Eight

by James R. Vance

  Massey returned the papers to D.S. Newton. “Why are you showing these documents to me? Surely, this is Derbyshire Constabulary's responsibility. Why have they forwarded them here?”

  “They arrived by fax for the attention of the Chief Superintendent. He asked me to make copies for you. He thought that you might be interested as you were involved.”

  “Well, I'm sure Derbyshire can handle it quite well without my expertise.”

  Newton smiled. “Ah yes, but this is where it starts to get interesting. In the early hours of yesterday morning, there was the discovery of a body on a street in Moss Side, Manchester. It was another young coloured lad. He had been shot at close range through the back of the head, indicating a possible execution. You may think it not unusual, given that it was Moss Side. However, tucked away in a pocket inside his boxers, there was an I.D. card belonging to him. It was exactly like this one, issued by the same league to the same club.” The detective sergeant leaned back in his chair. “How does that grab you, Chief Inspector Massey?”

  8888

  The bullet-nosed Eurostar train, resplendent in its gold and white livery, slowed as it left the northern suburbs of Paris in its wake. On its final approach to Gard du Nord, it passed endless tower blocks and high-rise office buildings, the sprawling mass of a grey inner city hinterland.

  Petra pressed her head against the cold window glass that separated her from the graffiti-adorned walls sprouting like vandalised ruins from the dreary trackside. They flashed by in a blur of artistic desecration.

  None of what she observed jogged her memory. Almost a decade had passed since her previous visit. As one member in a party of teenage schoolchildren, perhaps the novel experience of a trip to the Loire and its renowned chateaux had distracted her from other aspects of the trip. She remembered little, apart from it being a mini adventure as opposed to a cultural visit. That was her view as an impressionable teenager.

  For many of her friends, it was their first excursion to a foreign land. Excited and vociferous, they were too immature and undisciplined to wonder at the magnificence of one of the most seductive cities on earth. She and other girls had spent the major part of the tour assessing French male talent, wondering if its reputation for producing ardent lovers was true.

  She smiled at the remote prospect of embarking on a romantic liaison during her current visit. This was no girlie adventure but a serious foray into the unknown. It prompted a more studied approach, not just towards Paris and the current itinerary, but also to every aspect of her time in Limoges. This time, the focus was fact-finding as opposed to sightseeing with a well-thumbed guide.

  The train eased itself gently alongside the platform, coming to rest beneath the broad canopy of the terminus. A mischievous thought struck her. Why should I not take advantage? The mission starts in Limoges, she argued. I still have time to indulge myself. Even Rob had suggested that she should sample French life en route.

  Buoyed by her thoughts, she strode confidently towards the main lower concourse, pulling her wheeled baggage behind her. After passing under the triumphal arch of the station's exterior façade, she headed for one of the waiting taxis.

  “Gare Austerlitz,” Petra said, hoping that the driver would understand. Having helped to stow her baggage, he swung the taxi away from the station approach, leaving behind the busy bars and restaurants facing the ornate stone architecture of the Gare du Nord. As the vehicle filtered into the steady crawl of slow-moving traffic towards Rue La Fayette, Petra leaned forward.

  “Est-il possible passer le Tour Eiffel et l'Arc de Triomphe en route à la gare?” she asked slowly and deliberately, aware that a detour would cost more. She would not be footing the bill. She perceived the request merely as her special treat, a mini sightseeing tour of Paris before facing what lay ahead, an opportunity to ‘ease herself into French life’ as Rob had suggested.

  “Sans doute si vous voulez, mademoiselle,” replied the taxi driver. Another English woman, happy to splash the cash on a sightseeing trip, he thought. Well, why should I not make some extra?

  Not too sure about his mumbled reply, she said, “Il faut arriver à la gare en deux heures. C'est possible?” She checked her watch. Two hours should give me plenty of time to make the connection, she thought.

  “Ah, oui. Pas loin après avoir visité les grandes spectacles de Paris.”

  Petra slumped back in her seat, hoping that her first attempt at conversation in French would bring about a favourable outcome. The taxi weaved its way southwards towards the Place de la Concorde, crossing Boulevard Haussmann, part of the Baron's legacy from the restructuring of urban planning in Paris during the mid-nineteenth century.

  Leaving Place de la Concorde, the taxi followed the endless stream of stop-start traffic along the Avenue des Champs-Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe in Place Charles de Gaulle. Here it dodged other vehicles as it darted around one of the busiest intersections in Europe. Finally, the vehicle extricated itself from the mêlée and turned onto Avenue Marceau.

  Neither driver nor passenger spoke to each other. One concentrated on his driving expertise that included lots of swearing and gesticulations at other road users, the other on admiring the sights, despite some trepidation from the traffic chaos that engulfed her. The driver broke the silence inside the cab as it approached Pont de l'Alma. Pointing towards a sculpture above the underpass, he slowed and leaned backward towards his passenger.

  “Celui-là est visité par les admirateurs de votre Princesse Diana. Elle était tuée près d'ici au-dessous dans le tunnel. Pourtant, le monument réplique la flamme de la statue de la liberté en U.S.A.”

  Petra nodded, unsure of his explanation about the connection between Princess Di's death in the tunnel and the Statue of Liberty. She glanced at the memorial, but showed more interest in the Eiffel Tower that rose above the Parc du Champs de Mars farther along by the banks of the river Seine. After crossing Le Pont de l'Alma, the scenery became less attractive to any ubiquitous tourist as the taxi criss-crossed the complex pattern of roads that dominate most large cities.

  Towering apartment blocks embraced magnificent tree-lined boulevards. Some lurked behind shuttered windows; others flaunted floral balconies. Finally, they passed through Montparnasse to reach the more open spaces beyond the inner ring-road system of the city. In good time to join her connection to Limoges, they arrived at Gare d'Austerlitz, named after Napoleon Bonaparte's victory against the Russo-Austrian armies in 1805.

  It was late afternoon when Petra stepped onto the concourse at Gare des Bénédictins in Limoges. Most other passengers rushed past her, aware of their next destinations. She followed the exit signs leading to the glass fronted entrance of the impressive edifice. The listed building, a masterpiece of art deco artisanship with its copper cupola and limestone campanile, is a unique example of architectural brilliance in railway station design.

  In the midst of this hurly burly of commuter traffic, she spotted a grey-haired man wearing a dark overcoat. He displayed a rectangular card bearing the name ‘Louise Charrière’.

  “Bienvenue en Limousin, mademoiselle,” said Jean-Marie Fauchet, as she walked towards him, her baggage click clacking across the tiled surface behind her. He appeared sprightly for his age, which Petra estimated to be late fifties. Olive eyes sparkled in a tanned face that sported a thin dark moustache, greying at the corners.

  He smiled, greeting her with a formal handshake. “Suivez-moi. Je vous conduis à votre appartement.” He led the way towards a black Citroen Xantia and politely opened the passenger door as Petra approached the driver's door.

  That's another damn thing that I have to get my head round, she thought. They drive on the other side here. Amused by her faux pas, he placed the luggage in the boot and they set off down the ramp towards the town centre and her temporary accommodation.

  “I rent un petit logement in your name,” he announced in a mixture of English and French with a captivating accent. “It is not far from La Place de la Répu
blique. It is almost centre ville. You will be moins visible there, ‘ow you say…less seen?”

  Petra nodded. “Less conspicuous, I think.”

  “Oah, oui. During your stay you ‘ave a Renault Clio for your use. She is found in a car park privé under the building. I also rent in your name a dedicated space for parking.”

  Leaving the station complex behind, he skirted a mini roundabout where he followed the main thoroughfare leading to the town centre. He continued his dialogue. “In the appartement you find information and maps of the area. You ‘ave another file. It contain the papers for the car. It include the carte gris, the registration document for the Clio and a permit de conduire, your driving licence. All are in your name. When you drive, you must ‘ave all these documents with you in the vehicle plus your identity card or your passport.”

  Petra listened, but wished that she had the various papers in front of her to help with their identification.

  Fauchet interrupted her thoughts. “A courier from the British Embassy deliver yesterday a ‘eavy parcel. I sign for it. You find it under your bed. There is also a file of the university and the courses that one believe you attend. I advise that you pass the evening to examine these papers. Your French lessons…they are good?”

  “Oh, okay, I think,” Petra replied, wishing that she could speak French half as well as he attempted to speak English. “It's a pity not to have spent more time with my tutor.”

  “You find it easier to learn the language if you spend time with the French people and you use all the opportunities to speak with them. You must watch the television, read the newspapers. It is necessary to learn new phrases. You try them in the shops, the café bars and even in the street, for example. You find that French people greet you and engage with you. We are not reserved like you English. We enjoy good discourse, especially with an apéritif or café in the bars.”

  Petra smiled at his perception of English people compared to the more sociable French.

  He had more to say. “I come to you at nine in the morning. It is necessary to make your watch one hour plus. I take you to La Bastide. We stop near there for a coffee and be acquainted better. Tomorrow we speak in French as much as possible. I look forward to work with you.”

  The car had skirted around Galeries Lafayette, the French equivalent of John Lewis. It passed the rear of Promoprix and Fnac before crossing towards La Préfecture. Finally, they turned into a narrower one-way street, coming to a halt outside a grey three-storey building of drab appearance. An estate agency occupied the ground floor. To the right of the display window, a weathered oak door matched the sombre exterior of the building.

  “Welcome to your new logement,” said Jean-Marie, passing her a set of two keys. “The door, she ‘as two locks.” As he lifted her baggage from the boot, he pointed towards an adjacent archway. An automatic red and white barrier guarded the entrance. “The underground parking area where you find the Clio,” he explained. “One must operate the barrier with a card. You find this with the papers for the vehicle.” He smiled, reflecting on her confusion with the doors. “You must remember that in France we drive on the right.”

  They exchanged mobile contact numbers. Jean-Marie had one final word of advice as he returned to his car.

  “Remember, you come to study at the university. You must not forget. Bon courage. A demain, mademoiselle.”

  Unsure of which language to use, Petra found herself mixing them together. “Merci, until tomorrow…à demain.”

  Jean-Marie waved goodbye, drove away and disappeared from view.

  She stood with her luggage on the pavement by the oak door, clenching the keys. No longer oblivious to the passers-by going about their business, she suddenly became aware of the reality of the situation. She felt vulnerable, alone on a street in a strange town in a foreign country. Her ears filled with the incomprehensible chatter from people walking past. She placed her hands over her ears. Without the incessant babble in French, it could have been a street scene in London.

  I need to speak the lingo, she thought. So much for Rob's assurance that I should not be too concerned. ‘English is a universal language’, he had said. Obviously not here in Limoges. First on the agenda, check out the flat, then phone sister Klara and afterwards find the nearest bar. Sod the paperwork until later.

  She pushed the keys into the two locks and opened the door to her new world.

  8888

  Massey answered the phone. It was a receptionist in the general office. “There's a Superintendent Richardson on the line for you. He's with Greater Manchester Serious Crime Division.”

  “You had better put him through.”

  “D.C.I. Massey? Superintendent Richardson, Serious Crime. I've arranged for D.C.I. Harcourt from Bootle Street to liaise with you over two apparently related mortalities. One took place on our area here in the city, the other over the border in Derbyshire. I believe that you are aware of the murder of the young Frenchman in Hulme and have first hand knowledge of the victim accidentally killed in the motoring incident.”

  He continued without waiting for any confirmation from Massey. “I've spoken with my counterpart in Derbyshire Constabulary and he is content for you and D.C.I. Harcourt to investigate any links between the two deaths. Their local traffic division will deal with the accident report. I don't see the point in having a three-way liaison across the divisions. It will only complicate matters.”

  He paused slightly, anticipating that Massey would perhaps question his proposed involvement. Massey knew better than to protest against a premeditated decision, especially one delivered direct from a superior officer.

  The authoritative voice continued. “I've cleared it with your Chief Superintendent. I hear that you have already had dealings with the authorities in France when you were with the Met, so that bodes well for any ensuing enquiries. D.C.I. Harcourt will contact you later today. We need to conclude the investigation as quickly as possible. These youths were French nationals. The authorities over there will be expecting a result. Good luck.”

  “Thank you,” said Massey, feeling that he had just been shafted. He rose from his chair, left the room and crossed the open-plan office of C.I.D. to find D.S. Newton.

  The sergeant was on the phone as Massey approached his desk. He finished the call and turned to face his boss. “I hear that you've been teamed up with D.C.I. Harcourt from Bootle Street.” He smiled.

  Unsure of the reason, Massey sensed that the smile was really a smirk at his expense. “How did you know that? I've only just been informed.”

  “D.C.I. Harcourt and I go back a long way…besides, the grapevine is in full working order.”

  “So, what's he like to work with?”

  Newton sighed, tapped the desk with his pencil and stared across the room. “Quite dominant, I would say. Always wants to be on top, you know, to be in charge. No time for below-par performances, likes to get down to the nitty-gritty as quickly as possible.”

  “Sounds like my type. We should get on quite well.”

  “Oh, you'll get on okay with ‘Hardcore’, without a shadow of a doubt.”

  Massey showed some surprise. “Pardon…you call him ‘Hardcore’?”

  Newton laughed. “D.C.I. Harcourt's a female. Like I said, she likes to get down to it asap.”

  “You bastard! Richardson never said.”

  “Oh, I gathered that. Sorry, just couldn't resist.”

  Massey looked thoughtful for a second or two. “So, none of what you said was true?”

  “You'll get on fine. She's good. Like you, she cannot stand grey areas, no time for airy-fairy judgements, likes to stick to facts. She can be a little bullish, though. She likes to have her own way.”

  The perceived qualities of his intended new partner were beginning to intrigue Massey. “You've worked with her often?”

  “For a short time, before I transferred to Ashton. Before you ask, yes we did have a bit of a fling together, nothing too serious. It was just sex.”
<
br />   “Is that how she earned her nickname?”

  Newton grinned. “That's for me to know and you to find out.”

  Massey ignored his last remark. “She's supposed to be contacting me later today to set up a meeting. Care to tag along?”

  “Fine. I don't mind playing gooseberry.”

  Massey grunted and started to walk towards his office. “Keep yourself free later. I'll arrange the meeting for tonight. I know a nice little boozer, not too far away.”

  8888

  Having checked out the flat and called her sister to announce her safe arrival, Petra slid the package from under the bed. It contained a silver metal case with a combination lock set at zero. Inside, together with some documents, she found a greeting card wishing her good luck. There was a picture of a butterfly on the front cover. She smiled. Rob must have arranged it.

  Beneath another lid, she discovered several items that she recognised from her training days packaged in separate containers. She located a concealed button within the lining to click open a false bottom to the case. It contained a weapon and its associated accessories. She removed the card and locked the case, mentally noting the combination that she had used. She slid it gently back under the bed. She sensed that she was now in control.

  With resurgent confidence, she locked the apartment door before descending to the car parking area to find the Renault Clio. It was a 1.2 saloon in metallic grey, spotlessly clean. Probably a hire car, she thought. She walked up the sloping ramp to the main street and went in search of a bar that served food. It appeared that Limoges was not lacking in establishments of that ilk, as every other commercial premises in the vicinity seemed to offer some kind of sustenance.

  After walking for several minutes, she found herself in a large open square, one side of which was dominated by the cast-iron structure of an expansive glass-fronted market hall. It reminded her of Covent Garden…a panacea to any feelings of loneliness. Opposite, there was a mixture of shops and terraced bars. Narrow alleyways of trendy boutiques descended towards a busy road that bisected the shoppers’ paradise from La Place de la République, passed earlier with Jean-Marie. Wherever she looked, it bustled with people, a kaleidoscope of racial backgrounds. Though minute in comparison, Limoges was like London, a cosmopolitan city.