A death in time, p.1
A Death in Time, page 1
PRAISE FOR THE CAPTAIN DARAC MYSTERIES
IMPURE BLOOD:
“Great plot, appealing hero, glorious setting plus taut writing – a real winner”
Walker, author of the bestselling Bruno Courrèges novels
“Impressive… will delight fans of international crime”
Booklist
FATAL MUSIC:
“Pulls you along like an iron bar to a magnet. Crime and mystery readers will consume every last morsel of this book”
Criminal Element Magazine
“The road to the logical solution is full of surprises”
Publishers Weekly
BOX OF BONES:
“An accomplished piece of crime fiction. Captain Paul Darac has become, without doubt, my favourite foreign detective created by a Brit since the late Michael Dibdin gave us Aurelio Zen”
Award-winning critic Mike Ripley, Shots eZine
“The plot, filled with enough twists and turns for a corkscrew, is intriguing while never losing touch with either reality or humanity”
Crime Review
KNOCK ’EM DEAD:
“Pin sharp… A winner from page one”
Dagger-winning author Jim Kelly
“The best Darac Mystery yet! Peter Morfoot’s jazz-loving French detective will once again delight his readers”
Fiction
ESSENCE OF MURDER:
“While the many subplots and numerous characters might hamper a less-gifted writer, Morfoot’s fluency ably carries the reader through the always intriguing complexity of the investigation and these intertwined lives”
Bruce Crowther, Jazz Journal
Captain Darac Mysteries
Impure Blood
Fatal Music
Box of Bones
Knock ’Em Dead
Essence of Murder
A Death in Time
Galileo Publishers
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ISBN: 9781915530868
© 2025 Peter Morfoot
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
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Printed in Poland
For Floss and Vi
Contents
PRAISE FOR THE CAPTAIN DARAC MYSTERIES
CORE CHARACTERS
Tuesday March 18th 2014
Friday, March 14th
Saturday, March 15th
Sunday, March 16th
Monday, March 17
Tuesday, March 18th
Wednesday, March 19th
Thursday, May 1st
DARAC MYSTERY SERIES
SOME BACKGROUND READING
PLAYLIST OF ARTISTS AND NUMBERS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CORE CHARACTERS
The Brigade Criminelle of Nice
Agnès Dantier: Commissaire
Paul Darac: Captain
Roland Granot: Lieutenant
Alejo ‘Bonbon’ Busquet: Lieutenant
Yvonne Flaco: Officer
Max Perand: Officer
Francine ‘Frankie’ Lejeune: Captain, Vice Squad.
Jean-Pierre ‘Armani’ Tardelli: Captain, Narcotics Squad
Forensics
Raul ‘R.O.’ Ormans: Senior Forensic Analyst
Erica Lamarthe: Principal Technician
Pathology
Deanna Bianchi: Chief Pathologist
Carl Barrau: Deputy Chief Pathologist
Djibril ‘Map’ Mpensa: Pathologist
Lami Toto: Technician
Patricia Lebrun: Technician
Other Officers
Astrid Pireque: Sketch Artist
Jean-Jacques ‘Lartou’ Lartigue: Crime Scene Co-ordinator
Serge Paulin: Beat Officer
Alain Charvet: Duty Officer
Wanda Korneliuk: Patrol Car Driver
Farid Haloud: Narcotics
Charlie Presse: Narcotics
Judiciary
Jules Frènes: Public Prosecutor
Albert Reboux: Examining Magistrate
At The Blue Devil Jazz Club
Eldridge ‘Ridge’ Clay: club owner
Pascal Malata: doorman
Khara Oliveira: waitress
Roger Oliveira: chef
The Didier Musso Quintet*
Didier Musso: piano and bandleader
Maxine Walda: drums
Luc Gabron: bass
Paul Darac: guitar
Dave Blackstock: tenor sax
Trudi ‘Charlie’ Pachelberg: alto sax
Jacques Quille: trumpet
* It is something of a running gag at the club that Didier Musso’s group of high-quality local musicians is always billed as the Didier Musso Quintet irrespective of the number of players on board at any particular time.
Tuesday March 18th
2014
ONE
Narrow, labyrinthine and hazardous, the path through Le Bois Empoisonné had fallen into disuse decades ago. These days, few were aware it had ever existed and fewer still recalled where it had once led. The boys knew nothing of its history. They just knew that, twisty, scary and best of all their secret, the path led somewhere really special.
The riskiest part came near the end. First, they had to squeeze through a gap in the fence directly opposite the gateman’s caravan and if the miserable old sod happened to look up from his paper at that moment, their game would be over before it began. If he didn’t, the cover provided by the long stand was their next objective, yet safe passage was not guaranteed even there. The stand consisted of just three tiers of open seating clustered in groups with aisles in between. At the penultimate aisle, the boys had to break cover again as they crossed the athletics track that encircled the pitch. If the gateman spotted them at this stage, it would still take him a good five minutes to limp his way to the far end of the ground and boot them off. Their aim though, was to get as much pitch time as possible.
This morning promised more fun than usual: the boys were in possession of a brand-new football, and as if that weren’t enough, they had barely glimpsed the pitch itself when an even more thrilling prospect presented itself.
‘Nets!’ the smaller boy blurted out, unable to stay his excitement. ‘They’ve got the nets up!’
‘Quiet, Shit For Brains. Arsehole will hear us.’
But Arsehole, it seemed, had seen or heard nothing and with the threat of red cards receding with every stolen step, the older boy was soon booting their new ball as high as he could towards the goal. The pair sprinted on to the forbidden turf, jinking this way and that like foals let out on Spring grass. The ball bounced with a thump, climbing as if weightless into the clear blue sky and as it fell once more, the older boy, adjusting the angle and speed of his approach, met it on the full.
‘Benzema shoots…’
The ball arced towards the target. The older boy froze. Would it, would it..?
‘Ye-es!’ Mimicking his hero’s moves, he saluted the crowd as the ball whipped and fizzed around the net. ‘He scores! Benzegoal, Benzegoal!’
‘Me, me now! I’m Yaya Touré. You go in goal.’
‘Shh, Yaz.’ Shielding his eyes against the early morning sun, the striker-turned-keeper scanned the area for signs of trouble. All appearing quiet, he collected the ball and rolled it invitingly towards the penalty spot.
In the caravan, Eric the gateman took a sip of his third mocha of the morning, rubbed his bad leg and glanced towards the far end of the ground.
‘Ah.’
He smiled, touched that there were still football-mad youngsters prepared to risk a tongue lashing or worse for the dream of playing on a proper pitch. Three-and-in to win the World Cup before school – why not? And to give some substance to those dreams, although Le Stade Walter Vallain’s tired old 2,000-seater could never be mistaken for Le Stade de France, Wembley or the Maracanã, it did boast a near-perfect playing surface. Indeed, some believed it superior to the swish new Allianz Riviera up the road, the top-flight 37,000-seat stadium which was home to “Le Gym,” the city’s top-flight team, L’OGC Nice.
Seeing the kids were enjoying themselves even more than usual this morning – the magical effect of the nets – he decided to give them another five minutes before shooing them away with threats of consequences should they ever return. Not that he would admit it to the stadium’s management, but he knew the kids would take no notice. And he was glad of
The older boy must have been, what... Ten? Yet Eric could tell he would make a decent player in time. But it was the younger boy – his brother? – he was the one. A natural. A natural, though, who had just missed an open goal.
‘Go get it!’ the keeper shouted, as the ball skidded away towards the athletics track.
Eric grinned as he watched the younger boy tear after his quarry only for his brother to charge up behind him, turning the chase into a footrace. Had junior intended to land the ball in the steeplechase water jump set into the track’s infield, he couldn’t have taken more perfect aim and sure enough, it plopped in just as the pair arrived too fast to avoid a watery conclusion to their sprint. Eric couldn’t help laughing as, splashing into the jump, the boys lost their footing and fell in headlong. In scrambling to their feet, they fell over one another again but finally upright, they stood transfixed. Eric’s smile faded. A cry rent the air and as they turned to run, the old man set down his coffee and made as quickly as he could for the door.
‘Hey! What’s up, boys? Don’t go! You’ve left your ball!’
By the time Eric had taken off his slippers, put on his boots and locked up the caravan, the boys had already gone. At the jump, the first thing he clocked was the abandoned ball. But something else had found its way into the water. Something bulky. He’d read in Nice-Matin that fly tipping was an increasing problem and for a stupid few seconds, he wondered who on earth would have considered this a suitable site.
Then he saw the body lying prone in the water, and the battered, bloody mess that had been the back of its head.
TWO
Over in the old town, bells competing to toll the Angelus drifted across Place Saint Sépulcre in a slippage of pitch and rhythm that had once so inspired the jazz musician in Paul Darac, he’d used it as the dominant motif in a piece he composed for his group. This morning, the dog-tired detective in him felt quite differently about things. And if it was too early in the day for clanging dissonance, in or out of time, it was certainly too early to be taking a right uppercut to the nose. Especially on his day off.
‘Breaking,’ he said sleepily into his wife’s ear. ‘Your daughter has just pasted me a good one on the schnozz.’
Drawing up her knees, Frankie turned languorously on to her side. ‘Did you, Lily?’ she murmured, her eyes still closed. ‘Good girl.’
‘Good? Attempted patricide at 7 o’clock in the morning?’
‘Came out wrongly. I hope she showed remorse. That’s what I meant.’
Nestled in the crook of her father’s arm, Lily burped, giggled and, changing her point of attack, mounted a concerted double-footed barrage.
‘Only if remorse means an all-out assault on the ribs,’ he said, though a pair of tapdancing butterflies would have done the job just as well. ‘She’s a hard case, this one. Aren’t you, sweetie?’ He kissed Lily’s forehead. ‘I blame the parents.’
Over a leisurely breakfast, the pair discussed the day ahead as any parents of a seven-month-old baby would. Broadly, at least.
‘You any closer on the Port Lympia strangling?’ Frankie said, sipping a mint tea while scrolling her mobile.
‘If you’d asked me a couple of days ago, I would have said there were some pieces of the jigsaw missing…’ Making a game of it, papa successfully teased a spoonful of apricot rice into Lily’s mouth. ‘… But that it was all coming together. Trouble is, the source picture keeps getting bigger.’
‘Ah.’
‘In some ways it reminds me of the… What was he called? Citroën? The mechanic who clubbed his father to death with a tyre iron? About this time a couple of years ago, it was.’
‘Up in Fabron Supe?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was… Sateille.’
‘Sateille – that’s it. What had seemed routine at the beginning became quite a complex case in the end.’ Darac scooped up the last of the rice. ‘Into the tunnel, Lily-belle. Heee-re we go.’ Mission accomplished, he glanced at his watch. ‘March 18th. Why does that date stick in my mind?’
Frankie made a face at Lily, making her chuckle.
‘Got it. It’s a year ago today that Bonbon had his greatest triumph.’
Frankie looked away from her phone. ‘The Saint-André poisoning case? That was the previous summer, wasn’t it?’
‘March 18th was the day the case opened in court.’
‘Ah, so it was. Remarkable scenes. Unprecedented, even.’
‘Despite everything we had, it would still have gone down but for Bonbon.’
From doorstepping potential witnesses to conducting complex lab work, the Saint André poisoning investigation was one in which everyone involved had made a significant contribution and when, in the run-up to the trial, poisoner Alain Daillier as good as admitted his guilt, securing a conviction seemed odds-on. But at the 11th hour, everything changed. On the advice of his counsel, Daillier decided to plead not guilty to a crime everyone in the investigative team knew he had committed.
Step forward Lieutenant Alejo “Bonbon” Busquet. As Alain Daillier entered the dock on that first morning, he scanned the courtroom for Bonbon, the officer who had formed such a tight bond with him throughout the investigation, he’d come to believe he was the only person who had ever understood him. Bonbon had promised to be in court but when their eyes met, he looked away, stony-faced. Daillier knew why: his broken promise over the plea. Longing for a reassuring smile, a look – anything – Daillier’s eyes bored into his one and only friend. But nothing came back. The more he willed Bonbon to acknowledge him, the more obvious it became that it would never come. And so, needing more than anything to re-establish their bond, Daillier announced to a stunned courtroom that he was changing his plea to guilty, made a full confession and was rewarded with a nod from his fake friend.
‘Bonbon,’ Agnès had said to him as the killer was led away. ‘I will never forget this moment. I’ve witnessed some remarkable “good cop” performances in my time but you’ve just taken it to a whole new level.’
‘A year ago today,’ Darac said, wiping Lily’s mouth. ‘For some reason, it’s gone by quite quickly, hasn’t it, sweetie?’ He lifted her out of her high chair and dandled her on his knee. ‘And you? How’s the Manzano case looking?’
‘We think we’ve got all the girls to safety now. And I do mean girls and not young women.’ Frankie tapped in a number on her phone. ‘But as for nailing the gang? We’ve got some leverage on one of the two minders we collared and he just might spill but I wouldn’t bet on it.’ She tickled Lily’s foot while she waited for her call to pick up. ‘Good progress on the bestiality case, though. Ah, Mariette. Hi.’ She listened. ‘We’re very well, thanks although Lily had a disturbed night and so of course did we… Yes, it is good we are both off today. But listen…’
As Darac and Frankie were required to work a set number of hours per week, organising a childcare rota should have been a straightforward matter in theory. In reality, the peculiar demands of their lives as police detectives meant that the daily distribution of those hours could vary widely, making sudden revisions to the rota inevitable. The mainstay of their team of nannies – nounous – was Mariette Bélanger, a switched-on and sweet-natured former nurse in her late 40s. Mariette had worked as a nounou for police and fire service families before and came highly recommended by friends and colleagues. Contracted to look after Lily up to nine hours a day three days a week, Mariette was well used to calls advising her that a late hand-over was on the cards or that a member of the back-up team would be showing up in the parents’ stead. It was clearly essential that these arrangements worked perfectly on both sides and so far, there had not been a single hitch.
During her pregnancy, Frankie had spent many hours considering the timing of her graduated return to work. As Captain of Nice’s Vice Squad, her days were spent confronting everything from the pathetically squalid to the pitilessly brutal. With this stark truth in mind, when Lily was just weeks old, Darac had asked Frankie if not continuing in the role when she returned to work, or perhaps extending her maternity leave, was something she had considered. ‘If that’s what you decided,’ he’d said, ‘I would be with you all the way.’ Her reply would stay with him. ‘I’m already upside down in love with this little mite,’ she’d said, stroking their daughter’s cheek as she lay asleep at her breast. ‘And what could be lovelier than to be with her every step of the way up to Maternelle? But it’s precisely because of the power of these huge emotions that I have to get back to work as soon as it feels right. The number of trafficked youngsters my group encounters, Paul.’ She shook her head. ‘They may have been wanted and loved just like our Lily here. But whether they were or not, I’ve always felt a deep responsibility toward them. I feel it more strongly than ever now.’
