him – his cover, his search, the seeming impossibility of the task he had taken on. Yet now, here, just a few hours later, things were suddenly slotting into place. You had to start somewhere. And soon enough the wall started to take shape.
Back at their table, Jacquot confirmed that the man did indeed have a scar on his cheek.
‘I knew it. I knew it,’ whispered Marie-Ange, as though this vindicated her. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘We wait and we watch,’ said Jacquot.
43
XAVIER WAS IN NO MOOD for a chat or a beer. He wanted the meeting over and done with. It was going to be a busy night. There was a lot to do. He felt a hot, racing surge of adrenaline. Now was his chance, he thought. If Murat didn’t want to join him, then tough shit. Things, he’d decided, were going to change.
But Petitjean, the dealer with the downers, had other ideas. Before Xavier could object, he had ordered a round of beers and was chattering away like a sparrow on speed. Xavier could see the carrier bag by the stool, its sides sharply angled by the boxes inside, knew the deal was done. But he still had to pay, still had to get hold of the goods and get out of there. And everything, it seemed, was conspiring to make him impatient and irritable: the line of coke he’d taken before coming out for the meet, the rain and getting soaked, the close fuggy atmosphere of Bar Dantès, the crush of regulars, the tinkly treble sound of the jukebox pumping out a bad selection of warped soul, and the endless, infuriating push and shove of people trying to get to the cigarette machine.
Finally he’d had enough. He downed his beer, pulled out the envelope that Murat had given him and slid it across the counter to Petitjean whose darting eyes latched on to it almost as greedily as his hands. The envelope was spirited away to God knows where and the bag unhooked from the toe of his boot and passed over. It was done. Xavier was slapping Petitjean on the back, pulling his scarf round his neck and, finally, thankfully, pushing through the front door, out into the rain.
With every step he took, his determination increased. Murat was a pussy. He might have put together a reasonable business and honed the run, but he didn’t have the balls to expand. Somehow, by chance, he’d picked up a girl who was clearly worth a bundle, but he refused to play her, didn’t see the bigger picture, the opportunity. But Xavier did. And he knew it would be madness to let Elodie Lafour slip through their fingers. His fingers.
Since Xavier had spotted the story in the newspaper, and put two and two together, his brain had gone into overdrive. What would she be worth? he wondered. Ten, twenty, maybe even thirty million francs? The parents were clearly loaded and for sure would be only too happy to dish out some cash to get their precious little girl back. Either they’d put up a reward for information leading to her return, or Xavier would give them a call – spell it out for them.
But right now, he had to get the girl. If Murat wasn’t going to play ball, he, Xavier, would have to play it for him. Once the girls were tranqued up, he’d move in and take her. And if Murat objected – which he was sure to do – well, maybe the time had come for the two of them to go their separate ways.
So preoccupied was Xavier with his planning that it was only as he turned into rue Jacobe and hurried towards the old abattoirs that he sensed someone behind him, maybe fifty metres back, following him. At the next block, waiting for a car to pass before crossing the wider rue Ginot, he glanced behind him, as though checking for other traffic, and saw a hunched figure coming after him, slowing down now. It was the slowing down that rang all the bells, something timed, something deliberate, pace matched to pace; the way the man dug his hands into the pockets of his pea-jacket, kept his head down, rolled his shoulders against the rain.
It was the pea-jacket that Xavier suddenly placed.
The man at the cigarette machine. Back in Bar Dantès.
Cop. No question, thought Xavier, increasing his pace. Probably someone from narcotics working that piss-artist Petitjean. And here he was with enough class-A to see him banged up in Baumettes when the world was just about to become his oyster. It was then, with a lurch in his guts, that another possibility struck him – that whoever it was might be looking for the missing girls. If that was the case, then they’d worked fast. As Xavier quickened his step, he tried to think how the cops could have come so close, so soon. It wasn’t possible, not that quickly, he decided.
But just thinking it made him realise how little time he had to get things organised. If he was going to take the Lafour girl, he’d have to move fas
t.
And get rid of the flic on his tail.
If he’d been anywhere but rue Jacobe and these ill-lit side-streets he’d have waved down a cab and got the hell out of there, left the cop well behind. But few cabs came to this part of the city. He’d have to wait for the rue de Lyon before that became any kind of option.
And with a bag-full of tranqs in his possession . . .
There was only one thing for it.
44
JUST AS JACQUOT HAD SAID, he and Marie-Ange waited and watched. With his back to the two men, Jacquot relied on her for a commentary.
‘He’s just passed something to the blond man,’ she told him. ‘And now Blondie’s giving him a carrier bag. He’s getting up. They’re both going. They’re at the door. They’re shaking hands . . .’
Jacquot pulled out some money and slid the notes under the ashtray. By the time he and Marie-Ange reached the door, the two men had parted.
‘You follow Blondie, I’ll take Scarface,’ said Jacquot. ‘We’ll meet back at your car. If I’m not there, wait for me. I’ll do the same. It’s the Citroen, right? The Deux Chevaux?’
Marie-Ange told him it was. ‘Take care,’ she called after him, and he waved a hand back at her. Thirty metres ahead, she saw Scarface pass the turning for the hostel and head on towards rue Jacobe with Jacquot following. Opening up her umbrella, she turned to the right and followed Blondie down rue Pythéas.
As Marie-Ange hurried after him, careful not to get too close, she wondered at meeting Jacquot again and acknowledged that his unexpected appearance had given her a lift. And after working with him on the Martner case, she knew she wouldn’t have to go through the testing rigmarole of persuading a flic that her powers were real, that she could provide a failing investigation with the impetus it needed. But there was also Jacquot himself, the man. He may have been a good bit older than her, but she felt a strong attraction to him. She seemed to recall he had a wife or girlfriend, though. She tried to remember, sifting through her memories. But then, up ahead, she saw Blondie cross the road and registered a change in the man’s pace. There was a line of cars parked on the far side of the street and as he crossed the road she saw him reach into his pocket and pull out a set of keys. A moment later he was getting into an old Audi. Its lights were switched on and the engine revved. With a few swift turns of the wheel he was out of the space and driving away, with Marie-Ange just close enough to get the registration. Repeating it over and over, she searched through her pockets for a pen and paper, found them and scribbled the number down.
By the time she got back to her car, there was no sign of Jacquot so she opened it up and sat behind the wheel. He’d be back, he’d said. She should wait for him there, he’d told her. But the longer she sat there, rain pelting down, the more uncertain and anxious she became. She looked at her watch. Just twenty minutes had passed since they’d split up at Bar Dantès. Something was wrong. She was sure of it.
Something was wrong.
45
WHOEVER HE WAS AND WHEREVER he was going, Scarface was in a hurry. For three blocks he stayed on rue Jacobe, heading in the general direction of the old abbattoirs, with Jacquot holding position a good fifty metres back. Occasionally a car passed, its lights glittering through the slanting rain, but otherwise the street was deserted.
Did Scarface have a car? Jacquot wondered. If he did, it seemed strange that he should have parked so far from the bar, especially in weather like this. And what was in the carrier bag? Jacquot had seen his fair share of drug deals go down and this had looked as good an example as any. An anonymous bar, a casual meeting, the swift, discreet exchange, the parting of the ways. And if there were drugs in that bag, what kind would they be? Whatever he was carrying, it was no small amount, the carrier bag swinging heavily in the man’s hand, bumping rhythmically against his leg. And where was he headed with them? Somewhere within walking distance? Or was he looking out for a cab, or heading for the nearest bus stop or Metro? With a bag of drugs, the latter looked unlikely. But if he found himself a cab, the game would be up, the quarry lost.
As he walked, Jacquot couldn’t help but feel a sense of elation. In just a few short hours everything had suddenly turned around. He was actually doing something, following a man Marie-Ange had pointed out to him, a man she believed had something to do with Elodie Lafour. And Jacquot knew enough about Marie-Ange’s ‘feelings’ to take them seriously.
Up ahead, on the corner of rue Ginot, Scarface paused to look left and right before crossing the road. Traffic was light in these side streets and the precaution seemed strange. Jacquot wondered whether the man suspected he was being followed, but there was still a reasonable distance between them and Jacquot had made no move to cross the street after him, keeping to his side, staying parallel and now only fifteen metres back. It was then, having crossed the road, that Scarface suddenly darted around a corner. One minute he was there, the next he had vanished.
Jacquot realised that he’d been made, and the prospect of losing his quarry overtook what should have been a professional duty of care, a cop’s instinctive sense of caution. Instead, Jacquot picked up his pace and jogged across the road, breaking into a run as he came to the corner and turned it.
The first thing he realised was that the road ahead was empty.
No one there.
No sign of Scarface.
Either he’d reached his destination and had gone into one of the houses . . .
Or . . .
Jacquot knew at once it was too late to do anything, his neck actually presented for the blow as he hurried past, shoulders hunched, head down.
No chance to protect himself, beyond the slightest, reflexive feint away from the shadow which suddenly flashed out from a doorway and . . .
46
THE PAIN IN THE BACK of Jacquot’s head was gigantic, a great throbbing ache that seemed to pulse outwards in rolling waves of blackness, gathering at a point directly between his eyes. It felt as though his skull had been split open, like one of the logs he’d been chopping back at the millhouse. Opened up from the back of his neck to the crown of his head. It hurt even to breathe.
Carefully, he opened his eyes, squinting, and took stock. He was lying on a bed, in a small room, the wall in front of him papered with flowers, the walls to either side just plain plaster, painted a light orange colour, blistered here and there, darkened in places by damp. He knew at once that this was Marie-Ange’s room, and Marie-Ange’s bed.
The moment he realised where he was, the rest came flooding back. Hurrying round that corner to catch up with Scarface, so carelessly off his guard. And then that numbing, crashing thump to the back of his head. It was a long time since anyone had put Jacquot down and he’d forgotten just how painful it could be. In the movies, on TV, they shook their heads, rubbed their necks and got on with it, as though nothing had happened. In real life it was different.
Of course, he was lucky. In that part of town it could as easily have been a knife. And he’d walked, or rather run, right into it. He remembered seeing Scarface turn off rue Jacobe and had put on a spurt of speed so as not to lose him. He’d come round the corner, looked ahead, seen nothing, and then . . . a shadow in the doorway, that blinding blow . . . and he was on the ground . . . distantly aware of his pockets being rifled, a kick in the ribs, then the sound of footsteps hurrying off.
He couldn’t say how long it was before Marie-Ange was there, shaking him awake on the pavement, trying to lift him into her car, driving him to her apartment. The trundling of tyres over cobbles, the spooling glow of passing streetlights, the bucketing turns, the gear-changing straights, that coughing, screeching two-horse engine.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and it opened slowly, a shaft of yellow light slanting across the painted wall. It was Marie-Ange.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, setting down a bowl of water on the bedside table, squeezing out a flannel. ‘You’ve got some colour back, thank goodness. For a while there, I tho
ught I should just drive you straight to the hospital despite your telling me not to.’
‘I’m glad you did as you were told,’ whispered Jacquot, each word hammering at the back of his eyes. ‘Jesus, it hurts.’
‘It’s a nasty bump. Here,’ she said, folding the flannel into a band and placing it gently on his forehead. He closed his eyes at its coolness and felt the side of the bed sag as she sat down beside him. ‘There was no bleeding, just a terrible lump. I put on arnica and some Tiger Balm. It was all I could find.’
‘How did you get me here? By yourself?’
‘You weren’t a dead weight. You managed to stand. Getting you into the car was the hardest. Once I was here, I got Monsieur Bardot at the bakery to help me up with you. I said you were my uncle, that you’d had too much to drink. I’m not sure he believed me.’ Marie-Ange gave a gentle laugh. ‘You’ve ruined my reputation.’
‘I’m glad it wasn’t you.’
‘So am I.’ She leaned forward, turned the flannel. ‘Was it Scarface?’
‘Had to be. There was no one else around. He must have spotted me following him. I’m sorry I lost him.’
‘Don’t worry. We can find him.’
Jacquot frowned. Even that small movement brought a swell of pain. ‘How?’ he managed. ‘How can we find him?’
‘His friend . . . Blondie? I took his car registration.’
The realisation that they were still in with a chance was a blessing. He asked Marie-Ange if she had a phone and, when she brought it to the bedroom, had her dial Solange Bonnefoy’s number. Taking the receiver from her, he listened to the ring tone, first at Madame Bonnefoy’s office and then at her home, leaving the same message. He kept it brief.
‘It’s Muller here. I have another car number for you to check. French plates . . .’ He took the scrap of paper Marie-Ange handed him and read it out. ‘You can reach me at the hostel . . .’
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