By the time Didier reached the second Range Rover, Jarrive and Delon had started lowering the ramp with Patric Polineaux on it, wrapped up and strapped into his wheelchair.
‘Is he here?’ asked Polineaux, looking around suspiciously.
‘There’s a couple of his boys by the entrance,’ replied Didier, nodding towards Beni and Jo-Jo, ‘so I’d say yes.’
‘Those two? In the leathers?’ asked the old man, as Delon steered his wheelchair off the ramp.
Didier nodded. ‘And there’s a couple more over by the beach path.’
Polineaux glanced across the parking lot and grunted.
‘Duclos’ boys never had any style. For a pédé, you’d have thought he’d make more of an effort.’
If the short trip from the parking lot to La Barque was managed with the minimum of difficulty, it all changed once they were through the main restaurant and shown out on to the terrace. Duclos had made no arrangements for Polineaux’s wheelchair and the old man was forced to wait while the five other chairs at the table were drawn aside and stacked and removed to make room for him. By the time Polineaux was wheeled into place, Duclos had turned away from the beach view and settled a cunning eye on his old adversary.
‘Mon cher ami! How good to see you again. How long has it been?’
Both men knew that ‘dear friend’ was stretching the limits of their relationship, and that Duclos was grossly exaggerating his pleasure in sharing a table with Polineaux. But Polineaux let it slide, raising an eyebrow and giving the question due thought.
‘Marseilles, a few months back. Arsène Cabrille’s funeral.’ He turned to Didier. ‘That’s fine, you can leave us now.’
‘Of course. Of course it was. Though I don’t know why we bothered. Such a nasty piece of work,’ said Duclos, watching Didier join Jarrive and Delon at a table at the far end of the terrace. Not a bad looking fellow, he thought to himself. A little weighty maybe, but lovely features.
‘He had his good points,’ said Polineaux.
‘Name them.’
Polineaux spread his hands, smiled.
‘Exactly. So, my old friend, let’s not spoil our lunch any further by wasting time on the good Lord’s little mistakes.’
Duclos looked over Polineaux’s shoulder, lifted a finger, and Numar and his boys sprang into action. A bottle of Krug was popped, poured and laid in a bucket of ice, and a lobster salad presented, a pair of tails sliced paper-thin, and set in a fan on a nest of watercress.
‘I don’t eat fish,’ said Polineaux, with a dismissive sniff at the lobster tails, knowing that Duclos owned the restaurant but pretending he didn’t. ‘An omelette will do me well enough. If they can manage it in a place like this.’
Duclos managed a smile. ‘But of course …’
And so their lunch began, Polineaux playing with his omelette nature and salade Niçoise, Duclos tucking into his lobster and sea bass, their conversation limited to small talk, gossip and the old days. It was only after the cherry ice cream, when coffee and a very fine cognac made their appearance, that Duclos got down to business.
‘It appears, cher Patric, that there is something else we have in common, apart from old friends and the pleasure of each other’s company.’
Polineaux gave him a questioning look. He had had a fair idea what was on Duclos’ mind when they’d spoken on the phone and arranged this meeting, but he’d decided to leave it to his lunch companion to make the running.
‘And what might that be?’ he asked.
‘A mutual interest,’ Duclos continued, certain that Polineaux would know what he was talking about. Why else would he have agreed to their lunch? ‘And a small bone to pick,’ he added.
‘A bone?’
‘Toulon, my patch. Nice, yours,’ explained Duclos, probing gently.
‘You’ve lost me already, mon vieux.’
‘A certain action that I should have been involved with, Toulon being my neck of the woods and not yours.’
Polineaux frowned. ‘And what action might that have been?’ he asked, reaching for his cognac. A Courvoisier Essence, the tear-shaped Baccarat flask left promisingly on the table. And Delon at the other end of the terrace. Out of mischief, he asked, ‘You don’t suppose this place has cigars, do you?’
Duclos, his patience starting to fray, beckoned Numar over and asked for the humidor.
‘Don’t bother with the box, sonny,’ said Polineaux. ‘A Cohiba Robusto, if you have such a thing.’
‘As I was saying,’ Duclos began again. ‘Twenty or more years ago now, a certain action on my patch …’
‘An action, you say?’ Polineaux’s eyes narrowed.
‘An action, yes. A job. Well, it now appears that one of my operatives was involved in this action … one he subsequently assured me that you had organised.’
‘Astonishing,’ said Polineaux, determined to give nothing away. He knew, of course, which operative Duclos was referring to, and was anxious to learn just how much information his lunch companion had managed to squeeze out of the man before consigning him to that crab cage in Saint-Cyprien. The newspaper reports that he had read had failed to provide these details.
‘Astonishing indeed,’ said Duclos. ‘I could hardly credit such a thing.’
At that moment Numar returned with the Cohiba. He offered it to Polineaux who pulled out his cutter and snipped off the end. A match was lit and applied to the cigar.
‘And what exactly was this “action” I’m supposed to have organised?’ asked Polineaux, drawing happily on his cigar. ‘And on your patch, to boot.’
‘A ton of gold,’ said Duclos, leaning forward. ‘The missing gold from the Gineste heist. I have reason to believe it is still out there, somewhere. And together, Patric, if we pool our resources as we should have done back then, we might still be able to locate it … or what is left of it.’
Polineaux started nodding, as though his memory had been stirred.
‘Mais oui, I remember that action,’ he said, finishing his cognac and nodding at the flask.
Duclos obliged.
‘It was an extraordinary affair,’ Polineaux continued, watching the liquor swirl into his glass. ‘Beautifully planned, perfectly executed. But nothing to do with me, I assure you. Alors, I always thought that Ballantine or Rachette were behind it. Perhaps you would be better served talking to them. Though, of course, if I can be of any assistance, I’d be only too happy to …’
Duclos pursed his lips. ‘Patric, Patric. Please … It is of no concern to me now who was or was not involved. All I am saying is that my information is solid, and that after considerable efforts my associates are already closing in on a certain individual who may hold the key to the whereabouts of the gold.’
‘Alors, so you are there already. In which case, what possible help could I provide?’
‘As I said, if we were to pool resources …’ Duclos took a deep breath, sighed, unable to decide whether Polineaux was playing him or really didn’t know anything. And Garnolle had been so certain, so convincing. ‘I believe that you may know something of the individual in question,’ he continued. ‘That you may be able to help us find him. In which case, of course …’
‘And this individual is who, exactly?’
‘His name is Emanetti. Niko Emanetti. We traced him to Madrague, but according to a neighbour he moved to Aubagne a few months back.’ Duclos paused, reached for his glass, tipped back the cognac. What he was about to say next needed all his nerve. ‘I understand from my sources that this Niko might have … might have been … acquainted with Edina. That the two of them …’
The mention of Edina’s name had an immediate effect.
‘Emanetti? Emanetti? I know of no man called Emanetti,’ declared Polineaux, throwing down his napkin and flicking his fingers over his shoulder. At the end of the terrace Didier, Jarrive and Delon leaped to their feet. ‘And your … your … snide little insinuation that my Eddie might in some way be involved,’ he continued, his face starting
to redden and bulge, ‘does you very little credit, René.’ He took a final pull on his Cohiba and dropped it into the cognac. ‘So. There we are. C’est fini. And my thanks for the omelette.’
Ten minutes later, as the Range Rovers sped away from La Barque, old man Polineaux turned to Didier and smiled.
‘I was right. It’s that con, Emanetti. Have Léo and the boys check it out, and let’s keep an eye on Duclos.’
And if we’re lucky, thought Polineaux, we might just find Eddie too.
77
BY THE TIME Jacquot stepped aboard Constance that evening, he had a pretty shrewd idea what had happened. Where old Philo had found his fortune, what it was, and how he’d come by it. Piecing it all together over a late lunch at Bistro Pierre, and on the drive back from Nice, settled behind the wheel, the slipstream rush of warm air through his window, going over what he knew, what he’d learned.
It was one of the reasons Jacquot loved cars, loved driving. Night time was best, of course: the isolation, the darkness, chasing his headlights’ beam, following something through in his head. But evening was just as good, even if it meant driving into the sun, visor down. It was still speculation, he would have been the first to admit, but it was getting good enough for Jacquot. Suddenly there was a trail ahead of him, and he was following it.
It all started with that name Polineaux.
Monsieur Patric Polineaux.
Jacquot didn’t need to live in Nice, as old Monsieur Dorade had suggested, to know that name. ‘Old Legless’, they called him at police headquarters on rue de l’Évêché, suspected of involvement in dozens of major crimes going back forty years or more, but never once brought to book. Not a minute spent in police custody. Always alibi-ed up, and protected by an army of lawyers. And even without legs he was still a deadly bastard.
Dorade was right. Polineaux wasn’t the kind of man to forgive or forget. If his wife did a runner, he’d have been after her. No one crossed Polineaux and lived to tell the tale.
Which was why she and Niko had come to Marseilles, battened down, kept a low profile.
Had she had plastic surgery? he wondered. There’d certainly have been enough money, but he didn’t think so. There were so many other ways a woman could change her appearance without resorting to a surgeon’s knife.
As for Niko, hanging on to the apartment in Madrague had to be a given – no obvious disappearance to draw attention to himself; staying a few nights now and then, to maintain a presence, a cover; meeting up with Salette and the Brotherhood; taking the odd job. Living two lives, because he had to, but never saying a word.
About Edina.
About the gold.
The gold … Twenty-seven years ago. It all fitted. They had to be mixed up with the gold. The Col de la Gineste heist. Three security trucks hijacked, two recovered with crew and gold on board, the third missing until Barsin called it in. Just the truck and the empty pallet and a body. Down on the Madrague quay.
Lombard territory. Like anywhere along the Marseilles coastline.
And now Lombard was dead, after possibly stirring up old memories.
And his lawyer, too, for helping him do it.
And Suchet, who hadn’t always been a chief executive.
And this Jean Garnolle, a gangland money man. His wife, too, Isabelle had said.
And Ranque, for whatever reason.
And the prison killer, Castel.
And how many others? Jacquot wondered.
More bodies still to find probably, like the ones pulled from that sinkhole in the Esterel Hills.
It was all starting to fit together. Just a few important pieces left to find to finish the jigsaw.
Like where was the gold?
Where had Niko and Eddie hidden it?
And was there any left?
They surely couldn’t have got through it all. A ton of gold? Say … what? … twelve million francs. A lot of money back then. A lot of money still. Even with the house and the books and the travel they’d have been hard pressed to work their way through a fortune like that.
Jacquot remembered the drama down on rue de l’Évêché the day after the Gineste heist. The whole place in uproar. Everyone hauled in from other duties to track down that missing gold, and find out who was behind it all. The crews they’d pulled in from the two trucks weren’t saying a word, so it had to be someone big.
Someone dangerous.
Someone the crew members feared more than the cops.
Someone like Polineaux.
They’d never been able to prove a thing, of course, but the Judiciaire had always been convinced that ‘Old Legless’ was behind it. Maybe some of the other families, too: Ballantine and old Bouri had been mentioned; Duclos in Toulon, his patch, where the gold had come ashore. But there’d been nothing to stick on the man, or on any of the others.
Jacquot remembered, too, how Barsin had got himself in charge of the investigating squad, sniffing out all the leads himself, making everyone else work back-up. Knowing Barsin like he did, Jacquot wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that his boss had been playing off-side, had his finger in the pie. Which, come to think of it, was maybe how he’d come to collect those four 9mm bullets in that underground car park.
As for Niko, well, Edina was surely the key here. She was certain to have known what was going on, sure to have overheard Polineaux planning things, or learned of it through her ‘brother’. And with Niko, she’d hatched a plan, not just to get away from her husband, but to take enough money with her to disappear for good, for the two of them to be safe for ever. Somehow she and Niko – and that ‘brother’ of hers, maybe – had got their hands on that missing truck, and the gold it carried.
And now, by the look of things, Jacquot wasn’t the only one on their trail. There were those two hoods he’d followed from Madrague to Toulon. Duclos territory. And everything that Isabelle was investigating following the Duponts’ murder tied in neatly with what he’d found out by himself, after taking possession of Constance.
As he parked in the underground lot below Cours d’Estienne d’Orves and set off along the quay, he thought about the roadster that Dorade had mentioned and wondered how much such a car would have been worth back then. Because she’d certainly have sold it. If you wanted, or needed, to keep a low profile, buzzing around town in a lipstick red Jaguar was hardly the way to go about it. No, she’d have sold it. Probably enough, with change, to buy the boat they’d have needed to carry away the gold, the boat that Niko had bought at auction, the boat he, Jacquot, now owned.
And as he stepped aboard, unlocked the wheelhouse hatch, he wondered how long it would take before someone found out about Constance and came calling.
78
THERE WAS A spring in Isabelle Cassier’s step as she arrived at police headquarters on rue de l’Évêché, and a lightness in her head and in her heart that she hadn’t felt for months, years even. Since she and Jacquot had first spent a night together, she decided, up in Le Panier, in his top-floor apartment. A few months later she might have ended it, but four years on she was in no doubt that he still had feelings for her. And two nights earlier, on Constance he had shown those feelings, had responded to her. Of course, he was a man, she thought to herself, jogging up the stairs to the third floor rather than waiting for the lift. Maybe it was just the thought of sex that had held him there. But sex was as good a place to start, or restart, as any other. Just one step on to making love.
And maybe, back then, she’d been a little too demanding, wanting too much, too soon. Four years ago a long-term girlfriend had just left him (she must have been mad, thought Isabelle), he’d lost his job on the squad and been transferred to some outpost in Provence. Jacquot, of all people. He must have been reeling. She realised now that she’d made her move too soon, should have given him more time, more space. Well, there was plenty of that now, with Jacquot down on that darling little boat just a few minutes’ walk from her office. How much better did it get?
And if
it hadn’t been for that old man, Salette, turning up when he did, who knows what would have happened? She knew; he’d have taken her to bed, in that cosy little for’ard cabin, or pushed her up against the chart table, or lowered her on to the banquette. He was seconds from it. From taking her. Just as he’d done before. The two of them back together again; a new start. As for his current girlfriend, and the baby … Well, they’d deal with that when the time came. For now …
‘You just missed a call,’ said Laganne as Isabelle worked her way between the desks to her corner spot, giving her hips an extra swivel for the hell of it. Let him look as much as he liked, she thought. That’s all Laganne was ever going to get. But Daniel was a different matter.
‘Anyone interesting?’ She dumped her bag on her desk and leafed through a pile of phone messages.
‘It’s about Jacquot,’ said Laganne, sitting at his desk, fashioning a dart out of a piece of paper. His phone started ringing. He ignored it. ‘Some old biddy down in Madrague wants him to call her. Those old girls just fall over themselves for that dude.’
Not just the old ones, thought Isabelle.
‘Did she leave a number?’
Laganne tipped back his arm and let the dart fly across the room, swooping over to make a perfect landing on her desk. He gave her a wink then leaned over to answer his phone.
She looked at the dart, a number pencilled across its wings, then reached for her phone.
The woman who answered had a voice as broad and as sharp as a Vieux Port fish-wife.
‘I’m not saying what it’s about,’ she told Isabelle. ‘Like I said to the other man, I just want to speak to that Jacquot.’
The Dying Minutes Page 28