Pel and the Sepulchre Job

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Has she any idea who might have done it?’

  ‘None at all, Patron.’

  ‘What about his friends?’

  ‘She doesn’t know them. He spent all his spare time here in the city. She was always glad when he was out of the house. She never saw him with friends because she thinks they were all here. In the city. She thinks some of them were crooks.’

  ‘Judging by the fact that he’s dead, she could be right. Anybody threatened him? Anything like that?’

  ‘Nothing she knows about, Patron. There was just one thing. He had a blue van. The one in the picture. A Renault. Number 1467-RL-69. He used it for his work and it was full of equipment. Bags of cement, tiles, bricks – that sort of thing. Together with his tools. His ladders were on top. It’s not at Guincourt. So it must be somewhere around.’

  Pel nodded. It all seemed a routine matter and a pall of boredom hung over him. The day felt too long.

  Two

  So that was that. They had a dead man on their hands and they had no idea why. But when people with records were found in water with gunshot wounds in the head it was always a good idea to look into the circumstances because the chances were that they’d been dumped. Different crooks, different methods. Down in Marseilles and Nice they preferred to wrap them in concrete and dump them in the sea. But either way it was always a good idea to try to find out why.

  Pel set into motion a number of enquiries that were made around the city bars and copies of the photograph of Robert Meluc were shown. A few bartenders recognised him but none of them knew him well. He seemed to have been a man who had kept very much to himself. They found a few people he’d worked for but it didn’t lead them on very much. And when they failed to discover any trace of the van they decided that for some reason not yet known to them it had been deliberately hidden, and that finding out why Meluc was dead and who had killed him was going to be a long drawn-out job.

  Had the van been used to transport something illegal such as drugs? It seemed very likely.

  Then Doc Minet produced a plastic bag containing the contents of Meluc’s wallet and they found themselves more deeply in the mire.

  ‘One hundred and fifty francs,’ Doc Minet said. ‘Wet and difficult to separate. Driver’s licence. Bank card. And something that might well interest you. A puzzle for you to solve.’

  On the table he laid a sheet of paper, dry now but showing signs of having been soaked. ‘Being folded in his wallet preserved it,’ Doc Minet said.

  ‘What is it?’ Darcy asked.

  It was a xerox of a simple drawing, but the drawing resembled nothing they recognised – a collapsing tent seemed the most likely. Written beneath the drawing in what was clearly a hurried hand was a date, 3 December.

  Pel reached lethargically for his desk diary. 3 December seemed not to suggest anything untoward. It indicated a conference with the Chief and heads of departments about staffing and recruitment but nothing more.

  ‘Why 3 December?’ he asked.

  Nobody knew.

  ‘Better make a note, Daniel,’ Pel suggested. ‘It obviously means something to someone.’ He peered again at the drawing. ‘If it’s not a ray,’ he said, ‘which seems unlikely, what’s the crooked line attached to it?’

  ‘If it’s a tent, can that be one of the guy ropes? And what’s this curved line at the side?’

  Inevitably they took it to Leguyader, who pounced on it at once, anxious to recoup some of the kudos he had lost.

  ‘It looks like a ray,’ he said.

  ‘A what?’

  Leguyader smiled. ‘Ray,’ he said. ‘Term applied to the elasmobranch fishes, which are distinguished by their flattened bodies and enormous expanded pectoral fins. The gill-slits are on the under-surface of the head while the eyes are on the top. They’re roughly this shape and have a long tail.’

  He took a book from a shelf and showed them the picture of a ray. It was certainly similar in outline to the drawing Doc Minet had found, except that the tail was longer and thicker.

  ‘I’m told they can be dangerous, these tails,’ Leguyader said. He frowned at the drawing. ‘It does look remarkably like a ray. Except that there are too many corners, too many small excrescences that shouldn’t be there. Fishes are remarkably well streamlined. And the eyes are at the wrong end.’

  Since Burgundy was about as far from the sea as you could get in France, it confirmed their fixed belief – the fixed belief of everybody in the Hôtel de Police – that Leguyader read the Encyclopédie Larousse every night. He could hardly have seen a ray in the River Orche and they all knew his weekend house was not on the coast. Leguyader had what he called a delicate stomach that made him feel seasick even in the bath.

  Nevertheless, they had to hand it to him. The outline found in Robert Meluc’s wallet did resemble a ray. It even had a tail and the tail was in roughly the right place.

  ‘Why would he want the drawing of a ray?’ Darcy asked.

  ‘It seems to have been important,’ Pel remarked. ‘Otherwise, why did he keep it and why has it been xeroxed? Xeroxing implies that several copies are needed. Why are several copies of this needed? Keep it, Daniel. Have it xeroxed again and have it shown around. Somebody might recognise what it is and why he was carrying it.’

  Because things were quiet, they continued to study the copies of the xeroxed drawing. Sometimes it resembled a ray, sure enough, but at other times a rather crude star.

  ‘Think it’s some kind of symbol?’ Darcy asked.

  ‘What have you in mind?’

  ‘Don’t these people who go in for satanic rites use a goat’s horns?’

  ‘It doesn’t much resemble a goat’s horns to me. If it reminds me of anything, it’s a kite.’

  ‘A crude drawing of a flower? The tail thing is the stalk.’

  It occupied them for some time, then at the end of November the quiet period which had preceded the death of Robert Meluc suddenly sprang to life with a bang. It was as though all the crooks, having returned from their holidays to settle down for the winter, felt as though they needed to earn some money to pay for the good times they’d had. Before they knew where they were, the police were up to their eyeballs in work and Robert Meluc became submerged in other things.

  To Pel the days became shorter, jam packed with ominous action; it was as though France had suddenly become a hotbed of crime. You’d only to look at the newspapers. They contained every crime in the calendar: murder, arson, extortion, embezzlement, breaking and entering, indecent behaviour, rape, assault and battery, pimping, offences against public morals, non-payment of taxes, acid throwing, bomb planting, drug pushing, permitting the emission of lethal fumes from a factory, the sale of drinks to minors, adulteration of eatables, driving under the influence, not declaring the contents of food, counterfeiting, smuggling, perjury, incitement to desertion, non-assistance of persons in danger, robbery with violence, threats, sedition, attack with an offensive weapon, drunk in charge of a perambulator. They were all there. Even stealing a garden gnome. There were photographs, too, when the paparazzi had managed to get near enough, pictures of victims well smeared with blood. It was enough to make you weep when you thought about it. The best thing, of course, was not to think about it. But that wasn’t easy when you were a cop.

  In Pel’s parish it started with a break in at Sobelec, the premises of Henri Sobène, who sold televisions, videos, computers and all their accessories. Henri Sobène was proud of his shop. Leaving school at sixteen, he had been apprenticed to an electronics engineer and had quickly assimilated the techniques. He had then worked for a few years selling and repairing electronic devices before deciding he had enough knowledge to set up on his own. Sobelec was the result. He had named it Sobelec because he thought Henri Sobène, Videos, Electronic Games and Televisions was too much for a customer to remember, to say nothing of the fact that it took up too much room when writing a cheque. It would also cost a fortune to have it painted across the top of his window. The name, he f
elt, made his place different from all the other shops in the city selling electronic gadgets. They were called Gadelec, Annexelec, Langelec, Jeunelec, Rubelec and Aselec.

  He had found the premises, requested a loan from the bank and acquired stock. He was now doing splendidly and his shop was crammed with televisions, videos and computers that worked electronic games for children. The only snag was that the premises were barely large enough for his expanding business. There was also the problem of the double yellow no-parking lines in the road outside and he was looking for a new shop with better access because the only people who were allowed to stop long enough to study his window were people with disabled stickers on their windscreens. People with disabled stickers, however, were on the whole elderly and not interested in newfangled devices.

  Nevertheless, on the morning of 2 December, one such car was parked outside the shop just before the morning rush started. A traffic warden, fresh on her rounds from headquarters and eager to cop someone, saw it from the rear. Her feet were cold and she was in a bad temper and the thought that passed through her mind was a triumphant ‘Got ’em.’ She was duly disappointed when she saw the disabled ticket with the cripple-in-a-wheelchair symbol on the windscreen. The traffic warden moved on. Two pairs of eyes watched her vanish round the corner, then the owners of the eyes hurried out of the shop, climbed into the car, removed the disabled ticket and drove off.

  That morning Pel had woken warily, expecting the day to attack him. He was dead right. It started to rush at him the minute he arrived in his office and his lethargy of a few days ago was gone.

  ‘There’s been a punch-up in a bar at Bezay,’ Darcy announced. ‘Well, less of a punch-up than a pitched battle. Four injured, plus the type who started it. It’s hard to tell who came off worst. The proprietor of the bar has a fractured jaw and three of his customers have various injuries. The type who started it seems to have wiped the floor with them. And they’re tough types round Bezay – quarry workers and that sort. All he got was a broken ankle. And he got that trying to jump over a table that collapsed under him. It’s a job for Uniformed. Charges are being preferred. Name of Georges Guillet. He’s in a private ward in the Hospital of the Sacred Heart, Uniformed has a man watching him.’

  Pel pushed his spectacles up on to his forehead. ‘Are they expecting him to escape?’

  ‘It seems he has a twin brother and he’s expected to try to get him out. You know what twins are.’

  ‘Are these two dangerous?’

  ‘Uniformed don’t know. They’re exactly alike and they do a comic act in a circus that’s running at Bezay, whereby one man seems to be in two places at once. Uniformed’s been out to the circus. They say François Guillet, the brother, is a hot-tempered type and is devoted to our Guillet. But they say it’s normal enough.’

  2 December had arrived on time. As he noticed the date, Pel felt like Julius Caesar keeping an eye on the Ides of March. With a certain unease they had been watching the days ever since the middle of November. They still hadn’t found the meaning of the strange diagram from Meluc’s pocket but the date was clear. It meant something, as the diagram undoubtedly did.

  Perhaps the diagram was only a child’s scrawl though it looked too confident for a child. Perhaps it was drawn to show a child how to make a kite. But if so, where were the most important parts – the struts that braced it? It might have been only somebody’s birthday, jotted down as a reminder. It might indicate that someone’s car was due for a service, or a woman was due to visit her hairdresser. It might be any of a thousand things, but they were all aware it might also indicate the beginning of something they didn’t fancy facing. A riot. A bomb for the President outside the Elysée Palace. They had checked with the Prefect and contacted the Elysée Palace to put the guard on alert just in case.

  ‘Circus people tend to be very close. They say he’s gone missing.’

  Darcy broke into Pel’s thoughts, glancing at the file in his hands. ‘There’s been one other crime – a break-in at Sobelec. That’s the big television and video shop in the Rue Aristide Briand. Morell’s there. A television, a video, twelve cassettes and two computers have been stolen. Morell picked up a discarded disabled ticket. He thought it was unusual. The disabled cling to those things as if they’re diamonds because they mean they can park anywhere.’

  ‘So are geriatrics going into the smash and grab business?’

  ‘It was home-made. You can’t park outside Sobelec so it’s pretty clear that whoever did it used it so they wouldn’t be disturbed. The fact that computer games have gone suggests kids.’

  ‘Driving cars?’

  ‘Kids of fifteen’, Darcy said, ‘are big enough and strong enough and clever enough these days not only to drive cars but also to understand electronics. It looks to me as if they pinched the television and video to raise money and the games to amuse themselves. Kids are crazy about them and in the amusement arcade in the Rue de Rouen it costs five francs a go. The fact that they can draw a phoney disabled ticket suggests they might be good at art. Morell says the sticker’s good enough to deceive all but a close look and it seems a traffic warden passed by around that time without noticing anything odd.’

  Darcy closed the file and looked up. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘Claudie’s replacement’s arrived.’

  Pel drew a deep breath. He wasn’t against women police officers. At times they were a definite asset and in any case the law these days demanded them. Women could handle delicate enquiries about things like rape, sexual harassment, marital troubles, children. Claudie had been good at them. This one might be different. She also might look like the back of a bus.

  ‘What’s she like?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s something we’ll have to find out, Patron.’

  ‘I meant, what does she look like?’

  Darcy gave nothing away. ‘You’d better take a look at her, Patron,’ he said. He pushed his pack of Gauloises across the desk and Pel snatched one hungrily. He drew in smoke and for a while allowed it to drift round his sinuses and various other tubes. It was like running a flue brush through them.

  ‘Show her in,’ he growled.

  The young woman who appeared was unusual. She was small with a face like an excited elf, flaming red hair and brilliant green eyes. After Claudie, who was dark, calm and looked like a young Mireille Mathieu and had had everyone in the Hôtel de Police falling in love with her in droves, she was unexpected to say the least. Her mouth was too wide, her nose not the right shape and she had an aggressive look about her. After Claudie she was not at all what they’d hoped for and Pel looked at her as if she might bite.

  He shook hands with her, then she sat in the chair Darcy pushed forward.

  ‘Better have your name,’ Pel muttered.

  ‘Saxe,’ she said. ‘Anne-Marie Saxe. They call me Annie.’

  ‘Saxe,’ Pel said, trying to be friendly. ‘Proud name. There was a Marshal Saxe.’

  ‘No relation,’ the girl said sharply. ‘He was born in Germany.’

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘Haute-Levette, Belfort.’

  ‘This is Burgundy,’ Pel said and Darcy knew exactly what he meant.

  To Pel if you stepped outside Burgundy you were in danger of falling into an abyss. Burgundians were known for their pride in their province and Pel was the Burgundian of all Burgundians. According to Pel there was only one wine in France – all those produced outside Burgundy could only be used as medicine. Burgundy also produced famous men and women: Bussy-Rabutin. Vauban. Lamartine. Colette. Pel.

  ‘Why did you apply to come here?’ he asked the girl.

  ‘I heard that round here people know something about police work. I do shorthand.’

  Pel sniffed. Pel’s sniff could say a lot. ‘You’re not very big,’ he pointed out.

  She gave him a sharp look. ‘If I can do what bigger people do,’ she retorted, ‘that makes me as big as they are. And, with respect, sir, you’re not all that big yourself. But I’
ve heard you know what you’re about.’

  Pel glanced at Darcy. Darcy hurriedly concealed a smile.

  ‘We get a lot of work here,’ Pel said. ‘Think you can stand the pace?’

  ‘Belfort,’ she pointed out, ‘was still holding out against the Prussians in 1871 when the rest of France had surrendered. When Alsace was annexed by the Germans, Belfort was allowed to remain French in tribute. We have a statue of a lion to commemorate the defence. It faces east to Germany. In defiance.’

  Pel looked nonplussed and Darcy stepped in hurriedly. ‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I should have a word with Claudie Darel. Her new husband’s taken a job in Paris and she’ll be going with him. But it’s not for a month or so and she’s still around. She might be able to tell you what happens here.’

  And about Pel, too, he decided. Which was something. Getting used to Pel required a major effort.

  Fortunately, Claudie and Pel had always got on well together, so perhaps her report on him would be a good one. He studied the girl seated at Pel’s desk. As Pel had said, she wasn’t very big but she seemed to have spirit enough for two. Which was as well because there were other hazards around the Hôtel de Police in the shape of lecherous cops. Among them Josephe Misset, Pel’s bête noire. Once upon a time Misset had been a handsome young cop. Now he was a middle-aged cop with a belly from too much beer drinking and a habit of chasing girls.

  He liked his wife as much as he liked hell and spent most of his spare time hanging round bars chasing spare bits of skirt. ‘Keeping the old ears open,’ he liked to explain to his family to excuse his absence in the evenings.

  Pel was still studying the newcomer warily. ‘You’re here on probation, of course,’ he pointed out. ‘Two months for a start. If at the end of it you don’t come up to our standards you go back to Belfort. Understood?’

  The girl stiffened as if she were on parade. ‘I understand.’

  ‘If you measure up you stay. All right?’