Stick Together

by Sophie Hénaff

  They had lost their killer.

  They had three murders and no perpetrator.

  Four murders now, in fact.

  “It’s like Agatha Christie, And Then There Were None,” Rosière said. “Everyone croaks and by the end, there’s no more perp.”

  “Apart from in the book, the killer only pretends to die. It works on an island – gets more tricky on a pathologist’s table,” Capestan said.

  The night before, she had left Paul’s feeling warm but somewhat befuddled, returning home to daydream at her own pace, her own rhythm, without getting swept away with plans. Buron’s message bidding her to this latest murder had caught her bang in the middle of her reverie, jolting her back to reality. On her way, she was expecting another player from the armed robbery – not Ramier.

  Capestan of course suspected Orsini. Rooted to the spot at the crime scene, the capitaine was scrutinising everything. Searching for some trace of himself, perhaps? He was frowning, reflecting in a sombre mood. Had he forgotten something?

  Now that forensics had Ramier’s body, they would soon be taking a D.N.A. sample to compare it with the first three murders and obtain incontrovertible proof of his guilt, which remained the most likely theory.

  But who had killed him?

  Orsini? Capestan asked herself the question over and over again without managing to come up with an answer.

  Perhaps they would find another D.N.A. trace at this scene. Someone new blasting their way into the equation. An accomplice who had not shown up in the files. Or a cellmate who had caught wind of the crop waiting to be harvested.

  At a glance, there were no warning signs, no theatrics. Either the killer was rushed or a second murderer was involved. Again, the latter seemed the most likely theory.

  It was 11.00 a.m. and it felt as if the morning was yet to rise in this corner of the Bois de Vincennes. The bare trees would have let the sun through, but the thick mass of black clouds was squeezing any weak rays of light to the point of strangling them. A thin yet steady drizzle had washed away the snow, turning it to a sludge that clung to the soles of their shoes, taking any fingerprints with it. A few patches of grass were still visible through the broken branches and dead leaves. The light-hearted lawns beloved of Parisian picnickers in the summer had been reduced to a dingy corner where a gangster’s thickset corpse did not seem out of place.

  “Fresh in this morning! Still warm from Father Christmas’s sack, dispatched by special sledge mail!”

  The wisecracker was Lieutenant Zahoui from the B.R.I. It was as if he needed to clear some space to make way for the next lot of inane jokes. Behind him, Diament gave them a tiny flicker of acknowledgement.

  “Two bullets in the stomach, two in the thorax, one in the shoulder and two in the trees.”

  “Father Christmas’s aim is all over the shop. Either that or the reindeer failed to come to a complete stop,” Rosière said, never one to be outdone.

  Zahoui burst out laughing, delighted to have found a kindred spirit. He gave the capitaine a pally pat on the back, not that she would ever have been so overfamiliar, but she took it with the sort of aloofness that celebs display when they are mobbed by fans.

  *

  In this residential family area on the edge of the wood, the seven bullets had been heard and the police alerted right away. The gunman had, however, had plenty of time to escape. No silencer, no accuracy – this smacked of an amateur, albeit an amateur armed with an automatic pistol and no qualms about offloading half a magazine. They could be looking for a gangster not used to carrying a firearm – a driver, for example – like the one Lewitz thought was missing from the hold-up.

  Add to that the heap of enemies Max Ramier must have amassed in his time. He did not like anyone and no-one liked him. He was wild and violent, a man with no respect for life or its obligations. There was every chance that this crime had nothing to do with their inquiry and was simply a settling of scores from a former co-prisoner. Bastards like Ramier left a lot of grudges in their wake, and the police were less than motivated to do anything about them – they had better people to protect.

  A few Antigang guys sneered at the corpse, but most of them were just gutted that a stranger had swiped their prey from under their noses. It had been the B.R.I.’s job to bring back the mortal remains of the man who murdered the mighty Commissaire Rufus and hang them from a post. All they had was a mud-spattered body and a cheeky perp. who had vanished into the trees. It was bad enough that the officers from Crim. and the Crapheap were breaking their balls – if everyone joined in, the cowboys would be reduced to sitting around playing their harmonicas.

  These very cowboys would get the ballistics report well in advance of the Brigade des Innocents. All they would need was for the weapon to be on file and they would have a massive head start. Either officially or in people’s memories, every gang member in the region was recorded. The B.R.I. would just need to nab him.

  Judging by the time of the call to the police, the shooting took place at 10.00 a.m. An early start the morning after the réveillon. As far as alibis were concerned, Capestan wondered if Christmas made the killer’s task easier or more complicated. Only a hermit could head outdoors at that hour without their family noticing.

  That narrowed it down to at least half the gangsters. And about a third of the police officers.

  No, those were dead-ends. The shooter was an amateur, Capestan remembered.

  At first glance, Ramier, despite being riddled with bullets, did not appear to have been beaten. No-one had wanted to make him talk. The murder had not been driven by money. Or maybe the victim had been carrying it on him and it had been recovered directly from there.

  What was Ramier up to in these parts? There was nothing in his file about him spending time at the Vincennes. There wasn’t a bar for at least two hundred metres in any direction. Why was he here? Capestan stepped away from the crime scene to take a broader look and assess any points of interest in the surrounding area. On the perpendicular street that ran out of the wood, there was a haberdashery, a gym and a hair salon, while the avenue had a bank, a mobile telephone shop and a pharmacy, all shut on a public holiday like today.

  *

  A long saloon pulled up on the avenue. Buron extracted himself with greater difficulty than in his younger years, but he smoothed down his coat and walked towards them slowly. A certain quiet fell over proceedings. He spent a while greeting the lead investigators working at the scene, taking on board the various points of view. Then he made his way over to Capestan, continuing to survey the premises with his basset hound’s eyes.

  “So, Capestan, has this made a mess of your inquiry too?”

  “I must admit, this body has turned all our leads into dead-ends.”

  “All your leads, Capestan? Really? You don’t have another little suspect lurking in your case notes?”

  Capestan’s question about Orsini clearly had not fallen on deaf ears. Buron must have demanded to see the files.

  Considering the discretion of the comment and its tone, which was more suggestive than assertive, he was clearly leaving his commissaire a bit of wriggle-room. She noted this and glanced over at Capitaine Orsini, who was taking himself away from the bustle and heading up the avenue too. He was looking for something. And he alone seemed to know what.

  33

  Back at the commissariat, Lebreton and Capestan chucked on their coats before heading out to the terrace. Louis-Baptiste brought out a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket and lit one. The red tip crackled as he took a drag – the only sign of warmth on this biting winter’s day.

  Without exchanging a word, the two officers were mulling over the same thing. Orsini, a member of their squad, still had not mentioned his significant connection to the Minerva Bank incident. This put Capestan and Lebreton in a delicate situation. Either they carried on ignoring the elephant in the station, or they turned him in to the rest of the squad, for examination at the very least.

  Capes
tan, slumped on the parapet with her hands clasped together, watched the occasional passer-by on the street below. The area was virtually a desert after the mayhem of Christmas Eve. The famine after the feast, with nothing in between. One minute people are buying everything, the next, nothing. Back to normality, just with empty bank accounts and exhausted bodies.

  Lebreton took another long puff and leaned back against the rear wall of the terrace. As with his posture, the commandant’s well-cut overcoat emphasised his natural elegance, his sober, reserved manner asserting a strong presence that was never overbearing.

  “He must know that we know. No two ways about it,” Lebreton said calmly.

  “Yes. The photocopies were incomplete, but he must suspect that at least I have seen the unabridged report.”

  “Yet he hasn’t come to discuss it with you.”

  Capestan stood up straight and slipped her numb hands into her coat pockets, where one of them found an old métro ticket. The commissaire instinctively scratched the corner of it against her thumbnail.

  “No, he hasn’t come.”

  “The least we should do is bring it up with the team. Ramier’s murder is a game-changer. Before, Orsini was just a victim. With the chance that he was manipulating us and withholding information . . .”

  “It was him that put us onto Jacques Maire.”

  Lebreton picked up the ashtray by his feet and stubbed out his cigarette in a slow, deliberate circular motion, before taking two steps forward to set it down on the table.

  “True. But surely he was using us for his personal ends. In any case, we can’t protect him if he has committed murder. We can’t carry on operating in the dark and bending the rules. Not when there’s been a murder.”

  Capestan had reduced the ticket to a tiny tube which she was now rolling between her fingers.

  “No. God, I just don’t know . . .”

  “How did he find out about L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue anyway?” the commandant asked, narrowing his bright eyes slightly.

  “The local daily, La Provence.”

  “But how did he know that Jacques Maire had changed his name and moved there? Or even that he had been involved in the hold-up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Capestan paused. Rosière was of course already in the know, but the idea of having to tell the others made her uncomfortable. But the time had come.

  “ . . . There’s something other than Orsini. According to Eva’s analysis of the manuscript, Rufus was technically an accomplice. He got his cut for hamstringing the police response.”

  “Although he did arrest Ramier,” Lebreton said sceptically.

  “Probably because he wasn’t expecting him to shoot. That turned their plan on its head – protecting him became too big a task. He must have ’cuffed Ramier and let the others make off with the moolah . . .”

  Heavy grey clouds were moving over the commanding Église Saint-Eustache. Still deep in thought, the commandant charted their progress without really seeing them.

  “In that version of events, I understand why Ramier was furious enough to beat him up on his release. But why didn’t he turn him in when he was arrested? I don’t buy that it’s anything to do with that old-school gangster stuff about not ratting.”

  “Me neither. It’s about the money. Ramier wanted it and he knew where to find it without the authorities getting their hands on it. It was his best shot at recovering it after prison, even if that meant serving a longer sentence. Either that or Rufus bargained with him in the heat of the action.”

  “It’s a major coincidence that Orsini was sent to the squad headed up by Rufus’s daughter-in-law.”

  Capestan pulled out her long hair caught inside her collar.

  “It’s not a coincidence – he requested the transfer. He came here for me. He must have been banking on finding some family secret. To see if corruption was passed on through marriage, perhaps.”

  “At any rate, he was keeping an eye on you, as with all the possible suspects . . . Tell me, was Jacques Melonne ever mentioned in the Lyon case notes as a possible fugitive?”

  “Yes, but only in passing. He didn’t match the description at all . . .”

  “Rufus’s description, which was unreliable. Same for the hostages – they were in shock.”

  “Fair point . . . Maybe Orsini tracked all the names, knowing that one of them would be the man.”

  “But why would he do that? What did he want? The shooter was in prison, after all. Justice had been done.”

  “We’d have to ask him.”

  “Yes. And he would have an answer for you,” came another voice.

  It was Orsini.

  *

  Capestan and Lebreton let the capitaine lead them into the games room, where the rest of the squad had gathered. Orsini sat at one end of the snooker table, leaving the long sweep of the baize between him and his colleagues. The gloomy day creeping through the windows kept the room in almost total darkness, so Rosière had switched all the side lamps on, as well as the one over the table, and the fairy lights at the bar. A warm atmosphere fell over the space, which was in stark contrast to the sudden chill that accompanied Orsini’s announcement. He cut short the condolences that followed the revelation of his wife and son’s murder, immediately switching the focus to the relevant aspects of the investigation, as if to remind them that their relationship was strictly professional.

  Capestan wondered if this was really a form of rejection, or whether it was to keep their consciences clear and avoid clouding their suspicions and decision-making.

  “I wanted to find out the brains behind the operation. Who had been the chief organiser.”

  “Could have been Ramier,” Rosière said.

  “In all honesty, capitaine, putting any preconceptions aside, do you associate the word ‘brains’ with Ramier?”

  “For a successful hold-up, I agree, probably not. But for a failed one . . .”

  “No, a policeman would never take orders from an idiot like that. The plan came from another corner. I wanted to know which one.”

  “What made you think Ramier would lead you there after his release?”

  “The fact he did not denounce his accomplices, for one. Then there were my contacts at the prison in Corbas. I knew Ramier had no money. His cut was out there somewhere. And he would definitely want to retrieve it.”

  A policeman would never take orders from an idiot like that. The sentence suddenly came bouncing back into Capestan’s mind, forcing her to interrupt the line of questioning:

  “Hold on, hold on, how did you know that the ‘policeman was taking orders’? After all, Rufus was never even suspected of being complicit at the time.”

  The commissaire turned to address the rest of the team, finally able to put the matter to rest.

  “It makes sense now. Lewitz, this explains why there was no driver: they hadn’t expected to need a quick getaway.”

  “It was only ever suspicion on my part,” Orsini said. “A pure hunch. I was completely astonished, downright disgusted, to be the only one presuming it. Consider the facts: no consistency in the witnesses’ descriptions of the perpetrators, let alone the sequence of events. He managed to arrest the most dangerous man, but let the other one get away? He arrived at the scene of an armed robbery with interns? He was the first there – by a distance – before the alarm had even been sounded, according to the staff? I found that stroke of luck dubious. And that’s before mentioning the man’s demeanour and the blind eyes of his colleagues, always quick to defend their own . . .”

  The officers all shook their heads with a sigh. That was going too far.

  “Oh no? You don’t think so? Even you, commissaire, you provided our colleagues with a dossier in which my name – there in black and white – no longer featured. Foul play runs in the family, clearly. Today I’m suspected of murder, but you’re still protecting me. Is that not so?”

  The looks boring into Capestan ranged from unalloyed disdain to complete sym
pathy. The commissaire gave them a fleeting show of apology. No point dwelling on this point for hours – she would have done the same for each and every one of them.

  “Protection is going too far,” Lebreton said, still grappling with the issue. He knew it was right, despite running contrary to his convictions. Before joining this godforsaken squad, the commandant would have blown the whistle the moment he came across Orsini’s name, no questions asked.

  “I know,” the capitaine said. “But all the same, let me reassure you that I did not kill Ramier.”

  With this statement, the waves parted in the room. Half of the officers believed it; the rest did not.

  Capestan was alone in the middle, sceptical twice over.

  34

  The mobile unit that Lieutenant Diament had been attached to was heading down boulevard Sébastopol, the north–south artery that separated the Marais from Les Halles, passing the imposing Théâtre de la Ville before reaching the smaller playhouses on the boulevards of the Left Bank. The broad pavements that threw together tourists and locals were lined with K.F.C.s, banks and furniture stores. The officers, bulked up even more thanks to their bulletproof vests, and their feet clad in thick-soled Ranger boots, were patrolling as night fell.

  Just before rue Rambuteau, the doorway to a branch of L.C.L. housed a mattress covered in a jumble of rugs and duvets, with a ragged plastic bag and a bashed-up shopping trolley serving as bedside tables. In it were sleeping a man, a woman and, between them, a little girl who must have been four, maybe five.

  Ignazio, the solid if slightly paunchy leader of their unit, let out a sigh.

  “Right, let’s go. Diament – your treat.”

  “What?” the lieutenant asked, knowing he had heard correctly, but refusing to believe it.

  Basile Diament looked at the family and wondered how they had managed to sleep while from all sides the cold, the light, the noise, the passers-by and the absence of walls assailed them. Habit and weariness, presumably. What level of exhaustion or indifference did you have to be overcome by, what with the endless line of people filing past your feet? How many woolly hats did a little girl need to drift off under a Parisian night sky? The warmth from her parents must have just been enough.