Unexpected lead in, Marouan thought. It instantly threw him off. He looked at Tomasoa, poker-faced.
‘Heard of it, detective?’
‘Carré? Of course,’ Marouan said offhandedly. ‘Used to be a circus with prancing horses.’ When he caught Tomasoa’s weary reaction he quickly added, ‘Pencak Silat is a martial art. Oriental, from South East Asia, I believe.’
‘More than a martial art,’ Tomasoa corrected him. ‘Pencak Silat is a way of life. Developed centuries ago by Sumatran monks. They studied the survival techniques of tigers, monkeys and even wasps. They mingled those techniques with the ancient spirituality of their people. So a martial art was born in which not only the body but also the spirit of the fighter are central.’
Tomasoa looked alternately at Calvino and Marouan, who both kept staring straight ahead. ‘And that brings me back to last night’s gala,’ he continued after sipping his tea. ‘The women’s exhibition fight.’ He stood up and paced back and forth with controlled steps, underpinning his storytelling with his huge hands, attached to a brawny Indonesian body.
‘On the one hand,’ announced Tomasoa, as if he was covering the fight from ringside, ‘an elegant woman, type crane. On the other, a heartless fighting machine, type vulture. The referee gives the signal. The vulture starts to spew hate, pounces on her opponent, straightaway goes for the jugular, drags her across the mat by her hair, claws deep into her skin. And the minute her opponent gets her in a leg grip, the vulture sinks her venomous teeth into her rival’s calf. Blind rage. And what’s the upshot?’
Marouan braced himself for the moral of the story, which Tomasoa was going to pull out of his hat any moment now.
‘A loser, gentlemen. Because our vulture is not a winner, not a master of her situation. She’s let her herself be enslaved by her passions. And that’s why she was taken down. You could say, heartlessly taken down.’ Tomasoa chuckled at the thought. ‘It’s the law of nature. Simple, effective and centuries old. Tenaga Dalam, inner strength. Followed by Kanuragan, magical self-protection.’
Okay, the hatchet man has massaged my neck, Marouan thought, and now he’s going to swing his axe?
‘What I expect of my investigators,’ Tomasoa continued, ‘is that they are masters of the situation, always and anywhere, and they don’t let their passions get the better of them.’ His eyes fixed on Marouan. ‘Is that unreasonable, Detective Diba?’
‘No, sir,’ Marouan said, as self-possessed as possible. The hairs on his neck were standing on end; his skin tingled from the chilly wind of the axe whooshing by.
‘Then I must have been hallucinating,’ Tomasoa said sarcastically. ‘Because wasn’t that you I saw on television? In the guise of a ravenous vulture, with your claws in a Dutch celeb?’
Calvino cleared his throat. The axe slowed …
‘In a way, it was my fault, sir.’
‘I’m referring to your partner’s charming television performance, detective. Not your hand in this.’
‘I know,’ Calvino brazenly continued, ‘but based on a conversation Detective Diba and I had with Mrs Faber, we quickly got the impression that she and her husband had tried to cover up last night’s hit-and-run. Once we had enough evidence it seemed only logical to us, and to the Public Prosecutor, that we should also question Mr Faber.’
‘It’s about your approach here,’ Tomasoa barked. The axe accelerated again. Marouan saw the Chief Inspector was having trouble controlling his growing irritation. What’s with Calvino and all the interruptions? Marouan thought, almost cringing with astonishment at so much unexpected loyalty.
‘Get this,’ Tomasoa said, raising his voice. ‘You can go to a football game and enjoy the match along with the other supporters. But it’s something else to run out on the field, moon the public from the centre circle, and then belt out the team song. Bit of a crooked metaphor, made up on the spot, but hopefully you get my gist.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ Marouan hesitantly said, ‘I take full responsibility for this, uh, shitty situation.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Diba, I’m going to hold you responsible,’ Tomasoa said. ‘But not before we clear up a few matters. Number one: what do we really know about the hit-and-run victim?’
Calvino continued to jump in and Marouan understood why. He’d already stuck his hand in the fire for him. That damn Italian would make him cry if he kept this up.
‘Sir, we believe there were several cars involved,’ Calvino said. ‘One of them, we’ve concluded, belongs to Mrs Faber. But she didn’t run down the boy. And the only thing we know for sure about the other vehicle is that it was blinding. In this case, a literal description, given it sped past Angela Faber from the opposite direction with its glaring full beams on.’
‘Right,’ said Tomasoa. ‘Typical needle in a haystack. Next matter. What’s the story with the burnt-out station wagon?’
‘Working on it,’ Calvino said. ‘Determining the license registration is extremely difficult and the identification of the two bodies is practically impossible. The fire did a number on the car.’
‘So not much chance of a quick breakthrough. Matter three: the relation between the two? Yin and yang. Boy and station wagon. Is there a connection?’
‘No,’ said Marouan, too definitively.
‘Haven’t established one yet,’ Calvino corrected him.
‘Right,’ said Tomasoa again. ‘But can I infer from what you’re telling me that a relation between the station wagon and the hit-and-run hasn’t been ruled out? And if there is a connection, then the focus of our investigation is lying in intensive care. When can the boy be questioned?’
‘They expect in about a week. Assuming he makes it,’ Marouan answered.
‘Then the moment has come when you’re going to have to step up, Detective Diba. I’m counting on you and your overly devoted sidekick to resolve this matter as quickly, and as efficiently, as possible. Because I can hold press conferences until I’m blue in the face, I can do damage control to quiet the sneering reviews of your nationwide television debut, and to limit the conceivable annoyance and even anger your colleagues are rightfully feeling, but at the end of the day, you’re the only one who can set this right. Namely by escorting the actual perpetrator into this station. And as far as I’m concerned, the sooner the better.’
In a flash Marouan realized the hatchet man had changed his tactic. He wasn’t going to swing the axe himself, he was handing the axe to Marouan’s wife who’d react hysterically when he told her that their holiday this year would have to be postponed until further notice.
As if Tomasoa could read Marouan’s mind, he asked, ‘Naturally, I’m very curious about how far your sense of responsibility goes, Detective Diba? I ask, of course, in light of your approaching yearly return to your beloved homeland.’
‘My sense of responsibility goes so far that I will completely throw myself into this case in the coming weeks, sir.’ Marouan had the feeling he’d taken a free-fall nosedive out of an airplane, without strapping on a parachute.
‘Then it’s settled, gentlemen,’ Tomasoa lightheartedly said. ‘Anything else I need to know? Particular aspects of the case that could possibly complicate the rest?’
Marouan saw Calvino biting his lip. Damn it, that poor excuse for an Italian knows more than he’s saying.
‘Nothing we can’t handle, sir,’ Calvino replied.
And before they knew it, they were back in the corridor.
‘Merci,’ Marouan blurted out matter-of-factly. ‘But it wasn’t necessary.’
‘What?’
‘Jumping in to help me.’
‘That’s what partners do,’ Calvino replied.
‘But there’s something you’re not telling me?’ Marouan said.
‘We’re off to visit the crane woman who took down her rival – heartlessly, as we were informed.’
‘Spare me the jokes. What’s going on?’
‘I’m serious. We’ve got an appointment. To pick up an earring from
her, covered in blood.’
‘Blood? Whose?’
‘The hit-and-run victim’s, who else?’
25
The man who’d taken the seat opposite Farah was the same man she’d seen last night beside the burning station wagon, having a go at everything that moved. It was the same man who’d tried to impress her with his boorish behaviour in the hospital this morning. The same man she’d seen on YouTube this afternoon, interrupting a live taping by slapping handcuffs on a television presenter as though he were a serious criminal.
The same man, yet somehow different.
It looked like Detective Diba had fallen to pieces somewhere along the line, had been hurriedly pasted back together and was now trying to pretend nothing had happened. She studied him closely, looking for the cracks. She found them in his eyes. While his body language sought to exude control, those eyes were quietly screaming ‘mercy’.
‘I understand you’ve got something for us,’ Detective Diba said.
His voice also sounded different to Farah. Almost mechanical. As if he was being remotely controlled.
She couldn’t stand sitting opposite this man.
Edward, on the other hand, seemed to feel perfectly at ease in this company. A bit too much, in fact. The man who was supposed to determine the strategy, the man who refused to be impressed by anyone, this very man now appeared to have fallen like a brick for Calvino.
Farah found it quite endearing to see Ed so wholly overwhelmed by the young detective’s virility. The way they’d stood there beside the glass wall, shooting the breeze with those self-assured smiles some men have. As if they’d been friends for years. Farah was familiar with it. It was something she noticed a lot in the men at the gym, in between their weight training sets. Laid-back, easy-going encounters, but extremely masculine. Pats on the back, smiles. Idle chit-chat. Circumscribed cruising. Farah wondered if the attraction between Edward and Joshua was mutual.
Five minutes had passed. The discussion got underway.
‘Perhaps this is only a misunderstanding, Detective Diba.’ Edward made the opening move from behind his desk.
Diba turned towards her boss, seemingly exasperated, while Calvino kept gazing stoically over the IJ through his Gucci shades.
‘I assume nobody’s on trial here,’ Edward remarked.
‘Am I insinuating otherwise?’ Diba asked politely.
‘C’est le ton qui fait la musique,’ Ed chuckled.
‘I’m not here to make music or friends,’ Diba replied. ‘I’m here to retrieve a piece of evidence.’
‘You see, that’s exactly how misunderstandings come about,’ Edward said cheerfully. ‘You want to retrieve something. But was it ever yours to begin with?’
‘I’m not here to play word games, Mr Vallent. You have something that belongs to the police and it’s a vital part of our investigation.’
‘In the meantime it’s also become part of a story that one of my investigative journalists is following up.’
‘Obtained by traipsing around the scene of a crime before Forensics got to it. If it turns out that this has undermined the ongoing investigation in any way, then …’
But Diba didn’t get to finish his sentence. Calvino, who appeared to have had his fill of the view and regained his power of speech, jumped in.
‘We really appreciate that you’re prepared to hand us the missing piece of evidence, and that you’ve specified exactly where you found it.’
Farah threw him an amused look.
‘And we hope, Ms Hafez,’ added Diba, as if he’d rehearsed this two-hander with Calvino, ‘that from now on you’ll leave your police ambitions to us and stop getting in the way with those lovely legs of yours.’
Calvino froze.
‘Misunderstanding number two,’ Edward cut in, ‘has nothing whatsoever to do with Hafez’s legs, but more with the fact that we have a mutual interest here. Why should we get in each other’s way? Hafez used her expertise to locate something that’s of value to your investigation. Since she’s prepared to share this information with you, I think it’s only reasonable that you provide something in return.’
‘Pardon?’ Marouan looked as if he’d just had abuse hurled at him.
‘We all have our interests,’ Edward clarified. ‘The question is whether we can bring those interests in line with each other?’
‘So what you’re saying,’ Calvino summed up, ‘is there’s no such thing as a free lunch.’
‘A simple way of putting it, but yes.’
‘We get a dangly earring from you,’ Calvino summed up. ‘What do you get from us?’
‘To begin with, infinitely more credit than your colleague is giving us right now,’ Edward replied, smiling his most charming smile.
‘Speaking for myself, I have no trouble at all giving credit where credit is due,’ Calvino said while peering at Farah over his shades. His gaze instantly revealed that he was as gay as the pope is Protestant. ‘But as a detective, I have some serious reservations. We don’t collaborate with the press during ongoing investigations: matter of principle. Surely someone with your degree of experience is aware of that, Mr Vallent?’
Edward’s smile was now forced. He shifted in his seat, as though a thumb tack was sticking him in the butt. Farah, too, had picked up on Calvino’s sarcasm. As far as she was concerned the conversation was going in the wrong direction.
‘Based on that experience,’ Edward reacted guardedly, ‘I know that principles, however firm they may be at first, can shift as soon as other interests come into play.’
‘The interests are clear, Mr Vallent,’ Diba said with the exaggerated conviction of a politician in the run-up to an election. ‘And we’re not reneging on our principles.’
Farah regarded him with contempt. She had a sneaking suspicion that he might be heading for a heart attack if he carried on like this. But Diba clearly couldn’t care less about her suspicions.
‘I understand damn well that as a journalist you want to cover the boy’s case,’ he continued angrily. ‘But do you have any idea what you might be stirring up? Are you prepared to accept responsibility for the boy’s safety once the story is splashed across the front page of your newspaper, purely for your own journalistic gain?’
‘Your contemptible clichés are as offensive as the way you keep staring at my breasts,’ Farah said coolly. ‘Not to mention your rude remark about my legs.’ From the corner of her eye she spotted an incipient smile on Calvino’s face. ‘What I’m trying to bring to light,’ she resumed, ‘is who can be held accountable for the state in which the boy was found and who’s guilty of trafficking children like him. It’s absurd to think that you and I have completely different interests in all this.’ No mercy for a man intent on elevating insensitivity to an art form, whatever his position in the police force.
‘Besides, what right do you have to judge others after making such a spectacle of yourself in the IRIS TV studio this afternoon? Who do you think you are? Rambo?’ A good note to end on, she reckoned.
The blood drained from Detective Diba’s face and he turned ashen. Joshua Calvino went and stood behind his colleague’s chair, as if to give Diba literal backing. Or perhaps to stop him from having a go at her in his next angry outburst.
‘As you rightly said earlier, Mr Vallent,’ Calvino spoke soothingly, ‘nobody’s on trial here. Why don’t you give us the earring and we’ll call it a day?’
‘Do you think it’s possible that the boy was being used as a sex slave over here, Mr Calvino?’ Edward asked calmly.
‘That’s an interesting hypothesis, Mr Vallent. What makes you think that?’
‘The way the boy was dressed and made up.’
‘The boy was indeed dressed unconventionally. But if clothes and jewellery were sufficient proof for whoring, our prisons would soon be overflowing, don’t you think?’
‘What are you trying to say?’ Farah asked.
Calvino pushed his shades up on his head and turned to her wi
th a smile.
‘What I’m saying, Ms Hafez, is don’t judge a book by its cover.’
‘Gentlemen.’ Having risen to his feet, Edward was now dangling a sealed plastic bag containing the earring in front of Calvino’s face, like the pendulum of an old-fashioned hypnotist. ‘It’s been a real pleasure. I see we’re not getting anywhere, and that we can forget about potentially collaborating on this matter.’
‘This is the first and probably the only time I agree with you.’ Detective Diba’s voice sounded strangled, like solidifying lava. He stiffly rose from the leather chair.
‘I do hope you understand that the whole affair involving the boy continues to be newsworthy for us. So whether you like it or not, we’re planning to really sink our teeth into this case.’ Edward held out his hand to Diba.
‘We’ve got press freedom in this country,’ Diba replied, placing a limp hand in Edward’s.
‘Thank goodness,’ Edward responded, ‘because if it were up to you, I’d probably be out of a job.’
26
Edward lay the blame for the difficulty of the negotiations squarely on the visiting party.
‘We were dealing with a common street fighter and a professional slimeball, damn it. We didn’t stand a chance. You’re up against it, Hafez. Really up against it. Have you made up your mind about Paul, by the way?’
‘No,’ she muttered.
‘Is there something you want to tell me? Come on, Hafez! Out with it!’ Edward was playing Freud, or Jung, or both.
‘Stop it, Ed! I saw two charred corpses last night, escorted a seriously injured boy from the Emergency Department to the operating table and on top of it all I barely slept. What do you want from me?’
‘I want you to go home.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m planning to do. Bye, Ed, speak to you later.’
As she walked down the corridor, she received a phone call from Danielle.
‘Sorry to bother you, but could you make your way over here? To the hospital, I mean.’
Butterfly on the Storm Page 10