Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3)

by Peter Morfoot

  Darac flicked the switch. ‘Sorry, monsieur. Go on.’

  ‘Not at all, Captain. Principally in my role as chairman – oh, don’t tell my wife I called myself that – my role as chair of the carnival committee, I was just ringing to express my pleasure at the return of your instrument. Your amnesty idea worked perfectly, I hear.’

  ‘Yes, we were lucky.’

  ‘So did you really have no cameras running or anything? When the guitar was handed in?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘A man of your word. I like that. And the guitar was undamaged, I hope?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘The case, too?’

  ‘You seem inordinately interested in this thing, monsieur?’

  ‘Well, I was blamed for its theft, indirectly. If you recall my on-the-spot interview on TV.’

  ‘We’ve been watching it over and over,’ Bonbon said, sotto voce.

  ‘A drunk falls under a float and who is responsible for the subsequent crime wave? Jacques Telonne, that’s who.’

  ‘It’s a shame.’

  ‘It is absolutely a shame. But my main concern, obviously, was that you got your instrument back and in good condition.’

  Darac shared a look with Bonbon but then he had a pleasingly wicked thought. ‘Actually, I’ll be playing the very same guitar at the Blue Devil club tonight. Why not come along? You’ll love it and you’ll be able to see for yourself all is well.’

  ‘Uh… Ye-es.’

  Darac grinned. He could practically hear Telonne’s heart sinking into his flat feet. ‘Well, I never have been to the Blue Devil.’

  ‘Then you should! But just to warn you – there won’t be much in it for you campaign-wise.’ Bonbon gave Darac a thumbs-up. ‘Not many votes in the jazz audience.’

  ‘Captain Darac.’ The voice was full of pain. ‘That is an unjust accusation.’

  ‘I’m deeply sorry. So – eight-thirty, then?’

  ‘Yes. Definitely.’ A politician’s promise. ‘It’s a date.’

  Darac hung up. ‘I’ll lay you two to one he doesn’t show.’

  ‘No bet here.’

  Darac’s eyes met Granot’s as he waded into the room and stayed on them as he beached in his usual chair. ‘So do we need to clear the air?’

  ‘I stand by what I said but that’s an end to it as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Alright with me.’

  ‘Is that coffee I see, hear and smell?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Bonbon said. ‘I’ll do another.’

  ‘Updates.’ Granot flipped open his notebook. ‘One: no one’s seen Delmas. Two: Lartou has found nothing useful on CCTV or on punters’ cameras from last night. Three: there’s no sign of Alain Saxe’s mobile.’

  ‘The diver’s report in yet?’

  ‘Yes, she didn’t come up with anything. Neither did the house search team. Nor did they find anything obviously linking Saxe to So-Pro or to any other criminal activity, come to that. Erica’s taken delivery of his home computer just now. She might turn up something.’

  Darac ran a hand through his hair. ‘I might go over to Saxe’s place later.’

  ‘And finally – ’ Granot’s notebook made a little slapping sound as he snapped it shut – ‘Madame Halevy’s been interviewed again. Genuinely doesn’t know anything about hubby’s likely membership of the So-Pro gang.’ He essayed a smile. ‘According to that brilliant interrogator, Lieutenant Christian Malraux.’

  Bonbon handed Darac his espresso. ‘You assigned him?’

  ‘I thought my front-liners had seen quite enough action with Madame. Besides, Cagnes is Malraux’s territory, strictly speaking.’

  ‘Doing things by the book now?’ Bonbon shrugged as he wrapped himself around a chair. ‘Well, it’s worth a try, I suppose. Nothing else is working.’

  The beige desk phone rang. Darac reached over and picked up.

  ‘Is that Captain Darac?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is Pierre Delmas.’

  ‘Monsieur Delmas?’ Darac clicked his fingers at Bonbon. ‘Uh… we’ve been looking forward to talking to you.’ Bonbon was already on his mobile. ‘You wouldn’t be a hoax caller, would you, monsieur? We do get them from time to time.’

  ‘I’ll give you my social security number.’

  Darac picked up a pen. Where was his notebook? Moving with surprising speed, Granot opened his own and set it in front of him.

  Darac took down the number. ‘The line isn’t great – let me repeat that back to you.’ It was a delaying tactic, of course, but the caller listened patiently.

  ‘That is correct, Captain.’

  Granot pointed to an entry in his notebook. The number tallied.

  ‘Well, how have you been, Monsieur Delmas?’

  ‘Not too well, lately.’

  The techniques of keeping suspects talking on the phone varied according to the situation. On hearing Delmas’s voice, Darac concluded that chatting slightly off-piste might offer the best way forward. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. NCL is horrible, I know. By a strange coincidence, my niece has the condition, too – Ella.’ It was as good a name as any. ‘You perhaps know her from the Marseille clinic? She’s a patient of Dr Scalette. Poor kid. I don’t need to tell you how excruciating the headaches can be.’

  Keeping his mobile to his ear, Bonbon tapped Darac on the shoulder and nodded – the trace request was in. Darac put his phone on speaker. ‘And all the other aches and pains, of course.’

  ‘It can be unpleasant, Captain, but I won’t have to endure it for much longer.’

  Granot shared a look with Bonbon. A wanted man phoning in unhurriedly, revealingly? It wasn’t the usual pattern.

  ‘We have the same worries about Ella, of course,’ Darac continued. ‘Very difficult.’

  ‘Actually, Captain, I didn’t call to give you an update on my condition or to discuss your niece’s. And I need to be brief.’

  Darac caught Bonbon’s eye. He shook his head – no lead on the trace as yet. ‘May I just say that all of us here understand completely why you killed Saxe. The gang cheated you, didn’t they? There isn’t an officer here who wouldn’t have done the same. Killed Alain Saxe, I mean.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘You must admit that everything seems to point to it. For one thing, you were seen talking to Saxe on the petit train moments before he was killed. But I think we should talk about this in person, don’t you? We’ve been over to Villeneuve-Loubet a couple of times but we haven’t been able to…’ Down the line, he heard a sound in the background. Faint at first, it built into a thunderous roar as he continued. ‘Sorry, yes, we haven’t been able to find you in.’ He made an emphatic face at Granot, alerting him. ‘So where are you flying off to? Somewhere exotic?’

  ‘You have sharp ears, Captain.’

  Mouthing ‘I’m on it’, Granot swiped his mobile and bustled out into the corridor.

  Darac smothered the mouthpiece and called to his retreating back. ‘One unit to the airport, one to A1 Security – their HQ is directly opposite.’ He continued to Delmas. ‘I enjoy city breaks, myself. In three or four days, you don’t really get to know a place but you can do more than just scratch the surface. So where are you going?’

  ‘Do you think I would actually try such a thing at the moment?’

  ‘You of all people know how slack airport security can be. I bet you’d find a way.’

  ‘Captain, I may not be functioning at my best but I am not an idiot.’

  ‘I know you’re not, monsieur. Did you have any problems getting there, by the way? Traffic’s always slow around Terminal One.’ Delmas didn’t fall for it but he stayed on the line. ‘And Terminal Two can be just as bad.’ Ditto. ‘Giving yourself plenty of time is the key. Unless you’re staying nearby, of course.’

  ‘Captain, I said I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘And I said, I know you’re not.’

  ‘I am ringing to tell you quite straightforwardly that
I didn’t kill Alain Saxe. And I have to correct you. The gang didn’t cheat me. They cheated Sylvie.’

  Darac heard a voice in the background. A voice reciting a list. And then the acoustic on the line changed.

  ‘Please give my regards to Commissaire Dantier.’

  ‘I will.’

  The sound of closing doors.

  ‘But going back to the question of… Shit!’

  Delmas had rung off.

  ‘He’s not at the airport or A1. He’s next door – Saint-Augustin rail station. He’s just boarded a Nice-bound train. I heard the announcement.’ Darac went to make another call on the landline, then thought better of it and keyed in a number on his mobile as Granot hurried back in.

  ‘All systems go for the airport.’

  ‘Nix that, Granot. He’s on a train bound for Gare Thiers.’

  Granot nodded, turned and began the process again.

  ‘Hang on.’ Bonbon held up a hand – the message he was waiting for was coming in. ‘Trace is on to it. That call was from a mobile. And, chief, he’s left it switched on.’

  ‘Keep them on the line. I’m ringing Foch.’ Darac’s call connected. ‘Hi, yes, Darac at the Caserne. Detail a squad to Gare Thiers immediately.’ Getting to his feet, he began edging toward the door. ‘Wanted murder suspect Pierre Delmas is on a train coming in from Saint-Augustin. We might get there in time to intercept him but you’re much nearer.’

  ‘Will do, Captain. Want me to contact UCSTC, too?’

  ‘Who the hell are they?’

  ‘The new body co-ordinating the SNPF rail police.’

  ‘There’s no time for more links in the chain. Besides, SNPF are just a bunch of glorified border guards. I need you guys.’

  ‘Alright.’

  Darac could hear the desk officer’s misgivings but he didn’t care. ‘Listen, we’ve got Trace talking to us on another mobile. Keep me au fait with your progress on this one, Okay? I’ll stay on it.’

  ‘Right, Captain. Over and out.’

  He gave Bonbon a look. ‘Coming?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Sorry, Granot – fleet feet needed. See if you can get a message to the train crew. Tell them to keep the doors closed when Delmas’s train pulls into Nice.’

  ‘For that, I will need UCSTC.’

  Darac and Bonbon were already running along the corridor. They passed Frankie at the top of the stairs. Sometimes, a split second was all it took to convey a world of meaning. The lovebirds fluffed it, barely looking at one another.

  Darac and Bonbon took the steps three at a time.

  ‘My car or yours?’

  ‘Yours is faster, chief.’

  In the compound, they ran, almost literally, into Officer Wanda Korneliuk’s prowl car.

  ‘What a break.’ Darac’s words emerged in a breathless blur. ‘Forget my car.’

  ‘You got a death wish? The woman’s a lunatic.’

  Darac’s reflection ballooned in Wanda’s mirror shades as she rolled her window. He gave her the score and told her what he needed.

  Wanda’s nostrils flared. ‘Get in,’ she said, hitting the siren and lights.

  Darac slid into the front, Bonbon into the back, and both had barely touched the seats before the car lurched toward the perimeter gate.

  ‘Belts on, please.’

  Going into almost comic fast-forward, the officer on duty raised the barrier just in time. Power sliding into Rue Roquebillière, Wanda looked in complete control as she hammered the throttle toward the junction with Maréchal Vauban.

  ‘Jesus! Anything from Trace, Bonbon?’

  The turn was accomplished with no discernible loss of speed.

  ‘Just relax, gentlemen.’

  ‘Bonbon! Anything from Trace?’

  ‘Uh…Watch the— Shiiiit!’ A message was coming in. ‘Getting something!’ His skinny frame thrown around in his seatbelt, he put the phone tighter up against his ear. ‘The train’s still some way off. Must be a speed restriction. We may just make it!’

  Place Armée du Rhin came and went in a zigzag, mostly on the wrong side of the road. Wanda accelerated hard on to the voie rapide. ‘We’ll take the first exit after the tunnel.’

  Its mouth was a black dot; a second later, they were in a black world; another second and they were powering through space, an asteroid shower of lights flaring past them.

  They screamed out of darkness into daylight.

  ‘Trace?’

  ‘Still okay. Foch there yet?’

  ‘No.’

  A bad break. Their exit was blocked and the voie rapide ahead was at a standstill. Darac knew the siren would eventually part the jam but there wasn’t time for that. He looked across. Wanda was running her eye along the reservation that divided the east and westbound carriageways. For the next fifty metres, cones stood in for a removed section of crash barrier. She jetted a glance at the entry ramp curving on to the opposite carriageway. If it offered a way on, it offered a way off. It was a single lane with no room to dodge oncoming traffic but there was none at the moment. The traffic on the carriageway itself was sparse but moving fast.

  ‘We’re coming off. Hold on.’

  Bonbon closed his eyes.

  Hands and feet moving with co-ordinated precision, Wanda jagged the wheel hard left. Sideswiping cones like ice-hockey pucks, the car lurched through one-eighty and finished in line with the oncoming traffic. Behind, horns blared; brakes squealed; cars snaked. But none crashed as Wanda straightened and, trailing clouds of tyre smoke, zoomed away from them. She glanced over her shoulder at the on-ramp. Nothing was coming around the curve. The grassy kerbsides gave some bail-out room but they were studded with trees and lampposts.

  ‘And again, gentlemen.’

  A power slide to the right. Another one-eighty. Wanda squeezed the nose between the kerbs and shot up the ramp. The siren still screaming, she floored it, her eyes fixed ahead as the bend unfurled. ‘If anything’s coming,’ she said, calmly, ‘let’s hope the driver’s eyes and ears are open.’

  Still nothing came toward them. Darac’s knuckles were white. Bonbon offered up a prayer. The curve was almost paid out. But then a tin can on wheels trundled into view just beyond their exit point. If it advanced another few metres, a head-on crash was all but inevitable.

  ‘Get it off the road, darling…’

  The 2CV could abort if its driver acted decisively.

  ‘Come on…’

  The jalopy bounced incrementally on to the verge.

  ‘Good boy.’

  Missing him by millimetres, Wanda kept the power on as she jagged into Boulevard de Cimiez. Darac felt like cheering but all he could do was let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He put the phone back against his ear. Nothing. He’d lost the line to Foch. Wanda made another hard turn, sprinted between two lines of parked cars and jinked in front of a tram on Jean Médecin. Just Avenue Thiers to go. Ahead, a police van came to a sharp stop in the station forecourt and a quartet of officers piled out.

  ‘Shit – have they only just got here? Kill the siren now, Wanda.’

  ‘How’s the train doing?’ she said, flying past the van.

  Darac turned. Bonbon was ashen. But he still had his phone to his ear.

  ‘Still a couple of hundred metres away,’ he said as if in a trance.

  Darac’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘Fucking incredible, Wanda, you did it.’

  They screeched to a halt.

  ‘Any time you want a lift, gentlemen.’

  ‘We’ll call someone else!’ Darac said, giving her arm a squeeze as he got out of the car. In the back seat, Bonbon didn’t move. ‘You staying there?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Still got your running legs on?’

  ‘No idea.’

  They managed to sprint toward the booking hall.

  ‘Which platform, Bonbon? Say A.’

  ‘It’s D.’

  ‘Maybe we can hop across the tracks.’

&nbs
p; Delmas’s train was threading its way through the station approaches as the pair ran through the concourse. Spotting them, one of the Foch uniforms shouted at the ticket barrier officials.

  ‘They’re La Crim’ – let them through!’

  Dodging passengers and pull-cases, Darac and Bonbon ran out on to Platform A. Impasse – a stopped TGV was taking up its whole length. Beyond, the Delmas train was already nosing into Platform D.

  ‘Stairs!’

  Leaving the lofty airiness of the train shed, they skipped down into the vaguely toilet-like atmosphere of the underpass and tore along it as fast as they could. Overhead, the rumble had almost stopped as they reached the slope up to Platform D. Darac pounded heavy-legged up it wondering if any other officers had beaten them to it. As the panorama opened up, he would have heaved a sigh of relief if he’d had the energy – a small contingent of uniforms had gathered.

  A PA announcement reverberated through the sunshafted air. ‘The service arriving at Platform D terminates here.’

  The sergeant in charge hurried across to them as they dragged themselves up on to the platform. ‘This is where we need to be, sirs. According to the signal, our man should be somewhere in the first four carriages. Any further orders?’

  Lungs bursting, Darac was standing hands on knees. ‘Ever done… this before?’

  ‘Used to be in the SNPF.’

  Darac took that as a yes.

  The train squealed to a stop. All over the station, bored travellers became interested spectators. Another message rang out over the PA: ‘Due to a technical problem, detraining from this service will be phased.’

  Bonbon’s breath was returning quicker than Darac’s. ‘Granot came through for us. So how’s this going to work, Sergeant?’

  ‘We’ll funnel the passengers through just one or two doors, Lieutenant. We know what Delmas looks like.’

  ‘He wears disguises. Or at least alters his appearance.’

  ‘Can’t alter his size,’ Darac said. ‘Or that fleshy face… or the set of his eyes.’

  ‘We’re on it.’

  Doors opened only at the rear of the fourth coach. Immediately, officers boarded to establish a bridgehead and to screen those getting off. A second line of defence was waiting on the platform itself. Passengers were cleared from the rear of the train first. Inevitably, irritation levels grew as the procedure dragged on.