‘So this is a technical problem, is it? Bollocks!’
‘I’m going to miss my connection, thanks to this.’
‘Who are you looking for? Me? My wife? Fucking disgrace!’
‘Where were you lot when I was mugged?’
‘Is it a terrorist? It had better be.’
Darac scanned every face. Now and then, he took closer order as a possible candidate stepped out on to the platform. None of them proved to be Delmas.
The rear of the train empty, it was time to vet the front four coaches.
‘Still got a fix on Delmas?’ Bonbon said to a uniform.
‘He’s in the front coach, we think. If he’s using an old phone, the overhead wires sometimes interfere with the signal. Twenty-five kVs in those babies. That’s one hell of a current.’
More faces still. But no sign yet of Delmas. Coaches four, three and two emptied and each of the toilets was checked. Nothing. Darac looked through a window into coach one as possible candidates filed slowly out until no one appeared to be left but uniforms.
‘Let’s get on board, Bonbon.’
‘Where the hell is he, chief?’
They looked into spaces a man the size of Delmas could not possibly have squeezed into. And then, quite suddenly, Darac found him. ‘Here he is.’ He was lying in a waste bin about halfway along the carriage. Darac slipped on a pair of gloves and reached in.
‘If this had been stuck down the back of a seat,’ he said, unpeeling a hummus-slathered wrapper from Delmas’s mobile, ‘we might’ve thought he’d just mislaid it.’
‘Playing games with us? Hadn’t pegged him as that sort.’
‘Neither had I.’
His eyes trained incredulously on the mobile, the sergeant in charge put in an appearance. ‘So…?’
‘Delmas dropped it in the bin at Saint-Augustin, then got off the train before it departed. And kept it switched on in the hope we’d follow it.’
The sergeant nailed on a grin. ‘Well, he got his wish.’
‘Listen,’ Darac said. ‘Thanks for everything and sorry it worked out like this.’
‘That’s just the way it goes sometimes, Captain. We’ll take our leave.’
Muttering not quite sotto voce that the next time the Caserne needed Foch’s help, it could fucking whistle, the sergeant led his contingent off the train.
‘You can’t blame him,’ Bonbon said. ‘A greasy phone isn’t much to show for all this. And was it worth risking our necks for? And the necks of half the car drivers in the city?’
Having removed most of the goo, Darac started to scroll through screens. ‘Wanda was brilliant but you’re right. It was my call and I got it wrong.’
Bonbon pressed his lips together. ‘No one actually crashed, to be fair. And we haven’t caused that much disruption here.’
They risked a glance around. Angry knots of passengers were remonstrating with anyone wearing a uniform.
‘I’ll remember to tell Frènes that.’
‘Did Delmas get this phone specifically to pull this stunt, do you think?’
‘Perhaps.’ Darac’s eyebrows rose. ‘But not in the way you mean. Look who it belongs to.’ He held it out.
‘Alain Saxe at Bouygues dot com. Well, well.’ Bonbon made an extravagant moue. ‘Delmas having the victim’s mobile in his possession? Pretty incriminating.’
‘He denied killing him, though. In fact, he rang expressly to tell us that. And then he leaves us a direct link to the man. Strange.’
‘He is terminally ill, remember. Maybe he never has been able to think straight. Who knows?’
‘I’ll let Erica have the phone. And we should get info from the provider shortly.’
A man who had the bearing of a senior official hailed them through the open carriage door. He bolted on a smile so false, it might just have been genuine.
‘Would it be alright to have my train, my platform and my station back now?’
‘Certainly,’ Darac smiled but he knew further flannel was needed. ‘I want to thank you for your kind co-operation, monsieur. It’s much appreciated.’
‘Is it? You do realise that the rail authority has its own police force, Captain?’
‘Sorry. Forgot.’
The official gave a grunt of Granot-like proportions. ‘Forgot… And that miserable little object you’re holding. I understand that it is all you have to show for this charade?’
‘This miserable little object is actually a vital piece of evidence in a murder case, monsieur. Goodbye.’
They left the man to contemplate the vicissitudes of his lot and headed for the steps.
‘He’ll be dining out on this story for years,’ Bonbon said.
They descended into the half-light of the underpass.
‘Why do you reckon Delmas chose Saint-Augustin to ring us from, Bonbon?’
‘Maybe he had been at the airport. Maybe in Arrivals, not Departures as we assumed.’
‘Meeting someone? Interesting thought. CCTV should be able to confirm that.’
‘Or maybe he’s living around there.’
‘Unlikely to ring from there, in that case. I wonder if he’d been visiting someone at A1 Security. Let’s go and see.’
‘We’ll have to call the Caserne. We’ve got no car.’
‘Maybe Wanda’s still here.’
Blood drained from Bonbon’s face. ‘If she is, you’re on your own, mate.’ He pointed to the coppery frizz that was his hair. ‘Look at what all that shock has done.’
‘Bonbon, it always looks like that.’
‘Is it any wonder?’
There was no sign of Wanda in the car park. Bonbon took out his mobile but it rang before he could make the call.
‘Okay, sure… Right away? I’ll get a cab back to the Caserne and meet you up there.’ He turned to Darac. ‘Agnès. Developments in her stabbing case.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you later, Bonbon.’
Darac called for his car, repaired to the coffee stall and took a double espresso to one of the stone benches facing the avenue. Traffic formed a backdrop in muted shades of grey and beige as he sat and sipped. He found himself wondering why the current fashion was for such drab colours. Where were the Bugatti blues of old? The Facel Vega reds?
Motorcycles seemed to be an exception to the rule. And if he hadn’t turned away at that moment, he would have picked up the brilliant yellow of a 750cc Suzuki gliding toward Avenue Jean Médecin.
Riding it was someone wearing two-piece leathers and a black crash hat.
35
The male receptionist at A1 appeared to have been sucking lemons. He had no record of anyone named Delmas calling in person, or on the phone, today, or yesterday.
‘Is Monsieur Leroux in, Fabrice?’
‘He’s in Milan until tomorrow.’
‘When did he go?’
Fabrice whipped back a page of his agenda. ‘Yesterday morning. Eight o’clock.’
‘Was that so hard? How about Monsieur Mizzi.’
‘He’s not here. Paris – since, before you ask, the day before yesterday.’
‘My, the cupboard is bare. How about Monsieur Rigaud?’
‘Who?’
‘Artur. The maintenance man.’
An absurd smirk on his face, Fabrice closed his agenda. There had been a contest and he’d won, somehow. ‘Try the toilets. In the basement.’
‘I will.’ Darac indicated the CCTV camera covering the entrance. ‘In the meantime, I want a copy of today’s footage from that. And don’t give me any bullshit about how long it will take. You’re a security firm. Right?’
Darac found Artur tiling an awkward space under a washbasin.
‘Alright, Captain… don’t tell me – Darac? Mind if I carry on?’
‘Go ahead.’ He continued to the back of the man’s head. ‘Tell me – is there any way into this building except the front door?’
‘There’s a fire exit, of course. But no, we all come in that way. Even the likes of me.’
‘Liberté, fraternité and egalité at its finest. Have you been in the basement all morning?’
‘No, just come down.’ He laid a tile into a cutting frame. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen anything of Pierre Delmas, have you?’
‘He’s gone and done it now, hasn’t he? Still haven’t got used to the idea of him robbing a bank and now he’s… how did that Annie Provin put it? “Wanted for questioning in connection with the mysterious death” of that poor sod in Villefranche. That means you think he did it. Right?’
The tile snapped clean and true.
‘Have you seen Delmas this morning?’
‘We ask the questions, I get it. No, I haven’t seen him. Should I have?’
‘He was at Saint-Augustin station earlier. I wondered if he’d been here.’
‘That fairy on the door should be able to help you with that.’
‘When you guys have breaks, lunch and so on, where do you go?’
‘Personally, I favour a table at Maxim’s.’
Darac was rapidly developing a soft spot for Artur. ‘Seriously.’
‘Depends what day it is.’ He buttered the cut tile and pressed it into place on the wall. ‘Camembert, grapes and stuffed courgette flowers it’ll be today. And if I’m lucky, a nice slice of tarte aux pommes.’
‘Lovely. The others?’
‘The brass go all over the shop. Some of the lesser lights go to Café Grinda. On the avenue of the same name.’
‘Did Delmas used to go there?’
Artur stopped what he was doing for the moment. ‘I see what you’re getting at. He may have done. Mainly, he used to eat at his desk if he was in the office.’
Darac resolved to pay the café a visit. Delmas may not have frequented it but he now knew that others did.
‘Thanks, Artur.’ He gave him a card from his wallet. ‘You will let me know if you do run into Delmas at any time?’
‘Will do.’
Darac turned to leave. ‘Oh, Thierry Artaud sends his regards, by the way.’
‘That’s nice. Was he on good form?’
‘Seemed to be.’
‘Excellent.’ He pressed another tile into place. ‘See you.’
* * *
A simple spot offering limited seating and an even more limited menu, everything about Café Grinda looked right to Darac. Too early for lunch, he ordered a double espresso and sat at a table near the window. As he waited, his thoughts turned to Frankie. And Christophe. And back to Frankie.
The coffee was brought over by Max, the café’s ox-armed patron. It went dark briefly as he delicately set the cup on the table. Darac showed him his ID. ‘People from A1 Security come in here, I understand?’
‘Looking for Pierre Delmas, are you? Nasty business, that. Think he did it?’
Max pulled a chair away from an adjoining table and settled massively upon it. An arm wrestle between him and Granot would make some contest, Darac reflected idly.
‘The A1 people come in now and again, yes. Pierre Delmas did a couple of times when he worked there.’
A phone rang behind the counter. A girl with a mane of black wavy hair appeared from the kitchen and picked up.
‘You knew Delmas?’
‘Well, I knew him—’
‘But you didn’t know him?’
The big man chuckled. ‘I see you’ve heard that before. That’s what he was like, though.’
‘You haven’t seen him today, by any chance?’
‘Haven’t seen him in years.’
Darac took a sip of coffee. ‘I may come and live around here – this is superb.’
‘You wouldn’t put that on Tripadvisor, would you? It all helps.’
‘Sure.’
‘Max?’ The girl at the counter was holding the phone. ‘A gentleman wants to know if we’ve got caille au thym on the menu tonight?’
‘Tell him yes.’ Max rolled his eyes as he turned back to Darac. ‘I don’t know what she thinks all them quails are doing in the kitchen. Perhaps she thinks I collect the little buggers for fun.’
Darac grinned but his mouth was watering at the thought. In the right hands, the dish was a poem. And his father thought so, too, he remembered. Perhaps he should think again about his dinner plans for Julie.
‘Listen – you haven’t got a table for three tomorrow evening, have you?’
Max looked blank. But then the penny dropped. ‘Oh! You threw me there for a minute. Tomorrow night? Bit short notice, mate.’
‘Yes – forget it. It was just—’
‘Hang on – Jade? Got the reservations book there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did that four cancel, in the end?’
She ran a finger down the page. ‘They… did.’
Max turned to Darac. ‘Eight o’clock okay for you?’
‘That would be perfect.’
He could always cancel if the arrangement didn’t suit his guests.
‘Jade – put a three in that slot. Name of Darac.’
‘Right.’
‘Thanks for that. How did you know my name?’
He gave a sly-looking grin. ‘You showed me your ID, didn’t you?’
Darac nodded, impressed. ‘If I ever need a good eyewitness, I’ll know where I can find one. When Delmas came in here, did he talk to anyone in particular?’
As he thought about it, Max lowered his head, compressing the roll of fat around his neck. ‘There was a woman once. Don’t know her name and I never saw her before or since. But I thought it was odd because she was nice-looking, I think. Younger than him.’
‘Describe her.’
Max looked a little uncomfortable, suddenly. ‘I can’t.’
‘No?’
‘I was drinking then, you see. Heavily.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘I was never ratted by lunchtime or anything like that. But come the evening – it wasn’t pretty. How I got through it all without screwing up dishes or burning the place down, I don’t know.’
‘But you remember this woman was young and good-looking.’
Shifting his weight forward, Max’s expression took on a new earnestness. ‘To be really honest, all those evenings are lost to me. What I remember is just the impression of Delmas with this woman; the memory of it, if you like. But I really couldn’t describe her. At all.’
‘So theirs must have been a dinner engagement.’
‘Yes – if it had been lunchtime, I would have remembered her, no problem.’ He gave his forearm a scratch. ‘Dinner – that’s even stranger, isn’t it? Considering Delmas isn’t exactly Alain Delon.’
Darac took out his mobile – the odds seemed long but it was worth a try. ‘Okay, you can’t describe her but if you saw her again, would you recognise her?’
‘Why, have you got someone in mind?’
Darac didn’t usually answer questions. But Max liked to roast quail. With thyme. ‘Not as yet,’ he said. ‘Would you recognise her?’
‘There’s no point saying I would.’
‘Take a look at this photo.’
Max slipped a pair of glasses out of the breast pocket of his shirt. ‘Who’s this – his long-lost daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really? I was just joking. I had no idea.’
‘So you don’t think she could have been the younger woman.’
‘No – but only because my impression is of somebody, well… better-looking.’
At the counter, Jade cast him a filthy look.
‘Was the young lady behind the bar working here then?’ Darac said.
‘Doing bits and pieces in the background, yeah.’ He gave her a beckoning nod. ‘Got a minute? I know you have so there’s no use fibbing.’
Jade came over. Darac showed her Sylvie’s photo.
‘I’ve never seen her.’ She eyeballed Max. ‘But I think she looks gorgeous.’
Max hauled himself off the chair. ‘I tell you what, though, my head waitress, Justine, will hav
e served Delmas and his lady friend. She was with me all through that period.’
‘Justine live nearby?’
‘Upstairs close enough for you? She’s my wife.’
‘Yes she is,’ a woman said, emerging through the arch at the rear of the café. ‘For her sins.’
Justine was a short, strong-looking woman in her late forties. Louise Brooks-style black bob; full mouth glossed in a matching shade – she seemed an unlikely partner for Max. She must also have been a forgiving soul to have stuck by him through his drinking.
‘This is Captain Darac from the PJ. He’s interested in Pierre Delmas and that woman he was with that time. You remember?’
‘Perhaps.’ She came over to the table. ‘Why, after all this time?’
Darac shook her hand as she sat. ‘We have a number of questions about Monsieur Delmas. Especially after last night’s incident in Villefranche.’ He outlined as much of it as he thought appropriate.
‘And the good captain has booked a table for three for tomorrow evening so be careful what you say. Coffee, dear?’
Her look said: What do you think?
‘A noisette, Jade,’ Max called out, sitting down once more.
‘He looks after my every need.’ Justine gave Darac a look. ‘So… Pierre Delmas and the younger woman. What do you want to know?’
‘When were they here?’
‘That’s difficult. And we don’t keep our reservation books from one year to the next so we couldn’t look it up, either. When was the robbery – the one he went down for?’
‘2003. End of May.’
She pursed her lips. Full, dark and glistening, they looked like slugs made of chocolate ganache. ‘I would say it was the previous autumn.’
‘Can you remember the name attached to the booking?’
‘Delmas. I think.’
‘Can you describe her?’
She gave a throaty little laugh. ‘Oh yes. Mid-thirties, slim, attractive. She had reddish, shoulder-length hair. Nice complexion.’
‘From eight years ago, you remember all that?’
Her eyes slid to Max. ‘Old babe magnet there’s got a thing for redheads.’
‘Had,’ he said. ‘Had.’
‘Especially when he was drinking. I had to watch him. And as I say, it was out of the ordinary – Delmas and a woman.’
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