*
The registrar’s gaze alternated between the bride’s sublime face and the swollen features of her husband-to-be. Paul felt sorry for the poor man having to stumble and stammer, endlessly referring to his notes and finding it impossible to concentrate.
The twenty-year-old Anne was wearing a somewhat understated cream dress, her hair tied into a quietly elegant bun. Paul had opted for the jeans and green polo shirt that he had hoped to wear the following day. Even more puzzling for the town official must have been the complete absence of stress or resentment in the bride’s demeanour, not to mention the fact that the beaming groom with the pulped face seemed as happy as could be.
After the confrontation, Paul had taken a shower to calm his fury. He then rolled his bloodied clothes into a ball, chucked them in his bag and changed. Bit by bit his hatred subsided, leaving room for the only thing that mattered – he had fought back. On his command, his father had left the room. For the first time, he had made the enemy fall back. Never again would his old foe try his hand, not now that he knew the sound of the knockout bell. That day, he had thrown off the shackles; finally his life could intertwine with Anne’s. The fear would stay for a few more years, carved into his heart, but his will was striding ahead.
When he had stepped into Capestan’s room to prepare her, her face became distorted. The moment he started explaining she had lurched for the door, but he held her back. They spoke. This was his battle. He told her about his rage, his peace, even his joy. He felt boosted by a new sense of being. A ceremony awaited. She had unleashed that smile of hers, the one that should have showed up on the weather forecast. They had gone downstairs and headed to the town hall, together.
Having officiated, with difficulty, in front of a roomful of rather perplexed people, the registrar pronounced them man and wife. They exchanged thin rings and kissed quickly, because their guests were looking, and because Paul’s cheek was still extremely sore.
The newly-weds turned to face the crowd. Their families forced a smile, though there were some stony glances from one side of the aisle to the other. Paul’s father, visibly injured himself, was standing tight-lipped and straight as a gallows, with a menacing look. Aunts, uncles and cousins, embarrassed but hardly surprised, pretended not to see him, all the while avoiding eye contact with the Capestan family. It made for a tense atmosphere.
As for Anne’s parents and close family, they managed to remain perfectly dignified and seemed oblivious to any controversy. They must have wondered whether or not their disappointment ought to run deeper, to challenge the very root of the view they had of this mischievous yet kind little girl, who had chosen an unorthodox path as an adult.
Her decision to join the police had been curious enough. Even though her many successes at the École de Saint-Cyr had flung open the door to the most prestigious positions in the field, rather than staying in criminal investigation, a career in the law seemed far more natural for a young woman of her circumstances. But as her grandfather always used to say, more out of regret than admiration: “Anne has her own way of doing things – she’s a free spirit.” By going ahead with this marriage, she was flirting with pariah status. No-one wanted to judge, of course, but such uneven unions rarely worked out. When it came to bringing up children, these differences – which intensity and passion can mask in your twenties – would come flooding back and cause chaos for the couple.
Paul was aware that his outfit, his face and his father were feeding into his in-laws’ already firmly embedded and no doubt natural concerns. He felt bad for Anne and was doing his absolute best to limit the fallout.
Beside him, Anne was not in the least worried, smiling from ear to ear and ignoring everything else.
As for the friends and witnesses, once they had been reassured and made each other’s acquaintance, they got on like a house on fire. The ceremony had rolled out the pink carpet as far as flirtatious conversation was concerned.
It was time to get back to the hotel for dinner and dancing. Anne and Paul had chosen to keep it simple, partly to avoid accentuating the disparity, but mainly because Paul had insisted on footing the bill himself. The place was warm and rustic, perfect for the sixty or so people they had invited.
All the guests sat down either side of two long trestle tables, a little surprised that the sparkling wine had already been poured out, the last few bubbles dying at the surface. Everyone raised a warm glass to toast the couple, taking care not to mention the rather ominous circumstances of the celebration. Then they waited for the food, which took an absolute age.
Finally, the owner emerged in his white chef’s apron, with red eyes and a surly expression, carrying a few starters. His young commis, who looked ill at ease in his checked trousers, handed out plates too. When he was in range of Paul, the groom leaned across the table and said in a lowered voice:
“What’s going on?”
The boy squirmed and glanced over his shoulder to see if the boss could hear.
“It’s the owner’s wife. She took off this morning. Left him. So, he’s not really in the mood for a wedding banquet . . . It’s quite a job, you see, plus all the happiness here is bringing him down.”
Paul and Anne shared a look of pity.
“Poor man . . .”
“Yup, and the problem is the food’s all getting cold, ’cause she always did front-of-house.”
“Hold on . . . Isn’t there anyone else you can call up for some extra help?” Paul asked, still whispering.
“Well, round here, last-minute on a Saturday . . . can’t really see it happening. Plus he’s in no state to get on the phone . . .”
The commis stared Paul straight in the eye. He had one more piece of news to put the icing on the cake:
“Also, I’m really sorry for your bash and that, but it’s just . . . the boss’s wife, she took off with the sound system, too. To piss him off.”
He shook his head, genuinely sad for them.
“Which is a bit of a bummer for the music later.”
After a long silence, Paul and Anne felt a mad, nervous laughter creeping up on them. The day was descending into a shambles and the absurdity of the situation was starting to test people’s understanding.
The owner’s deathly voice was suddenly heard next to the junior, who took it as his cue to disappear.
“Don’t worry, we shook on it, we shook on it – you will have your wedding feast.”
“Yes, great, I’m not worried, not at all,” Paul said in an attempt at reconciliation. “Maybe we could give you a little hand with the service?”
“If you think that’ll be necessary . . .”
“Yes. Yes, I think it will.”
*
Family and friends nobly took it in turns to help throughout the evening, forming an unconventional but effective team of waiters. The guests turned a blind eye to fingermarks on plates, and the cutlery seldom knew right from left, but nobody wanted for anything.
Denis must have done fifty round-trips on his scooter to fetch enough kit to sort out the music situation. Sitting side by side at a table where people were constantly standing up – themselves included, from time to time – to retrieve dishes from the kitchen, Paul and Anne held hands for a moment.
“Going well, wouldn’t you say?” Paul asked.
“It’s wonderful.”
She stared straight into his eyes in the way she knew would pin him to the wall.
“Really wonderful.”
Paul puffed his chest with so much pride it looked like a zeppelin. He was happy. He felt barely a pang when he saw his father leave, even though he knew full well he would never see him again.
When Paul found the owner at 5.00 a.m. to settle the bill, the bereft man told him that Serge Rufus had already paid the full amount.
Paul never knew if it was a way of asking for forgiveness, or one last attempt to humiliate him. He never had the courage to tell Anne.
27
Sitting in front of “The Snake Char
mer” in the Musée d’Orsay, Capestan wondered, as she did every time she saw one of Douanier Rousseau’s sombre, poetic masterpieces, what the artist – and more broadly the France people – had done to deserve the tribute from the 1980s pop group Compagnie Créole. Comme dans les, comme dans les, comme dans les tableaux du Douanier Rousseau . . . The words went round and round her head. Not that she minded – it was something of a guilty pleasure.
After seeing Paul, the commissaire had called Denis straight away to book in a meeting. Since then, she had been waiting on that bench, wondering why exactly she had not said anything about her father-in-law’s dirty past. Who was she trying to spare? Serge Rufus and any last vestige of his image? Or Paul and his uncertain grief at being orphaned? Herself, as the messenger? Herself, and her last chance at her husband trying to get her back?
“Wah!”
Capestan jumped out of her skin as the beast’s hands took hold of her shoulders. She had been too absorbed to hear Denis approach. He still had paper towel round his neck after having his make-up done for his next scene. The man’s cheeky charm had only grown since he turned forty. The roundness of his cheeks had disappeared, making way for an altogether tougher, action-man character. Big but well defined, with a shaved head and a hooked nose, Denis looked set to roll over a car bonnet to avoid the next explosion. The advantage of having famous friends was that you could keep up with them in H.D., even if you had not seen them in person for ages. Denis was the big success story of the trio, the shining light whose career had taken off in a way that the other two’s had not.
He leaned in towards Capestan and they each pressed their forehead against the other’s left temple, then the right one, a habit they had started one day to parody some big comedian who air-kissed so as not to spoil his blow-dry, or something like that. They could not really remember anymore, but the ritual had survived.
“How you doing, old girl?”
“Fine, and you, old man?”
Denis held out his arms to indicate the mega-production going on around them, with him yet again in the starring role. A thriller, part of which was set in the Orsay, presumably just to give the Louvre a rest.
“So long as no-one knocks the ladder while I’m on top, I’m happy. Parents are well, plenty of chicks, holidays not long from now – can’t complain! How about you? You called an end to your years as a hermit? Back on the mojitos?”
The actor smiled. The mojitos thing was a reference to their partying days – those were long gone, and Denis knew it. He became more serious.
“Have you seen Paul again?”
“Yes. Actually, that’s why I’m here.”
Behind them, the booming voices of the directors of photography and the sound engineers tore into the junior lighting guys and the assistant boom operators, while other stressed-out, high-pitched people yelled about timings, budgets and silence.
“Serge is dead. Murdered.”
“Oh shit.”
Denis turned to the paintings to his right. Several thoughts seemed to be crossing his mind, and Capestan was not sure she would mange to decode them all. Surprise was not one of them. He turned back to Anne.
“Do you know who did it? And is Paul O.K.? How did he take it?”
“Paul’s not too bad. Sorry to be so direct, but I do have a question for you,” Capestan said apologetically. “For the inquiry.”
“I’m listening,” Denis said with a frown, his hands in his lap.
“When you came to Paris to perform in that café-theatre, that must have cost money, right? Lodging, fees and all that. You were all co-producers, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said after a pause, avoiding eye contact.
“Who paid?”
Capestan hoped Denis would tell her the truth. They used to be very close, but had not seen each other for a good few years. People are always cagey about money and police matters, especially paranoid celebs.
“O.K., O.K.,” the actor said, throwing up his hands. “It was Serge. He made me swear not to say anything at the time, but he gave me a massive sum. In cash.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred thousand francs . . .”
Capestan whistled.
“Did that not strike you as odd?” she said.
He prodded a dusty patch on the museum’s shiny floor with the tip of his trainer.
“Yes, a little. But . . . in the end, you know what kind of a guy he was. I didn’t try to understand, I just took it.”
“Did he tell you where it came from?”
Denis let out a sharp laugh.
“No, of course not. He said it was to help launch Paul’s career. My first thought was: ‘To launch him, or to get him off your hands?’”
“What did he say to that?”
“Oh no, I didn’t say it out loud. Serge scared the crap out of me. Paul was the only person who answered back to him, as if to show he had the courage.”
“Well, he did.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
The information about the finances matched the commissaire’s preconceived ideas, yet she could not shake off the feeling that Denis was not telling her everything, a feeling she would stick in a corner of her head like one of Dax’s Post-it notes.
From the set, they heard the director spitting into a walkie-talkie: “Where’s the star cleared off to now?”
“Right, I’d better get back to it – they won’t ask so nicely next time,” Denis said as he performed the same knock of the forehead with Capestan.
He scooped up a replica Taurus Raging Bull from a side table, which he waved at her:
“See, it’s not just the cops who get to play with cool guns . . .”
A silly joke to finish – despite the bad news, her old friend was never one to break with tradition.
“Yup, although if they loaded it with live ammo, the recoil would send you flying off-screen, old man . . .”
“Ooooh, that was good – you win.”
The joke, yes, thought Capestan. But the truth? That was less certain.
Dax was not sure about the speed-dating thing, but his friend had insisted on putting his name down. Had to be worth a try before the fad petered out, he said.
Feeling uneasy in the large brasserie that been taken over for the event, the lieutenant – clean-shaven and wearing his finest white T-shirt beneath his leather jacket – was greeted by a pretty woman who, although not participating herself, explained how it all worked. A little too fast. Dax caught most of the drift: he was to sit down in front of a girl, they had seven minutes, then the bell would ring and he would move on to the next girl at the next table.
He nervously fidgeted with an unruly bit of hair at the top of his head before sitting down opposite “Doriane”, according to the name badge.
“Hi, my name’s Doriane,” she said.
Doriane was thirty-two and a mobile telephone consultant. She loved sport, sewing and reading epic fantasy novels.
“And what about you? What are your passions?” she asked.
Dax thought long and hard to avoid a foolish answer. He loved his job and I.T. He loved going for walks, too, especially in the countryside. And video games, of course. Birdwatching. Let’s not forget boxing. But is that what she meant by “passions”? He wasn’t entirely sure . . .
The bell rang. Before he got round to answering, Dax had to leave Doriane.
28
The métro from the Musée d’Orsay back to the commissariat moved along in its typical bouncy fashion. Making the most of that rarest of treasures – a free seat – she was rereading Saga, a dog-eared old Tonino Benacquista paperback. She always switched off completely on the métro. Either she read or she let the time and space wash over her, trying her best to curb her people-watching tendencies. At Palais-Royal, she caught a glimpse of a man in a thick, brown, woollen jumper sticking adverts onto the sides of his ceramic cave. A thousand steps from daylight, he must have had to glue several square metres of grey paper before pasting eac
h one, sheet by sheet, onto the curved wall, gradually unveiling the intense blue of the Pacific, the white sand, the palm trees, and a smiling woman in a bikini. He was brushing an image of happiness without showing any emotion of his own, before moving onto the next one and the one after that.
Capestan emerged at Châtelet where a dry, chilly breeze turned her eyes and nose red. She weaved her way through the crowds of window-shoppers on rue de Rivoli towards the relative calm of place Saint-Opportune. Denis had seen the money twenty years earlier and he must have known it was dirty. Capestan could not keep Paul in the dark about a fact that both she and his best friend were aware of. She would call him when she got back.
In this part of town, the streets are like a maze of little alleyways, most of them pedestrianised. Paris bustled and teemed, forcing millions of people to cross paths and rub shoulders. Some of them were murderers. Had Max Ramier fled the capital after the Plaza episode? The commissaire would put money on not. But where should they look for him now?
Rosière had been on to the management at the Plaza and learned that Ramier had paid for his suite in cash a few days earlier. A casual twenty-six thousand euros. But, contrary to what he had told the prison service, he had only moved in a month after his release. Three days after Jacques Maire’s death, no less. He must have gathered up the lucre after each murder. Rather than revenge, his actions were much more guided by money. According to the police file, the sum that the armed robbers walked away with – twenty million freshly printed francs, plus whatever was in the safety-deposit boxes – had never reappeared. Was there still another batch to retrieve? Had Ramier extorted Rufus’s share, or had the commissaire spent it all on his son?
If his list of murder victims was complete, then maybe Ramier had skipped town or even left the country. He must have known the B.R.I.’s reputation, which was reason enough not to hang around.
Capestan had asked the team to put everything into finding the fugitive, leaving her to focus on the thorny issue of Orsini. She was missing one piece of information, and finding it meant calling Buron.
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