When Benson broke into ‘Feel Like Makin’ Love’, Jacquot slipped an arm round Claudine’s waist from behind and nuzzled her ear.
‘You are so, so beautiful, I just want to eat you up,’ he whispered.
‘If I don’t get to you first, chéri,’ she whispered back, over her shoulder, pressing her body against his. The sliding silk skin of her ao dai was so light and thin as she moved against him that it felt as though she were naked. She smelled of flowers and fruit, and her neck, where he brushed his lips, was warm and smooth.
That was when the radio clipped to his belt gave its signature bleat.
It was Brunet back-stage at the Sadi Carnot end.
‘Boss, there’s a security guard looking for you. She’s got a note for you, something from the man we’re all watching . . . She’s up in the bleachers but can’t find you.’
‘What’s she look like?’
‘Short blonde hair. Pretty. In the black France Auto Logistiques kit. The name tag says Julie.’
Jacquot looked around, straining to see over the heads of the audience. And then he spotted her, coming down the stepped aisle, a clipboard carried in the crook of her elbow and with a small torch which she flashed from side to side, like a cinema usherette checking row numbers, standing up on tiptoes to see over the crowd.
‘Got her,’ said Jacquot, waving to her, and broke the connection.
Just as Brunet said, the security guard was wearing the FAL logo on her black shirt, with a security shield below it and a clip-on photo-pass. After making her way along the row, she asked if he was Daniel Jacquot, requested identification (fortunately he had his badge), and then handed him an envelope stamped with the France Auto Logistiques logo. Inside was a folded hand-written note from a Pierre Gingelle inviting him to the singer’s back-stage suite during the short intermission. Daniel’s name had been given to the event organisers by Georges Rochet who, in his absence that evening at the opéra in Orange, had designated Jacquot his official representative. According to Gingelle’s note, Monsieur Benson simply wanted to extend his thanks for such a pleasant evening. Although it was official, a professional courtesy call, Jacquot felt a surprising thrill and blessed Georges Rochet for this unexpected kindness, knowing how much Jacquot liked the singer and how much he’d been looking forward to the concert.
‘Can you wait here, please, with my wife and her daughter, while I’m away?’ he asked.
The young woman called Julie shook her head. ‘Je regrette, Monsieur, I’m afraid I can’t do that. C’est pas possible.’
‘Then can I bring them with me?’
‘If you wish, Monsieur, but the invitation is for you alone. I have no instructions for your family.’
Jacquot knew that that wouldn’t go down well; neither Claudine nor Midou would be too entertained at being left outside the door while he had a chat with the singer. Maybe there was an after-show party, he thought. Maybe he could somehow wangle an invitation . . .
He spotted the two-way radio clipped to Julie’s belt.
‘Can you call your boss and have him let you stay here while I’m away? Tell him it’s an official police request.’
‘If you want, I’ll try.’ She pulled the radio from its holder on her belt and flicked it on. She hunched over to keep out the sound of the music on-stage, but Jacquot could just about make out what she was saying and heard the crackle of a reply. At first, it didn’t sound too good; there was a sense that his simple request would cause unnecessary problems, that it couldn’t be accommodated. There was further explanation from Julie – she was with the town’s Chief of Police, she said; it was he who had made the request – followed by another crackle of instructions. She looked up at Jacquot and smiled, held up her thumb. She’d got the okay.
‘But you must be back before the start of the second half,’ she warned him. ‘Ten minutes only, Monsieur, then I have to go.’
‘I understand,’ said Jacquot. ‘Merci bien.’ Then he tapped Claudine on the shoulder and, leaning close to her ear, told her what was happening, that Julie would be staying to keep an eye on them while he was away.
‘Just so long as you understand that if you don’t get us a pass for the party afterwards, you’ll be sleeping in the guest room. For a week.’ Claudine drew back from him with a stern, disapproving expression, but he could see that she was pleased, that at least one of them would be meeting Benson.
‘And don’t worry,’ Midou chipped in. ‘In case someone tries to kidnap us, I came prepared.’ She opened her beaded tote bag and, making sure that no one could see, she flashed the inside at him. Jacquot caught a glimpse of a service Beretta, one of the guns from the millhouse. He was about to say something when she snatched the bag back and closed it. ‘Don’t ask. You’re not taking it off us. And Maman’s got hers, too.’
Jacquot looked stunned.
‘You didn’t say not to, and we always keep one in the car,’ said Claudine.
He was about to say something when Julie tapped his arm.
‘The break’s at the end of this song, Monsieur. You must hurry. Just go down to the back of the bleachers where you came in and wait for Sylvie. She’s coming over from back stage and will show you where to go.’
Up on stage, a spotlight settled on the keyboard player and the first tinkling notes of ‘The Greatest Love Of All’ brought another rising roar of approval from the crowd when they recognised the intro.
‘I’ll be back before the second half,’ shouted Jacquot into Claudine’s ear, and then kissed her neck. ‘I’ll give George your love.’
Smiling his thanks at Julie, who took his place beside Claudine, Jacquot made his way to the aisle with many s’il vous plaîts, and je m’excuses. Even the aisle was crowded with people, dancing and swaying to the beat, but he made it to the top of the stand and then took the stairway down to ground level. When he reached the last two steps, he saw another woman, also in the FAL security strip, heading in his direction. She looked more senior, more authoritative than Julie, with the name Sylvie printed on her photo-pass.
‘Chief Inspector Jacquot? Would you follow me please?’
‘Bien sûr, oui,’ he replied and kept close as she led him from the bleachers to the far end of the stage. They stopped by a wired gate closing off the pavement leading to the Roman arch. On the other side was a sound-recording truck, its tailgate open and steps leading up to a mini-recording studio where three sound engineers were poring over their consoles. Jacquot couldn’t help but feel the quickening of his heartbeat. This was just amazing.
Beside him, Sylvie’s radio came on. She reached for it, switched to receive and listened. Away from the bleachers, here behind the stage, he could hear more clearly: a request for her to report to G Section where there’d been an incident.
‘Oui, oui. J’arrive, I’m coming.’
She switched off her radio and turned to Jacquot with an apologetic smile.
‘Can you wait here a moment, please?’
‘Sure, of course. Is there anything the matter? You need any help?’
Please, thought Jacquot, please don’t let anything get in the way of my meeting George Benson.
‘Nothing at all,’ she assured him. ‘There are always problems at these kind of things – probably some kid trying to get on-stage, or drugs maybe.’ Sylvie shrugged, managed a short smile. ‘You never know what’s going to happen. But in case I get held up, do you have the letter with you . . . the invitation my colleague gave you? And your ID?’
Jacquot patted his pockets and nodded.
Sylvie looked relieved.
‘Parfait, parfait. In a minute Monsieur Gingelle’s assistant will come for you, to let you in,’ she explained, gesturing at the padlock. ‘Her name is Claire. Tall, red hair.’
‘No problem,’ said Jacquot, giving her a smile.
She returned the smile and then headed back the way they had come, reaching for her radio as she walked.
Out of Jacquot’s line of sight, Benson was coming to t
he end of ‘Greatest Love’, and Jacquot tapped his foot to the beat, pulled out his cigarettes and lit up. Up on the bleachers, he’d never have been able to manage it; this was a perfect opportunity. In the recording van on the other side of the fence, one of the engineers caught his eye and gave him a strange look – as though he shouldn’t be smoking there either – but Jacquot paid no attention.
Up on-stage, Benson brought the ballad to a close and the audience erupted. Any moment now, the lights would dim, Benson would leave the stage for his break, and Jacquot would have his moment.
But the lights didn’t dim. Instead, he heard George Benson’s voice ring out over the place, deep and rich and hugely amplified.
‘I hear there’s a rumour y’all thinking here that my old friend Al is gonna be joining me tonight. Well, I sure am sorry to disappoint you folks.’
There was a wafting sigh of disappointment from the crowd, and a whispered ‘merde’ from Jacquot who’d hoped, along with everyone else, that the legendary jazz man would be making an appearance, and that he, Jacquot, might even get to meet him as well. But Benson was speaking again. ‘Which means, my friends, you’re just gonna have to make do with another good old friend of mine . . . Monsieur Carlos Santana.’
Whoops, whistles, the place went wild. Jacquot, too, was stunned to think that Carlos Santana would be appearing. And then the roar of the crowd increased even more. It was suddenly clear that Carlos Santana was coming on-stage. Right now, when there was supposed to be a break and Jacquot was about to meet George Benson. In the recording van, one of the engineers pushed back from his console and Jacquot caught sight of a small monitor showing Benson and Santana at the mic together, and out on stage he could hear the first twanging, sinuous notes of ‘Lately’ as the two guitarists started up.
‘Help you?’ On the other side of the gate a security guard had appeared from nowhere. Behind him, the sound engineer looked on from his console.
Jacquot wondered if the engineer had called the man in. He pulled out his letter.
‘I’m Daniel Jacquot. Chief Inspector Jacquot. Sylvie from FAL told me to wait here for Pierre Gingelle’s assistant, Claire.’
‘Who?’
‘Claire. I don’t know her surname. She’s . . .’
But the guard was frowning, looking at him oddly, and Jacquot felt a sudden wash of doubt flood through him. His stomach turned and his blood ran chill.
Something wasn’t right.
‘Claire. She’s Pierre Gingelle’s assistant. The event organiser,’ he insisted, flicking away his cigarette.
Every word he spoke sounded hollow, wrong . . .
The guard started shaking his head, just as Jacquot had known he would.
‘No Pierre Gingelle that I know of,’ he said, shifting his beefy shoulders, settling his jowls into his collar and hooking his thumbs into his belt. ‘And no Claire, neither.’ He had the look of a man getting ready to use some muscle. ‘You got any ID?’ he asked.
But Jacquot didn’t bother to reply.
Instead, he spun round and raced back to the bleachers.
As fast as he could.
And as he ran he prayed he was wrong, prayed he was mistaken. But as he started up the steps he knew he’d been had, knew he’d been fooled – Sylvie, Julie, Claire, Pierre Gingelle. It was all a set-up. But they’d been so convincing, the two women. All the FAL kit, the clipboards, the torches, the security passes, the two-way radios. The note mentioning Rochet. The intro call from Brunet. Even Julie saying she couldn’t stay with Claudine and Midou and having to make a call to her supervisor to get it okayed. Whoever they were they had done their homework and left nothing to chance, even taken some risks – relying on his own gullibility.
And then he remembered Julie’s stubby little fingers, working the channels on her radio.
The dirty fingernails.
He was at the top of the stairs when he remembered that, and with an icy stab at his heart, already knowing what he would find, he pushed through the dancers on the stepped aisle as Benson and Santana worked their strings on stage.
Pausing two steps above their row Jacquot looked down across the swaying heads.
No Julie.
No Midou.
No Claudine.
58
‘JEAN! C’EST MOI.’
Jacquot was trembling, breathless, the police radio slippery in his sweaty hand. He was on the top level of the bleachers, scanning the crowd below, oblivious to the performance on stage. Another huge roar had greeted the opening chords of ‘Give Me The Night’, but Jacquot heard nothing beyond his own thumping heart and the crackling of his radio.
‘You sound like you’ve been doing some dancing, Boss,’ said Brunet. ‘You getting ready to meet the man?’
‘There is no man. No nothing. It’s all a con, Jean. They conned us. Where are you?’
Brunet snapped to.
‘Same place. Corner of Carnot and Bournissac.’
‘Stay there. I’ll find you. And put out an all-points alert for four women, two in FAL kit. Maybe a VW too. Our boys here, and all the centres – Apt, Manosque, Pertuis – and the autoroute, north and south. Tout le monde.’
‘T’as pigé.’ You got it.
By the time Jacquot reached Brunet – after scrambling down from the bleachers and through the gate where only moments before he’d waited for Pierre Gingelle, flashing his badge at anyone who stood in his way on his dash round the back of the stage – the initial onslaught of loss and fear and anger had been replaced by a more focussed, analytical frame of mind, everything switching to automatic.
Where could they be?
Where were they being taken?
And what could he do about it?
He didn’t let himself stop to think how much time he had to do it.
‘All points alerted,’ said Brunet, steering his boss into the bookshop doorway, just a few steps away from the loose, swaying crowd on Sadi Carnot, effectively at the back of the stage. ‘But there’s going to be a lot of traffic pretty soon.’ He nodded towards the stage where George Benson, with his back to them, was starting the wind-up. On this side of the place the acoustics were different from the seated area and bleachers, the music batting down from the steep sides of the St-Jacques hill with a tinny, out of synch echo.
‘It’ll be just as difficult for them,’ said Jacquot, looking round.
Brunet’s radio crackled.
Both men heard the message. From a squad car on the outskirts of Cavaillon to Headquarters Despatch. A shooting on Avenue Dupont. A car off the road. Another car stolen. A single casualty. Male.
‘They’re heading for the autoroute,’ said Jacquot, almost to himself. Gesturing at Brunet’s radio with his own, he asked, ‘Any details?’
Brunet raised the radio and passed on the question.
‘Vehicle off the road is a black VW,’ came the response. ‘Rear tyre shot out. Witnesses heard muffled gunshots prior to crash. Owner of a stolen taxi says a woman flagged him down, ordered him out at gunpoint.’
‘Just the one woman?’ asked Brunet.
The radio crackled again. ‘That’s all,’ came the reply. ‘Says she floored him. Doesn’t remember anything else.’
‘When was this?’
‘A few minutes ago. We were filling up with gas just down the road. Heard the commotion and got down here tout de suite.’
‘Allons-y,’ said Jacquot, grabbing Brunet’s sleeve.
At close to midnight on a Saturday and with the concert only just concluding – now a rackety, distant soundtrack beyond the rooftops – the road out of town was busier than normal, traffic already starting to back up on Verdun, slowed down by the obstruction up ahead on Dupont. With lights flashing and siren wailing the squad car he and Brunet had commandeered on the corner of Sadi Carnot and Demille overtook the single line of stalled outbound traffic. It wasn’t long before they saw other flashing lights up ahead, two police units and an ambulance already on the scene, traffic cones put round the
rear end of a black VW Beetle jutting out of a tree-lined ditch.
Pulling up beside the cones Jacquot leapt out and hurried over to the VW, following the silvery scar along Dupont where the wheel rim had scraped and gouged a swerving path across the road surface. Clambering down the side of the ditch, noting the FAL decals plastered onto the VW’s back windscreen and bodywork, Jacquot reached the open driver’s door. The car was a mess inside, the seats clear but the back and front footwells a jumble of clothing and rubbish thrown forward when the VW had ploughed down into the ditch. The back of the driver’s seat had also been tipped forward, but not, Jacquot suspected, from the impact since the passenger seat remained in an upright position. Given the VW’s limited space, Jacquot guessed that Claudine and Midou had been dumped on the back seat, out of sight, maybe covered in a blanket, while the two sisters took the front seats, and that the driver’s seat had been locked forward to more easily get them out after the crash.
Thanks to the reek of burnt rubber from the shredded tyre, the steely scent of scorched metal from the buckled wheel rim, and the sharp, dusty smell of cordite in the VW’s tumbled interior, Jacquot knew that there was little chance of his identifying any remaining trace of Dyethelaspurane. But he had no doubt that that was what the sisters had used to put Claudine and Midou out of action, showing them to the ‘official’ car beneath the bleachers, for whatever reason, before subduing the pair of them with drug-drenched cloths. Except that one of them – Midou or Claudine – had not been put down as effectively as planned, but had managed to find a gun and shoot out the tyre.
Jacquot wondered what the cost of that action had been – in terms of injury from the subsequent crash, or reprisal from the sisters. It was not something he wanted to dwell on. Pushing away from the car, he climbed back out of the ditch and found a sergeant of gendarmes waiting for him.
‘There was an injury?’ he asked.
‘The taxi driver,’ the sergeant replied. ‘You’ll find him in the ambulance, getting stitched up.’
Blood Counts Page 23
