Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3)

by Peter Morfoot

  ‘Well, you’d have to compensate for that a bit.’ Flaco closed one eye as she made the calculation. ‘You’d have to add eight years.’ She studied the image once more. ‘Even so, Captain, I don’t see it.’

  ‘Okay – the likeness isn’t working, so consider this. Since he’s been out, the only party we know of who’s tried to contact Delmas in person is a motorcyclist. Came to his apartment in Villeneuve-Loubet.’

  Bonbon nodded. ‘The one Madame Tofu or whatever she was called saw at his door?’

  ‘Madame Otaphu, yes. Remember, Flak?’

  ‘I do. She couldn’t say whether the person was male or female.’

  ‘May have been female?’ Bonbon let out an involuntary breath. ‘Come on, chief.’

  ‘Wait. What else, Flak?’

  ‘The motorcyclist was wearing a blue or black helmet with initials on it.’ They appeared to be hovering somewhere above her head. ‘Uh… B.L.… R.L.… B.I.… or R.I.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘That was what she said, I think.’

  ‘Hey – “I” for “Issert”. Got her!’ Bonbon’s faux-amazed expression didn’t last. ‘And not even J.I. at that.’

  ‘Julie does ride a motorcycle, though.’

  ‘So do lots of women.’

  ‘Actually, they don’t,’ Flaco said. ‘Women ride scooters and mopeds. Very few ride motorcycles.’

  ‘It’s a big one, apparently. Big and fast. Papa has refused every entreaty to get on the pillion.’

  ‘Alright, but it’s thin. Paper thin.’ Bonbon proffered a bag from his pocket. ‘Banana Bongo either of you?’ No takers. ‘And you know it is, surely.’

  Darac sat back in his chair. ‘It is thin – you’re right. But we’ve had thinner, haven’t we? Some very flimsy things have worked out in the end.’

  Bonbon smiled his avuncular smile. ‘You know what I think is happening here, chief?’

  ‘You think I’ve got it in for the woman.’

  ‘Possibly.’ The sucked sweet softened the word into a sibilant slosh. ‘But mainly, I think we’re back to perception. You’ve got Julie on the brain so you see her in everything.’

  Darac exhaled deeply. ‘I am thinking a lot about the woman at the moment.’

  ‘You know I just bought a new car? I thought I might have a change, this time. Go for more practicality, reliability. Something I could use on my antiques trips. I started thinking about a Toyota Estate. So the next thing that happens, everywhere I go, I see nothing but Toyota Estates. A couple of days later, I started to wonder if a Volvo wouldn’t suit me better. No Toyotas to be seen now. It’s wall-to-wall Volvos everywhere. It’s just how minds work.’

  ‘I think the lieutenant’s right, Captain.’

  Darac closed his eyes, tired suddenly.

  ‘Yes. I think he probably is.’

  43

  Pierre Delmas had no problems getting out of bed. After the strenuous work he’d got through yesterday, he felt in need of a good breakfast. Coffee and, with any luck, croissants. But as his headache was of only average intensity, he decided to tackle his exercises first. He felt it important to keep his fitness level high. He still had a lot to accomplish and any edge he could maintain was worthwhile.

  It wasn’t until he was in the shower afterwards that he realised he’d forgotten part of the routine. He’d missed out the star jumps. Resolving to make up for it the next time, he stepped out of the cubicle and picked up a thick, fluffy towel from a heated rail.

  ‘What a nice touch,’ he said aloud.

  Turning his MP3 player back on, he went downstairs and for some moments stood looking out of the kitchen window. It was a dismal morning, the higher ground shrouded under heavy blankets of cloud. In his earphones ‘Surf Beach’ shuffled to ‘Falling Rain’. There was no sign of a beach outside but it started raining almost immediately.

  If it were ever necessary, Delmas knew he could heave a sack of coffee on to his chest and press it clear over his head. Repeatedly. He found lifting a single spoonful altogether more difficult. Not trusting the steadiness of his hands, he positioned the Moka pot base in the sink and turned on the cold tap. Air in the pipes made a banging sound as the water poured in. He looked at his digital watch. After precisely four seconds, he turned off the tap and peered into the pot. The water level exactly bisected the valve. Perfect. Now he faced the challenge of filling the basket with a few grams of coffee. He set it on the work surface, shook the caddy above it until it overflowed, and then scraped the excess back in using a knife blade. Without further mishap, he screwed the two halves of the pot together and set it on the stove.

  Three fresh croissants had been left for him in the stoneware bin. Another nice touch. He tried not to crush them as he took them out.

  Delmas’s MP3 player had a preset for the France Info radio station. He selected it with some difficulty and listened in. A man had been found hanged in Villefranche, the female newsreader announced. Police were making no comment as yet but observers believed a connection with a series of recent suspicious deaths in the area could not be ruled out.

  ‘Come on, Captain…’ He couldn’t think of the name. ‘Well come on, Commissaire Dantier, then. You can do better than that.’ He pressed the record button on his player and left himself a voice message. ‘Buy more croissants,’ he said.

  44

  ‘People will talk,’ Darac said, setting down his pen as Frankie appeared in his office doorway. ‘That was a joke.’

  ‘I’ve got something better. Have you seen this?’ She displayed the local St-Roch Express newspaper, opened at an inside page. ‘It’s today’s.’

  Darac craned his neck.

  ‘“PARISIAN’S WHITE RECYCLING BIN FOUND IN EZE.” You couldn’t make it up, could you?’

  ‘Not that, you idiot.’

  Marucca filled Darac’s nostrils as Frankie set the paper down in front of him. A photo showed ‘jazz fans’ Jacques Telonne and wife Elise snapping their fingers in time with the ‘Didier Masso Septet’.

  ‘Jesus Christ… And Masso? That’s Musso. The Didier Musso Quintet!’

  ‘There were seven of you, after all.’

  ‘Three-strong, seven, twelve, we’re always the Quintet.’ He looked at the photos accompanying the article. ‘Telonne and his wife grinning like hyenas, look.’

  ‘I know. But my favourite thing?’ She leaned forward. A wave of hair dark as midnight rolled across his cheek. ‘Look at the other photo – Frènes and Telonne’s daughter.’ Frankie’s laugh was a rich, contralto gurgle. ‘I’ve seen people having more fun in the morgue.’ Her shoulders were shaking. ‘Read the piece.’

  Darac couldn’t have read his own name at that moment. His senses were reeling. But now was not the time to give in to them. You’re not a schoolboy, he said to himself. Stop being so foolish. It was sound advice but he needed a better antidote than common sense. Granot. Nothing more effective. Granot and his Pandora’s box image. Pandora’s box with hanged men, drowned men and exhumed remains flying out of it. It helped but it still took a considerable effort of will to turn his attention to the paper. Shifting his focus to the page, he found his voice. ‘“Jacques Telonne’s music-mad daughter, Laure, loved the Septet so much, she’s already asked if she can visit the Blue Devil club again next Thursday.” I’ll bet she has. “Here we see the youngster with family friend, the Juge de Jazz, Jules Frènes…” What?’

  He ran aground. Pandora’s box as an antidote? It was a sugar pill compared to the notion of a jazzed-up Frènes. Darac’s outrage made Frankie laugh all the more. He shook his head, steeling himself for the finale.

  ‘“The Juge de Jazz, Jules Frènes, grooving to…” What’s this? “Blues For Philly Jones.” That was the number the band played immediately after Bonbon came for me. But Philly Jones? They can’t get anything right, these people.’

  ‘Isn’t it priceless?’

  Righting herself, Frankie swept her hair away from her forehead and stood gathering it at the nape of her neck. Watching her, Darac knew th
at not even the Juge de Jazz could help him now.

  ‘“Blues For Philly Joe” is what the tune is actually called,’ he found himself saying.

  ‘Really?’

  Even before she caught the look in his eyes, the bobbing cork of her levity was ebbing away on the tide. She returned the look. His pulse quickened. Despite everything they had told themselves, and each other, she must be feeling as he was.

  ‘Though his name was Jones,’ he said, his words drifting. Drifting low and slow. ‘Philly Joe Jones. Drummer. From Philadelphia.’

  ‘Hence the name. Philly.’

  ‘Philly. Yes. Indeed.’ Lower and slower now. ‘He… wasn’t the Jones of Hank, Thad or Elvin fame, of course.’

  ‘No, no.’ Their lips almost touching, she shook her head slightly. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Brothers, they were. Nor… was he related to drummer Jo Jones. Strangely.’

  ‘Oh, I thought’ – her voice no more than a breath – ‘that was his name?’

  ‘There are two drummers called that. There’s uh… Jo Jones. And Philly Joe. Jones. And then there’s Elvin, as I say. Elvin—’

  ‘Jones.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s confusing.’

  Their eyes were swimming in each other’s. The strategy was failing. Hopelessly. A phone rang. And rang again. The beige one. An outside line. A lifeline, perhaps, but one Darac was no longer sure he wanted.

  ‘I suppose I’d…’

  ‘Better get that?’

  He nodded. ‘Darac.’ It didn’t matter who was calling. ‘Stay on the line, please. I’m putting you on hold.’

  With only a moment to adjust to the change in atmosphere, he felt the sort of disorientation a diver might feel when forced back to the surface.

  Frankie made it easier for him. ‘I’m going,’ she whispered.

  Picking up the newspaper, she squeezed his free hand and quietly took her leave.

  I’m a free spirit, he said to himself. An improviser. An iconoclast. Go after her! He was also a captain of police in the middle of a murder investigation. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

  ‘Yes, uh… sorry about that. Go ahead, please.’

  ‘Paul? It’s Julie. Martin mentioned I may call?’

  ‘Yes, he did. What can I do for you?’

  ‘First, I want to apologise for being such a demanding dinner guest. Thank you so much for changing your plans just for me.’

  ‘Uh… not at all. It was I who changed them originally, anyway.’

  ‘That’s kind. I have another favour to ask, actually. If you have a moment.’

  Julie’s call was working miracles.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Are you sure? I know how busy you must be.’

  A Mont Blanc of paperwork dominated the eastern horizon of his office. But with Delmas’s days of reckoning just possibly over, and with forces all over the area looking for the man, Darac was actually less stretched than usual.

  ‘It’s fine, honestly. Go ahead.’

  ‘Thank you. I don’t know if Martin has mentioned my late brother to you – Sebastien?’

  If his father had mentioned him, he couldn’t recall it. He sounded important to her. ‘I think he did say something.’

  ‘That’s nice. We were very close, he and I. He died in a motorcycle accident.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He gave it a beat. ‘Papa tells me you ride, also. It hasn’t deterred you.’

  ‘You only live once, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m inclined to think so, yes.’

  ‘Besides…’

  Bonbon entered, pointed at the espresso machine, and raised both eyebrows.

  Darac nodded and then smothered the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Julie.’

  Bonbon’s brows lowered accusingly.

  ‘She rang me,’ Darac said, and then uncovered the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that last bit.’

  ‘I said, besides, I have a talisman with me whenever I ride.’

  A here-and-now rationalist with an irrational, sentimental streak? His kinship with the woman was growing. ‘A talisman?’

  ‘Yes, I wear one of Sebastien’s old helmets.’

  Other considerations were put on hold. Darac was back with Delmas’s neighbour, Madame Otaphu. Sebastien Issert… Initials S.I. Pretty close to the alternatives the woman had come up with. ‘You always wear it?’ He gave Bonbon a look. ‘Whenever you’re out on the bike?’

  ‘Always. And if Sebastien had done, he’d be with us now. He was squirting round to the local Monop’ when it happened. He’d ridden all over Europe and North Africa, tens of thousands of kilometres, without any real mishap. He runs out of milk and he’s killed.’

  ‘Awful. And very tough for you.’

  ‘But this is all by the by. Listen, I know you’re a gifted jazz player but Martin tells me you’re into the blues, also.’

  Into the blues? It sounded odd coming from a girlfriend of Martin’s. And where was this going? ‘Yes I am into the blues. In fact, it was through it that I got into jazz.’

  ‘Sebastien was a huge blues fan.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘Tell me if this is of no interest but I still have a lot of his stuff. Mainly records – you know, vinyl LPs.’

  ‘And you want to know where you could sell them, or something?’

  ‘No, not that, although some of them are pretty rare, I think.’

  If Julie hadn’t pricked Darac’s interest before, she was warming up the needle now. ‘Are they?’

  ‘Obscure labels, things like that. Martin says you still own a record deck?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you come and look at what there is? Borrow them if you’d like to. I’m never going to play them. Haven’t got a record player now, anyway.’

  ‘Thank you. So who were your brother’s heroes?’

  ‘All sorts of people. But his favourite was Little Somebody or other.’

  ‘There are a lot of Littles.’

  She laughed. ‘I like that.’

  Bonbon looked on from the Gaggia, increasingly intrigued by the exchange.

  ‘I would love to look through them, Julie.’

  ‘Good. They’re just sitting here in a box.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘I’m calling from home. I’ve been thinking for a while that Bastien’s records ought to go where they would be listened to and enjoyed. You can have them on permanent loan.’

  Bastien, Darac repeated to himself. Her brother’s pet name. That made the initials B.I. And that was one of Madame Otaphu’s alternatives. ‘Uh, you must let me pay for anything—’

  ‘No, no. Certainly not.’

  ‘Very kind of you. Truly. Look, things can suddenly get ridiculous here so if it would be convenient, may I come over now?’

  ‘Perfect. I’m meeting some clients to start planning their round-the-world trip shortly so I’m going to be up against it for a while, myself.’

  ‘I haven’t got your address. It’s Saint-Sylvestre, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just off Boulevard de Cessole at the top – Boulevard Jean Behra. I have a small villa. Very small, actually, but it stands on its own.’

  She gave the address and told him where he could park. They ended the conversation on a cordial, even upbeat note.

  ‘There you go.’ Bonbon handed Darac a double espresso. ‘You’re going to be one big happy family, aren’t you? By the sound of it.’

  ‘Bit early to say that.’ Especially as he had just put Julie back in the frame as Delmas’s visitor. ‘But there is nothing like a shared experience of pain and suffering to bring people together. And that, Bonbon, is the power of the blues. Part of it, anyway.’

  On his way out of the building, Darac realised that whatever he discovered at Julie’s, there was something bluesy he could put out on permanent loan himself. He swiped his mobile.

  ‘Freddy?’

  ‘Captain Darac?’

  ‘When do you get
home from school?’

  45

  It was a curiously nightmarish sight. Blackened by the rain, the pollarded plane trees lining Boulevard de Cessole resembled nothing so much as charred, skeletal hands thrusting up out of the ground. What were they reaching for? Darac wondered. The light? Truth? Maybe just for an umbrella.

  Following Julie’s instructions, he turned into Boulevard Jean Behra and kept going until he found the concrete shoebox that was the church of St Francis. Splashing between puddles, he parked and went the rest of the way on foot. It had finally stopped raining but the shoulders of the surrounding Collines de Pessicart were drowned in gloom.

  With its clean apricot-washed walls and crisp powder-blue shutters, Julie’s villa presented a smart, attractive face to the street; a feminine, even girlish face. In the side entry, a 750cc Suzuki sat on its stand like a crouching cheetah.

  ‘Paul.’ Julie held the door wide open. ‘What terrible weather.’

  ‘The kind that people from elsewhere think we never have.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The hallway smelled of orange blossom. Orange blossom and something woody.

  She smiled prettily. ‘Coffee? Croissants?’ She indicated the kitchen, glimpsed through an open door at the end of the hall. ‘I think there should be a couple left.’

  ‘No thanks. And I’d better not stay too long, I guess.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She held out her hand for his leather jacket. He gave it to her.

  ‘There’s no tag. Just plonk it on the peg.’

  She hung it on the stand next to her own. On the shelf below, her black crash hat was sitting with its back hidden against the wall.

  ‘So this is the helmet you mentioned?’ he said, hoping she might pick it up.

  ‘Silly to keep it, really.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Not wishing to overdo things, he decided to leave it at that for the moment. He would be leaving that way, after all. ‘I’ve really been thinking about who Sebastien’s favourite Little might have been. How about Little Walter?’

  ‘No, I don’t think it was that. Come through.’