Capestan put herself in the capitaine’s shoes. If a gunman had shot dead her family in cold blood, she would chase him to the end of every desert, to the bottom of every pit, to the uppermost branches of the tallest forests. She would catch him and string him up like a sandbag. And then she would beat him until she died of exhaustion herself.
Orsini, however, had waited for years. Waited for what? What more did he need to know before taking action? Maybe the identity of the accomplices had passed him by and he had held on for Ramier’s release to find out. The D.N.A. tests indicated that the three murders had been committed by the same criminal, but they had not revealed who that criminal was. Was Orsini following behind Ramier, who was simply recovering his money? Capestan had cross-referenced the capitaine’s hours with the timings of the murders. Not once had he been at the commissariat. Yet the same vengeful blood that coursed through Capestan’s veins clearly did not flow through stony Orsini. Maybe he was hoping to arrest them, but Ramier had pulled the rug from under his feet by killing them first.
The commissaire had brought up the capitaine’s H.R. record. He had indeed joined the police after the hold-up. It must have been what lay behind his change of career: something to look into. Did he have any suspicions about Serge Rufus at the time? Had he tried to keep tabs on him?
If this mission had underpinned all of Orsini’s decision-making since joining the police, then that in turn asked questions about why he had been posted to the Brigade des Innocents.
Capestan inserted her earpiece and flicked through her contacts until she found Buron.
“Morning, Capestan. Are you calling to explain why the Police Judiciaire has just received a bill for a ‘World of Warcraft’ subscription?”
“No, but if you feel the need to talk about it, then I’m all ears, Monsieur le Directeur. I have a question for after, though.”
Buron sensed her genuine concern and abandoned his supervisory tone.
“I’m listening.”
Capestan rotated the microphone between her thumb and forefinger. There was only one way to ask this question.
“How did Orsini end up in our squad? Who sent him?”
“Himself. Why?”
“He demanded to be transferred into the worst division of the entire police service? He deliberately banished himself and you didn’t think to tell me?”
“To be honest, his colleagues have loathed him wherever he’s been posted. I assumed he was being badgered for some reason or other and decided to take off. Why, what’s going on with Orsini now?”
“Nothing new, I just ran into a curious journalist. Thought I’d follow up on it.”
The commissaire could almost make out the sound of the directeur drumming his fingers on his Moroccan leather desk-blotter.
“Your lying’s got better, Capestan.”
“Thank you, but right now I’m afraid I don’t have time to perfect it, Monsieur le Directeur. But I assure you, the truth will come out, ready to be buried.”
“I’m sure it will, commissaire, I’m sure it will.”
*
Capestan arrived at the foot of the building that housed their commissariat. So Orsini had requested the transfer himself. Her status as Rufus’s daughter-in-law must have played a part.
Orsini had come because of her.
He was watching her, weighing her up, maybe even suspecting her.
Capestan wiped the soles of her boots on the doormat, still unsure what to do about the awkward captain. She could understand the battle he was fighting, but why did it have to involve harming her squad?
She turned the handle just as part of the team were bundling out the door. Saint-Lô, Rosière, Lebreton, Évrard, Merlot, Dax and Lewitz spun her round by the shoulders, with Torrez following in his own good time.
“We’ve located him!”
“Who? Where?”
“Ramier, at the Lutetia.”
“He’s booked himself into another luxury hotel? Under his own name?”
“No,” Rosière said, hitting the lift button like a jackhammer. “Using his name from Velowski’s manuscript. I thought it might have been a regular pseudonym and asked Dax to run a search. We must be the only squad with this info. . . .”
Since the meeting, Buron’s instructions, though clear on the surface, had left them some room for manoeuvre. That at least was how Capestan had chosen to interpret them in the heat of the moment. With all their G.P.S. technology, tracking devices and C.C.T.V. cameras across the city, if the B.R.I. and Frost had not nailed this address, then it was not up to the rookies to hand it to them on a plate.
Of course, this spiteful logic meant the squad could not afford to screw things up.
“Let’s go! We can’t lose him this time!”
“Consider it done!” Dax crowed.
“Ah, never say that!” Torrez said with a groan.
29
“I can’t come with you now.”
“Yes you can, José, come on.”
“No, something bad’ll happen. Too many signs.”
“There haven’t been any signs, just a slightly overenthusiastic phrase from Dax. Nothing odd there. Come on, that’s an order.”
Torrez nodded, his forehead more furrowed than a mastiff’s when you try to drag it towards the bath, before jumping into the 306 and slamming the door behind him. Almost as if he was saying I told you so.
*
The legendary hotel reared up on rue de Sèvres like an ocean liner, its balconies now rather tired-looking and covered in safety nets, reminding Capestan of the bandages on a diva’s face after her latest nose-job.
Capestan and Torrez pulled up at the entrance to see Lebreton and Saint-Lô leaping up the stairs four at a time, while Évrard stayed down at reception. Rosière, Pilote, Dax and Lewitz were only just getting out of the Porsche – the brigadier was obviously worried about the unforgiving hooks of the tow-truck, since he had opted for a proper parking space at the foot of the scaffolding that climbed the whole of the palace’s western flank. All four set off, with Lewitz bringing up the rear, still clutching the microfibre cloth he had used to wipe away smudges from the bodywork.
A sudden movement overhead caught Capestan’s attention and made her look up. The others followed suit. A man had clambered out of a window and was making his way down the scaffolding. Max Ramier.
In his haste, the fugitive slipped on the wet aluminium walkway, colliding with the building’s façade. He steadied himself just in time, tearing off a block of white stone as he did so, which bounced all the way down to the ground. Ramier watched it tumble, holding onto a lifeline to keep his balance.
Lewitz was the first to respond. The brigadier tore down boulevard Raspail at such speed it looked like he might collar Ramier before he even touched the pavement. After sprinting a few metres, he leaped onto the bonnet of the Porsche and spread-eagled himself as wide as he could to intercept the stone block, which shattered his tibia. The dull snap of the fracture reached the team, who instinctively turned to Torrez for a split-second before kicking into action. The distraught lieutenant took a step back.
Capestan briefly touched him on the shoulder, then ran to Lewitz’s aid with the others. The brigadier was howling in pain, his leg sticking out an unnatural angle. The officers arrived one after the other to assess the damage as Rosière called an ambulance. Lewitz had chosen to save the car. The moment of confusion was all Ramier needed to slip through the netting and hare down the boulevard. Capestan took off in pursuit, supported by Saint-Lô and Lebreton, who had shinned down the scaffolding.
Ramier was confidently quickening his pace, following a true line down the wide pavement and making no attempt to escape down one of the surrounding side streets. At the current rate, he looked like he could breeze all the way to Lyon. Lebreton’s long limbs and Saint-Lô’s natural élan kept them in contention, while Capestan was having to dig deeper to avoid lagging behind. Even at the junction with the hectic rue de Rennes, with cars and pedestrian
s swirling in every direction, Ramier sliced through the crowds as if he were the only person in the world. The screech of tyres and honking of horns echoed the furious expletives of the passers-by. The officers followed, holding their arms aloft by way of apology. Ramier had just gained twenty metres on them, continuing the same wild kamikaze approach across rue de Vaugirard, before lurching left onto rue de Fleurus.
For six long seconds, he vanished from their line of sight. Capestan opened up her mental map of the area to reveal a labyrinth of different options. Six seconds was enough to turn left down rue Jean-Bart, or vanish into any number of the little courtyards on rue Madame further along. A removal van, legally parked for once, was so tall it blocked their view, forcing the officers to take a right. Their instincts were rewarded when they spotted Ramier’s outline crossing rue Guynemer and hurrying through the black, gold-tipped railings into the Jardin du Luxembourg.
Buoyed by this fresh visual after several seconds of uncertainty, Lebreton and Saint-Lô shot into the park. A few paces behind them, Capestan suddenly wondered if the man was armed. A cold bead of sweat ran down the back of her neck. Ramier was dangerous, merciless and, as they well knew, capable of firing at a child. And the gardens were packed.
Straining to make out any bumps in the fugitive’s clothing and assess the freedom of his movements, Capestan considered giving up the chase. But thanks to their second wind, Lebreton and Saint-Lô were virtually on his heels. Ramier zigged down a narrow path that was bordered to the right with the wire fence of a playground. Before the officers could follow, they were cut off by a line of ponies being returned to their post. Even without any kids on their backs, they waddled along as slowly as ever. It took an eternity for them to pass and any hope of getting round them was futile.
Ramier would soon be nothing more than a fleck on the far side of the park.
Lebreton and Capestan were doubled up and gasping for air, their lungs on fire. But Saint-Lô, still on high alert, raced towards the pony-driver and grabbed the reins from his hand without any explanation. Then, making full use of his jockey’s physique, he sprang into the saddle of the first pony and spurred it on with a roar. The beast shied in surprise before tearing off ahead like a fury. What with being tied together, the others had no choice but to follow.
After its rider calmed it with a rather gruff stroke on the neck, the pony soon made up the distance between itself and Ramier, goaded on by the joy of being able to gallop at last, as well as by Saint-Lô’s booming voice. The others followed rapidly in its wake, crossing the park in record speed looking like a mad string of runaway sausages. Their hooves pounded on the ground, kicking up dust and making an infernal racket. Terrified tourists yelled and dived out the way, while passers-by leaped into hedges or onto benches. Teenagers upped sticks and stubbed out cigarettes with unprecedented speed, then pulled out their smartphones to film the action.
Some of the nags to the rear started to crave the limelight, pulling off in various directions and slowing the progress of the valiant lead pony. Saint-Lô, displaying admirable flexibility amidst this chaotic stampede, turned around to establish the meaning of this sudden loss of discipline. With an instinctive motion of his right hand, he pulled up his trouser leg and unsheathed the dagger he kept strapped around his ankle. In a single swipe, he sliced the cord to separate his steed from the rest of the troop.
Now unburdened, his mount seemed to grow wings and fly forward like a diminutive Pegasus, its mane flapping and its hooves hammering on the sandy path, accelerating after Ramier. At this point, the other ponies scattered into the park in search of snacks and other distractions, except for a dark grey one, who returned to its post, clearly too old for this kind of tomfoolery.
Max Ramier stole a glance over his shoulder and, even at a distance, the shock was visible on his tired face. But he was a cunning man. Rounding the Sénat, he ran down some steps and went full tilt through the traffic of rue de Médicis.
It was over.
Saint-Lô pulled softly on the reins and patted the pony’s flank to slow it down, which it begrudgingly agreed to do. Saint-Lô dropped to the ground and, after running his hands through the beast’s mane and still holding the bridle, headed for a piece of card that was fluttering at the top of the steps.
It had fallen from Ramier’s pocket while he was making his escape.
“Wow, he must have been one of the finest horsemen in his company,” Capestan said, full of admiration.
30
Notwithstanding Saint-Lô’s spectacular efforts, Ramier had escaped again. The team had returned to the ranch dejected, praying that neither the B.R.I. nor anyone else got wind of this crashing blunder, an unmistakable lesson in the perils of going it alone. Any charge of incompetence would be entirely valid. If number 36 was to hear, it would earn the squad enough negative stripes to see them all through to retirement.
There was just the small piece of card, which had come to them as much by chance as through exertion. Across it were six digits written in biro. Six digits without a name, address or any other clue were their only spoils. Orsini had grabbed it feverishly before shutting himself in his office. His colleagues had been quite happy to leave him to it. While Saint-Lô, Merlot, Lebreton and Rosière sat in silence on the bar stools in the snooker room to drink the drink of the vanquished, Évrard and Dax went to hospital to see Lewitz, whose family had already rushed to his bedside. Torrez had slunk off home long ago.
Capestan was out on the terrace, where she had just called Paul to fill him in on Serge Rufus’s inglorious role in the armed robbery. She had also informed him that the money had gone towards financing his first Paris production. Down the line, Paul’s reaction to the hold-up had seemed more resigned than surprised. On the other hand, this show of patronage from a father who was as unaffectionate towards his son as he was disapproving of his unworthy career path had overwhelmed him. He would need to distil the news a few times before figuring out which bottle to keep it in, with the right stopper and stored in the right place.
“See you soon,” Capestan had said, removing her earphones and jabbing the red dot with her index finger, wondering if she was being overly optimistic in hearing a question mark in his “See you soon?” She would have loved to answer, even with a pause, or with silence, but she had to make do with her blank screen.
She sighed wearily, which reminded her of her other task. She scrolled up to find Buron’s number.
“Monsieur le Directeur . . .”
“Capestan, I’ve been waiting for your call. The ponies in the Luxembourg – anything to do with your lot? Did Ramier get away again?”
The directeur’s tone was neither harsh nor playful.
“Yes, I’m sorry, I – ”
“This man is slippery, yet you’ve found him twice, Capestan. That’s twice more than the others. Find him a third time. I have faith in you. Oh, and Happy Christmas. I’m sure the inquiry will catch up with you nice and quickly.”
Buron gave little away, but he was never one to kick people when they were down.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you for everything. Happy holidays to you.”
“Ha, holidays . . .” the directeur said before hanging up.
Anne crossed the large sitting room, empty save for the flashing Christmas tree, whose lights Rosière switched on first thing in the morning and off as she left to go home. She went through to the snooker room to join her four colleagues having their consolatory drink.
Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and the commissaire had given everyone the day off. A welcome ceasefire that would let them come back with a clean slate and some fresh leads.
31
December 24, 2012
10.00 a.m. Capitaine Orsini.
For almost twenty years now, Orsini had hated Christmas, and no part more so than the réveillon de Noël – Christmas Eve dinner. He also hated the back-to-school period, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, birthdays, the beach, tobogganing, parks, markets, Disney and any kind of ball.
In short, he hated every aspect of his shrivelled, deliriously unhappy life. He was nothing more than an empty suit clinging on to a mission whose purpose had long ceased to interest him. It was that or nothing.
On this Christmas Eve, a new beacon – the latest in a line of several hundred – had had the decency to distract him from the festive spirit that touched everywhere else. A clue that was now sitting on his desk, namely the five-centimetre piece of card picked up by Saint-Lô.
947091. An enigma. And a whole day and night to solve it.
*
11.00 a.m. Brigadier Lewitz.
His leg was killing him and the plaster was itchy, but Lewitz was worrying about the Porsche. He may have saved it from disfigurement, but he was terrified that Rosière would take it back to the hire company and that he would never be able to drive it again. Sitting on his sofa with his foot up on the coffee table, he was waiting for his fiancée and his future in-laws, who had been adamant that they would celebrate the réveillon in his front room given his immobile state.
“Don’t fret, we’ve got everything under control – we’ll bring drinks, dinner, crockery, folding chairs, the lot.”
All the same, Lewitz would have preferred to be in a better position to meet her parents for the first time. Behind the wheel of a Porsche, for instance. Luckily, his one-bed flat was gleaming. He had called the caretaker of his building and begged her to put him in touch with a cleaner who would be happy to come out on Christmas Eve. Money would be no object. Then he had looked out his best suit – a shimmering midnight blue number – and his longest pair of kitchen scissors, before cutting the left trouser leg lengthways to accommodate his cast. Cleanly shaven and hair washed, he looked as handsome as a freshly valeted car, albeit one with a small dent in the bumper.
*
Midday. Lieutenant Diament.
His hands were so enormous that the broadsheet looked like a paperback. Page thirty, a short paragraph. A police officer somewhere up north had committed suicide at his station. Yet another colleague turning a gun on himself. Before long he would lose count.
Stick Together Page 17