And gaining on her.
Closing on her.
But it didn’t matter.
Suddenly the front door burst open, and two men stood there, close enough for her to collide with one of them, falling at his feet.
Elodie’s heart sank. He hadn’t been alone after all. He did have back-up. And here they were, just as she was trying to make her escape.
Or were they police? Was this another rescue?
There was no time to think. The man she’d run into scooped her up, and as he did so she saw his companion reach into his coat and bring out a gun. She watched his arm snake past her and distinctly heard two low popping sounds.
Phut. Phut.
And from somewhere behind her she heard a stunned, pig-like grunt and the sound of a body crashing back on to the hallway floor.
It was over in seconds.
‘Are you okay?’ asked the man holding her. He had lovely blue eyes, honest, kind, caring. He was clean-shaven and his breath smelt minty. And he was dressed well, in a suit and an overcoat that felt soft and warm and expensive even if it was wet.
‘Are you the police?’ she asked.
‘Something like that,’ he said, and smiled.
And she felt just the tiniest prick in the side of her neck.
66
IT TOOK NEARLY TWENTY MINUTES to coax the girls from Murat Santarem’s basement, six of them, clinging to one another and squinting as they stepped into the kitchen light. As far as Jacquot could tell, greeting them at the top of the stairs, handing out blankets which he had stripped from the beds upstairs, they ranged in age from fourteen to sixteen. None of them had shoes. Two of them wore dresses and one was wearing what looked like part of a school uniform – a white shirt, knee-length grey socks and a pleated skirt. The remaining three wore jeans. Each of them had a name written in felt-tip pen on the front of their blouse or T-shirt: Ilse, Wanda, Elise, Anna, Marga and Kris.
Smiling kindly, Jacquot directed the girls to the salon where he’d put out jugs of water and milk and whatever food he’d been able to find: some bread, cheese, biscuits, a bag of mixed nuts and raisins, some olives, a bunch of grapes, a couple of oranges, and some bananas. There’d have been apples, too, from the fruit bowl, if they hadn’t been plastic, and stew from the casserole if it hadn’t had an odd taste. Probably laced with the ground-up pills from the mortar, Jacquot guessed.
As well as sourcing blankets and food, he had also dealt with Santarem and the old lady, covering their bodies with a pair of damp tablecloths he’d found in the washing machine, so the girls wouldn’t see them. They looked like icebergs floating on the blue lino floor; it wouldn’t have taken much to make out what they really were, but there wasn’t anything Jacquot could do about that.
Marie-Ange was the last one up from the basement.
‘She was here,’ whispered Marie-Ange, breathless with excitement, as they followed the girls down the hallway. ‘Elodie. Here, in this house. She was here. They told me.’
Jacquot nodded. It made sense, with these other girls held in the basement, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t astonished just how quickly they’d managed to track her down. And, judging by the bodies in the kitchen, only a few hours behind her.
As he ushered Marie-Ange into the salon where the girls had set to on the food, he realised that he shouldn’t have been too surprised. Not with Marie-Ange at his side. If they hadn’t bumped into each other . . . If they hadn’t gone for that drink in Bar Dantès . . . If she hadn’t spotted Scarface . . . well, he’d likely still be wandering around the docks by himself, looking for a lead.
But where was Elodie now? he wondered. Did Xavier have her? Or the other killer? Which of them had got to the house first?
‘So what did they tell you?’ he asked.
‘Just that she was here. A girl called Elodie. And that a man came to get her.’
‘When?’ asked Jacquot, peeling the skin of an orange for one of the girls.
‘They can’t remember. One said an hour ago, another said yesterday.’ Marie-Ange shrugged. ‘They’re still a bit out of it. According to the Swiss girl, the guy who came for her said he was a policeman too.’
‘They’re not French then?’
Marie-Ange shook her head. ‘These two,’ she said, nodding to the girls nearest to them, ‘Ilse and Wanda, are from Austria – Vienna and a place called Kirkshof; the Swiss girl, Elise, is the other side of them.’ Marie-Ange turned to the facing sofa. ‘The other three, over there, are from Belgium and Holland. According to the Belgian girl, Marga – the one you just gave the orange to – he shone a torch around and asked for Elodie. Apparently he gave her some food and water then took her away, locking the door after him. There was gunfire too.’
‘Before or after he came to get her?’
‘Before, she thinks.’
‘How many shots?’
‘Just the one.’
Jacquot smiled. ‘You asked?’
‘It seemed a good question.’
‘Any description?’ he asked.
‘You know what it’s like down there. Even in daylight it’d be too dark. There’s only one tiny window and it’s been painted out.’
‘He had a scar, monsieur,’ came a tiny voice. It belonged to the Austrian girl, Ilse, in the pleated skirt. She might have been answering a question in a classroom. ‘Like this,’ she continued, and drew her finger down her cheek.
‘Xavier,’ said Marie-Ange.
Jacquot nodded. ‘And he’ll have used my gun to kill Santarem.’
‘Not the mother, too?’
Jacquot shook his head. ‘Two different guns. Two different killers.’
‘Two? How do you know?’
‘I just know, believe me . . .’ If she’d pressed him for a reason, he’d have shown her the shell casing in his pocket. And told her what the letters – ber/g/gn – stamped on its base signified. Brand: Beretta. Model: the 92G. Issue: Gendarmerie Nationale.
‘It wasn’t just the man with the scar,’ piped up another voice. It was Marga, the Belgian girl. She was lanky and blonde with a sour-looking mouth and sharp banlieue accent. ‘There were two more come afterwards,’ she continued.
Jacquot looked at Marie-Ange and smiled a told-you-so smile.
‘Men or women?’ he asked, turning back to Marga.
‘Both men.’
‘And what did they look like?’ asked Jacquot. Whoever they were, they were the ones who had killed the old lady.
The girl shrugged. ‘Dressed in black, is all I can remember. They came down like the other one and asked for this Elodie. Didn’t bother with any “Police” crap . . .’
‘And when was this, s’il vous plaît?’
Marga shook her head, shrugged helplessly. ‘Not sure,’ she replied. ‘A couple of hours ago? I don’t know. Could be more.’
‘And what did they do,’ asked Jacquot, ‘when they discovered she was gone?’
‘One said merde.’ It was Ilse, the Austrian girl, again. She seemed to take a childish relish in using the word, as though it was not normally a part of her vocabulary, forbidden at home and at school, but here she could say it with impunity.
‘And that’s it?’
Marga nodded. ‘Brought some water down for us. Then locked us in again.’
Jacquot pushed back his cuff and looked at his watch. A little before nine. He knew there wasn’t anything more he was going to get from the girls so he excused himself and left the room. Out in the kitchen he went to the phone and dialled the emergency ser -vices, requested an ambulance and gave Santarem’s address. ‘Six girls. In trouble. Need help,’ was all he said before ending the call and pulling the plug. Back in the salon, he found a socket by the TV and reconnected the phone. Then he turned and put it on the table between the two sofas.
‘I’m sure there are people you will want to call,’ he told them. ‘Your mothers and fathers. To let them know you’re safe . . .’ Quite unexpectedly, Jacquot felt his throat tighten. He nodded, rathe
r than risk saying anything more, and indicated the phone. Marga was the first to grab it.
As she dialled her number, the others crowded round. Over their heads, Jacquot caught Marie-Ange’s eye.
She came over to him.
‘I called the emergency services,’ he told her. ‘We need to get moving.’
‘Get moving where?’ she asked.
‘Rue Artemis. Where our friend Xavier lives. Or lived.’
67
‘YOU THINK HE’S DEAD?’ asked Marie-Ange, hurrying along beside Jacquot as they left the house and started up rue Bandole.
‘I’d say it’s a very good bet,’ he replied. ‘He got here first, probably last night, used my gun to kill Santarem, then took the girl.’
‘But why?’
‘Maybe he was getting greedy. Wanted her all to himself. Since Santarem hadn’t put in a ransom demand, it stands to reason he either didn’t know who he had down there, just one of a load of girls he was shipping out, or he couldn’t be bothered to play her.’
‘Play her?’
‘Go for the ransom. Money. Big money. But Xavier must have known, and by the look of it he did want to play her.’
‘What about the other two men who came later?’
‘That I don’t know. But whoever they are, they’re professionals. Either working for themselves, or hired by someone to find Elodie. Which means that right now they’ll be looking for Xavier. Or they’ve already found him.’
‘How would they know about Xavier?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the same way they knew about Santarem. Or maybe the old lady told them, before one of them dropped her. But if they do know about him, and where he lives . . .’
As Jacquot and Marie-Ange reached the corner of rue Bandole and turned on to rue Cardin they heard the distant, wailing rise and fall of sirens. By the time they were back in the 2CV the flashing blue lights of an ambulance were coming up fast behind them, the vehicle swinging left up ahead and down into rue Bandole. Before they could get away, two blue squad cars from the gendarmerie came racing past, one of them missing the turning, but the other just making it. By the time the driver of the first squad car had reversed and made the turn, two unmarked units, coming from opposite directions, squealed around the corner after it.
Unmarked. The boys, thought Jacquot. And he wondered who they’d be. Peluze? Grenier? Muzon? Or maybe even Gastal. According to Solange Bonnefoy he called her almost every day with some update. He’d certainly have an update for her after this little find, thought Jacquot, if not an altogether comforting one.
When the road was finally clear, Jacquot started up the 2CV, pulled out and drove across the top of rue Bandole. As they passed the turning, he and Marie-Ange looked back at the Santarem house. Half-way down the street, the road was blocked by a scrum of emergency vehicles and flashing lights. Already a couple of gendarmes in capes and képis were running tape around the scene, from one streetlight to another. It would be the same further down.
‘Do you have a city map in the car?’ asked Jacquot, as he followed rue Cardin down to the Littoral.
‘Under your seat,’ she told him.
Jacquot reached between his legs and felt around for the book. He found it and pulled it out, handed it to Marie-Ange.
‘Look up rue Artemis,’ he told her. ‘If I remember correctly it’s somewhere in the fifth, around Saint Luc.’
‘You’ll have to pull over,’ she told him, ‘under a streetlight, so I can read the index. The print is so tiny, it’s just impossible.’
Jacquot checked his mirror and pulled over, close to a light.
‘One day there’ll be a machine in cars,’ said Marie-Ange, as her finger dropped down the first column of the index. ‘You say where you want to go and it will tell you how to get there . . . Ah, here it is. And we are lucky. Just the one. Rue Artemis, in the Fifth, off . . .’ she turned to the map page and followed the grid references, ‘ . . . Boulevard Saint Clément. You know where it is?’
‘Now I do,’ replied Jacquot, and he took off again, past the docks and up on to the Littoral access ramp. ‘It’s not far but we’ll have to hurry. We may be too late to help Xavier, but right now we have to keep ahead of the flics. Young Marga is sure to tell them about us, and where we were headed.’
For the next few minutes they drove in silence, past the layered Romanesque flanks of Cathédrale de la Major, down on to Quai du Port, up La Canebière and into the Fifth. At the bottom of Boulevard Saint Clément they were brought up short at a set of traffic lights, the wipers swishing away the rain.
‘It was a wonderful moment, wasn’t it?’ said Marie-Ange softly.
‘What moment was that?’ asked Jacquot. ‘You mean, finding them?’
‘Of course, that. But giving them the telephone, that was the real moment. Did you see their eyes? Even the hard one, Marga.’
‘I didn’t know what to say . . .’
‘I saw that too,’ she said, gently. ‘For a policeman, Monsier Daniel Jacquot, you’re just a bit of a softie.’ Taking off his trousers had made her brave, she decided.
He acknowledged she was correct, thinking to himself that when a woman has taken off your trousers without you knowing anything about it, there’s not much point putting on an act.
Finally the lights changed and four blocks on they turned off Saint Clément, pulled into rue Artemis and did exactly what they had done before, driving the length of the street, parking the car around the corner and coming back down on foot.
Unlike rue Bandole, it was a rougher neighbourhood, this part of the Fifth, and the road was badly pot-holed and dimly lit, the line of small block-built properties on one side of the street set behind waist-high walls, many of them spray-painted with graffiti. In an attempt to make the street a little more attractive, the local council had planted trees along the pavement. Only stumps remained, none higher than a metre, any branches ripped off.
As they walked back down the street, Jacquot examined each of the houses they passed. There were sixteen in all, bracketed by a tyre fitters at one end and an all-night launderette at the other, with nothing to distinguish one property from the next, all of them ill-kept and tawdry. Refuse bins stood by front doors, with two of the twenty or so cars along the street wheel-less and up on bricks. When they reached the launderette, Jacquot and Marie-Ange stood beneath its awning, the strong smell of washing powder and the warmth of clothes driers seeping through the glass doorway. There were a couple of old women sitting inside on the benches, reading battered copes of Pointe de Vue as they waited for the machines to do their work for them. In the old days, Jacquot knew, they’d have taken their dirty clothes down to the baths on Boulevard Saint Clément.
‘What do you think?’ asked Marie-Ange.
He shook his head. ‘I just don’t know. None of them stands out. They all look like the kind of house where a low-life like Xavier might live, but we can hardly go knocking on every door. Did you . . . feel anything? Was there anything that caught your attention?’
‘Nothing like Bandole. Nothing immediate . . .’
‘But?’
Marie-Ange shrugged. ‘It may be coincidence, but there’s a van half-way down – the white one? There was something about it, something . . . I don’t know. Something . . . familiar.’
Jacquot peered up the street. He’d been so busy checking out the houses that he hadn’t paid much attention to the cars parked along its length. He could see the van now, partly visible behind the car parked in front of it. He thought of the empty garage at the house on rue Bandole. It was just about high and wide enough to accommodate a van like that, a van that looked as though it could quite comfortably accommodate the six girls they’d found . . . or eight even, if they counted Lucienne and Elodie.
‘Let’s go back and have another look,’ he said, taking Marie-Ange’s arm. ‘Only this time we’ll keep to the road, put the van between us and the houses.’
It was late and there was no traffic as
they walked back up the street, just a cat streaking across the road through the rain. The van had been parked facing up the street, coming from the same direction that they had, driver’s side to the street, passenger door closest to the pavement. The first thing that Jacquot noted was the registration.
‘Paris plates,’ he said to Marie-Ange, ‘and in good condition for this part of town.’ He cupped one hand and peered through the driver’s window – the passenger seat pushed way back, sandwich wrappers, an empty bottle of Orangina, an old newspaper.
‘And it has a roller-tailgate, not doors,’ said Marie-Ange. ‘You lift it up, pull it down. Like at Fleurs des Quais. It makes a rattling sound. That’s the sound I remember from the lorry park. In my dream,’ she added, a little more softly.
She glanced at Jacquot. He’d left the window and was leaning down, running a finger along a deep scratch over the rear wheel-arch.
Jacquot straightened up and a smile of satisfaction slid across his lips. Detective work – joining the dots, building the wall; he loved it.
Marie-Ange frowned. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Remember the garage on rue Bandole? There was a scrape of white paint along the left-hand side of the door-frame. At just about that height,’ he said, pointing to the scratch he’d been examining. ‘I’m not a betting man, but I’d say we have found Monsieur Santarem’s van and that Xavier used it to bring Elodie here, either in the back, or, more likely, bundled up in the passenger footwell where he could keep an eye on her, and get her out quick into one of these houses.’ He peered around the back of the van. ‘But which one? You got any ideas?’
Marie-Ange shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, quietly. ‘I just don’t know.’
It was then that Jacquot spotted something. Through the rain. Something that shouldn’t have been there. The house one down from the van. With a green gate set into the low wall, a beer can stuck between the railings on the top of it, and what looked like a front door not quite square in its frame, an odd spill of light falling on the steps. But what he’d spotted was a wisp of black smoke.
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