Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3)

by Peter Morfoot

  Far more impressive was the burning of the hillside beneath Château Park, the wooded hump of rock that rose between the Babazouk and the old Port of Nice. Lights, coloured smoke, burning braziers and, when conditions permitted, propane flamethrowers combined to convincing effect. To those clustered below, the whole of the hillside did indeed appear to catch fire and blaze away into the night.

  The area off-limits to the public during the setting up as well as the display, Picot had to show his pass to the official at the gate as he drove in. He followed the road as it wound its way up through oaks and pines on to Terrace Nietzsche. His mobile buzzed. He read the text and smiled.

  Leaving the headlights on, he got out of the van. A blast of flame roared into the evening sky from the rocks away to his right.

  ‘Testing the flamethrowers.’ Picot’s words were aimed at a dark curtain of trees. ‘Good job there’s no wind. We might’ve got singed.’

  A figure moved out of the shadows. ‘Did it go well? At the quayside?’

  ‘Of course it did, Jacques. Where are you parked?’

  ‘At the far end of the terrace.’

  ‘Have you got my money? Two hundred grand, we said.’

  ‘It’s in the boot.’

  ‘Get it.’

  ‘Not until after I’ve joined my friends down on the Promenade.’ Another blast of flame. ‘And Laure’s remains appear right there in front of us.’

  Picot gave a sour little laugh. ‘You’ve been working on your horrified reaction for the cameras, have you? Well you won’t be needing it. Not then, anyway.’

  Telonne’s face took on the look of a wary animal. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I decided not to go with the barge idea, after all.’

  ‘What? We agreed—’

  ‘We agreed to the principle. That’s all. It’s way too public down on the quayside. Someone might have seen me putting the body on board. And I wouldn’t have liked that.’

  ‘But you have killed her?’

  ‘What do you think? In any case, you wanted the bitch cremated, right? A lump of papier mâché with a few sticks of wood under it isn’t going to do that, Jacques.’ It was his turn to be wary. ‘You have got the money?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Alright. It can wait until later.’ Picot nodded toward a section of low wall running around the cliff top. In its lee stood an obscure, stone-built structure bearing a plaque. ‘Looks like a miniature church, doesn’t it?’ He pulled on gloves as he walked toward it. Telonne followed a few paces behind, saying nothing. ‘Look into the apse.’

  An aperture about sixty centimetres square was cut into the rounded end of the structure. Inside, a series of conjoined gutter-like chutes sloped down into its heart.

  ‘Know what it is?’

  Telonne shook his head.

  ‘No, not a lot of call for these now. We’ve never had to install one, anyway. Give up?’

  Telonne nodded, strangely compliant.

  ‘It’s a cannonball furnace. From the Napoleonic period. Biggest one in the country, this is. The church tower? That’s the chimney.’

  At that moment, massed blasts of flame roared up from the rocks below, casting a flickering orange light over the hillside. As the smell of burning propane faded, Picot shone his torch into the furnace aperture. About fifty centimetres into the down-sloping space, a stone plug served as an end stop.

  ‘You hold the torch.’

  Telonne did as he was told.

  Picot reached in and pulled on two iron rings attached to the plug. Slowly, he dragged it back up the slope until the top tilted forward.

  ‘What do the TV chefs say? Here’s one I prepared earlier.’ He indicated the torch. ‘Shine it in the crack.’

  The light found a crown of dark-brown, blood-streaked hair.

  Telonne stepped back abruptly, the torch beam caroming wildly around the trees.

  ‘Squeamish all of a sudden?’ Picot began easing the plug back down the chutes. ‘Good job you weren’t like that back in ’91. When those illegal little towel heads got flattened into pitta bread.’ The plug graunched back into position. ‘And then got “accidentally” built over.’ He chuckled.

  ‘You win some, you lose some,’ Telonne said, absently.

  ‘How right you are.’

  Telonne was all victim, suddenly. ‘The police came to see me. Somehow, Saxe had a copy of Stéphane’s DVD.’

  Picot’s cocksure look disappeared. ‘He must have copied it from Aureuil before he gave it to you.’ He chewed his lip. ‘But it doesn’t matter. Stéphane never named you in the DVD, did he? And it’s too cryptic to work out, anyway. The police are just bungling around as usual. Like they did at the time.’ His face became a hideous pastiche of femininity. ‘Commissaire Agnès Dantier, the Great Detective… The bitch couldn’t detect her own arsehole.’

  A twig snapped in the undergrowth. Both men froze.

  ‘Could you have been followed, Jacques?’

  ‘No. Could you?’

  From the direction of the sound, a scrawny cat emerged from the shadows and scampered away down the path. As the men continued their conversation, Pierre Delmas thanked God for the animal and told himself to lie still. At the moment, the extent of his ambition was just to stay hidden and to keep listening. NCL wasn’t termed a terminal illness for nothing. But what desperate luck was this? After all these years? He couldn’t bear the thought that he might hit the end of the line without knowing whose idea it had been to cheat Sylvie; nor being able to do anything about Picot and Telonne. What evidence he could give to the police now! He just needed to stay alive.

  ‘Laure never felt a thing,’ Picot said. ‘Just like Saxe. Aureuil? Now I admit I did make him suffer. But I never liked the guy.’

  ‘He was a millstone. They were all millstones.’

  Picot slid back the door of his van and leaned in. ‘I’ve already started loading up the grate. No one will notice the glow or the smoke once the hillside goes up.’ He grabbed two cement-spattered buckets and dragged them toward him. ‘Good plan, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Telonne was speaking to his bent back. ‘Very good.’

  ‘She won’t be reduced to ash, of course. Nothing like it. But they never are, anyway. You have to grind up the bones.’ He hauled the buckets off the van floor and turned. ‘If nothing else, her teeth will ID her.’ His face registering the weight, Picot made for the furnace. ‘Think of the votes in this, eh? Delmas frying your daughter because you wouldn’t give him a job all those years ago.’ He chuckled. ‘The fellow must be mad.’

  Picot emptied the buckets into the grate and then looked at his watch. ‘That’ll do.’

  ‘Your sister was able to sweet-talk Delmas into staying up in Levens?’

  ‘Odette…’ Picot smiled, lighting a rag. ‘She’ll do anything to please me, that girl. And that little mouse she married will do anything to please her.’

  ‘So she did persuade Delmas to stay?’

  ‘He left this morning.’

  ‘What?’ Telonne indicated the furnace. ‘You fucking idiot!’

  ‘Hey, hey – there’s no need to worry. When I thought about it, I realised it didn’t matter. Not this time.’ He stuffed the burning rag into the grate. ‘The police won’t be able to determine the time of death with any accuracy, will they? Besides, Odette texted me a couple of minutes ago. Delmas forgot something and had to go back to Levens. She must have laid it on thick – he’s staying the night, after all.’

  In the undergrowth, Delmas could hardly believe what he’d heard. Artur and Odette hadn’t been his friends either? What a fool… But what did the text business mean? He hadn’t even thought about going back to Levens.

  At the furnace, another blast of flame from the rocks made Telonne start.

  ‘You should do something about those nerves of yours.’

  ‘Nerves? If you hadn’t talked the others into splitting Delmas’s cut between you…’

  Back in the trees, Delmas felt a galvanisi
ng surge of electricity. So it was Picot. Picot was the culprit. And it was Picot who was going to be the first to pay. Delmas took a deep breath and tried to get to his feet. He could hardly move. Acid flooded his stomach. Pressure began to build in his skull. And then a blinding pain stopped him dead, taking with it all thoughts of confrontation.

  Perhaps there was still hope if he could just keep still and quiet. But the pressure increased. And kept on increasing. It was agonising. His brain was being crushed, ground to dust. Images flashed in his fading consciousness: Sylvie and her two graves; Telonne’s illegal workers, a pile of bodies flattened under masonry. Shorted circuits fizzed and sparked in his head. The dust ignited and exploded, and Pierre Delmas sank back on the turf, his eyes wide open.

  ‘It’ll take a while to get going,’ Picot said, peering into the furnace. ‘But that suits us.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure Delmas doesn’t have an alibi?’

  ‘For the time of the killing? Totally.’

  ‘And he’s back in Levens now?’

  ‘Yes he is.’

  ‘That’s all I needed to know, Walter.’

  The blow to the back of Picot’s neck was swift and sure. A nice touch, Telonne thought. The police would think it had been delivered by the same man who killed Saxe. Picot writhed. And then was still. Energy drained from Telonne’s body like water from a breached dam. After all those years, the way ahead seemed clear. Clear at last. He went to Picot’s van and switched off the headlights. Now he needed to make just one more move.

  Above him, a broad beam of light began to rake the tops of the trees. He spun around. And then he heard the car nosing up the hill. It would soon be in sight. There was no other choice. He would have to make that move now.

  * * *

  Darac swung the Peugeot on to Terrace Nietzsche.

  ‘Did you see a shadow scuttle away to the left, then, Bonbon? Toward that wall?’

  ‘Trick of the light, I should think. The only way down that way is the cliff and it’s pretty sheer.’

  ‘Let’s check it out, anyway.’

  They grabbed torches and got out of the car. Bonbon hadn’t taken a pace before he spotted something far more palpable.

  ‘On the right, chief. Picot’s van. Backed into the trees.’

  ‘We’d better separate. Be careful.’

  Drawing their weapons, they approached the van in a pincer movement.

  ‘It’s all clear.’

  Darac’s features crumpled as he sniffed the air. ‘What the hell’s that smell?’

  ‘It’s gas, probably. They’ve been testing those flame—’

  And then Bonbon caught sight of something in the lee of the wall.

  ‘There is someone over there, chief. Lying next to the old cannonball furnace.’

  Darac turned. ‘I see it.’ And he saw something else. He saw the furnace was lit. He sniffed the air again. ‘Shit, Bonbon. That smell isn’t gas. It’s scorching flesh.’

  Darac ran back to the car and grabbed the extinguisher. ‘Check out the man down. I’ll put the fire out.’

  Bonbon tried not to breathe in as he knelt. ‘It’s Picot. Dead. Still warm.’

  Darac threw back the furnace door. ‘Oh, Christ.’

  The foam doused the flames in a hiss of steam. His stomach turning over, Darac peered in at the mess. The burned areas of the body were reddened and blistered, rather than blackened.

  ‘The fire hadn’t really got going,’ Darac said, half into his sleeve. ‘Make it easier for forensics.’

  ‘It wasn’t a shadow, was it?’ Bonbon gasped. ‘Somebody must be down there.’

  They shone their torches over the parapet.

  62

  Darac’s neighbour Suzanne was on duty at the hospital.

  ‘When will we be able to talk to Monsieur Telonne?’

  ‘Any minute now, I imagine. But I’m not working over here at the moment. And I’m no Dr Tan.’

  ‘Do you know if the scans came back alright?’ Bonbon said.

  ‘She’s just looked at them now. All fine. So physically, it’s a matter of cuts and bruises.’ For a moment, the sun fell below the horizon in her bright, open face. ‘Mentally? That’s another story entirely. After what he’s been through. And what about you two? Are you alright? Must have been horrible finding the poor girl like that.’ She shook her head. ‘Seventeen years old. Imagine.’

  Bonbon managed a smile. ‘We’re made of stern stuff.’

  ‘You are made of sweets. And he’s made of jazz. That’s not particularly stern.’

  A commotion in the corridor outside made them turn. One or two press hounds had somehow made it through security. A flashgun fired at the ceiling as a man was bundled away.

  ‘For a moment, I thought that might be Madame Telonne arriving,’ Suzanne said. ‘She has been informed, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Oh yes, she has.’

  ‘Where is she, then?’

  ‘Telonne insisted she stayed home.’

  Bonbon nodded. ‘We’ve got a couple of officers with her. Expert hand-holders.’

  Double doors opened behind them and after a moment, Jacques Telonne limped through it, flanked by a small medical team and Véronique, his PA. His right arm cradled in a sling and strips of tape pocking his ripped-up face, he did indeed look like a man who had jumped off a cliff and survived.

  Bonbon gave him the once-over. ‘He looks pretty good, considering. Doesn’t he?’

  ‘There’s your stern stuff, Suzanne,’ Darac said. ‘Stern stuff personified.’

  ‘For Monsieur Telonne’s sake, I hope so.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got to run. See you later, boys.’

  Bonbon watched her move smartly away down the corridor. ‘The girl next door.’ He gave Darac a look. ‘Next door to you, that is. Gorgeous woman. Don’t you think?’

  Despite everything, including the vision of Jacques Telonne bearing pluckily down on them, Darac couldn’t resist a smile. Everyone he and Suzanne knew had tried to pair them off at one time or another, even that unlikely matchmaker, Granot. It seemed the situation with Frankie might be prompting another round.

  Leaving Dr Tan until last, Telonne gave his left hand and his blessing to each member of the medical team. Darac waited for the service to be over before he stepped forward. Telonne managed a weak smile.

  ‘Captain Darac. And Lieutenant Busquet.’ More left-handed blessings. ‘I must apologise about the misunderstanding at my place, earlier.’

  ‘No apology necessary.’

  ‘To be perfectly honest with you, I was concerned about… my Laure. We didn’t know where she was and I didn’t know what to do for the best. Perhaps if we had told you about it then—’

  ‘Don’t, Jacques,’ Véronique said, touching his forearm. ‘It will do no good to torture yourself.’

  ‘The mademoiselle is right,’ Darac said. ‘And on behalf of the Police Judiciaire, I’ve been asked to thank you, Monsieur Telonne. Complying with all our various procedures is one thing; volunteering to do so, despite your physical and emotional injuries, is indeed selfless.’

  Telonne accepted the remarks with a gracious nod.

  Véronique’s expression was a study in concern. ‘Is there a crowd outside?’

  ‘We’ve managed to herd them around to the front. The rear exit is quite clear.’

  ‘Ah.’ Her eyes betraying just the slightest hint of disappointment, she turned to Telonne. ‘Need to make a quick call but I can’t make it here. Will you be alright for a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’ He gave Darac and Bonbon a rueful shrug. ‘Like a mother hen.’

  A mother hen, Darac suspected, who needed to shoo some of her brood around to the back door. He called out to her. ‘No need to hurry, mademoiselle. We won’t be going anywhere just yet.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Essaying solicitousness, Darac spoke to Telonne. ‘Because of the nature of your daughter’s injuries, monsieur, Commissaire Dantier has waived the personal identification procedure.
’

  ‘My visiting the mortuary won’t be necessary?’

  ‘No. Other methods can be employed to establish her identity.’

  Closing his eyes, Telonne let out a long breath. ‘I appreciate that. Very much.’

  ‘By the same token, we thought it unnecessary to decamp to the Caserne for our interview. The commissaire has had a room set aside here.’

  ‘Most kind. Thank you. May Véronique attend?’

  ‘Certainly. Lieutenant Busquet will accompany you. I’ll just go ahead and see if they’re ready for us.’

  Agnès was waiting for Darac in Teaching Room One. The contingent from the Caserne had swollen to include Frankie and Raul Ormans. Deanna Bianchi had joined them from the pathology lab.

  ‘Telonne’s right behind me. Ready to go?’

  ‘One second.’ Agnès indicated a long cupboard lining the rear wall of the room. In it, a human skeleton was hanging in plain sight. ‘Under the circumstances, I think we should hide the monsieur there.’

  ‘It’s a madame,’ Deanna said, sliding the door shut. ‘Or he’s got the oddest pelvis.’

  Escorted by Bonbon and Véronique, Telonne was welcomed into the room with some ceremony. Fêting the man seemed to relax him and once the introductions were over he took his seat next to Agnès without a qualm.

  Darac opened the piece with the equivalent of a simple C major chord. ‘Monsieur, for the benefit of the commissaire, I’m just going to reprise your account of what took place earlier. Alright?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You arrived at Château Park to check arrangements for the burning of the hillside and there you met Walter Picot. It was on Terrace Nietzsche that Pierre Delmas confronted you.’

  ‘It was. He’d already… killed Laure although neither of us knew at that stage that she had been’ – he chose the word carefully – ‘stuffed… into that contraption. Delmas taunted us about what we would find in it.’ His face was a mask of pain. ‘It was more awful than I could have imagined.’

  ‘Why do you think Delmas did what he did?’

  The question astonished him. ‘He’s a madman, obviously. He tried to join my company years ago, you know. But he failed the medical because of his condition. He bore a grudge. A grudge that became something dangerous, perverted.’ Anger flared in his eyes. ‘He should never have been released. Look at what he’s done! He boasted of the killings.’ He turned to Agnès. ‘And this is so personal to me, Commissaire. Quite apart from my daughter, all of the people he killed have worked for me at one time or another.’