Babazouk blues, p.36
Babazouk Blues, page 36
‘Theme?’ Granot grunted. ‘We’ve been investigating a murder, not throwing a party.’
‘I’m quite serious. And the irony is that but for a thirteen-year-old French boy mad for all things American, “Miss America” would have got away with the murder.’
As rare as an endangered species, Granot’s concession face was there in plain sight. ‘Henri wouldn’t have caught her in the act if he’d been playing football, I’ll grant you.’
His mind on themes, Darac saw others. Cristelle, Taylor and Adèle were all motherless girls who, in one form or another, had suffered at the hands of their fathers. He decided to keep it to himself. He’d tried Granot’s patience enough for one day.
The big man downed his coffee. ‘One thing I will take from this case is Perand finally turning up trumps. I’d wondered if I’d ever say that, believe me.’
‘Perand winning File Ferret of the Month is a first, alright. Although he did get lucky over Dr Whatshisname teaching the class he’s started.’
Granot spluttered, wonderment giving way to what looked suspiciously like mirth. ‘You’ll never guess what the class is.’
Darac was already grinning. ‘Tell me.’
‘Kickboxing! He’s only doing it because Flak does, I’ll bet. Can you believe it?’
‘I thought he was looking a bit more…’
‘Awake?’
‘And a bit less…’
‘Weedy? You must have good eyesight!’
Fuelled by their exhaustion, the two of them laughed far too much about it.
‘Let’s get out of here, Granot.’
‘No stamina, you acting commissaires.’ Granot consulted his agenda as they rode one of the building’s whisper-quiet lifts down to the basement. ‘Is Malraux off this evening?’
‘No, on. Why?’
‘Some of the lads were talking about taking him to a bar and getting him legless. Only thing we haven’t tried.’
‘It’ll have to wait. He’s following funny money around the Babazouk.’
‘With Flak?’
‘I hope so. They’re both rostered.’
Granot rattled the phlegm in his throat. ‘How the hell do those two work together?’
‘If he had any sense, he’d take his lead from her. But he hasn’t got any sense.’
‘When are you planning to eat your guitars, by the way?’
‘What?’
‘“If Taylor Walters-Halberg turns out to be the killer, I’ll eat my guitars,” you said.’
‘All I can say in my defence is that she was a brilliant actress. Right from the start. The way she kept a check on our progress by engineering meetings with me in which just a little more was promised each time? It was brilliantly done.’ Ridge’s performance, Darac couldn’t help thinking, had been more impressive still. Yes, he understood his old friend’s reasons. But it wasn’t the greatest moment they had shared.
‘So Taylor was “a brilliant actress”. And so was Brigitte Andreani. Maybe Cristelle was. You know something? You’re not very good at women just now, are you?’
‘See you later, Granot.’
Perhaps, Darac reflected, he had never been ‘good’ at women. Conversely, women seemed to be able to read him. He was still exercised, though, by Angeline’s assessment that hit someone, make love, play the guitar were his first-call solutions to any crisis.
As he walked to his car, he couldn’t shift the image of Taylor being led away to the cells. Other images piled in on top: Jeanne’s bloated corpse; Brigitte’s slit throat; Rama pulsing rhythm and Rama broken; cigarette smoke blown away.
So one goddess had drowned another. Drowned her for gain and because she thought that, given the circumstances, she was certain to get away with it. It was as clear a proof of Agnès’s axiom ‘damaged people damage others’ as he could think of.
* * *
After a couple of hours’ shuteye, Darac rang Dr Tan.
‘We are very pleased with Rama. Perhaps it’s your CD.’
‘He’s surfacing?’
‘We’re hopeful he’ll be rejoining us quite soon.’
‘And what are his chances now of making—?’
‘We don’t know yet about the degree of recovery.’
At that moment, a hope, an idea – something – flared brightly in Darac’s consciousness. With it came the absolute conviction that Rama was going to be fine.
He could have used similar extra-sensory help on two other questions that concerned him. First: Voska. The various agencies still looking seemed no closer to finding him. In the morning, Darac intended to instigate a squad review into the manhunt. Every move had to be gone over and it was clear that the Brigade needed to be more active in the search, less dependent on Aix and the others.
The second question concerned a detail Darac had spotted in one of the safety deposit box photos, a stray from the Mesnels’ New York trip. With the Manhattan skyline as a backdrop, it featured Alain and Jeanne sipping champagne from entwined glasses. The shot was an exact replica of an LP cover known to jazz fans everywhere: Cin-Cin! by legendary singer Jessica O’Kane. Darac alone had spotted the detail. Indeed, he was the only officer in the Brigade who could have spotted it. Suspecting it might have a further role to play in the story, he drove to the Caserne Auvare, where the packing cases containing Jeanne Mesnel’s property were being stored for the moment.
A familiar face greeted him. ‘Captain? Haven’t seen you since the move.’
‘Temporary move, Georges. Still got your Gaggia coffee machine?’
‘This is the Caserne. We can do what we like over here. Want one?’
Two espressos later, Darac went to the store and removed Jeanne Mesnel’s poster from its crate. After everything he had come to know about its subject and its creator, what did he feel about it now?
The question made him think first about Philippe de Lambert’s fake Matisse. He had taken as much from the work as if it had been the real thing. Suppose he had discovered the work hadn’t been genuine; would those same brushstrokes that had amazed and delighted him all those years suddenly have lost their power?
Darac called to mind the lithographs he’d enjoyed while he was waiting to meet Taylor for the first time. He thought he recognised them as the work of Jean Cocteau and he’d looked at the wall label to check. Would he have taken less pleasure in them if they had proved to be the work of a ‘lesser’ artist?
He turned back to the poster. Inevitably, the drummer in the shot would always put him in mind of Rama N’Pata. Rama who had battles still to fight but who might yet realise his true potential. And the poster would always conjure up memories of Taylor and to a lesser extent, Adèle Voska. They too had been damaged by the accidental circumstances of their lives. Damaged beyond repair, it seemed, in Taylor’s case. And then there was Ridge, a black man plunged into a nightmare of conflicting allegiances, delivered from part of his anguish by the belated intercession of a young white kid.
So despite everything, was Darac still blown away by Blown Away by the Brass Section? Yes. In fact, it had taken on an infinitely greater resonance for him.
The time had come. He turned the work over. As in Lambert’s ‘Matisse’, a thin white line was just visible between the top of the frame and the print backing. Anyone seeking to hang the poster might see the line, but to one person in particular, the five-word song title written in black ink just above it was an instruction. The words were Look for the Silver Lining, the song Cristelle remembered Jeanne singing to her as a child.
Carefully, Darac dismantled the frame. The white paper sliver proved to be the top edge of a small envelope. On it were written twelve lines in Jeanne Mesnel’s hand, dated 22 July 2009, around the time of Cristelle’s surprise visit:
My dear Cristelle,
Do you remember our song? I hope so. As you are reading this, it means that you decided not to reject this gift but to keep it as a memento of your once beautiful grandmother; almost as beautiful as you, in fact. Because you accepted this knowing there was nothing of any value in it for you, you will find something of interest in the envelope. Perhaps you will remember me wearing it when you were little. Perhaps you will remember playing with it, yourself. Perhaps it’s how you acquired your love of jewellery. It may not appear particularly special to you but it once belonged to someone who was very special indeed and therein lies its value. Should you wish to sell it, you will find eager buyers. But I hope you will keep it. Don’t grab for things, Cristelle, and they will come your way. Keep your heart full of joy and gladness.
With all my love,
Grande-mère Jeanne
Darac opened the envelope. There it was: the detail that had caught his eye in the Manhattan photograph. Half-hidden by her bubbling champagne glass, Jeanne’s ring finger had borne more than just her wedding band. Where Alain had obtained the garish concoction of base metal and paste that Jessica O’Kane had sported on the Cin-Cin! album cover, Darac had no idea. And he could only hazard a guess at how much such a ring might be worth to a collector. Maybe he’d ask Bonbon about it, sometime.
Rolling the ring around his fingers, he was entertained by the thought that Alain might have faked it. Perhaps he’d even created the original. Whatever its provenance, Darac realised he was in a position to play God over what happened next. He could ensure Cristelle received it whether she had decided to keep the poster or not. The question didn’t detain him long. He took a last look at the ring, returned it to the envelope and sealed it back into the frame. In due time, the solicitor would contact Cristelle about the poster and then it was up to her. It was what Jeanne had wanted. And Darac had to be true to his Muse. He’d promised her that.
55
As things panned out, exchanging texts and calls with Ridge and Didier was as close as Darac got to the DMQ’s big band gig at the Blue Devil. The consensus was that it had gone only reasonably well. It was hardly surprising under the circumstances.
He crossed Place Garibaldi, casting a long shadow across its empty colonnades. After the day he’d had, his brain felt like tenderised meat but one thought occurred to him: for the first time in some days, he felt sure no one was following him.
He stepped into Rue Neuve and turned into Ruelle Fente with no sense that beyond its dogleg, a malevolent presence was waiting. A presence to whom he unconsciously signalled his increasing vulnerability by closing his eyes and yawning as he reached for his keys. He dropped them as a shock of pain wired his head to his feet and then numbed his left side. Feeling a hand closing around his windpipe, he knew he had to react immediately. He felt his attacker buckle slightly as he landed a hard elbow into his ribs but the hold around his throat intensified, threatening unconsciousness. He tried to jack-knife but explosive movement was impossible. Then, somehow, he managed to twist slightly and gain sufficient purchase on the ground to drag his attacker forward. They banged through the opened gate into Place Saint-Sépulcre. The man was still crushing Darac’s windpipe and thudding punches into the side of his head. He retaliated with everything he had: back-heels to the shins; elbows to the ribs; all the time trying to break free. Nothing worked. Darac understood a terrible truth. He was overmatched. The suffocating hold tightened and blood began to spill from his mouth.
Refusing to give up, he made one last effort. Come on! Instead, his world turned upside down, cobblestones flying under and over him as his attacker executed a body-slamming throw. Something hard and sharp dug into his back. With every rasping breath, Darac felt his spine splinter and separate. As helpless as a stunned calf, he saw the bullet-hard skull of his attacker looming above him. Darac tried desperately to move but he couldn’t. He was done for. His last image of this world was not going to be of Angeline’s face, nor of the Blue Devil’s bandstand, nor of the Babazouk from Château Park. It was going to be of a psycho named Gilles Voska savouring his kill. Darac closed his eyes, trying to conjure an image of his parents. He couldn’t picture them.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Acting Commissaire Darac.’
The red sea gave way to fog. The fog gave way to nothingness.
By the time the gunshots cracked out, Darac was dead to the world already. The shooter emerged through the exhaust smoke from his revolver, his eyes glued not on the man he’d shot but on the twisted, blood-flecked figure of his victim.
‘Are you still alive?’
Darac moved slightly. Malraux knew that one kick under the chin would deliver the coup de grâce he’d stolen from Voska. He’d say the dead man had done it. Malraux had been tailing Darac for days looking for an opportunity to take him out. And now Voska had laid it on a plate for him. He looked up at the shuttered windows. No lights had come on. No one appeared to be looking out. It gave him no comfort that he would probably be doing Darac a favour. If he lived, he was sure to be paralysed.
‘My God!’
He looked around to see Flaco running toward him. ‘Is he alright?’
‘I… don’t know.’
‘Call an ambulance!’ She knelt to take Darac’s pulse. ‘He’s still alive.’
Malraux stayed put. ‘Let’s move him,’ he said, apparently concerned. ‘Take his legs.’
‘No!’ Flaco took off her coat and used it as a blanket as Malraux dialled 112.
A dressing-gown-clad woman came running out of the shadows. ‘Forget the call. I already made it.’ Suzanne lowered her cheek to Darac’s mouth, simultaneously feeling his carotid pulse. ‘Was the rate speeding or slowing?’
Suzanne’s focus and professionalism instantly apparent, Flaco ceded control. ‘Slowing.’
‘It’s weak and thready…’ She jetted a glance at Malraux. ‘You wanted to move him! What do they teach you?’
‘How to shoot straight is one thing. Or he’d be dead already.’
Another was never, under any circumstances, to give up.
56
A white screen. A skull rippling as if underwater. Pain… Stick… Sticks… ‘Voska!’
‘It’s alright. It’s alright. You’re quite safe here.’
The angel looked kind. She looked the kindest angel in the…
‘He’s gone again.’
* * *
It was another three days before Darac emerged fully into consciousness.
‘My spine hurts like hell.’
‘You were thrown onto your back, landing on the pointer of the sundial in your courtyard. The force of the impact was such that your spinal cord…’
As the nurse spoke, the Aixois Police Nationale officer almost paralysed by Voska came into Darac’s head. He recalled his words to Frènes. Critical words about how slow the officer had been to cuff the man. ‘I can be a bastard sometimes.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I’m not paralysed, am I?’
‘You should be fine in time. Move your hands as a tester.’
Darac tried.
‘Feet…? Good. Toes…? Excellent! That will do for the time being.’
‘Am I allowed visitors yet?’
‘You’ve had half of France in, already. Your parents have been virtually living here.’
There seemed little point in correcting the assumption that Barbara, his father’s current squeeze, was his mother.
‘And you’ve had several musicians and other colleagues. That Monsieur Frènes is a lovely man, isn’t he?’
‘Beautiful.’
‘You play in the police band then, I take it?’
‘Yes I do. I want to sleep now.’
* * *
‘Garfield. You kick anybody’s ass today?’
‘Oh yes. Lost count.’
‘You sound strong. That’s good, man.’
‘I’m feeling strong enough. Khara here?’
‘She’ll be back.’
‘She’s been here? I don’t remember.’
‘She’s been here. So what’s new?’
Darac drifted off occasionally in the conversation that followed. When it finally came time for Ridge to leave, he had the look of someone who had saved the best until last.
‘I’m putting plans together for something. Every July, we’re going to have a week of special gigs and events at the club to honour Jeanne. The Blown Away by the Jazz Festival, I’m going to call it. How’s that sound?’
Darac patted the man’s knee. ‘It’s a great idea.’
‘It’s no idea. It’s happening. Made my first signing already.’
‘Wonderful. Who?’
‘Oh, nobody much. Just Mister Sonny Rollins.’ Ridge produced a bed-shaking laugh. ‘He’s got a day free before he plays Juan Les Pins.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Ridge couldn’t possibly have signed the Great Man. Could he?
* * *
‘Round up those who couldn’t be bothered visiting and put them on a charge.’
‘They all came,’ Granot said. ‘Agnès was looking well, I must say.’
‘Whoa, whoa. Agnès broke her round-the-world trip? Just to—’
‘You don’t remember? Me, Bonbon and Frankie had a great chat with her. She’s all ready to come back, she says. How’s that for news?’
Darac would have punched the air if he could. ‘Brilliant.’ He exhaled as if he’d been holding in that breath for the past six months. ‘Agnès back? Wow!’
‘So we’ll all be together again. With the addition of Malraux. Aka your saviour.’
‘Did he have to shoot Voska? Couldn’t he have just subdued him?’
‘You couldn’t. And where’s your gratitude? The arsehole had been trotting around after you for days, he said. Hiding here, dodging there, convinced Voska was going to show up to ice you. Malraux could have gone home after his shift with Flaco. Instead, he decided to take a quick look around first. Good job he did.’
‘It doesn’t sound like the Malraux I know. I am grateful. Of course. But now Voska’s dead, we’ll never know how he managed to come and go unseen.’
‘Actually, we do.’ Granot went no further.
‘You’re waiting for your lawyer to be present? Tell me.’
‘He… cycled.’
Darac laughed. It hurt. ‘Cycled, of course. Why didn’t we think of that before?’
Granot’s expression didn’t change.
‘I’m quite serious. And the irony is that but for a thirteen-year-old French boy mad for all things American, “Miss America” would have got away with the murder.’
As rare as an endangered species, Granot’s concession face was there in plain sight. ‘Henri wouldn’t have caught her in the act if he’d been playing football, I’ll grant you.’
His mind on themes, Darac saw others. Cristelle, Taylor and Adèle were all motherless girls who, in one form or another, had suffered at the hands of their fathers. He decided to keep it to himself. He’d tried Granot’s patience enough for one day.
The big man downed his coffee. ‘One thing I will take from this case is Perand finally turning up trumps. I’d wondered if I’d ever say that, believe me.’
‘Perand winning File Ferret of the Month is a first, alright. Although he did get lucky over Dr Whatshisname teaching the class he’s started.’
Granot spluttered, wonderment giving way to what looked suspiciously like mirth. ‘You’ll never guess what the class is.’
Darac was already grinning. ‘Tell me.’
‘Kickboxing! He’s only doing it because Flak does, I’ll bet. Can you believe it?’
‘I thought he was looking a bit more…’
‘Awake?’
‘And a bit less…’
‘Weedy? You must have good eyesight!’
Fuelled by their exhaustion, the two of them laughed far too much about it.
‘Let’s get out of here, Granot.’
‘No stamina, you acting commissaires.’ Granot consulted his agenda as they rode one of the building’s whisper-quiet lifts down to the basement. ‘Is Malraux off this evening?’
‘No, on. Why?’
‘Some of the lads were talking about taking him to a bar and getting him legless. Only thing we haven’t tried.’
‘It’ll have to wait. He’s following funny money around the Babazouk.’
‘With Flak?’
‘I hope so. They’re both rostered.’
Granot rattled the phlegm in his throat. ‘How the hell do those two work together?’
‘If he had any sense, he’d take his lead from her. But he hasn’t got any sense.’
‘When are you planning to eat your guitars, by the way?’
‘What?’
‘“If Taylor Walters-Halberg turns out to be the killer, I’ll eat my guitars,” you said.’
‘All I can say in my defence is that she was a brilliant actress. Right from the start. The way she kept a check on our progress by engineering meetings with me in which just a little more was promised each time? It was brilliantly done.’ Ridge’s performance, Darac couldn’t help thinking, had been more impressive still. Yes, he understood his old friend’s reasons. But it wasn’t the greatest moment they had shared.
‘So Taylor was “a brilliant actress”. And so was Brigitte Andreani. Maybe Cristelle was. You know something? You’re not very good at women just now, are you?’
‘See you later, Granot.’
Perhaps, Darac reflected, he had never been ‘good’ at women. Conversely, women seemed to be able to read him. He was still exercised, though, by Angeline’s assessment that hit someone, make love, play the guitar were his first-call solutions to any crisis.
As he walked to his car, he couldn’t shift the image of Taylor being led away to the cells. Other images piled in on top: Jeanne’s bloated corpse; Brigitte’s slit throat; Rama pulsing rhythm and Rama broken; cigarette smoke blown away.
So one goddess had drowned another. Drowned her for gain and because she thought that, given the circumstances, she was certain to get away with it. It was as clear a proof of Agnès’s axiom ‘damaged people damage others’ as he could think of.
* * *
After a couple of hours’ shuteye, Darac rang Dr Tan.
‘We are very pleased with Rama. Perhaps it’s your CD.’
‘He’s surfacing?’
‘We’re hopeful he’ll be rejoining us quite soon.’
‘And what are his chances now of making—?’
‘We don’t know yet about the degree of recovery.’
At that moment, a hope, an idea – something – flared brightly in Darac’s consciousness. With it came the absolute conviction that Rama was going to be fine.
He could have used similar extra-sensory help on two other questions that concerned him. First: Voska. The various agencies still looking seemed no closer to finding him. In the morning, Darac intended to instigate a squad review into the manhunt. Every move had to be gone over and it was clear that the Brigade needed to be more active in the search, less dependent on Aix and the others.
The second question concerned a detail Darac had spotted in one of the safety deposit box photos, a stray from the Mesnels’ New York trip. With the Manhattan skyline as a backdrop, it featured Alain and Jeanne sipping champagne from entwined glasses. The shot was an exact replica of an LP cover known to jazz fans everywhere: Cin-Cin! by legendary singer Jessica O’Kane. Darac alone had spotted the detail. Indeed, he was the only officer in the Brigade who could have spotted it. Suspecting it might have a further role to play in the story, he drove to the Caserne Auvare, where the packing cases containing Jeanne Mesnel’s property were being stored for the moment.
A familiar face greeted him. ‘Captain? Haven’t seen you since the move.’
‘Temporary move, Georges. Still got your Gaggia coffee machine?’
‘This is the Caserne. We can do what we like over here. Want one?’
Two espressos later, Darac went to the store and removed Jeanne Mesnel’s poster from its crate. After everything he had come to know about its subject and its creator, what did he feel about it now?
The question made him think first about Philippe de Lambert’s fake Matisse. He had taken as much from the work as if it had been the real thing. Suppose he had discovered the work hadn’t been genuine; would those same brushstrokes that had amazed and delighted him all those years suddenly have lost their power?
Darac called to mind the lithographs he’d enjoyed while he was waiting to meet Taylor for the first time. He thought he recognised them as the work of Jean Cocteau and he’d looked at the wall label to check. Would he have taken less pleasure in them if they had proved to be the work of a ‘lesser’ artist?
He turned back to the poster. Inevitably, the drummer in the shot would always put him in mind of Rama N’Pata. Rama who had battles still to fight but who might yet realise his true potential. And the poster would always conjure up memories of Taylor and to a lesser extent, Adèle Voska. They too had been damaged by the accidental circumstances of their lives. Damaged beyond repair, it seemed, in Taylor’s case. And then there was Ridge, a black man plunged into a nightmare of conflicting allegiances, delivered from part of his anguish by the belated intercession of a young white kid.
So despite everything, was Darac still blown away by Blown Away by the Brass Section? Yes. In fact, it had taken on an infinitely greater resonance for him.
The time had come. He turned the work over. As in Lambert’s ‘Matisse’, a thin white line was just visible between the top of the frame and the print backing. Anyone seeking to hang the poster might see the line, but to one person in particular, the five-word song title written in black ink just above it was an instruction. The words were Look for the Silver Lining, the song Cristelle remembered Jeanne singing to her as a child.
Carefully, Darac dismantled the frame. The white paper sliver proved to be the top edge of a small envelope. On it were written twelve lines in Jeanne Mesnel’s hand, dated 22 July 2009, around the time of Cristelle’s surprise visit:
My dear Cristelle,
Do you remember our song? I hope so. As you are reading this, it means that you decided not to reject this gift but to keep it as a memento of your once beautiful grandmother; almost as beautiful as you, in fact. Because you accepted this knowing there was nothing of any value in it for you, you will find something of interest in the envelope. Perhaps you will remember me wearing it when you were little. Perhaps you will remember playing with it, yourself. Perhaps it’s how you acquired your love of jewellery. It may not appear particularly special to you but it once belonged to someone who was very special indeed and therein lies its value. Should you wish to sell it, you will find eager buyers. But I hope you will keep it. Don’t grab for things, Cristelle, and they will come your way. Keep your heart full of joy and gladness.
With all my love,
Grande-mère Jeanne
Darac opened the envelope. There it was: the detail that had caught his eye in the Manhattan photograph. Half-hidden by her bubbling champagne glass, Jeanne’s ring finger had borne more than just her wedding band. Where Alain had obtained the garish concoction of base metal and paste that Jessica O’Kane had sported on the Cin-Cin! album cover, Darac had no idea. And he could only hazard a guess at how much such a ring might be worth to a collector. Maybe he’d ask Bonbon about it, sometime.
Rolling the ring around his fingers, he was entertained by the thought that Alain might have faked it. Perhaps he’d even created the original. Whatever its provenance, Darac realised he was in a position to play God over what happened next. He could ensure Cristelle received it whether she had decided to keep the poster or not. The question didn’t detain him long. He took a last look at the ring, returned it to the envelope and sealed it back into the frame. In due time, the solicitor would contact Cristelle about the poster and then it was up to her. It was what Jeanne had wanted. And Darac had to be true to his Muse. He’d promised her that.
55
As things panned out, exchanging texts and calls with Ridge and Didier was as close as Darac got to the DMQ’s big band gig at the Blue Devil. The consensus was that it had gone only reasonably well. It was hardly surprising under the circumstances.
He crossed Place Garibaldi, casting a long shadow across its empty colonnades. After the day he’d had, his brain felt like tenderised meat but one thought occurred to him: for the first time in some days, he felt sure no one was following him.
He stepped into Rue Neuve and turned into Ruelle Fente with no sense that beyond its dogleg, a malevolent presence was waiting. A presence to whom he unconsciously signalled his increasing vulnerability by closing his eyes and yawning as he reached for his keys. He dropped them as a shock of pain wired his head to his feet and then numbed his left side. Feeling a hand closing around his windpipe, he knew he had to react immediately. He felt his attacker buckle slightly as he landed a hard elbow into his ribs but the hold around his throat intensified, threatening unconsciousness. He tried to jack-knife but explosive movement was impossible. Then, somehow, he managed to twist slightly and gain sufficient purchase on the ground to drag his attacker forward. They banged through the opened gate into Place Saint-Sépulcre. The man was still crushing Darac’s windpipe and thudding punches into the side of his head. He retaliated with everything he had: back-heels to the shins; elbows to the ribs; all the time trying to break free. Nothing worked. Darac understood a terrible truth. He was overmatched. The suffocating hold tightened and blood began to spill from his mouth.
Refusing to give up, he made one last effort. Come on! Instead, his world turned upside down, cobblestones flying under and over him as his attacker executed a body-slamming throw. Something hard and sharp dug into his back. With every rasping breath, Darac felt his spine splinter and separate. As helpless as a stunned calf, he saw the bullet-hard skull of his attacker looming above him. Darac tried desperately to move but he couldn’t. He was done for. His last image of this world was not going to be of Angeline’s face, nor of the Blue Devil’s bandstand, nor of the Babazouk from Château Park. It was going to be of a psycho named Gilles Voska savouring his kill. Darac closed his eyes, trying to conjure an image of his parents. He couldn’t picture them.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Acting Commissaire Darac.’
The red sea gave way to fog. The fog gave way to nothingness.
By the time the gunshots cracked out, Darac was dead to the world already. The shooter emerged through the exhaust smoke from his revolver, his eyes glued not on the man he’d shot but on the twisted, blood-flecked figure of his victim.
‘Are you still alive?’
Darac moved slightly. Malraux knew that one kick under the chin would deliver the coup de grâce he’d stolen from Voska. He’d say the dead man had done it. Malraux had been tailing Darac for days looking for an opportunity to take him out. And now Voska had laid it on a plate for him. He looked up at the shuttered windows. No lights had come on. No one appeared to be looking out. It gave him no comfort that he would probably be doing Darac a favour. If he lived, he was sure to be paralysed.
‘My God!’
He looked around to see Flaco running toward him. ‘Is he alright?’
‘I… don’t know.’
‘Call an ambulance!’ She knelt to take Darac’s pulse. ‘He’s still alive.’
Malraux stayed put. ‘Let’s move him,’ he said, apparently concerned. ‘Take his legs.’
‘No!’ Flaco took off her coat and used it as a blanket as Malraux dialled 112.
A dressing-gown-clad woman came running out of the shadows. ‘Forget the call. I already made it.’ Suzanne lowered her cheek to Darac’s mouth, simultaneously feeling his carotid pulse. ‘Was the rate speeding or slowing?’
Suzanne’s focus and professionalism instantly apparent, Flaco ceded control. ‘Slowing.’
‘It’s weak and thready…’ She jetted a glance at Malraux. ‘You wanted to move him! What do they teach you?’
‘How to shoot straight is one thing. Or he’d be dead already.’
Another was never, under any circumstances, to give up.
56
A white screen. A skull rippling as if underwater. Pain… Stick… Sticks… ‘Voska!’
‘It’s alright. It’s alright. You’re quite safe here.’
The angel looked kind. She looked the kindest angel in the…
‘He’s gone again.’
* * *
It was another three days before Darac emerged fully into consciousness.
‘My spine hurts like hell.’
‘You were thrown onto your back, landing on the pointer of the sundial in your courtyard. The force of the impact was such that your spinal cord…’
As the nurse spoke, the Aixois Police Nationale officer almost paralysed by Voska came into Darac’s head. He recalled his words to Frènes. Critical words about how slow the officer had been to cuff the man. ‘I can be a bastard sometimes.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I’m not paralysed, am I?’
‘You should be fine in time. Move your hands as a tester.’
Darac tried.
‘Feet…? Good. Toes…? Excellent! That will do for the time being.’
‘Am I allowed visitors yet?’
‘You’ve had half of France in, already. Your parents have been virtually living here.’
There seemed little point in correcting the assumption that Barbara, his father’s current squeeze, was his mother.
‘And you’ve had several musicians and other colleagues. That Monsieur Frènes is a lovely man, isn’t he?’
‘Beautiful.’
‘You play in the police band then, I take it?’
‘Yes I do. I want to sleep now.’
* * *
‘Garfield. You kick anybody’s ass today?’
‘Oh yes. Lost count.’
‘You sound strong. That’s good, man.’
‘I’m feeling strong enough. Khara here?’
‘She’ll be back.’
‘She’s been here? I don’t remember.’
‘She’s been here. So what’s new?’
Darac drifted off occasionally in the conversation that followed. When it finally came time for Ridge to leave, he had the look of someone who had saved the best until last.
‘I’m putting plans together for something. Every July, we’re going to have a week of special gigs and events at the club to honour Jeanne. The Blown Away by the Jazz Festival, I’m going to call it. How’s that sound?’
Darac patted the man’s knee. ‘It’s a great idea.’
‘It’s no idea. It’s happening. Made my first signing already.’
‘Wonderful. Who?’
‘Oh, nobody much. Just Mister Sonny Rollins.’ Ridge produced a bed-shaking laugh. ‘He’s got a day free before he plays Juan Les Pins.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Ridge couldn’t possibly have signed the Great Man. Could he?
* * *
‘Round up those who couldn’t be bothered visiting and put them on a charge.’
‘They all came,’ Granot said. ‘Agnès was looking well, I must say.’
‘Whoa, whoa. Agnès broke her round-the-world trip? Just to—’
‘You don’t remember? Me, Bonbon and Frankie had a great chat with her. She’s all ready to come back, she says. How’s that for news?’
Darac would have punched the air if he could. ‘Brilliant.’ He exhaled as if he’d been holding in that breath for the past six months. ‘Agnès back? Wow!’
‘So we’ll all be together again. With the addition of Malraux. Aka your saviour.’
‘Did he have to shoot Voska? Couldn’t he have just subdued him?’
‘You couldn’t. And where’s your gratitude? The arsehole had been trotting around after you for days, he said. Hiding here, dodging there, convinced Voska was going to show up to ice you. Malraux could have gone home after his shift with Flaco. Instead, he decided to take a quick look around first. Good job he did.’
‘It doesn’t sound like the Malraux I know. I am grateful. Of course. But now Voska’s dead, we’ll never know how he managed to come and go unseen.’
‘Actually, we do.’ Granot went no further.
‘You’re waiting for your lawyer to be present? Tell me.’
‘He… cycled.’
Darac laughed. It hurt. ‘Cycled, of course. Why didn’t we think of that before?’
Granot’s expression didn’t change.
