‘Barsin was bent,’ he said at last, keeping it brief.
Isabelle gave him a patient look. She tipped her head to one side, held out a hand, as if to say, Tell me something I don’t know. Then she gestured with her fingers, like a gambler asking for another card. She wanted more.
‘We worked together … years ago, back in the early seventies. A year at the most. If that.’ He stopped, remembered something and chuckled. ‘“American Pie”. That’s when it was. When that song came out. He was always singing that line about the Chevy and the levee and those good old boys …’
‘I know how it goes.’
‘Well, that’s when it was.’
‘And?’
Jacquot gave the question some thought before he answered, gathering his memories.
‘He always liked to be first at a crime scene, I remember that. See a body, the first thing he did was check the wallet. And not just for identification. Any cash … it was gone, into his pocket. And if there was no wallet, he’d go through the pockets – loose change, didn’t matter.’ Jacquot smiled at the memory, shook his head.
‘You ever say anything?’
Jacquot continued shaking his head. ‘I was a rookie, new on the squad; he was a twenty-year man. Chief Inspector. I was with him to assist – from fetching him coffee to putting on cuffs – learning the ropes.’
‘He ever offer to share what he took, bring you in on it?’
Jacquot didn’t have to think. ‘Once, yes. Early on. He emptied a hooker’s purse and offered me a couple of fifties. She wasn’t even dead. Standing there against a wall, she was, watching the whole thing. Just a shake-down. He did it all the time. Some hooker, some pimp. Cash. When he needed it. Even if he didn’t. He must have put away a fortune.’
‘And you took them? The fifties.’
‘Non, non. I said I didn’t want them. So he tucked them into my jacket pocket, like a handkerchief. When he was finished with her, and I thought his back was turned, I made to hand her the money back. Barsin saw me. Snatched it off me, and punched the hooker in the face. “You don’t want it, I’ll have it,” he told me. He was not a nice man.’
‘And after that, did he ever offer you anything again?’
‘Nothing. I was off his radar. I’d played my hand, shown him my cards, and that was that. He never bothered after that.’
‘And he knew you’d never say anything.’
‘If I’d said anything, I wouldn’t be here now. Simple as that. Barsin was … an operator. Worked both sides. You didn’t mix it with Barsin.’
A breeze caught the hem of her skirt, lifted it from her knees, but, unlike Laganne, Jacquot’s eyes remained fixed on hers. She couldn’t decide if she was pleased or not. ‘Anything else?’
‘He wasn’t what you’d call a team player. Preferred to be on his own, work things his way. If he decided someone needed a hiding, that’s what they got. Dispensing his own kind of justice. He’d hand it out himself, like he did with the hooker. But what he really liked was putting out a whisper, getting someone else to do the dirty work. So-and-so’s got a big mouth, something like that. A week later, a month later, that same so-and-so would end up in hospital with a broken jaw or his tongue stapled to his lip. When he heard about things like that – someone else doing the dirty work – he’d … you know, he’d be walking along and kick out his legs to the side and click his heels. Like he was some kind of dancer. Quite extraordinary.’
‘So what happened to him?’
‘You mean, you don’t know?’
‘Tell me.’
‘He was shot dead, here in Marseilles. In an underground car park. Around Christmas.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Training. An evening session in Aix. I was playing rugby back then, for a club and the Police. And rugby, at a certain level, always came first. Which suited me just fine. Working with Barsin was not your usual buddy-buddy experience.’
‘What cases were the two of you working on around that time?’
‘Nothing particularly big. Some starting out, others getting to the end. Non, non. Attends. I’m wrong. It was the Gineste heist. Everyone was working that one. He was shot soon after.’
‘Did he ever confide in you?’
Jacquot shook his head. ‘I was the rookie, remember? And I hadn’t taken the money. My card was marked.’
‘So what do you think happened? That night in the car park?’
‘I think he played the wrong hand, in the wrong game. Like everyone else on the squad said, the ones who knew him, knew the way he operated. That night he took a step too far and someone just got … tired of it. Suddenly he was getting to be a nuisance, getting in someone’s way. Or getting greedy. Bang-bang and that was it. So tell me, why the interest in Monsieur Barsin? After all this time.’
Isabelle reached down for her briefcase, pulled out a sealed black plastic evidence bag and handed it to him.
‘I’m assuming you’ve got a sound system on board.’
23
AFTER THE SHADED, breezy cool of the wheelhouse, the main cabin felt suddenly close and hot. While Isabelle settled herself at the table, Jacquot reached up and pushed open the two aft-portholes, latching them into place. He held up a hand and felt a soft current of air shift through his fingers. If he’d opened them a little further, he’d have got a stronger draft but this was enough to freshen the air.
Dropping on to the banquette opposite, Jacquot realised suddenly that Isabelle wasn’t wearing a bra. There was a looseness inside the black blouse, a tight swing as she made herself comfortable, something he was aware of, peripherally, without actually looking. As he settled himself at the table, the thought of her breasts stirred him. He had seen them, caressed them, licked and bitten them. And now there they were, just a hand’s reach across the table. He shook away the memory.
‘There’s a cooler under the corner seat,’ he said, ‘if you want a drink. Water, beer, mixers?’
‘I’m fine,’ she replied, and nodded at the plastic bag she had given him. Jacquot held it up, shook it, put on a clown’s exaggerated frown, then opened it and tipped out the contents. A cassette tape came first, followed by an A4-sized envelope, two Zip-lok plastic bags and a folded sheet of paper.
He picked up the two bags, one by one and examined their contents: the first with what looked like a blue ticket stub inside it, the second with three .45 calibre brass shell casings. Jacquot put down the bags and turned his attention to the envelope, the name ‘Yves Guimpier’ and the address for police headquarters on rue de l’Évêché written in small slanting capital letters. There were no stamps; the envelope had clearly been delivered by hand, dropped off at the reception desk. The paper was stiff but silky, high-quality stationery.
‘I remembered you liked to see the real thing, not photo-copies or photos.’
‘And you were right. I do.’
Putting down the envelope Jacquot picked up the folded writing paper. Like the envelope, it felt stiff and expensive. He checked the watermark – Tyvek: Luxembourg – then raised the paper to his nose and sniffed. No perfume. So not from a woman. Then he sniffed again, frowned, tried to place the scent. Woody, but sweet, with maybe a hint of … coconut? Talcum powder? He tipped the page towards the light from the portholes. No sign of talcum smudges, no shiny powdered marks. Soap, he decided, it had to be soap, the distant scent too dry for eau de cologne or after-shave, but no less expensive.
So a man, then. The writer was a man. Jacquot was certain of it. A man with money enough to afford fancy soaps and fine imported stationery.
Carefully unfolding the paper, he read the single line in the middle of the page, written in the same small slanting capitals as the name and address on the envelope:
SOMETHING I TRUST YOU WILL FIND OF INTEREST.
Jacquot read the line a few times, thought about it.
An educated man, too.
Something I trust you will find of interest.
That trust. What was wrong wi
th ‘hope’? And of interest. Why not just ‘interesting’? So, a professional man. There was something corporate about the tone. A memo, with edge. And something of the pedant, as well. A doctor? A lawyer?
He looked up, held Isabelle’s eye. ‘And?’
‘The envelope arrived at headquarters last week. The note, the two bags, and two tapes – the small ones. From an Ansaphone. We had them copied on to the one cassette.’ She nodded at the tape on the table. ‘Guimpier gave it to me to handle, see what I could turn up.’
‘How is he? Guimpier.’ Despite their occasional differences, Jacquot had a soft spot for the Boss. Guimpier was a man you could trust, somehow keeping the politics at bay, allowing you room to move.
‘He’s fine. Trying to hold everything together, and everyone apart, as usual. It was Guimpier who mentioned that you had been Barsin’s partner at the time of his death …’
‘But knowing you, you’d probably already found that out.’ Jacquot reached for the bag containing the ticket stub and held it up to her.
Isabelle smiled. ‘Parking La Caboucelle, seventeenth of December 1972. 11:57 p.m. Where Barsin’s body was found. Since he’d been alone, after hours, I wanted to know who he’d been working with. His partner.’
‘Me.’
‘You.’
‘Any prints?’
‘Nothing on the letter or envelope. Nothing on the Ansaphone tapes. But a partial on the ticket stub thanks to a smudge of dirt – oil maybe – on a thumb.’
‘And the casings?’ asked Jacquot, pushing at the bag with a finger.
‘Just smears. Nothing more. Probably a thumb and forefinger on each of them, but too deteriorated to be of any use. Time. The explosive heat of the gunshot. You know how it goes … But they’d still match to a gun, if we could find one.’
‘If I recall Barsin was shot four times,’ said Jacquot. ‘Twice in the head, twice in the chest.’
Isabelle smiled. ‘Correct. As if the killer wanted to make sure. Which suggests it wasn’t a professional job. Workman-like, but not polished.’
‘Yet here we have only three casings.’
Laying down the bag, Jacquot picked up the tape, slid out of the booth and went to the chart table where he’d rigged up the cassette player. He slotted in the tape and pressed ‘Play’, and as he sat back down he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He knew Isabelle didn’t smoke, but offered her one anyway.
She shook her head and smiled.
‘I don’t, remember?’ It came with a whimsical smile, as at a shared memory.
Jacquot nodded, as though he’d forgotten, and lit up. As he put down the lighter and reached for the ashtray, there was a crackle from the speaker above the chart table and the sound of a phone being picked up.
24
‘OUI. J’ÉCOUTE. I’M listening.’
A man’s voice, gruff and business-like. Not so much a question, more a confirmation, as though the call had been expected.
There were no greetings. Whoever was calling came straight to the point.
‘So where are they? The boss wants to know. You said you were going to deliver them.’
‘No, I said I was going to get rid of them. C’est pas la même chose. It’s not the same thing.’
‘Well, Monsieur S wants ’em. No argument. Et vite.’
‘Well, he can’t have them. Like I said, they’re gone. Down a drain in Arenc, if he wants to go looking.’
‘Monsieur S will not be pleased.’
‘As if I could give a shit! If he wants to play with guns, tell him he’d better learn to do it properly. If I hadn’t been there to tidy up after him, he’d be sweating it in Baumettes right now. Cop killer. Tell him that. And tell him he owes me big-time.’
The connection was broken. The tape hissed.
Jacquot was about to speak when the tape came alive again.
A phone being lifted. A connection made.
‘Oui?’
‘I am not happy, Pierre-Louis.’
Once more there was no greeting. It was clear that this ‘Pierre-Louis’ would have known who was speaking, recognised the sharp, flinty voice.
There was a pause before ‘Pierre-Louis’, whoever he was, replied, ‘Your concern, not mine.’
‘Is that the way to speak to an old friend?’
There was another pause. Jacquot could almost see the answering shrug.
‘I’m told the casings are lost,’ continued the caller, presumably the Monsieur S mentioned in the previous call. ‘Or do you still have them?’
‘Got rid of. So how can I have them?’
This time the silence came from Monsieur S’s end of the line.
And then, ‘You’re certain of that?’
‘Like I said to your man, go look if you don’t believe me.’
‘So I’m going to have to take your word, am I?’
‘Ça me fait rien. I couldn’t care less whether you do or you don’t.’
‘I’m a bad man to fool with, Pierre-Louis.’
‘Moi, aussi. Now fuck off.’
Once more the connection was broken, the tape hissed.
‘That’s it,’ said Isabelle.
‘Anything on the other side?’
‘Nothing. Just those two phone messages.’
Resting his cigarette in the ashtray, Jacquot retrieved the tape and dropped it back into the envelope.
‘Strange there are no other messages,’ he said, sliding back on to the banquette. ‘Just two Ansaphone tapes, and those two conversations. Must have been expecting the calls and had the machine primed. Wanted to tape whatever was said.’
‘Any idea who they are? This Pierre-Louis and Monsieur S? They’re clearly tied in with Barsin.’
Jacquot reached for his cigarette, took a last drag and stubbed it out. He had started to shake his head when the name just came to him, as though someone had whispered it into his ear. L’Hippocampe … L’Hippocampe.
‘I remember … He was called L’Hippocampe. The Seahorse,’ Jacquot began. ‘Had some problem with his eyes, and kept a very low profile. I never met him, never knew him back then but I remember hearing Barsin mention his name one time when he thought I wasn’t listening. I got the impression he was one of Barsin’s insiders. Someone pretty big.’
‘You have a real name … something I can look up? An address?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Jacquot. ‘Lombard. Pierre-Louis Lombard. As for an address, you could try Les Baumettes. He was sent down a few years back for knifing a local scumbag called Antère who ran a posse of girls around Joliette. Last I heard he was in Les Baumettes. A long stretch.’
‘He was one of the men we matched to the Christian name, but we couldn’t be sure.’
‘Nor am I,’ corrected Jacquot. ‘It’s just a guess.’
‘It’s good enough for me,’ said Isabelle. ‘I’m glad I called by. What about this Monsieur S?’
Jacquot gave it some thought, trying to drag something back out of that time, all those years ago. He remembered he’d been seeing a girl called Agnès around then. She’d worked in the ferry office, and for some reason he couldn’t shift the image of her out of his head. Tight jeans, fluffy Angora jumpers. A small black mole just beneath the lobe of her ear. A petite brunette a few years younger than him. She smoked Boyards … Jacquot shook the memory away, and concentrated.
‘Two possibilities,’ he said slowly, reaching for another cigarette. ‘And both of them are guesses. I mean, real guesses. The first name that comes to mind is Stokowski. Armenian. He’s a big gorille, used to have one of those droopy black moustaches and long sideburns. He ran a couple of gambling joints, high-bet tables, without a licence. If Barsin had found out about it, and was putting the screws on him, Stokowski wouldn’t have hesitated pulling a gun. A nasty piece of work.’
‘Does he have a record?’
‘Oh, yes, and you’ll find prints on file.’
‘Is he still around?’
‘Still around the last I heard, and
probably still dealing the cards, spinning the wheel and loading the dice. He had a place out at Samena.’
‘And the other guess?’
‘This is a long shot … Suchet. Monsieur Bernard Suchet.’
‘Sounds familiar.’
‘You’ve been away too long, Isabelle. Bernard Suchet … head of Transports Suchet International. One of the country’s biggest road freight transport companies, with its operations centre and headquarters right here in Marseilles – on the quay at La Joliette and an office in town. You see his lorries all over. Even in Paris.’
‘Sounds just a little too respectable to be involved …’
‘Isabelle, he’s Marseillais, born and bred. And this is years ago. Back around the time Barsin was shot, Suchet would have been starting out, and like any ambitious Marseillais from some slum in the suburbs he was likely prepared to do whatever to get on. Now, of course, he’s whiter than white. Got what he needed and went straight. Or rather, he never got caught; he’s never been tied in with anything as far as I know.’
‘And Barsin knew him?’
‘Oh yes. Barsin knew him. Two or three times while we were working together, they met up in some bar while I kept the motor running. Back then he was a real tough – rolled-up sleeves on his T-shirts, a swagger, a belt and buckle he used for more than holding up his trousers. A real piece of work, believe me.’
Jacquot remembered the last time he’d seen Suchet, just a few years back. He was having lunch at Mirador, a big Mercedes parked at the kerb. He was wearing a blue silk suit, the kind that catches the light, and had a big bald head that did the same. He might have been a chief executive by then, but he’d still looked like a truck driver.
‘So you think one of them, Stokowski or this Suchet, might possibly be in line for a cop killing? Even a cop like Barsin?’
The Dying Minutes Page 9
