Sophie Hénaff
Stick Together
Translated from the French by
Sam Gordon
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also by Sophie Hénaff in English translation
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Guide
Copyright
Table of Contents
Cover Image
Title page
New York • London
© 2017 by Editions Albin Michel
English translation © 2018 by Sam Gordon
Cover painting © Miles Hyman and Carole Schilling
First published in the United States by Quercus in 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.
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e-ISBN 978-1-63506-017-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hénaff, Sophie, author. | Gordon, Sam, 1985– translator.
Title: Stick together / Sophie Hénaff ; translated from the French by Sam Gordon.
Other titles: Rester groupés. English
Description: New York : MacLehose Press, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018045005 (print) | LCCN 2018048600 (ebook) | ISBN 9781635060171 (ebook) | ISBN 9781635060188 (library ebook) | ISBN 9781635060157 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781635060164 (pbk.)
Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Detective and mystery stories.
Classification: LCC PQ2708.E53 (ebook) | LCC PQ2708.E53 R4813 2019 (print) | DDC 843/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018045005
Distributed in the United States and Canada by
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10104
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.quercus.com
Also by Sophie Hénaff in English translation
The Awkward Squad (2017)
To my own little gang,
again.
“Like phoenixes floundering in the ashes.”
Eva Rosière,
Laura Flames and the Awkward Squad
Prologue
The Vaucluse, November 24, 2012
Jacques Maire walked along the canal which ran through the centre of L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. He was counting the ducks. The water-parsnip, which turned the limpid stream a shade of green, swayed gently in the current, dipping in and out of view in the shimmering light. Boats rocked back and forth in the peaceful flow that urged him to slow his pace.
With the calm, collected smile of the village do-gooder, Jacques returned the distant “bonjour” of the local librarian, before passing beneath the plane trees on his way to the boulangerie. In the main square, the marble plaque on the war memorial caught his attention. It had been defaced. A drop of golden paint, still wet, trickled from the final vowel of a new name that someone had added.
Jacques Maire: August 17, 1943 – November 25, 2012.
November 25, 2012.
Tomorrow.
1
Paris, November 28, 2012
Commissaire Anne Capestan was doing battle with the latest in a long line of shoddy printers allocated to her team by the ever munificent police quartermaster. The machine maintained that it was running low on ink, even though Capestan had only just replaced the cartridge. After pressing every single button twice, the commissaire admitted defeat. She did not have anything particularly important to print. Not least because she did not have anything particularly important to work on. Or any work at all, in fact.
After a glittering start to her career that saw an Olympic medal for shooting and more badges of honour than any young officer before her, Capestan had joined the Brigade des Mineurs, without knowing that the posting would test her emotions to their very limit. During her time there, on a case that was horrific even by the Mineurs’ grim standards, she had shot down a suspect. There were no two ways about it. She was the star pupil who had gone off the rails; “a loaded Kalashnikov with an innocent smile,” as her colleague Eva Rosière had delicately put it. After narrowly escaping the sack, Capestan now found herself at the head of a team of down-and-out officers, an idea dreamed up by Buron, the big boss of 36, quai des Orfèvres, to clean up the Police Judiciaire by chucking all the undesirables onto the same scrapheap.
A month ago they had successfully solved their first case, something that – far from earning her awkward squad the respect of their peers – had only served to intensify their disdain. Grasses. Traitors. That was their reputation after hanging a fellow officer out to dry. Not an easy label to remove, and it weighed heavily on Capestan’s mind. On her pride, too.
As for Commandant Lebreton, he had adjusted to the situation with his customary calm. He was no stranger to the scorn of his colleagues. A glorious spell at R.A.I.D. had been cut short when he came out as gay, and was speedily transferred to working in internal complaints with the I.G.S. – a role where you might as well wear a sign reading “Judas” instead of a uniform. In such a place, crippled with grief following the death of his husband, he had found it harder to stomach the bigotry. One accusation against his superior later and he was fast-tracked to Buron’s custom-made dustbin. Right now, he was tipped back in his chair, feet crossed on his desk, leafing through a Sunday supplement from Le Monde, taking a break from the futile task of investigating the boxes of cold cases blocking their corridor. A loud voice from the next-door room made him lower his magazine, listen for a second, raise an eyebrow, and continue with his article.
The commotion involved the umpteenth difference of opinion between the volcanic Eva Rosière and the unsinkable Merlot. They argued constantly, not always abo
ut the same thing at the same time, but that never seemed to concern them in the slightest. This time they could be heard having a heated discussion over a game of snooker, the most recent contribution from Capitaine Rosière, the novelist-turned-screenwriter-turned-millionaire. Her spell at number 36 had come to an end when the top brass finally tired of her grindingly unsubtle parodies of them in her television series, “Laura Flames”. Ever since tipping up at their makeshift commissariat on rue des Innocents, she had taken charge of the refurbishments, exercising decreasing levels of restraint. The day before, when Rosière had floated the idea of buying a football table to keep Dax and Lewitz amused, Capestan had asked whether she was planning on charging a membership fee for the commissariat or if it would be pay-as-you-play. Merlot, eavesdropping next to them, had appeared to scrutinise the question without grasping the sarcasm. Rosière, a careful strategist despite her boorish air, had backed down. No doubt a temporary retreat, Capestan had thought to herself.
The commissaire moved away from the printer into what had become the billiards room following the arrival of a full-sized table a few weeks ago, complete with fringed rectangular lampshade, four leather armchairs, a cue rack and a magnificent oak-topped bar with a set of matching stools.
“It’s official, Anne, no-one else will want to join our squad now,” Eva had said with finality. “May as well furnish it properly – makes the space less dreary.” Dreariness was now the last thing Capestan associated with the commissariat; space was the second last.
Merlot, measuring in at a full cubic metre, stood rooted to the spot, a look of alpha pride written across his face. The former Brigade Mondaine capitaine, a well-connected but booze-addled freemason, was standing firm during Rosière’s thunderous diatribe, snooker cue in one hand, red ball in the other. His jacket was flecked all over with blue chalk marks.
“. . . it’s all the same . . . Take rhino horns. One day, some limp-pricked so-and-so runs into a rhino and says, ‘Whoa there, I’d like me a horn like that, please. I’ll just grind it up, guzzle it down, and away we go!’ And, ever since, the not-so-cocksure of the world have been wiping out the entire species just to get a bit of life back in their loins.”
At her feet, Pilote, Rosière’s dog, listened reverently. He turned to Merlot, awaiting his response.
“Exactly, dear girl. Vitality! I quite agree . . . Vitality is the root of such giant scientific strides!” the capitaine said, nodding impressively and almost blinding Lieutenant Évrard with the tip of his cue.
The lieutenant, dismissed from the gambling task force after developing a certain weakness for blackjack, was perched on the side of the table, drumming her fingers on the polished wood as she waited patiently for the conversation to end. She had her back turned, more or less on purpose, to Lieutenant Torrez, who had stowed himself away in an armchair in the corner of the room, his billiard cue leaning against the armrest. Capestan strolled over to him.
“Who’s winning?”
“The argument or the snooker?”
“The snooker.”
“Me, in that case.”
“Who are you playing with?”
“Me,” Torrez said, frowning.
Yet again, no-one wanted to be on Torrez’s team, preferring instead to play three on one. This was an improvement on the month before, when he couldn’t enter the room without its occupants running for the hills. His shady reputation as a bringer of very bad luck was definitely subsiding, albeit slowly. Baby steps. Everyone, including Torrez (especially Torrez), was continuing to exercise a healthy degree of caution. Only Capestan went near him in a carefree manner, refusing to be affected by this superstitious nonsense.
The buzz of a sunbathing cicada rang out of the commissaire’s pocket. Her mobile. Buron’s name flashed on the screen. A whole month had passed since the directeur of the Police Judiciaire last called, and that was only to notify her that his promise of a brand-new, fully functioning car had been honoured. Brigadier Lewitz, a lunatic behind the wheel, had needed just one day to write it off. After that, Buron had advised the squad to keep a low profile while their colleagues and the media cooled down, despite the commissaire’s protests that their profile had never been high in the first place. But even she had to admit that the team could do with a cooling-off period.
If Buron was getting in touch today, perhaps that meant good news.
Capestan picked up.
“Good morning, Monsieur le Directeur. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The sound of a Schubert sonata drifted from Orsini’s stereo, tuned as ever to Radio Classique. For once, the capitaine was not listening. He was busy flattening a page of the newspaper La Provence, engrossed by the headline: “L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue resident Jacques Maire murdered in middle of street.”
Orsini pulled a pair of scissors from his pencil-holder and carefully cut out the article. Then he opened a drawer and picked out a red cardboard sleeve, sliding the document inside. He flicked over the elastic ties, took the lid off his black marker pen and let it hover above the card for several seconds. He did not know what to write.
Eventually, he laid down the pen and returned the sleeve to the drawer, blank.
2
Swathed in the gloomy trappings of winter, the capital felt murkier than ever. A thin film of greasy drizzle forced the Parisians to walk with their heads lowered, eyes darting across the pavement, defeated by the day before it had even begun. With her chin tucked into a big flecked scarf and a thick black poncho draped around her, Capestan picked her way through a forest of pedestrians’ umbrellas on rue de Daguerre. She strode towards rue Gassendi, which, because of the crime scene, was at a standstill where it joined rue Froidevaux.
The body had been found two hours earlier. Capestan, whose desk was piled high with lapsed files, wondered what she had done to deserve such a fresh case. This certainly marked a return to the fray.
As always, the rubberneckers were craning to catch a glimpse of the action from behind the security cordon, doing their best to jostle past the obstinate police officers. The commissaire slipped past these nosy onlookers, presented her badge with a smile, and crossed the barrier, trying to make out the tall figure of the number 36 boss. In addition to the local police force and the forensics teams, she spotted a couple of lieutenants from the Brigade Criminelle, who were no doubt itching to take on this case, as well as a B.R.I. van that for some odd reason was parked at the top of the street. Throw in her own attendance and it was clear from all the heat in tow that this was no ordinary murder. The directeur’s summons were suddenly all the more intriguing.
Buron, hands deep in the pockets of his khaki duffel coat, looked less than impressed as he contemplated the hustle and bustle. As Capestan approached, a smile vanished as quickly as it appeared.
“Good morning, commissaire.”
She pulled back her hood to widen her field of vision before answering.
“Good morning, Monsieur le Directeur. What have we got here? Plenty of personnel, at least.”
“Yes, plenty. Too many,” Buron said, turning to survey the hive of activity.
Capestan thrust her chin back into her scarf.
“Why did you invite us to the party?”
“The victim is a big gun from the B.R.I., so I already know full well how they are going to play this. Same with Crim. They’ll dredge up a lot of old bad blood, root around every gangland police file since Mesrine’s glory days, and refuse to follow up any lead that doesn’t fit the B.R.I. bill.”
The murder of a top-flight officer . . . Leads that didn’t fit the bill . . . Capestan was not sure she liked the sound of this.
“Monsieur le Directeur, please tell me you’re not asking us to investigate another inside job. Other officers have got their knives out for us as it is.”
Capestan had never been too bothered about her reputation, which was just as well, all things considered, but in the long run, being the object of so much bile was hard, even for someone with her thick sk
in. It required a lot of courage, or a lot of blithe indifference, to keep a clear head in the face of such disdain.
“No, I’m definitely not suggesting that this is an ‘inside job’; I’m simply asking you to explore all possible eventualities, just as you would for any investigation. Having said that, yes, you do risk encountering a certain amount of . . . intransigence.”
Buron let out a small sigh and rubbed his gloved hands together. He seemed determined to speak frankly:
“If I’m honest, my decision to assign you to this case has not been wildly popular. Crim. are saying they don’t need any support in their investigations, and are already pretty upset to have the B.R.I. on board, let alone you and your other black sheep.”
Capestan flicked a sodden curl off her forehead.
“I can well imagine,” she said. “But I don’t get it – did the public prosecutor’s office request us?”
Buron shook his head and frowned, flexing his fingers in the morning air. In the directeur’s language, this meant: “No, not exactly, there are still a few tiresome administrative hoops to jump through.” Capestan translated this into the only term that was fit for purpose: “No.” The public prosecutor’s office barely knew her squad existed, and Buron, the Directeur of the Police Judiciaire, was enlisting their services on the sly. The commissaire kept coming back to the question of why she was there. Without wanting to be overly humble about it, she knew they had nothing to bring to the table on a case like this. Something about Buron’s decision did not make sense.
“I’m sorry to keep asking, but why us, Monsieur le Directeur – ?”
Buron cut her short as a huge mountain of a man walked past, his muscular torso wedged into a black leather jacket. His dark features were handsome, but he wore a closed expression. Buron touched the man’s elbow and drew him to one side. His hulking frame cast a shadow the size of a skyscraper. Recognising the directeur, he stopped abruptly and stood to attention. The directeur nodded his approval before addressing Capestan:
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