Diament’s former colleagues had clocked him at passport control. They came up to him and pointed at Capestan: “Your boss in the running for wife of the month, is she? Nothing says ‘I love you’ like prison. Poor guy should’ve broken it off for good, because he sure isn’t gonna break out . . .” No-one heard Diament’s response, but it certainly shut them up.
That put the topic that none of them had dared broach back on the table. Capestan wondered if she was going to have to reel out a load of explanations or excuses there and then in the comfort of the seating area in Terminal 2E.
Back in the Commissariat des Innocents, the squad had surveyed Paul’s arrival with a thinly veiled incredulity, with the exception of Orsini, who greeted him with a long handshake. Having asked Rosière and Lebreton to place him in custody, the commissaire assembled the team to summarise the arrest, the facts and everything else pertaining to the case. The officers went the extra distance to act naturally. Afterwards, Rosière and Lebreton escorted the suspect to Buron at number 36, quai des Orfèvres, who referred him to the public prosecutor. For the moment, everything seemed to be going O.K. and Anne felt able to breathe again.
The squad finally reached the floor-to-ceiling windows of the departure lounge. Lewitz, still with his crutch, and Dax hurried off to bag two free rows facing each other, like teenagers at the cinema. Once they had all found a spot and stacked the luggage, backpacks and bags of duty-free in the middle, Dax stood up to offer the commissaire the seat of honour.
Rosière, who could not stop stroking her handbag in the absence of her dog, what with Pilote not being eligible for travel to the U.S.A., leaned in to Capestan and stuck her high heels in it with characteristic matter-of-factness:
“Don’t chew it over too hard, darling, seriously. Paul’s self-defence line is a no-brainer. With that slime-ball silk handling his case, I can see it being thrown out, maybe with a cheeky suspended sentence.”
“A celeb. in the dock? The media will tear him to pieces,” Évrard said, struggling to adopt the same diplomatic tone.
“Nonsense,” Rosière said before the lieutenant could go any further. “Quite the opposite – it’ll make for a mega-comeback! Plus, as a bonus, that gorgeous face of his will land him every new cop and crook role going. He’ll bring in so much cash at the box office the finance jocks won’t know what to do with themselves. Especially with his comedy background, he’s going to clean up.”
“But I’m also worried about the squad’s reputation,” Capestan said, “that I’ve dragged you in– ”
“Ohhh, water off a duck’s back, isn’t that right, guys?” Rosière said, like a conductor fronting a gospel choir.
The rest of the team nodded wholeheartedly. All of them knew a thing or two about sticks and stones, and they weren’t about to let this latest episode hurt them. At any rate, people had stopped speaking to them a long while ago.
“And anyway, what reputation?” Rosière said, poking her commissaire in the ribs. “It’s already at rock bottom! Our findings on Serge Rufus mean we’ve sullied the name of another one of our own; our commissaire arrested her own husband, who – word in the ear – probably benefited from her information – ”
“No!” Capestan said, suddenly riled.
“That’ll be in the version doing the rounds, I assure you. Where was I? Yes, a husband who – in the end – will get off the hook thanks to a slippery lawyer and V.I.P. media coverage. Frankly, we’ve gone beyond reputation into the realm of legend! No-one’s going to hold anything against us ever again!”
“Could passengers on flight AF1810 to Los Angeles please make their way to gate E31, where your flight is now ready for boarding.”
The officers stood up as one squad before the cases resumed their transit.
“Gee-whizz – thirteen hours to L.A. then another eight to Honolulu . . . That’s quite a journey,” Évrard said.
“Yeah, but in . . . business!” Rosière said, smiling as she revealed the surprise.
“Oh, fantastic! Are you kidding? I really hope I get to see the cockpit . . .” Lewitz said, overcome with excitement.
“And what about Torrez?” Dax asked.
Rosière handed over her passport and boarding pass, before answering this perfectly legitimate question.
“He took a separate flight with his family. Something about not wanting to crash.”
Epilogue
With the humidity nudging 70 per cent, the air seemed like you could suck it up through a straw. Completely frazzled by the journey, the time difference and the climate, most of the French officers had spent the first two days wringing out their shirts. Then they had ransacked the shops. Today, their noses already peeling, they were all sporting baggy Hawaiian shirts adorned with huge flowers and small palm trees.
At the side of the open-air ring, drunk on Mai-Tai, they held their arms aloft and stamped their feet as they urged on their champ. with a range of hollers and basic rallying cries. This was the decisive round. The speakers were blaring out fit to explode. Fabulous women dressed to the nines in traditional grass skirts, garlands and floral headdresses paraded around the ring holding up placards showing the scores, along with Philips advertising boards. The grand finale of the 2012 ‘Golden Iron’ was underway.
Torrez’s children were displaying the same level of restraint as the squad, in other words none whatsoever. But things were not looking good for their father. He was up against a Canadian woman who had been victorious the two previous years. Standing at one metre eighty, she appeared ready to steamroller her board every time she picked up her iron. She made Bruce Lee’s brick-chopping antics look like the unhurried work of a local stonecutter. The opening theme resounded around the full house. Torrez’s youngest was quaking with anticipation. The girls were tugging nervously at their plaits, staring at the ring without blinking. The two older boys were elbowing one another, the wait killing them, while their mother, a brown-haired Spanish woman with a classical profile, chewed the inside of her cheek as she kept watch over the flock. The round was about to start.
*
Torrez closed his eyes for a second before the whistle. He would never have a better chance. This was the final of a competition, which meant not just shirts, so he would have to step it up a gear. But Torrez was ready. He had spent years training for this.
The Canadian started a second early. Deliberate false start. No matter, the lieutenant carried on regardless, picking up shirt after shirt. He lost time on one sleeve, but he did his best to stick to his rhythm. His face covered in sweat and his T-shirt sodden, concentrating harder than a Michelin-starred chef at the stove, Torrez tweaked the collars without letting up for a second. His challenger watched him from the corner of her eye – she had practically emptied her first basket before Torrez had reached halfway. A thin smile flashed across her tense face.
“She’s screwed up all her buttonholes, the judges won’t miss that,” Rosière shouted, focusing hard on the action.
“Keep going, my boy!” Merlot bellowed with pride.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Hoo hoo hoo! Yes! Yes! Yes!” came Dax’s contribution.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Hoo hoo hoo! Yes! Yes! Yes!” Lewitz echoed.
Capestan, Lebreton and Évrard clapped as loudly as they could to encourage their lagging lieutenant. Even Orsini let out a sudden and speedy “Come on!” before sitting straight back down. A thick gloom had enveloped the capitaine since the case had been solved. He had searched so hard, waited so long, and when it came to it, he had acted so little. The truth might have answered all his questions, but it had also placed him in perpetual mourning, with nothing left to undo his grief.
*
Torrez was finally onto his second basket. Everyone in the audience could tell he now had his pedal to the metal. The neat clothing was piling up on his table at a breathless rate as he expertly lifted sleeves, turned shirt fronts and directed the point of his iron with pinpoint accuracy. His hair was all over the place amid the furore, the unruly st
rands flapping at the air. With a quick-fire motion of the forearm, the lieutenant chased away the odd bead of sweat running down his brow, at risk of scalding himself with the steam.
The referee blew the whistle to draw the final to a close.
José Torrez had caught up and, by the end, the two adversaries’ baskets had been emptied in the same second.
“Stats! Stats!” the crowd bayed.
The referee took hold of his microphone and tablet.
“Our two challengers have ironed exactly the same number of clothes, so it’ll come down to the number of creases! We’ll be back with you in a couple of minutes.”
The technical experts entered the ring to turn their judicious eyes to the respective stacks of laundry.
The audience hummed with all kinds of speculation as they chewed their nails to the quick. Finally, the judges left the ring and the oily referee grabbed his microphone again with all the relish of the King storming Vegas.
“And so for the eagerly awaited results! For shirt creases: the Frenchman José Torrez has come in at 51 per cent, while Canadian Martha Kitimat has just 31 per cent!”
“Ooooooooh!” came the reaction from the French camp as the Canadians erupted with delight.
“It’s not over yet, it’s not over yet,” the referee said, clawing back the crowd’s attention. “For children’s clothes creases: Canada, 68 per cent! France, zero per cent! That’s right, zero! An incredible feat, ladies and gentlemen. A new record and a perfect finish, which – let’s not forget – could only have been achieved with the new range of Philips Pro vapour units, available for purchase in hypermarkets and specialist stores near you. Come and behold the precision!”
The dozens of miniatures folds in the smocks were perfectly in line, the ribbons finely knotted, and not even the tiniest bulge betrayed the poppers on the cotton sleepsuits. The referee was exhibiting them like bona fide works of art, entrusting them to his young assistants who marched them around the ring for the benefit of the awestruck onlookers.
“Without any further ado, we are delighted to crown José Torrez of France our 2012 Philips ‘Golden Iron’ champion! Let’s show him our appreciation, ladies and gentlemen!”
The lieutenant was beaming from ear to ear. His children were elated, jumping about in every direction, one on top of the other, handing out high-fives and howling with joy – their father was a world champion!
The racket from the French contingent of the arena doubled, then tripled. Between his family, colleagues and the tourists who happened to be in town, the decibel-count was off the chart. A stunned Capestan was watching her partner, who was almost unrecognisable with his delighted face and puffed-out chest. She was genuinely happy for him, not to mention grateful to Rosière, their queen bee, whose generosity had allowing the team to attend this offbeat occasion.
That said, the commissaire was struggling to enjoy the moment in all its glory. She was not sure whether it was the journey or, more likely, the tricky circumstances that awaited her back in Paris, but she felt off-colour. What was more, her nausea was off the scale.
Author’s Note
The final of the 2008 Philips Fer d’Or (‘Golden Iron’) did take place in Hawaii. For the purposes of the story, the rules and the feel of the competition have been modified. Nevertheless, it was won by a Frenchman – Christophe Hars – now the owner of an excellent restaurant in Issy-les-Moulineaux.
*
There was indeed a video showing the Varappe Division in action at the fair celebrating the one hundredth anniversary of the formation of the Police Judiciaire. Other P.J. brigades were also part of the exhibition, and the photograph mentioned in Chapter 31 did feature too. The author, however, has no idea which group or person the desk in question belonged to. Attributing it to a B.R.I. commandant is pure fiction.
*
Rats and pigs really are used by the police. Not in France, but in the United States, Israel and Holland.
Acknowledgements
If Marie Curie herself had come back to life and hung out with me for the last year, she’d have thought her Nobel Prize seemed a bit “meh”. So, with all my heart, I want to offer my
eternal gratitude and unflinching affection
to Francis Esménard, who turned my little squad from a village team into World Cup winners.
The mighty folk at my publisher Albin Michel, who trained them up, developed their potential and ran them their post-match ice-bath.
Booksellers, booksellers, booksellers! With a particular pip-pip to Fabien at Chantelivre, Christophe at Millepages and Pierre at Fables d’Olonne.
Readers, readers, readers, bloggers, Babeliophiles: the best team-players I could have hoped for. Seriously.
Everyone at the Quais du Polar festival, Hélène Fischbach and the judges of the Polar en séries prize. The Squad could not have asked for a better start.
The judges and organisers of the Arsène Lupin prize – dressing up the Squad in the cape and top hat of one of their heroes has been a source of great joy and pride.
All the fairs, their organisers and their volunteers, for giving me the energy to write another thirty books. A special kiss to Lamballe, which was cancelled at the last-minute on November 14, 2015, in the saddest of circumstances.
Journalists and critics, whose articles I read with bated breath, then framed, displayed, scanned, folded into my purse and/or sent to half the planet.
My bosses and colleagues at Cosmo, who without fail have encouraged me, forgiven my absences, had the decency to let me win at pétanque and let me know when there’s something good at the cafeteria.
All those I thanked at the end of the first novel – consider this round two, especially you, Patrick Raynal the Great.
All my friends and close/distant/mid-range relations who all raved about the book, hawking it to anyone and everyone with highly biased reviews.
And then – last but not at all least – a big kiss to those checkers who have been there from the start, my very own sounding boards, whose every remark or scribble has brought joy and a flurry of corrections: Anne-Isabelle Masfaraud (official guarantor of plot cohesion and character-tracker par excellence), Dominique, Patrick and Pierre Hénaff (i/c good endings, law, football and animals), Chantal Patarin, Brigitte Petit, Michelle Hénaff, Chloé Szulzinger and finally, one last thank you to Marie-Thérèse Leclair, Isabelle Alvès and Marie La Fonta, whose escapades I have shamelessly pinched and remodelled to my heart’s content. I’m not sorry, but I am extremely grateful, if that makes up for it.
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