‘And you can also confirm, here, in front of your counsel, that the telephone number, the one I mentioned earlier – 43 67 33 58 – is yours. For the lodge, I believe you said?’
‘Correct.’
‘The number is not listed. Am I right?’
‘You are.’
‘And it was recently changed?’
‘Yes, it was. But not at my request. SudTelecom made the changes when the renovation work began at Roucas Blanc. New lines had to be installed.’
‘So can you think of any reason why the Manichella sisters might have that new number?’
The question caught Virginie Cabrille by surprise. She stiffened just a fraction, then her shoulders straightened.
‘I can think of no reason.’
‘No explanation?’
‘None that I can think of, Chief Inspector.’
Sitting beside her, Maître Paul was following the exchange but Jacquot could sense a certain discomfort creeping in. He glanced at the lawyer. He was right. There was a tension in the man’s shoulders, a frown forming above his spectacles. Too much was going on here that he didn’t know about, hadn’t prepared for, too much of an edge in the slant of Jacquot’s questions, which suggested that he was squaring up the nail before the hammer came crashing down. It was exactly the impression that Jacquot had wanted to convey. That of an iron-clad case. Except he knew it wasn’t.
‘And would I also be correct in assuming that you do not know the current whereabouts of Madame Claudine Eddé and her daughter, Midou Bécard?’
Maître Paul’s frown deepened.
Virginie Cabrille put a hand on her lawyer’s arm.
‘The Chief Inspector’s lover,’ she explained. ‘And her daughter. Apparently they’re missing. Which is what all this bother is about. As I told you, the police seem to think that I have something to do with it. Isn’t that so, Chief Inspector?’
‘I don’t think, Mademoiselle. I know.’
Then Jacquot turned to Maître Paul.
‘Which is why, Monsieur, your client will remain here at police headquarters until arrangements can be made to have her transferred to more suitable lodgings.’
Jacquot leaned across the table, switched off the tape recorder and retrieved the tape. He got to his feet, slid the tape into his pocket and then looked hard at Virginie Cabrille.
There was one more card to play, the only one left, and he played it.
‘Unless, of course, you choose to help the authorities with their investigation, with any information you may have in your possession.’
There. He had said it. Nothing less than the offer of a deal, a way out for Virginie Cabrille, a chance for her to avoid prosecution. He hated doing it, hated every word, but time was short and he knew now that he had no option. Not with the clock ticking and Claudine’s and Midou’s safety at stake.
‘As I say, it could all be very different, Mademoiselle,’ he continued, less hostile now, desperate to get something from their encounter, even if it meant hand-feeding her the lines. ‘Given your late father’s professional activities, his . . . associations . . . Maybe you heard something? Perhaps a rumour in Marseilles?’
Jacquot could see that Virginie Cabrille knew exactly what he was doing, what he was offering.
‘Nothing to do with you, of course. But useful, possibly valuable information to pass on to the authorities,’ Jacquot said. ‘Now that you come to think of it . . . ? Maybe some connection? Why, you could be out of here . . .’
As he spoke Virginie Cabrille smiled, a shrewd, calculating smile, as though they were sharing a private joke. The smile unnerved him. But then, the smile slid away and she started to shake her head.
‘I regret not, Chief Inspector. Otherwise, of course, I would be only too happy to help.’
70
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON AND the house in the hills above Pélissanne was silent, with just an occasional stop-start shivering and cranking from the old fridge in the kitchen, and the slow ticking hum of a ceiling fan. Out on the back porch, where Marina nursed a rum and Coke and smoked her last cigarette, it was a different story. The sun might have slipped behind the ridge, leaving the house and garden in shadow, but the heat stayed on, still and heavy, the slope of garden and surrounding trees alive with the insistent drilling buzz of insects.
It had been a long day, spent clearing the house, packing suitcases, and burning anything that could be burnt in the salon’s open fireplace. Nothing to be forgotten, her sister had said, nothing to be overlooked. The house to be left as clean as they’d found it. And all the time, whenever an opportunity presented itself, Marita had grumbled on about the car. In police custody. With whatever they’d left inside. And their fingerprints all over it.
‘Just as well they dabbed the cousins then,’ Marina had told her, ‘and not us.’
But Marita would have none of it. They’d made a mistake, and it was Marina’s fault, and she knew that her elder sister would hold it against her for as long as she could. One more thing to blame on her. It had only stopped when Marita went upstairs for a rest, and Marina was left to supervise the fire in the hearth.
Now, sitting on the terrace, she was hungry and bored. And down to her last cigarette. There wasn’t much left to drink either – just a splash of rum, no Coke, no wine, no coffee, no milk. And the fridge and cupboards as good as empty. Which made the drifting scent of a neighbourhood barbecue all the sharper.
As well as the hunger and boredom, Marina also had to acknowledge a growing sense of dissatisfaction; the thought of leaving the mainland for the family farm in the hills above Corte was not one that filled her with any great delight. When they’d first arrived on the mainland, the end of their adventure had seemed just a vague and distant prospect. But now that it was so close – a day or two away at the most – Marina felt a strange and unexpected sense of loss.
The truth was, she didn’t really want to go home. She was enjoying it here, and there was nothing much for her in Tassafaduca. It was different for Marita, of course; she had the children, her husband (soon to be released from prison), and the farm to run. But for Marina there was nothing more to look forward to than the full-time care of their increasingly frail but demanding parents, playing second fiddle to her elder sister, and a weekly visit to Corte for the market. Hardly the kind of future to set her pulse racing.
As she sat there on the porch, Marina wondered whether Mademoiselle Virginie might set something up for her. Some kind of job at the house in Marseilles, like Tomas and Taddeus. A housekeeper perhaps, someone to keep the place in order. Or maybe she’d just split. Go her own way. Find a new life. As she stubbed out her cigarette, she decided she wouldn’t be taking the ferry home. Somehow she’d give Marita the slip and . . .
‘I’ve had an idea.’ It was Marita.
Marina’s heart leapt. Her sister had come down from her room, out onto the porch, and she hadn’t heard a sound.
‘Merde alors! You scared the life out of me . . .’
Marita chuckled, and pulled up a chair.
‘You should be on your guard, petite.’
Marina always hated that diminutive ‘petite’, but she knew that when her sister used it, it meant she was in a good mood. Their earlier contretemps appeared to have been forgotten.
‘Idea?’ Marina asked, noting that Marita had re-dyed her hair, back to its original dull black.
‘How to dump the bodies. And get out of here. Get home.’
The first two propositions were of interest. The third was not.
‘How?’
‘We hire a taxi. Tonight. For a trip to Marseilles.’
‘And the women?’
‘In the boot.’
Marina considered this.
‘What about the driver?’ she asked. ‘Won’t he have something to say about it?’
‘That’s the beauty of the plan. We kill him too, soon as he gets here. Put him in the boot with the women. Then we drive to Marseilles, dump the car and walk away. By
the time they’re found, we’ll be back on the farm.’
Oh, no, I won’t, thought Marina.
Instead she said, ‘We’ll need to find the right kind of taxi.’
Marita frowned.
‘The right kind of taxi?’
‘Driver, I mean. The right kind of driver. A weed . . . a twig of a man. Not like that carpenter guy in Marseilles. Getting him up on that saw table, remember? Someone we can lift easily, toss in the boot. And we don’t want some muscle-bound gorille to deal with either.’
Marita started to nod.
‘Makes sense,’ she said. ‘And better make sure it’s not a Citroën either.’
‘Which means,’ replied Marina, ‘that we’d better check them out. Take one in to town, another back. Choose the most suitable. Which is just as well. I need to get some cigarettes. And whisky, too, if you want a drink. You finished your last bottle.’
‘A drink would be good,’ said Marita. ‘You got a number?’
‘In the kitchen drawer. Loads of cards.’
‘Okay. But no hanging around. There and back. And Pélissanne, not Salon.’
71
THE CALL CAME THROUGH ON Brunet’s phone at a little after seven o’clock. Jacquot, who was standing by his assistant’s desk, picked it up.
‘She here. Now.’ The caller didn’t bother to identify himself, his voice low and urgent. Jacquot could almost see the hand cupping the mouthpiece. The voice was also vaguely familiar.
‘Who is this, please?’
‘Gino Condotti. Pizzeria Blazots.’
Jacquot stiffened.
‘The woman in the photo?’
‘That’s the one. Sitting right here. A table in the window.’
‘Is she alone?’
‘Not alone, no. She with a man, a young man. The taxi driver, I think.’
‘Taxi driver?’
‘There’s an empty taxi in the car park.’
‘Did they come in together?’
‘I don’ know. I arrive just a few minutes ago and they already here. Half their pizzas are gone, so maybe thirty, forty minutes.’
‘Gino, try to keep them there as long as possible. Offer them coffees, some of those biscotti of yours. A drink on the house, okay?’
‘Si, si. I unnerstand. But come quick, eh?’
Jacquot didn’t waste a moment. He ordered up two squad cars, four képis and, on his way down to the underground car park, hauled Brunet out of the bunk room where he’d spent the last couple of hours. Ten minutes later they were thundering across the Durance bridge and looping round on to the autoroute, blasting through the Péage gate with sirens wailing and lights flashing. It took a further fourteen minutes to reach Salon, Jacquot briefing his team by radio as their convoy howled along the fast lane, sirens and lights doused as they neared their slip road exit.
Sunday evening traffic was light after the autoroute and it didn’t take long for them to reach the Blazots trading estate. As instructed, the two marked squad cars took up positions off the main road, hidden down side streets and ready to give chase if the need arose, while Jacquot and Brunet coasted into the car park and came round the back of the block as though they were making a delivery at the trade entrance. Condotti was waiting for them, as agreed, and came hurrying over. His face said it all.
‘They gone. They don’ wan’ coffee, or biscotti, or drinks. Just each other is what I’m sayin’. They out of here like their pants on fire.’
‘Merde,’ said Jacquot. ‘How long?’
‘Just a few minutes. Maybe five, six . . .’
‘What kind of car?’
‘A blue Mercedes. With a PelléCab light on the roof and the company name on the door panels. They a local firm, over in Pélissanne.’
‘Any idea where they were going?’
‘Somewhere private, I guess.’
‘I mean which direction.’
‘Back across the autoroute, that was the way they were headed.’
‘You know where the office is, for Pellécab?’
‘We got their card, all taxi cards – for customers who want a lift home. I bring it for you, here.’ He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Jacquot through the driver’s window. ‘The cab number is eleven. I write it on the back.’
‘Gino, merci bien,’ said Jacquot, passing the card to Brunet.
‘Tell her when she get her Loto winnings she come here and spend it, okay?’
Condotti gave Jacquot a wink, and then stood back as he swung back out into the car park and on to the road. Up ahead, the two squad cars pulled out to follow, keeping a hundred metres back as instructed.
It didn’t take long to locate the PelléCab office, a whitewashed, single floor property on the corner of Gambetta and Charles de Gaulle in central Pélissanne. It wasn’t much larger than a domestic garage, two of their cabs drawn up to the kerb, drivers sitting outside on an old sofa, smoking and chatting, waiting for calls.
Once again the two squad cars held back, pulling into a Post Office car-park near by to await instructions while Jacquot parked beside the cabs and went straight into the office. Its front door and every window stood wide open, to bring in some evening cool after the heat of the day which had left the small room stuffy and smelling of plastic, bad coffee and cigarette smoke.
The dispatcher, a worn-looking woman in her fifties, hair dyed red, face puffy and punctured like an old balloon, sat behind a wire-glass window and gave Jacquot a squinting look through a curl of cigarette smoke.
‘I’m looking for a cab.’
‘Then you come to the right place, Monsieur,’ she said, with a look on her face. She’d just seen him get out of a car. What did he need a cab for?
‘And a driver,’ continued Jacquot. ‘Number eleven.’
The woman sighed, rolled her shoulders, as though she’d known this wasn’t a routine call, preparing herself for bad news.
‘And you are?’
Jacquot showed his badge.
‘What’s he done now, then?’
‘He’s not in any trouble. It’s the fare he picked up we want a word with. A young woman. It wouldn’t have been more than an hour ago? I just need the pick-up address.’
‘Well, he didn’t get anything booked through here. And he’s off tonight anyway.’ The woman finished her cigarette and mashed it out in a tin ashtray.
‘He moonlight?’
‘They all moonlight, chéri. Scribble their own numbers on the back of our cards. Special rates. Not much we can do about it. Just so long as they turn up for their shifts when they’re meant to.’ She nodded past Jacquot at the drivers outside on the bench. ‘The older ones are always the best, the most reliable. It’s the young ones like Albert take advantage.’
‘Albert?’
‘Albert Garbachon. Al.’
‘Can you call him in?’
‘If he’s in the car and got his radio on, sure. You want me to try?’
‘Just say you got a fare for Aix and no one to take it.’
‘Like that happens,’ grunted the woman, picking up a desk mic and putting the call through.
‘Al . . . Albert, you there? Got a fare for Aix, you interested? Everyone else is out.’
There was a crackle of static. She repeated the call, but there was no response.
‘Either he’s in it and switched off,’ said the woman, ‘or he’s out playing.’
‘You got a home address?’
‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘Lives out on St-Cannat, with his mother. Can’t remember the number but the house is painted pink and there’s a palm tree out front. You can’t miss it.’
72
THE PALM TREE WAS A sorry sight, set out on the pavement in a panelled wooden container that looked like it doubled as a waste bin, any sign of soil hidden beneath a layer of accumulated rubbish. The palm stood no more than two metres high, webbed with hairy bark, its thick collar of brown leaves drooping beneath a dozen dusty spears. The house behind it looked equally unlov
ed, a single-storey rose-coloured villa surrounded by a green metal fence, the paint blistered and stained, the metal fence panels rusted and warped. A pair of gateless brick pillars framed the entrance to a short drive which led to a plastic, corrugated lean-to on the side of the building. Even without getting out of the car Jacquot could see there was no sign of a blue Mercedes.
Reaching for the radio mic, he issued his instructions to the squad cars that had pulled up behind him. One car to go back and stake out the taxi office, the other to drive round town. If either team saw the Mercedes, they were to make no move, just call it in. As for Jacquot and Brunet, they stayed where they were, a few metres back from the palm tree, and settled down to watch and wait.
Taking advantage of the stop, Brunet flicked back his seat and closed his eyes while Jacquot smoked three Gitanes on the trot, tapping their unfiltered ends against the driver’s door panel before lighting up. It was an agonising delay and he found it hard to contain his impatience and anxiety, asking himself the same questions over and over again, and always persuading himself he was giving truthful answers.
Were they still alive? Yes.
Were they close? Yes.
Was he going to find them? Yes
And save them? Yes, yes, yes.
It all seemed so unlikely, sitting there in a squad car on a Sunday evening, on the broad, empty expanse of boulevard St-Cannat, watching an occasional car slide past, not a single pedestrian, the only sounds a whistle of breath from Brunet, a lazy chatter of cicadas and the distant sound of a television. Yet somewhere close by, not too far from here, Claudine and Midou were being held by two cold, callous killers who’d already murdered six people in the space of a few months.
Claudine and Midou.
Soon, God; let him get to them soon, he prayed.
Before it was too late.
He was reaching for his fourth cigarette when he saw the Mercedes in his rear-view mirror. It cruised past them and lurched up over the curb to park in the driveway of the rose-coloured villa. Brakelights went out, the car shuddered as the engine was switched off. But only one person got out – the driver, Albert Garbachon. He wore jeans, sneakers and a tucked-in green polo shirt with the collar up. A hefty gold chain swung from his wrist.
Blood Counts Page 28
