Six Months to Kill

by Enzo Bartoli

‘Very good. And you live at 4 Rue Guynemer in Paris. Is that information still correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me what you do for a living?’

  ‘I’m an astrophysicist. I work for the National Scientific Research Centre. And I teach at the Institute of Astrophysics in Paris. But . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m not really working there very much these days. I’m on sick leave for . . .’ I allow a moment of silence to pass for him to take note of just how hard I’m finding it to accept my painful and delicate situation. ‘. . . cancer.’

  He has the same reaction that everyone has when you tell them you’ve got cancer. He looks at me with compassion, blushes a little and makes nervous hand gestures. He is embarrassed.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that . . . I hope that . . . I hope that everything works out for you.’

  I am tempted to say that it won’t. Everything won’t work out. I’m on borrowed time. But I don’t want to get into all that, so I just give the standard reply. ‘Everything that can be done is being done. We’ll see how it all turns out. Please go ahead and ask your questions. My illness makes no difference to anything.’

  I can tell he wants to congratulate me or even thank me for my courage, but he doesn’t. He carries on with his interrogation in an increasingly professional manner.

  ‘Very well. It seems that the vehicle you’ve hired has been seen parked close to where the missing person lives. It’s been seen a lot, in fact. So that’s why we’re interested in the car . . . and the driver, of course.’

  Think, Régis. Don’t mess this up. ‘Yes . . . That’s possible. Perhaps he or she lives near me?’

  ‘No, not at all. She lives in the sixteenth arrondissement.’

  ‘The sixteenth?’

  Take your time, Régis. No need to rush this. Whatever you say has to ring true.

  ‘No, I don’t know why my car would . . . Except . . . Of course! I’m so stupid.’

  ‘Something come back to you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m ever so sorry. I didn’t put two and two together at first. I go for a walk every morning around the tracks at Auteuil. It’s something I started doing when I was signed off work. At first, I just went around the Jardin du Luxembourg because I live just opposite it, but I got bored of the same old thing day in, day out. So then I changed it and started going to the Bois de Boulogne. Sorry for not even making the connection, but I forgot that Auteuil is in the sixteenth. I thought it counted as the suburbs.’

  ‘No worries. How long have you been taking your constitutional around there, then?’

  ‘I’d say . . . about three or four weeks?’

  ‘And do you always park in the same spot?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. I park on a road down by the racing track, you know? I couldn’t tell you the name. But there’s always room and it’s free parking down there. That’s the only reason I go there.’

  He seems satisfied with my answer, but then he looks down at his notes and his brow furrows.

  ‘Three or four weeks, you say?’

  ‘Around that, yes.’

  ‘But you didn’t hire the car all that long ago, did you? Did you have another one before that?’

  Don’t panic. The answer has to sound natural. ‘No. I took public transport before that. But it was taking an age to get anywhere, and my doctor told me I shouldn’t be staying cooped up at home. So I thought renting a car might be a good solution. It motivates me to get out and about more.’

  ‘I see.’

  He doesn’t see at all, but the important thing is that it looks like he’s believing every word that’s falling out of my mouth, and that’s all I’m bothered about. But I mustn’t congratulate myself too soon because it looks like he has more questions for me. He’s taking his time, though. Is it because of the state of my health? I suppose even a copper might have scruples when it comes to harassing people with cancer.

  He proves my point as he smiles and states reassuringly, ‘I knew you’d be able to clear everything up and that it’d be nothing but a coincidence. I’ll be letting you get on your way now to . . .’

  He lets the sentence hang in mid-air. He hasn’t quite finished with me, though. I know it.

  ‘I have one more thing to ask you . . .’

  What did I say?

  ‘Have your professional activities, or even your personal ones for that matter, ever led you to cross paths with an agency called Pearl Events? They supply hostesses and the like.’

  Her company. Watch yourself, Régis. Don’t blow it. You need to play the innocent here. ‘Hostesses? An agency for hostesses? By that, I suppose you mean . . . ? Do you . . . do you mean escort people? Like prostitute girls?’

  He holds it in, but I can see he wants to laugh. ‘No,’ he says, doing his best to suppress his chuckles. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s just the young women and men you see at conferences and exhibitions and such. They welcome visitors, hand out drinks . . .’

  ‘I see . . .’ I stay focused on my role of man who is totally out of touch with reality. I’m amazed at how good I am at it. ‘No. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them. You know, in astrophysics, we don’t tend to get out of the lab much.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ he says.

  He’s going to let me go any minute now. I can feel it. I just have to make sure I act normal on the way out. Should I leave without asking any further questions? Would it be suspicious to be too curious? What would someone who had nothing to do with the whole business actually say in a situation like this? I think it would be unusual to be interrogated by a police officer and then not be in the slightest bit interested as to what was going on. He is already standing up and gives me the nod, so I do the same.

  OK. I’m going in.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  He stops and puts both hands on his hips. He’s smiling quite broadly at this point. ‘Ask anything you like. I can’t promise you I’ll answer, though.’

  We both sit back down, and he gestures for me to continue speaking.

  ‘I was just wondering . . . You know the person who has disappeared . . . Was it someone important?’

  He wasn’t expecting this. In fact, he looks very surprised by my question. He thinks for a while. I don’t imagine he’s wondering whether or not to answer, but rather whether Stéphanie Tisserand was someone you’d call ‘important’.

  ‘No,’ he ends up saying. ‘She’s your average woman. “Ordinary”, I’d say. She has her own business and lives quite comfortably, but no more than that.’

  Wow. I wait for him to tell me more. He doesn’t. He shifts in his chair a little. I was too curious.

  ‘And why do you ask such a question?’

  On your guard now, Régis. No slip-ups. ‘Huh? Oh . . . no reason. I just wondered. I once saw a documentary on the police who work here and I thought you only dealt with cases involving proper VIPs. That’s all. So I was just being nosy. I thought it might be a famous person.’

  That was a good answer. He stands up again and he’s openly laughing now. ‘Not at all. We deal with all cases. Anything that’s required of us. Whether it’s the exciting celebrity cases or Joe Bloggs. The person we’re looking for is someone just like you and me.’

  Someone just like you and me. They don’t know what Stéphanie Tisserand was up to, then. Maybe it’s too soon for them to have worked it all out.

  CHAPTER 19

  I meet up with Chloé six days later. I suppose she’s been in Paris since Friday, Saturday at the latest, but I think she didn’t want to show her face until I’d had my treatment and the side effects had worn off. I ask her what she’s been doing with her time, but it’s a total waste of breath as she has no answers to give me. I don’t bother letting her in on what’s happened to me since I last saw her. Not a word about the incident on the train and even less about what took place at 36 Quai des Orfèvres. I settle for telling her about Lazreg’s visit instead. He found me on good form last week. I
don’t think anything will change in the grand scheme of things, but he seemed optimistic about it all.

  Chloé has taken me out on a field trip in preparation for our next hit. We’re in one of the dodgier suburbs, I’d say. It’s certainly not somewhere I’ve ever visited regularly, and I would never have thought that what happens right now before our very eyes could actually occur in real life; even though I’ve never been one to follow the TV news, I’ve always been convinced that production teams add a little extra excitement here and there to get audiences hooked.

  A BMW coupé skids on its back wheels, flips up into the air, turns on its roof and comes to a stop in a cloud of thick black smoke. Further back, two sports cars rev their engines before hurtling off at great speed and smashing into a wall about a hundred metres away. On purpose. A new car enters the fracas, almost banging into both cars from behind, its brakes screeching and practically deafening us. It’s a huge 4x4 with disproportionately large wheels, multicoloured tube lighting underneath and a huge bull bar at the front covered in headlamps. I’ve never seen anything like it. Perhaps it’s the sort of truck you might need on a night-time safari, but I can’t see much use for it in the Paris suburbs.

  I quickly work out that discretion isn’t something these hothead boy-racers hold dear. Even the youngest among them, those far too young to have driving licences, are performing acrobatics and skids on their scooters or handbrake turns on their mini quad bikes.

  We watch them from a safe distance, sheltering behind some bushes that separate the dual carriageway from the supermarket car park.

  ‘They won’t stay around for long,’ Chloé, who’s driven us out here, assures me.

  ‘Do you come here often?’

  ‘Sometimes. And it’s always the same scenario. They wait until the police show up, just for the hell of it. I think the thrill is in the chase. They give them the finger and off they go in different directions. Then they all meet up in some other car park they’ve agreed on in advance, and it starts again. They carry on like that until dawn.’

  ‘And are we going to follow them all night?’

  ‘If that’s your thing, then go ahead – but I won’t be coming with you.’

  We remain silent for a few seconds in the middle of the screeching horns and blaring sound systems. Then a small group starts to form in the centre of the car park. There are around fifteen baseball-capped youths all surrounding an older-looking lad who stands head and shoulders above the lot of them.

  My intuition comes into play.

  ‘Is he there?’ I ask Chloé, without having to spell out my thoughts.

  ‘Damn straight he is. And I reckon you’ve already spotted him.’

  As much as the distance between us will allow, I pick out the one I assume is the leader of the gang, the guy Chloé started telling me about on our trip out here. He’s black, tall, stocky . . . Actually, I’d call him fat. He’s wearing a blue satin jacket and a yellow bandana over his shaved head – at least, I imagine it’s shaved. Even though it’s almost pitch-black apart from the car headlights, he’s wearing sunglasses. There’s also a large gold medallion that hits him in the chest every time he moves. He’s chewing gum non-stop and his presence seems to dominate. He has a team of people surrounding him. They’re there to protect him, but they keep their distance. It’s probably a mark of respect or something.

  ‘That big black guy dressed up like a clown?’

  ‘Got it in one, Régis. It’s my honour to introduce you to Abdou Nkomo.’

  ‘He looks a right charmer. Quite the colourful character, eh? What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘He’s a notorious dealer. That’s his main job, but he has no problem with violent robberies or racketeering either. He’s been behind bars more than once, but every time he’s released he just comes out a bit better at what he does. All the kids around where he lives want to work for him. He uses them as mules or he sticks them down in the Métro to pickpocket the tourists. He’s a real dick.’

  I don’t like bad-mouthing people I don’t know, but I have to say that this man looks every inch the bad guy. Not only in terms of his physique and wardrobe choices, but also in his attitude towards the young kids around him. It looks like he’s giving some of them grief and scaring others off with his jeers or a couple of smacks around the head. With a chosen few, however, he’s cool. He’s giving them high-fives or quick, tight hugs with slaps on the back. He’s the boss. Every single one of his gestures confirms as much.

  As we continue to watch, I notice another individual show up. He’s younger than Abdou. He looks to be of North African origin and he follows the same dress code as the rest of them: a white T-shirt, hoodie and eye-catchingly bright trainers. The boss has also seen him arrive and has his eyes fixed on him. From where I am, I can’t hear a word, but I don’t believe this young man has said anything yet. I don’t think anyone has uttered a syllable, in fact. Instinctively, the rest of the gang seems to part ways and hang back to make room for this guy. Abdou Nkomo advances to meet him and, hands in pockets, confirms his scorn for him by spitting on the ground. Once they’re directly facing one another, Abdou is more than a head taller than the newcomer. He removes his hands from his pockets and places them abruptly around the kid’s neck. He then runs with him for a few yards and bangs him up against a car, placing two fingers between his eyes to mimic a gun. He mutters something in his face, but we’ll never know what that was. Two cars with blue flashing lights make a sudden appearance at the far end of the car park. Just as quickly, everyone in sight rushes into their cars or on to scooters and scrambles out of there. My new target reacts in the same way. He’s gone. He lets go of his prey and jumps into an Audi. I only know the make because I manage to catch a glimpse of the badge on the back. He’s not driving. This man has a chauffeur, if you please! I know it’s far from being the fastest car in the world, but within seconds all I can see of it are a couple of twinkling lights in the distance. The police are out of their vehicles and all six of them pile on to some poor devil whose scooter won’t start. The show’s over for tonight. We find Chloé’s car again and start making our way back to Paris.

  As soon as we’re on the A86, she leans across and gets out the customary envelope from the glove compartment. It’s a lot heftier than any that have come before. As well as photos of the man himself taken from every angle, there are pictures of a young black girl – very pretty, but dressed in a way that leaves little to the imagination, and with the sort of make-up I find quite vulgar. But, each to their own. There are also two addresses. His, in Orly. And hers, in Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. I also have a couple of maps which mean nothing to me, and a wad of €100 notes. If I had to take a wild guess, I’d say there was €3–4,000 in total. Easily. I put off taking a more in-depth look at the contents and close up the envelope before placing it on the dashboard.

  Without taking her eyes off the road, Chloé smirks slightly as she asks, ‘No questions?’

  ‘Yes! And I’ve no doubt you’ve got all the answers.’

  We’re just reaching the A4 now. At this hour, if we take the road that follows the river we can get to mine in less than fifteen minutes.

  Chloé must be thinking the same thing as she yawns and looks down at her watch. ‘OK. I’ll be quick about it and we’ll go into everything in greater detail tomorrow. Is that OK with you?’

  ‘Yes. You know I’m at your service. As always.’

  She slaps my thigh – mocking me, I believe. I’m sure it’s wishful thinking, but I get the impression that her hand may have rested longer than necessary on my leg. But I don’t manage to dwell on such thoughts before my boss gets back to business.

  ‘The money in there is just for some expenses. We’re sure you’re out of pocket on what we’ve asked you to do so far.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘That’s right!’ She laughs. ‘I do say so!’

  She then becomes serious and turns to me very briefly. ‘Régis, you’ve seen who you�
��re going to be dealing with and I’m sure you understand that you’ll have to tread very carefully.’ She looks back to the road, thankfully, but keeps talking. ‘There’s no way you can just go with the flow and act on instinct again. You just won’t get away with it.’

  She’s not kidding. That man must be at least thirty kilos heavier than me, for a start. And I can’t imagine him going off for a stroll in the woods on his own either. I bet he never goes anywhere without at least two or three big roughnecks with him. This will be no mean feat. I tell Chloé my worries and she agrees with me as we pass under the Bercy bridge.

  ‘Yes. You’ve seen him. The photo of the young woman in the envelope is his girlfriend. He sleeps over at her place two or three times a week. Her name is Farisa Goumi. We don’t have all that much on her. She doesn’t seem to have a job. We believe that she’s his “official” partner, but it doesn’t stop him having the occasional liaison with some of his female clients or women he meets in nightclubs. He likes to get them drunk on champagne. It’s more than occasional, actually. He’s not exactly the faithful type.’

  I’m starting to get a pretty clear picture of the guy, and I’m coming to the conclusion that, when the moment arrives, I won’t have any trouble putting an end to this one. I’m making progress. I’m really coming into my own. I reflect again on what a shame it is that such a promising career is about to be curtailed.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ I ask, batting these thoughts to one side.

  ‘There isn’t much of one, really. As I said, he’s extremely careful. There’s some consolation, though – we’ve managed to hack his email, but he only uses it for humdrum stuff. I’ve put the password in the envelope for you. See if you can get anything out of it. He does most of his drug dealing on huge estates. There are two of them – Orly and Choisy-le-Roi. Where the high-rises are, you know? I’ve given you two maps. That’s where he is most of the time. But you have to be really careful. You’re going to have to study this one. From seven in the evening until five the next morning, his gang is in full control of who goes in and out of all those blocks. It could all get messy very quickly if anyone sees you. We’re going to have your back, just in case.’