“This is my rat. I’m training him up for active duty.”
The dog, remembering his place, trotted back to his mistress’s high heels. Rosière, bedecked in a gold-trimmed, plum-coloured winter coat that served to upgrade her from buxom to virtually boundless, gritted her teeth and gulped. Then, desperate to focus both her eyes and thoughts elsewhere, she performed a half-turn and presented a cardboard box from under her arm as though it were a holy relic.
“An advent calendar from chez Mazet! Hope you’ve got a sweet tooth, children! Cost me twenty bucks, but it’s the best. Be warned, though – first person I catch munching a praline or a bonbon without my express permission will be unwrapping a slap the next day,” she said with a menacing look at Merlot, who was already rubbing his hands.
She hung her coat on the brass hook attached to the wall behind her desk and sat down in her Empire elbow chair, scanning her immediate surroundings for a spot worthy of her latest glorious accoutrement, eventually settling on a narrow console to her right. Rosière meticulously centred the box, opening it up like a photograph frame to reveal row upon row of pretty, illustrated, minuscule doors. With a broad, satisfied smile, she turned to Capestan for an update.
“So, my darling, what’s new? Any developments with Operation Ex-Father-in-Law?”
Despite – or maybe because of – the casual tone, the “darling” could not suppress a smile.
“We’re still waiting on the autopsy and ballistics reports. Torrez is studying what we have of the victim’s accounts, and Lewitz is on telephone records. Dax has just found the website that the sign came from – it’s the only one that offers the enamelled model in the right size and colour. He’s poking around backstage to see what’s in the customer baskets.”
“There’s a shop in passage du Grand-Cerf which is a registered parcel-collection point,” Dax said, jabbing a thick finger at a page with Google Maps.
“Good work, lieutenant,” Capestan said as she stood up.
Lebreton gave an appreciative nod and instinctively smoothed down his black jacket before wandering over to the screen.
“It’s really close. Shall we get down there?” he asked Capestan.
“Yes, you go ahead. I have to stay here to greet our ‘liaison officer’.”
With a tenth of a smile at Rosière, his usual partner, Lebreton twitched the scar that ran down his cheek. The capitaine was already on her feet and putting her coat on. Pilou began pirouetting like a dog that had not seen daylight for three long minutes, his tail fanning the air, the wooden desk, the waste-paper basket and anything else it came into contact with. He only settled down when he saw Rosière standing there holding his lead.
Capestan was back over with Dax looking for the date of the order.
“Order placed anonymously October 5, delivery October 20,” she called to the others before they left.
“That’s one premeditated murder. What about payment?”
“Disposable prepaid card.”
“Oh yeah, like phonecards for mobiles,” Rosière said. “I remember them cooking up that scheme for credit cards, too, the idiots. As if the police didn’t have enough crap on their plates. Here, guys! Who wants to buy some dodgy stuff without any trace whatsoever? ‘Your trusty bank – here to help you commit fraud more easily.’ Bloody hell, I’ve had it. Now we have to hope our gun-slinger went to pick up the parcel in person and that the owner remembers him. Shame it isn’t super-recent . . .”
As Rosière and Lebreton made their way out of the commissariat, Lewitz joined Capestan in the sitting room. He was holding the sheet of telephone records. A few of the numbers were underlined.
“Seems Rufus wasn’t much of a chatterbox. The calls are never longer than two or three minutes and, to be honest, there aren’t many in the first place. Anyway, I looked into the recurring ones: a G.P., a kidney specialist and a dentist, then there’s his shooting club, the house of his former colleague, Léon, and one Madame Georges, who was his cleaner. I called her up for some questions, and she confirmed that no, he wasn’t very talkative, but that he was fairly straight-up. He didn’t go out much, watched T.V. for much of the day, never saw people. There are also several calls to his son, Paul Rufus, but they always hung up after a second. Can’t have been too rosy a relationship,” Lewitz said, somewhat embarrassed. “The only number that sticks out is this one,” he added, pointing to a mobile number. “It belongs to a Denis Vérone. Reckon it’s the actor?”
Denis Vérone was one of the members of Paul’s old comedy group. His career had really taken off. Rufus must have resorted to getting in touch via a roundabout route.
“Yes, he’s an old friend of the son. Right. The most recent date will be the most revealing. Dax will try and get his hands on them when he’s finished with the sign.”
A blast on the doorbell, so brief it was almost insulting, rang across the room. Diament. Capestan went to let him in.
He held out some documents without even a hint of a smile.
“The B.R.I. has remanded two suspects in custody,” he said. “I’ve included the details. We’ll be looking to conclude things very quickly now.”
If he had anything to do with it, at least. After closing the door to the sound of the lift opening, Capestan rested her forehead against the frame. Two suspects in custody already. Her squad had barely warmed up and number 36 were ready to wind up the case there and then. Her anger lodged in her throat. The door opened again, forcing Capestan to step back.
This time it was Orsini, the old-school capitaine who was chummy with journalists the length and breadth of France, keeping them happy with a constant flow of police misdemeanours. He was just back from a long weekend.
“Good morning, capitaine. Was your trip a success? You timed it well – we have a new case.”
“Good morning. Yes, lovely, thank you,” Orsini replied, summoning all the enthusiasm he could muster.
He carefully folded his trench-coat over his forearm, clearly intrigued.
“About this case, then?”
8
Leading up from the Fontaine des Innocents, the ever-bustling rue Saint-Denis, once famous for its sex shops, was jam-packed with vintage stores and stalls selling trainers. Only a few flashing signs remained, as if to keep up appearances or to humour the tourists, or the Sunday-morning pervs who had supposedly popped out for the croissants. After walking down it at a lick, Louis-Baptiste Lebreton and Eva Rosière were now crossing rue Turbigo, entering a new arrondissement. Here, the naughty shops had made way for chichi little hipster cafés. Before long they were at passage du Grand-Cerf, an arcade that led to the Montorgeuil neighbourhood. Recently done up, and graced with one of the highest glass roofs in Paris, the Grand-Cerf was a hidden gem filled with characterful old shops, whose giant signs – including an elephant, some spectacles and even a giant papier mâché crab – traced a journey outside time. Lebreton loved this spot. His husband, Vincent, had run a tiny firm of architects there. This was a special time and place where his love could live on.
The Christmas decorations and bright lights, which at that time of year only accentuated the beauty of the place, stoked the fire of the commandant’s grief. This would be his first Christmas as a widower. The rising tide of festive cheer and frenetic activity was closing in on Lebreton from all sides. He was desperate to skip December and go straight to January, when he would crawl like a castaway onto the first bit of beach before collapsing on dry land. That way he could resume winter without having to grit his teeth through the family gathering. But no, there was no avoiding this wretched season, and he would just have to wait before he could resume the steady rhythm of his daily suffering.
Late in the autumn though it was, a celestial light still tumbled through the glass overhead, bathing the passage in a peaceful atmosphere. Only the footsteps on the chequerboard floor and the muffled voices of the odd passer-by reached the ears of the silent police officers. They stopped in front of the shop mentioned by Dax. It was closed,
contrary to the opening hours supplied by the lieutenant.
“Well, we should have seen that coming,” an exasperated Rosière said. “A cock-up from Dax – surely not . . .”
Lebreton studied the sticker in the window.
“It’s O.K., they’re opening in fifteen minutes.”
“Fine. Hold the phone, those cushions are gorgeous!” Rosière said, before disappearing into the shop opposite. The bell rang and, with an exasperated sigh, the commandant followed his colleague inside.
They re-emerged several minutes later, Lebreton armed with two plastic bags of multicoloured cushions, narrowly missing a chirpy little girl whizzing past on her scooter, relishing this dreamy cut-through as her mother waved at her to slow down. Each with a broad smile, the officers stepped into the parcel pick-up point just as the owner was opening up.
He welcomed them with a broad smile full of false teeth, topped with a carefully sculpted brown moustache. The man sold nothing but socks, so every customer was key, especially those with a demonstrable appetite for retail therapy.
“Good morning,” Rosière said, presenting her I.D. “We’re here to congratulate you on your memory, hopefully. About a month back, a package from persorigolo.com was sent here for collection. It was pretty heavy and about this size,” she said, holding her hands fifty centimetres apart. “Any chance you remember the person who picked it up?”
The shopkeeper wore a cunning, enigmatic expression as he answered:
“I’m not sure . . . It was a long time ago . . . Maybe . . . Maybe I’ll need some help to jog my memory . . .”
Rosière stared at him for a moment, incredulous, smiling before letting out a sharp peal of laughter.
“Am I imagining it or does this guy think this is ‘Starsky and Hutch’? He’s got the vintage cardie, alright . . . A barefaced attempt at bribery! You don’t see that in the box sets nowadays – I should know! No,” she said, wiping away a tear, “I think first you’ll carry out your duty as a citizen, then you can enjoy the rest of the episode. It’s the one where Starsky goes through your accounts with a veeeeery fine-toothed comb.”
Outraged that his perfectly legitimate request had met with such ridicule, the shopkeeper turned to Lebreton, as if appealing to him to witness this cruel injustice. The commandant eased into his good-cop role, the one who treats the well-intentioned with respect and offers them the chance to restore their dignity.
“Forgive my colleague, I think she might have misunderstood. And she is prone to overreaction,” he said with a glance at Rosière, imploring her to take it easy. “You strike me as a man who picks up on each and every detail. Of course you’ll need some time to gather your memories. Just let me know when you feel your concentration is at its peak.”
Lebreton took out his notebook and a pen, then stared at the man with a serious expression. He was hoping that this about-turn would be enough to mend any damage done by Rosière, whose quivering lips suggested she was a whisker away from all-out hysterics. If the man lost his temper, he would refuse to play ball and there would be no way to get him to cooperate. The officers would go away with nothing but a bit of faint amusement.
Thankfully, the shopkeeper raised a hand to his forehead to help himself focus. The commandant had presented him with an honourable way out, and he felt inclined to repay him with some information.
“Yes, a man did come. Darkish hair, medium build and weight. He had square glasses with thick lenses. Beard, fairly long hair at the back – quite early ’80s in style.”
“Do you know a wig when you see one?”
“No, it was real,” the main said with a confident nod.
“This is great, thank you. Can you come by the commissariat later to do an e-fit?”
The man puffed with pride, delighted to be of service.
“If you think that will be necessary, then of course. The shop closes at four o’clock today. I could come straight after that?”
“Perfect, thank you very much,” Lebreton said, scribbling the address on a page from his notebook and handing it to him. “See you then.”
The commandant touched Rosière’s elbow, ushering her to the door. She had had to turn towards the shelves of socks as her sniggering got the better of her.
She was sitting on the métro fidgeting with the new passport she had just picked up from the préfecture. The photograph was fine, even if it did make her look almost transparent. Surname: Évrard; first name: Blanche. White, but blank, too. Was it a premonition, or was it her parents’ way of keeping their young love free of any obstacles? She often wondered what had brought them to christen her with a name that only accentuated her colourless character, erasing what little sense of self she had in the first place. Évrard sighed. She was making progress, though. The passport, her first ever, was proof of this. At last, the noise around her was starting to get quieter.
On the seat opposite, a middle-aged woman had been staring at a scratch card for six stops. As long as she left it untouched, anything was possible and all her problems might disappear. So she made it last. How could it be that so many people’s sole hope resided in a tiny piece of cardboard whose single purpose was to inflict defeat?
You know the answer to that, Blanche. Stop thinking about it right now. But the recovering gambler in her was desperate to find out the numbers lurking beneath the silver.
9
A few hours later, Évrard walked into the small room where Dax was working on the e-fit along with the witness. The shopkeeper did not even notice the newcomer.
“How about the eyes, bigger or smaller?” the lieutenant asked, his hand on the mouse.
“A bit bigger. But then he did have deceptively thick lenses.”
The man was choosing his words with a lot of care, as though he had registered that Dax might not be the brightest spark. He seemed eager to get it over and done with.
“Does this seem like a good resemblance, sir? We can move onto the nose if you’re happy?”
Évrard found Dax attentive and amiable, as always. He applied himself. She skirted round the desk to look at the screen and immediately understood the witness’s reservations. Ever the bluffer, she managed to ask the lieutenant for an explanation without betraying her emotions.
“Do you consider this system more reliable?”
Dax, concentrating hard on his portrait, answered without looking up from the screen.
“The Police Judiciaire refused to give us any e-fit software. Apparently it costs a bomb. So I set up an account on this. First twenty levels are free, you see. Working well, wouldn’t you say? Realistic, no?”
Leaning in for a closer look, Évrard was inclined to agree.
“Seems spot-on to me.”
*
In the sitting room, Capestan was thumbing through the article from La Provence.
“This is extraordinary! It can’t be a coincidence.”
“No,” Orsini said. “The M.O. is too close, as are the dates.”
The staging of Jacques Maire’s murder in L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue had the same complexion as Commissaire Rufus’s in more ways than one. It was now up to them to scrutinise this killing and find the link between the victims.
When Orsini brought this article to her attention, Capestan had been examining the profiles of the suspects that number 36 had just placed in custody. The weapon used to shoot Rufus had been used in the murder of a fence a few years back. At the time, the two men now under arrest had been questioned and released without charge. No clear link with Rufus, but Capestan did not think for a moment that she had all the documents at her disposal.
Orsini’s article was a game-changer. This identical crime in Provence turned their inquiry on its head, giving the team a strategic advantage. How would they ram this home? Sharing the information was not just the honourable thing to do; it was the responsible option too. These were murder investigations, after all. Plus it would give them the chance to rub something in their rivals’ faces for a bit. Keeping quiet, howev
er, would let them get their noses well and truly in front. Tempting. So, should they tell Diament? Buron? Capestan barely had time to consider it. The telephone was blaring out. It was the landline with its particularly aggressive ring. Buron, no doubt. She excused herself with a nod to Orsini, who went back to his office to work on the lead.
It was indeed the directeur:
“Capestan, have you hacked into a business’s website without permission from the public prosecutor and without covering your tracks?”
“Errr, that’s not . . . impossible,” the commissaire said, looking across the room at Dax.
“Not impossible? Not impossible? Did you or did you not give the order?”
“For the hack? Yes, absolutely. I was only hoping the break-in would be more discreet.”
“Now there’s a fine example of contrition and regret, Capestan! ‘I didn’t think I’d get busted.’ You sound like a bloody teenager!”
“There’s an element of that,” the commissaire said with a grin.
“We won’t be able to use any information you found. A formal complaint has been lodged, you know.”
“We’ll add that one to the pile . . . In the meantime, we’ve just hit on an interesting lead. The street sign sold on the site we hacked links Rufus’s murder with that of another man in the Vaucluse. Same method.”
This revelation nudged Buron’s disgruntlement into the background.
“Go on.”
Capestan summarised the article from La Provence. She also brought him up to speed on their findings relating to the enamel sign. She could sense the cogs turning in the directeur’s head down the line.
“How did you make the link? Provence is a long way away. Cases like this are out of our jurisdiction.”
“Orsini is an avid collector of press cuttings.”
“True, I’d forgotten that.”
“We’re currently making up an e-fit, which I was intending to send over to Lieutenant Diament.”
Stick Together Page 4
