‘The housekeeper found them when she came in this morning,’ Isabelle was saying. ‘By the time I got here, around eleven, the local boys from L’Estaque and Nationale were crawling all over the place.’
Jacquot whistled softly. ‘Somebody wanted something pretty bad.’
Isabelle nodded. ‘That’s how it looks. More wounds on the woman, to make hubby talk I guess. Both shot in the head. No casings. And I’ll guarantee no prints anywhere. A professional job.’
‘Family? Kids?’
‘We’re still checking. But no photos anywhere, so I’d say childless.’
‘Didn’t the housekeeper know?’
‘She’s new. Just her second week.’
‘So what have you got?’
‘What you’d expect for a lawyer like Dupont. Out and about. A busy man. He kept a pretty meticulous diary. In his study. I’ll show you.’
The study was as worked over as the rest of the house: every book swept from the shelves, pictures smashed, desk drawers emptied on the floor and cast aside. A desktop computer lay on its back, the keyboard smashed through the screen. As in the salon, the shutters had been closed and the curtains drawn. The overhead light, and four wall sconces hidden behind green pleated shades, had been left on. A book, a leather-covered business diary, lay open on the desk.
‘And?’
‘I flicked through a few pages. During the week, it’s mostly professional engagements, given the names and places: meetings, dinners, drinks and receptions. Saturdays and Sundays it’s just social: lunches, suppers, playing cards with friends. Workwise, he’s been in court the last couple of weeks on the Belledaire case. Head of the defence team – and good luck on that one,’ she added.
Jacquot had read about the case. A real high-profile one for the prosecution: ‘Big’ Tito Belledaire, ‘big’ in legitimate construction, and equally ‘big’ in less legitimate sidelines – whatever put money in his pocket. Everything rumoured, but never proven. Until now. Six months earlier he’d shot a motor-cycle cop on a sliproad off the A7. The cop had taken five bullets before Belledaire drove off. But he’d survived. And identified his assailant.
‘You think there might be a tie-in with Belledaire?’
‘Possibly.’
Jacquot went round the desk and leafed through the pages, a half-page a day. There didn’t seem to be many days when there wasn’t something written in – a mix of pen and pencil jottings, names, places, longhand and capitals, the slant of these vaguely familiar.
Jacquot turned to the last entry. He didn’t have to bother reading it. Isabelle went through it for him, as though she knew it off by heart.
‘Thursday. Going over “defence prep” notes in the morning. “T.B.” Tito Belledaire. Lunch with his team in a private room at Mouche near the Palais de Justice. Afternoon in court, an early-evening drinks reception at the Opéra, then cards and supper with a couple called Rosseaux. We got the address from the wife’s diary. Up in La Rove, not far from here. Laganne and Chevin are there now, having a word. The last thing he wrote was “500 francs”, underlined, with a couple of exclamation marks. Probably winnings.’
‘Anything torn out?’ asked Jacquot.
‘Nothing.’
‘Any codes in the diary? Initials? Anything strange?’
Isabelle shook her head. ‘Not that I can see. Pretty much what you’d expect.’
‘So sometime between late last night and early this morning someone paid them a call. Or was waiting for them when they came home from La Rove.’
‘That’s how it looks.’
Jacquot noticed a phone on the floor beside the computer screen. ‘Phone records?’
‘I put in a request, incoming and outgoing, but I won’t get anything until later.’
‘Forensics?’
‘On their way, apparently.’
Jacquot nodded, shot her a look.
‘So what do I need to see? Looks like you’ve got all you need to start the ball rolling. Why bring me in on it?’
She smiled, pushed aside a desk drawer with her boot and reached down.
‘Take a look at Maître Dupont’s stationery.’
37
TYVEK. LUXEMBOURG.
Jacquot took the envelope from Isabelle and felt the same silky weave between his fingers that he’d felt aboard Constance when Isabelle had called by the previous week. He also remembered the words in the covering note, spelled out in capital letters: SOMETHING I TRUST YOU WILL FIND OF INTEREST. Slanting capital letters, like the writing in the desk diary.
A lawyer or a doctor, Jacquot had suspected. A professional man. Well-educated. And from all he knew of Dupont – vaguely recalled from shadowy interview rooms, occasionally coming up against him in court, and gleaned from the house he had lived in, the possessions he’d surrounded himself with – Jacquot was in no doubt that Maître Claude Dupont was the man who had written to a priest in Avignon and to Yves Guimpier at police headquarters.
He lifted the envelope, sniffed it. Nothing. No scent. But he was fairly certain that if he went to the couple’s bathroom he would find something woody, something that smelled of coconut, an expensive soap.
‘Alors, so I’d say we have our letter-writer. But a lawyer who keeps crucial evidence from the authorities? A man like Dupont?’ Jacquot put down the envelope and turned out his lip, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘So what do you think?’ asked Isabelle.
‘What I think is that somehow Dupont got hold of the tapes and the shell casings – maybe other things too – because he was given them. And, for whatever reason, he didn’t surrender them to the authorities but decided to put them into service.’
‘Then it has to be Lombard,’ said Isabelle, peeling off her gloves and wiping her hands on her jeans. ‘According to the phone tapes, he was the one who picked up the shell casings in La Caboucelle, and didn’t throw them away, and it was clearly Lombard who recorded the subsequent conversations with Monsieur Suchet.’
‘So what’s the link between Dupont and Lombard, do you suppose? Lawyer, client?’
‘Could be. Easy enough to check.’
‘I’d put money on it. A prison visit?’
‘Likely, too. I’ll check.’
‘But was Dupont killed for the shell casings – that missing fourth one, remember? Or for something else? Because we weren’t the only ones to get an envelope.’
‘The priest in Avignon …’
Jacquot nodded. ‘And maybe others, too. Any of whom – and I’m including our own side here – might have been given good cause to come looking for him. But how did they find out about him? How did they track him down here? They get an anonymous envelope in the post, or maybe by courier, and they know it’s Dupont? Too easy. Something like that would take time. Or inside information. And who were the killers? There must have been two or three of them to make this kind of mess. Which means someone sent them in. Someone big. Or someone with the kind of friends who don’t mind doing this sort of thing to help out a pal. It’ll be the former, if you ask me. Someone big. Someone who didn’t like what he got in the post.’ Jacquot cast around the room: the emptied shelves, the tossed drawers, the chaos of a ruthless, almost desperate search. ‘And what were they after? The missing shell case, more tapes, or something else? Because they weren’t here to teach Dupont a lesson. They wanted something he had.’
‘And did they find it?’ added Isabelle, following Jacquot’s look around the room.
‘If they did, it wasn’t easily found.’
‘You think Dupont held out? Even with them working over his wife, right in front of him?’
Jacquot shrugged, spread his hands. Questions, questions. It was always like this at an initial crime scene. Who? How? Where? When? Why? All you ever had were just a few loose pieces of a very large jigsaw … The trick was to find new pieces, and then fit them all together. Slowly to start with, then picking up speed.
From beyond the drawn curtains and closed shutters came
the sound of vehicles drawing to a halt on the gravelled drive, sliding van doors and car doors opening and closing.
As Isabelle and Jacquot came out into the hallway the first forensic boys were coming in, already masked, their hooded Nyrex suits swishing, silvered equipment cases swinging. One of the figures, shorter than his companions, stepped over to them. Jacquot recognised the red bushy eyebrows a moment before Marseilles’ senior forensics man, Dr Aristide Clisson, pulled off his mask.
‘Jacquot … Daniel. What a pleasant surprise.’ Clisson’s voice was brisk, inquisitive. If he’d had whiskers, thought Jacquot, they’d have been twitching like a squirrel’s. For that was what Clisson most reminded him of. ‘A little off your beat aren’t you?’ Clisson continued, then glanced at Isabelle.
‘I’m new,’ she said, introducing herself. ‘Chief Inspector Cassier from headquarters.’
‘New, maybe, but familiar nevertheless,’ said Clisson, shaking her hand, his eyes narrowing. ‘You have worked in Marseilles before. I remember you.’
Isabelle gave a little smile. Jacquot could see that she was impressed, maybe even flattered, that he should remember her.
But Clisson didn’t waste any more time. Releasing Isabelle’s hand, he dug in his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, snapped them on. Down to business.
‘So. Maître Dupont himself.’ Clisson gave a grunt, looked around. ‘Live well, don’t they? Lawyers, I mean.’
‘Not any more,’ said Isabelle, and pointed to the salon at the end of the hallway where the forensics crew were setting up.
Clisson pulled his mask back on. ‘I’ve been questioned … no, interrogated … by Maître Dupont more times than I care to remember. Absolutely lethal,’ he said as he strode off towards the salon, striding as only short men can do. ‘The coldest voice. Very low. Very precise. And sharp little eyes.’
One of his boys was already taking photos, the rest of the team standing back.
‘Aaaahhhhh …’ was all Clisson said when he saw the bodies.
38
‘AAAAHHHHH …’ SAID PATRIC POLINEAUX, steering himself into the main salon, the high electric whine from his wheelchair indicating full throttle. Didier and three of his boys – Léo, Zach and Milagro – all in black jeans, black tees and trainers, stood side by side in the centre of the room. On a table in front of them was a large black bag, the hold-all that Claude Dupont had retrieved from its locker at Gare Saint Charles.
‘Good work, boys.’ Polineaux brought his wheelchair to a stop, gave them each a nod. ‘Didier, stay. You three … Go get yourselves some lunch, a drink, down in the kitchen.’
When they had gone the old man turned to Didier. ‘So what have we got?’
‘I think you’ll be pleased, boss.’
He unsnapped the clasps, pulled open the zipper and dug into the case. Polineaux leaned forward, watching hungrily.
Didier started with the diamonds.
‘Rough and cut,’ he said, dropping the velvet pouch on to the table. It landed with a satisfying crunch. Then came the emeralds, the sapphires. A wad of bearer bonds. Various stock certificates and other documents, stacks of photos and a selection of video and audio tapes.
‘That it?’ said Polineaux, frowning, pushing at one of the gem pouches with a bent old finger. ‘C’est tout?’
‘Not quite. There is, of course …’ Didier reached into the bag, smiled, and heaved out ‘… the gold,’ he said, placing two bars, one after another, in a line in front of the old man.
Polineaux’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped open.
‘Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes,’ he whispered, almost trance-like, his voice thick and low with a kind of greedy hunger. He reached forward, tried to pick up one of the bars, but its weight and shape were too difficult for him to handle.
Didier knew better than to offer any help. Instead, he watched Polineaux slide the bar towards him, manoeuvre it off the table and cradle it in his arms.
‘I knew it! I knew it! Those bastards … But where’s the rest? Where’s the rest of it, hein? And who’s got it?’
Stroking the gold bar in his lap, Polineaux’s eyes settled on the notebooks, the photos, tapes and cassettes. He looked at them carefully, thoughtfully, then hoisted the bar back on to the table. He reached for the cassette nearest to him, a video in a white cardboard sleeve. He read the title on the label.
‘Alors, on commence. Didier, have Jarrive set up the television.’
39
IT WAS JUST as Jacquot had suggested. Lawyer-client. According to the records that Isabelle called up the moment she got back to headquarters Pierre-Louis Lombard was Claude Dupont’s client. Said client currently residing in Les Baumettes, just a little more than eight kilometres from her office, the other side of the city. Two hours after leaving Dupont’s house – with Jacquot following her all the way to L’Estaque before peeling off towards the autoroute with a flash of lights – she rang the bell at a guarded side-gate and entered another world, a world of straight lines, bright lights and electric shadows, distant echoes and soft murmuring, the rattle and clang of daily life in Les Baumettes Prison.
Warm rubber and stale cabbage. That’s what it smelled like. That prison smell. Never quite the same, but never more than a few subtle notes either side of that still, rich base – a thick, airless stench that filled the nose and throat. Every visit she made to a prison – in Marseilles, in Paris – it was the smell she waited for, and always hated. One time she had dabbed Chanel on her top lip, but had earned a frown from one of the guards. A cop didn’t wear perfume in prison. Now, not a minute past the stone walls and razor wire, Isabelle parted her lips and started breathing through her mouth.
‘Monsieur Ranque, the assistant warden, would like a word when you’re done,’ said the guard, leading the way to the isolation ward. ‘You won’t be long in there, so I’ll wait.’ He unlocked the door, held it open, then closed and relocked it after her.
As the key was withdrawn from the lock, Isabelle looked around: a long room with a high ceiling and lino-tiled floor, windows barred and opaque, the first two metres of wall painted a green gloss that had long lost its shine, and the rest a flaky cracked cream. There were four beds along each side of the room, a line of fluorescent tubes hanging down on thick black cables, and a pair of ceiling fans, their green metal blades turning idly, more of a trot than a canter, as though they’d long given up any hope of clearing the air. If the rest of Les Baumettes had smelled of warm rubber and stale cabbage, the smell here was altogether different. She chanced a sniff. More disinfectant now, less rubber and cabbage. But this time the air was laced with a greasy, gamey scent that she could feel settling in her hair, stroking her skin, reaching into every pore.
There was only one bed occupied, the other seven just bare mattresses with a neat fold of blankets and slipless pillows on each one. When she got to Lombard, she stopped at the foot of the bed. The man appeared to be asleep, not disturbed by the sound of the door locks, or the tap of her boots across the lino, or the small cough she gave, or the introduction she made:
‘Monsieur Lombard. I’m Chief Inspector Cassier, from police headquarters. I would like to ask you some questions.’ She leaned forward, hands on the bedrail. ‘Monsieur Lombard?’
There was no movement from the bed. No acknowledgement. Just a regular and rapid rumbling from the man’s chest, like the distant sound of a train in a tunnel. The eyes were closed, mouth open, lips flecked with dry white spittle. A tank of oxygen stood by the bed, mask and tube wrapped around the control valve.
Isabelle had called ahead, been told of Lombard’s condition, that it would likely be a wasted visit, that he was close to death. And it certainly looked that way. The only thing missing from this bedside, she decided, was a Curé in black soutane and purple stole, murmuring over his prayer book. But despite the warning, Isabelle had insisted on the visit, told them she would risk it. And when Claude Dupont’s phone records were brought to her as she was getting ready to leave
the squad room, she was glad she had. Three weeks earlier, Maître Dupont had received a phone call from Les Baumettes.
Isabelle was checking out the oxygen tank and what was on the bedside table when she became aware that Lombard’s eyes were now open, and watching her. Or rather one of them was; the other rolling up to stare past the fans and fluorescent tubes. It was difficult to hold eye contact, so she smiled to cover herself.
‘Questions?’ The rumble from his chest turned into a throaty laugh, deep and laboured, that brought up from the depths a thick wad of phlegm. Turning his head on the pillow, Lombard spat it at the tank. It landed short, at the edge of the bed, sliding into a fold of the bedsheet. He didn’t care. He turned back to her and his eyes roamed.
‘Questions? Questions?’
‘Monsieur Lombard, I appreciate you’re under no obligation to …’
‘C’est vrai,’ came another phlegmy reply, his eyes swinging this way and that. ‘No obligation.’
‘I just want to ask if you know a man called Bernard Suchet? He’s a …’
‘Crook, to his polished fingernails, and you know it.’ Each of the words came out on a panting breath, the last of them accompanied by a lip-curling grin.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Find out for yourself, why don’t you …?’
‘So tell me about your lawyer, instead. Maître Dupont, isn’t it?’
‘What of him?’
Isabelle waited a beat before she spoke again.
‘He’s dead. Murdered last night. His wife too. I saw the bodies. Did you know about that?’
Lombard didn’t reply. Just licked his lips. Swivelled his eyes around the ward.
‘He should have been more careful,’ he said at last. ‘A lesson to be learnt, n’est-ce pas? Now do me a favour, m’petite, and go fuck yourself.’
And that was the extent of her interview with Pierre-Louis Lombard. The wayward eyes closed, there was another grunt and throat-clearing, the results swilled round in his mouth as though another spit was on the cards. Isabelle stepped back from the bedrail in case it was sent in her direction, but this time it was swallowed, a scrawny Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort.
The Dying Minutes Page 14
