Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3)

by Peter Morfoot

  ‘We just need your help with something. Won’t take a minute.’

  ‘My help?’ The concept seemed to calm him. ‘A minute? Well, if I haven’t got a minute for my friends in the force, I’m in the wrong business, aren’t I?’

  ‘I think you may be, yes.’

  ‘Come in. Has there been some progress on that terrible business with your guitar?’

  ‘Not as yet. It’s a very large place you have here, Jacques. Where is everyone?’

  ‘What – staff, you mean? We have a maid here every other day, and a gardener twice a week – but it’s just the family here today.’

  They crossed a marble-floored hall. In place of tigers’ heads, the oak-panelled walls were hung with shots of Elise Telonne taken in her modelling heyday.

  ‘I built all this,’ Telonne said. ‘Not with my bare hands. But pretty damn close.’

  Bonbon nodded. ‘Impressive.’

  Telonne pushed open the door into the kitchen and stood aside. ‘Make yourselves comfortable. I just need to tell Elise you’re here. She’s a big fan of yours, Paul. After the other evening at the jazz club.’ He was all concern, suddenly. ‘To think we could have lost you, there and then.’

  Darac had run out of acting skills for the moment. ‘Yes. What a thought.’

  ‘May I set up this laptop on that counter?’ Bonbon said, smiling.

  ‘Of course. Won’t be a second.’

  Darac took out his mobile the moment the door closed behind Telonne.

  ‘Like a mausoleum, this place,’ Bonbon said.

  ‘Indeed… Terrevaste?’

  ‘Reading you.’

  ‘Flaco’s team with you yet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Delmas go into the hospital?’

  ‘Negative. He’s heading south on Avenue de Flirey now. We’ve got the situation well in hand. A whole new street team on. Except me.’

  ‘Good. Should things get difficult, work to Flaco. I’ve put her in charge.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Flaco is in charge. Got that?’

  ‘Check. Out.’

  The door opened and in plodded Telonne. He looked a little more relaxed than before. ‘I’m afraid the lady of the house is still powdering her nose. But she won’t be a second. Drink?’

  Bonbon eyed the top-of-the-range coffee machine set up in a corner.

  ‘Two double espressos, please.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You don’t know how to use it?’

  ‘Elise does. Does that sort of thing, I mean.’

  Darac glanced at the laptop. It was up and running. ‘We won’t bother with coffee, Jacques. If you’d just care to look at the screen?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘And then we’ll get out of your hair.’

  Darac kept his eyes firmly on him as the DVD began.

  ‘What?’ Telonne’s mouth sagged open, the lips retracting over his teeth. ‘What—?’

  ‘Do you recognise this man?’ Answer no, you bastard. ‘At all?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. It’s Stéphane. Stéphane Chayer.’

  ‘And what is he to you?’

  ‘My former partner in the business. A long time ago, now.’

  ‘How long?’

  Telonne pointed to the screen as if what he was seeing were unimaginable. ‘What the hell is he doing? What is this?’

  ‘How long ago was he your partner?’

  ‘We started together in ’77. And went to… ’92.’

  ‘Roll it again, Bonbon.’

  Telonne’s face had drained of colour. ‘How did you get this?’

  Anticipating the question, the pair had already decided to conceal the true source.

  ‘The man who ran the petit train just down in Villefranche? The one who was murdered – Alain Saxe?’

  ‘Oh yes – murdered by that Pierre Delmas character. What about him?’

  ‘The DVD was among Saxe’s possessions.’

  Telonne’s mobile rang. Without checking who was calling, he pressed the receive button and handed it straight to Darac.

  ‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Frènes,’ he said, eyeballing Telonne. ‘Now, how did you know we were here?’

  * * *

  Less than two minutes later, Darac and Bonbon were grinding the gravel drive away from the villa. Behind them, the Rade de Villefranche stretched seamlessly to the horizon like Telonne’s own personal infinity pool.

  ‘So – “Lay off or else.” It couldn’t last, could it? Frènes actually helping us with the investigation.’

  ‘Not once Telonne had phoned him to say he was being hassled. What do we do next? Bypass Frènes and go to Reboux?’

  ‘And be under an examining magistrate’s orders?’ Darac blared the horn as a cat that looked as if it had been shorn of its coat wandered in front of the car. It cast them a contemptuous look and padded on at the same pace. ‘A lawyer sitting in on every session? No, thank you.’

  ‘It’s better than not being able to question Telonne at all. Might be good practice, anyway, if the European Court get their way. Public prosecutor or examining magistrate, it won’t matter who’s handling the cases soon.’

  ‘While we still have the old system, let’s see if we can give Frènes some hard evidence.’

  ‘It’ll have to be pretty damn hard, chief. The guy is so far up Telonne’s arse, he could brush his teeth from the inside.’

  ‘Yeah, but you can imagine the sort of clever, obstructive bastard a man like Telonne could retain as a lawyer? Get you off anything, some of those people.’

  Finally reaching the end of Telonne’s drive, they turned into the Moyenne Corniche road and headed back into the city.

  Darac’s mobile rang.

  ‘Terrevaste. We’ve tracked Delmas to his target destination. It’s a private house on Avenue Sainte-Colette. He’s just setting down his holdall at the door. And ringing the bell.’

  ‘Street-level place?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Exits?’

  ‘Front of the house only.’

  ‘We know he’s not armed. But don’t take any chances.’

  ‘Intercept him?’

  ‘Wait until the door’s answered, jump him, then call for Flaco’s team.’

  * * *

  Terrevaste brought a couple of his own people up, first. With his back to the house, he kept his eyes on Delmas’s reflection in a car’s wing mirror as he started speaking to one of them, a woman apparently out shopping.

  ‘I’m lost. Do you know where Avenue Thérèse is?’

  ‘No I don’t. Do you happen to know where it is, Thierry?’

  The house door opened a crack.

  ‘I think so. It’s over by—’

  Terrevaste maintained his distance as the other two rushed forward, weapons drawn. He could see now that the door had been opened by a smartly dressed black woman in her thirties. Shouts, ID badges, guns waved around – the woman stood transfixed as the man standing on her doorstep was grabbed and frogmarched away to the street.

  ‘Keep the door wide open,’ the female officer said, pointing her weapon at the black woman. ‘Now stand still, please.’

  Terrevaste was already on his mobile to Flaco as Thierry delivered his prey for inspection.

  ‘What’s this?’ Terrevaste said, astonished. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Whoever the man was, he was not Pierre Delmas.

  61

  Showers of sparks strobed weird shadows across the quayside: a giant praying mantis; a boxer; a man begging for mercy.

  The light show sputtered to an end as Walter Picot turned off his blow torch. In flat lighting, the scene looked almost as strange. Above him, the figure of the King of Harmony, garish and grinning, sat arms outstretched on his funeral pyre throne.

  Using a blow torch around all that combustible material had been a risky enterprise. But events had delayed Picot and so there had been nothing else for it.

  ‘You Telonne people are the bloody lim
it,’ the tugboat skipper said. ‘Leave everything to the last minute.’

  ‘So what are you waiting for?’ Picot took off his gloves. ‘You can tow the barge out now.’

  ‘She’s secure? And everything onboard?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Picot said. ‘She’s secure, alright.’

  * * *

  Boulevard Franck Pilatte offered a perfect overview of the quayside. This was just as well for Pierre Delmas because his binoculars were in the holdall he’d given to the man he’d met in the station toilets.

  ‘I’ll give you five hundred euros in cash right now,’ he’d said. ‘Just for taking a tram ride and then walking to an address in Cimiez.’ The tram ride, the same one he’d made before the police had picked him up earlier, had been a deliberate choice; the address, he’d chosen at random. The man was of similar age, build and gait as himself. And he had the look of someone to whom easy money was by far the most appealing kind.

  ‘So have you got that? Keep this hat and coat on and don’t look around until you get to the address.’

  ‘There isn’t a bomb in that bag, is there? Or weapons? Or drugs?’

  ‘Of course not. See for yourself.’

  ‘It looks alright. What’s your game?’

  ‘Get to the address in Cimiez the way I said, and I’ll meet you there with another five hundred.’

  Delmas didn’t think of himself as a liar but sacrifices sometimes had to be made.

  At the top of the ramp that connected the boulevard to the quayside, an illuminated signboard displayed the current time, the departure time of the next ferry to Ajaccio, and a host of other useful info. Pierre Delmas was almost level with it when he staggered, suddenly. His head started to throb in a way it hadn’t before. His legs felt heavy. And then light. A searing pain shot down his spine. He stood for a moment, setting his weight against the board. Above him a line of LEDs announced that today was the feast day of John Joseph of the Cross. The saint appeared to offer scant succour as sweat began to run down Delmas’s back and his vision began to cloud. But as long as he didn’t feel nauseous, he was confident the attack would pass. Nausea, he’d been told, was a bad sign during an episode such as this.

  Quite suddenly, he felt it, a wash of acid scouring his stomach and reaching up into his mouth. He stood like that for some moments. But then as quickly as it had come, the storm began to subside. He took a series of breaths, each slightly deeper than the one before. Little by little, he began to feel stronger, calmer. His resolve began to return.

  Below him, he saw Picot’s van making its way toward the foot of the ramp. Delmas had missed his chance for the moment. But he knew where the man was ultimately heading.

  * * *

  Darac and Bonbon were en route to Cimiez when Flaco rang with news of Delmas’s escape.

  ‘Why the hell didn’t Terrevaste follow Delmas into the toilets?’

  ‘Because there was just the one exit, Captain. He said waiting outside was “the preferred option”.’

  ‘Delmas preferred it, certainly.’

  ‘I know, and now he could be anywhere. So what do you want me to do next? There’s a lot of stuff to catch up on back at the Caserne.’

  ‘You’ve answered your own question. See you later, Flak.’ The call ended, the phone rang immediately. ‘Erica? Hope you’ve got good news. Terrevaste’s crack tail crew just lost Delmas.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let Agnès know, will you? And ask her to call me.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And now you can tell me that it doesn’t really matter because the Rigauds just came clean and have named the killer.’

  ‘No, they still haven’t said a word.’

  Darac exhaled deeply. ‘Of course they haven’t.’

  ‘So do you want to know who Artur was calling this morning, or not?’

  He shared a look with Bonbon. ‘You’ve got an ID?’

  Excitement rose like champagne bubbles in her voice. ‘Yes!’

  ‘How? Talk me through it.’

  ‘I found the batch ID containing that SIM number; found the store that sold that batch; had one Officer Serge Paulin check through that store’s sales receipts copies—’

  ‘Surely the killer didn’t use a credit card?’

  ‘For a prepaid SIM? Of course he didn’t. And who’s telling this?’

  Picturing Erica’s expression, Darac couldn’t resist a grin. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The receipt was timed; the sales assistant who issued it, identified by name. And this is where we had some luck. The time on the receipt was 18.02 yesterday. It was the very first item sold by Josette – a curvy little cutie with a winning smile, according to Serge – at the start of her shift. Even then, she says the purchaser wouldn’t have stuck in her mind if he hadn’t come on to her in a really oppressive way at the till.’

  ‘She recognised the man?’

  ‘No, no, she didn’t. But he bought another item – a waterproof case for a laptop costing €47. He asked for a separate receipt. And for that he used a credit card.’

  ‘That is brilliant, Erica. I could kiss you.’

  ‘That’s good because Josette is now madly in love with Serge and I may never see him again.’

  ‘You will, believe me. Nothing is surer. What’s the man’s name?’

  * * *

  Agnès had been questioning Odette Rigaud for fifteen minutes with little success. ‘First, you’re desperate for Delmas to leave, then you’re desperate for him to stay. Why?’

  Odette was sitting legs crossed, arms folded, lips set in a sour pout, the mien of a sulky teenager, not a woman in her early forties. ‘We changed our minds.’

  Agnès gave a sad shake of the head. ‘We know what the pair of you have been up to, and I have to say I’m surprised. At you, personally, I mean. A frisky little fellow like your husband – well, one would expect it. But I am surprised at you.’

  Odette’s expression hardened. ‘Are you?’ It was the first deviation from her script since the interview began. ‘So what?’

  Encouraged, Agnès dug the point of her probe a little further along the nerve. ‘You’re a bright woman. A strong woman. Artur, yes, he’s a joke, obviously. Life with him over the years has been one low-comedy disaster after another, hasn’t it? That’s what happens when one marries beneath oneself. He’s a little man, fundamentally, isn’t he?’

  In Odette’s cheek, a muscle began beating like a quickening pulse.

  Agnès’s mobile rang. Untimely. But a flashing exclamation mark accompanied Erica’s ID on the screen.

  She decided to take the call.

  ‘Agnès, is Odette Rigaud still in with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So it’s Meryl Streep time.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘First, Darac’s just asked me to tell you that Terrevaste lost Delmas. We have no idea where he is.’

  Agnès’s feline features gave nothing away. ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘But I’ve got much better news on Artur’s SIM contact.’

  Agnès kept her eyes on Odette as Erica began her update. She immediately saw the way forward. ‘Just so we’re clear, that means we’d know who the Rigauds have been working for, wouldn’t it?’

  Odette’s jaw tightened.

  ‘It was the same person who murdered Alain Saxe and Jean Aureuil – quite. Got a name? Excellent. I’ll find a pen. Just a second.’ Agnès took her time over it. ‘I’m ready. Spell the surname first for me?’

  Odette’s eyes were wide.

  ‘P for Pierre, I for Isidore…’

  And then she closed them and let out a long breath.

  ‘Date of birth?’ She jotted it down. ‘Let Granot and the others know.’

  Concluding the call, Agnès picked up a file headed Rigaud, Odette Françoise. Held innocently in the embrace of a pair of brackets on the next line were two words that had just gained a great deal of significance.

  ‘So you were née Picot, were you, Odette? A lot of things have
just fallen into place, haven’t they?’

  * * *

  The door was answered by a woman in a hot-pink blouse and matching blusher.

  ‘Madame Picot?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Is Walter at home?’ Darac showed his ID. ‘Don’t be perturbed, it’s just a routine matter.’

  ‘I should hope it is.’

  ‘He reported a stolen car some time ago.’

  Bonbon obligingly showed her the entry on his mobile.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found it at last?’

  ‘Yes, we have.’ It was a lie. ‘Is he in?’

  ‘No, he isn’t. It’s the last night of Carnival so he’s caught up with the preparations.’

  ‘Telonne Construction is involved in that?’ Darac’s eyebrows rose as if in shock. ‘And Jacques the chair of the committee?’

  ‘Listen – they do all the work for nothing. And they don’t advertise the fact.’

  ‘Shunning publicity? That’s rare, these days. I know Jacques, actually. Personally. Walter’s worked for him for many years, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Walter’s his right-hand man.’ She smiled, a picture of smugness. ‘Well, I say hand. Hand, arm, brains – the lot. But this car business. It’s all been settled – the insurance and everything…’

  Darac paid no further attention. His eyes were focussed on a point behind the woman’s talking head. He pushed past her into the hall.

  ‘Hey! Where do you think you’re—’

  Darac grabbed a framed photo off the wall. A snowy waste. Dog sled teams. A banner bearing the words ‘Annual Challenge’. And grinning into the camera, a man wearing a parka.

  ‘Is that his? The thing he’s wearing?’

  Bonbon stepped in, smiling.

  ‘Long day,’ he said. ‘Forgive us.’ The smile gave way to a look of choirboy-like innocence. ‘Is that Walter’s coat?’

  ‘The parka, you mean? Well, yes it is. Or was. He lost it just yesterday.’ She gave him a sideways look. ‘What does that have to do with the car?’

  ‘Where is your husband?’ Darac said.

  * * *

  For Walter Picot, the ceremony of the Burning of the Carnival King was something of a damp squib. At close quarters, the half-scale replica of the giant parade doll looked quite something. Seen bobbing in the bay off the Promenade des Anglais, it looked as insignificant as a toy boat on a pond.