Paris Noir: Capital Crime Fiction (24 page)

When she is about to close the trunk, her eye catches on the faint glint of shiny leather. It is a valise, wedged under the man’s foot next to a spare can of petrol. She carefully opens the petrol and pours it on the body and the back seat of the car, thinking this might fuck with any DNA evidence, though she doesn’t know how. Does it even matter? There have probably been a hundred people through this cab in the last week and, anyway, nobody knows she is here. She is ‘black’ in France and there is no reason to suspect her of involvement in this, part of a larger crime that cannot be investigated.

The valise is locked, so she takes it with her, closes the trunk, and begins walking. Later, she will jimmy the lock open, find the valise full of cash, and count it – 100,000 euros in small, nonsequential bills.

For now, she heads towards the Château de Vincennes Métro station. It’s almost 5 a.m. She feels great. It has occurred to her that a) she may have committed the perfect crime and b) she now has the whole 50 euros and no cab fare to pay. ‘Picked up the wrong girl,’ she thinks. ‘Fucked with the wrong girl. Your perfect crime, my ass.’

The first Métro comes within the hour and she vanishes into the crowd of bleary-eyed morning commuters, looking, with her valise, just like one of them.

Lieutenant Blaise Reyer walked into his office and felt like turning round and walking straight out again. Three offensively colourful guys were clustered in front of his desk. They were wearing cyclists’ helmets, hallucinogenic jerseys and skin-tight cycling shorts, and were all talking at once. Who to, Reyer wondered, since I’m not there? That morning. Reyer had shaved his head, but not his beard. He’d had nightmares all night and looked more than ever like a former KGB apparatchik who’d gone into some dodgy business. He skirted four gleaming bicycles, parked casually in the corridor, slipped between the merry cyclists and found, brazenly sitting in his chair, his number one enemy of the moment, the excessively young and excessively polite Lieutenant Zaraoui.

‘Am I seeing things or are you taking over my job, Khaled?’

‘Morning Blaise, the chief wants us to work as partners on this case.

‘And as you weren’t in yet…’

As partners. But I don’t want to partner anybody, thought Reyer, regaining possession of his chair and his desk.

‘What case? The Tour de France stick-up?’

The multicoloured trio looked at Reyer as if he were speaking Martian. The lieutenant took the opportunity to study them. One was tall and fair-haired, another tall and dark-haired, the other short and dark. They were all approaching forty, but not a hint of paunch. Reyer instinctively pulled in his stomach and looked at the ID cards laid out before him. Mathieu Grémond, the tall fair-haired guy, Philippe Lancel, the tall dark one, and Paul Perroux, the runt. Addresses scattered between Bastille and République.

‘Guillaume Gamier, these gentlemen’s friend, has just suffered a heart attack,’ explained Zaraoui. ‘A stone’s throw from here. In place Léon Blum.’

‘Because of the heatwave,’ added Perroux, the short, dark guy.

‘This gentleman’s probably right,’ adds Zaraoui. ‘But there was an anonymous phone call. A woman rang twenty minutes ago. To say that Gamier had been murdered.’

Reyer pinched the bridge of his nose; that helped him keep his cool. At the same time, he acknowledged that procedures were likely to be a bit hit or miss. Paris was suffocating in a crazy heatwave, the disastrous football World Cup defeat was still festering in people’s minds like an open wound, the Tour de France favourites had been disqualified for failing a dope test, and three clowns prancing around in poofter pants had been getting up the nose of the police force since dawn.

‘How did he die?’

‘He collapsed while we were taking a break. We’d stopped at Café Mirage for a drink, our bikes were parked nearby…’

‘What were you doing in a baking hot Paris when you could have been riding down quiet country lanes?’

‘The Tour de France arrives tomorrow, Inspector,’ replied Grémond, the tall fair-haired one.

‘I’m aware of that. So?’

‘We wanted to party all weekend, soak up the atmosphere.’

‘Too bad,’ retorted Reyer. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘At the forensic lab in place Mazas,’ answered Zaraoui. ‘But it’ll take ages. Nearby all the pathologists are on holiday.’

Reyer wiped a hand over his face, suppressing a superhuman urge to give the three jokers a mammoth clout – Zaraoui too, while he was at it. He’d left home on the verge of imploding. By 6 a.m. the thermometer was already announcing 29°C, the radio massacres and tsunamis, and his ex-wife a demand for money. She’d phoned early to be sure of cornering him to talk about their daughter who was off ‘to the States with her boyfriend and needed cash’. The boyfriend in question was a little jerk, with parents to match. And on top of all that, he had to team up on a ridiculous case that would have been done and dusted if some hysterical woman with a cock-and-bull story hadn’t got Zaraoui all agitated.

Reyer felt an attack coming on and made for the toilets, He splashed cold water on his face and the back of his neck and attempted a few breathing exercises, visualising a pure sky over an emerald sea, a method advocated by Marthe Morgeval, his new shrink. A girl with a velvety voice and sensational breasts. Reyer pictured himself with his nose buried in those silky, pneumatic torpedoes and managed to stem the tide of words rushing into his mind.

‘It’s going to be a tough day,’ he said to the the mirror, on which a cycling enthusiast had plastered a Floyd Landis sticker.

An hour later, Reyer and Zaraoui went up to the ticket window of the Josephine Baker swimming pool and asked to speak to the manager. He confirmed that Guillaume Gamier had spent his last evening swimming lengths in the company of his three friends.

’At a quarter to midnight, I had to ask them to leave. Otherwise they’d have spent the night here. Their wives sat waiting for them, sipping cocktails. Mind you, it was very nice.’

’I’m sure it was,’ said Zaraoui with a smile.

Another habit that annoyed Reyer. Why smile when you’re a cop? This wasn’t a fucking cocktail party at Paris town hall.

’I expect you’ll want to talk to Perroux and Lancel’s wives,’ added the manager.

‘Do they sleep here?’

‘Natasha Perroux and Beatrice Lancel are lifeguards. They’re on duty today. Last night they were off, but they still kept their husbands company.’

Reyer had an urge to take off his shoes and socks and go to question Natasha and Beatrice barefoot, by the side of the pool. The manager preferred to call them into his office.

‘Grémond’s single. So was Gamier,’ Zaraoui thought it useful to mention as they waited for the wives.

‘So what?’

‘Gamier was a good-looking guy.’

‘What do they do with themselves apart from cycling and taking dips?’

‘They’re reps for the same sportswear manufacturer.’

Reyer told himself that this case was far too sporty for a torrid July day. He’d wandered over to the bay window and was admiring the girls in swimsuits. Suddenly he froze, then got a grip on himself. Marthe was lying on a blue mat. She was wearing a white bikini that made her more seductive than ever. And chatting to a hulk who was lingeringly rubbing cream into her bronzed shoulders.

Natasha and Beatrice seemed upset by Garnier’s death. Natasha was a fine specimen but Beatrice had the eyes and voice of a little girl that must make some men want to protect her. Personally, Reyer would rather apply a mammoth slap. They both agreed that Gamier was a live wire.

’He could never sit still,’ added Natasha.

’Do you know if he had any enemies!’ asked Zaraoui. The question didn’t inspire the girls. Zaraoui moved on to the anonymous phone call, and Reyer took the opportunity to slip away. He showed his police ID to the girl in the changing room and demanded a pair of swimming trunks, a towel and an electronic locker wristband. He changed and ventured among the tanned bodies. Marthe was still lying on her stomach and Hulk was chatting to the small of her back. To see his shrink’s face, Reyer had to get into the water. He swam two lengths and got out of the pool. The girl in the white bikini wasn’t Marthe.

When he returned to the office, the manager was back, and Zaraoui and the two girls were exchanging platitudes. All four noticed Reyer’s wet hair, but nobody said anything.

’You didn’t go for a dip, did you?’ asked Zaraoui once they were back outside on quai Panhard et Levassor.

’You think I’d skive off when I’m on duty?’

Zaraoui shrugged.

’The girls are stunning, especially Beatrice,’ he went on. ‘Yes, but I can’t see them bumping off a cyclist…’

Reyer watched Zaraoui out of the corner of his eye. The young lieutenant was no more inane or disagreeable than any other, but his drawback was that he existed. That was his biggest flaw. Reyer wished he could take the Métro to Marthe the shrink’s place, bury his face between her breasts and fall asleep there for a century or two. But three little bicycles were beginning to do laps between his ears. That’s what was so awful about being a cop. You always ended up seeing evil everywhere. You always ended up getting interested.

‘Perhaps he was on something,’ continued Zaraoui.

‘He wasn’t competing in the fucking Tour de France, as far as I know! Have to wait till the lab guys feel like going back to work. Meanwhile, we’ll have to rely on hunches and legwork.’

Zaraoui merely raised an eyebrow. The complicated thing about him, apart from the fact of him, thought Reyer, is that side of him that’s smooth as a saddle, reliable as a well-oiled chain, straightforward as handlebars. Because, despite all of it, you want to give him a mammoth clout every five minutes. Reyer was about to get into the unmarked car just as three excitable characters drew up and parked on the pavement. Too late, Reyer spotted the TV camera, the mic covered in mammoth hair (mammoths were cropping up everywhere, this was getting worrying), and the
France
2 logo. Zaraoui stepped in calmly. Reyer turned his back on the TV crew and lost himself in the blue-grey of the Seine, concentrating hard on the seagulls’ cries. He pictured himself floating towards Le Havre, in a little old tub, with Marthe. She was lying on deck in a white bikini, and he was rubbing cream into her back… ‘Blaise! Hey, Blaise!’

Reyer turned in the direction of Zaraoui’s voice. The journalists had evaporated into the thick air; all that was left were a few ozone fumes, and for once, Reyer was happy to breathe them.

‘They gone?’

‘Yes, to the swimming pool.’

‘They interview you?’

‘I was concise and natural. I talked without telling them anything. If you must know.’

‘They were pretty well informed.’

‘Apparently.’

Zaraoui looked as though he’d swallowed a piece of rotten fish. Reyer stared at him until his resistance broke.

‘Actually, the chief wants us to move fast because he had a phone call from the TV people. This morning. He thinks the media were tipped off by the same mystery woman.’

‘And you forgot to tell me?’

‘I didn’t have time.’

Mostly you were afraid I’d go off and partner myself. Because the chief’s afraid I’ll flip my lid, live on TV. And as we’re the only ones he can lay his hands on, seeing as everyone else is spreading their toes in the sun, he asked you to keep an eye on me. Reyer considered giving his colleague a mammoth wallop but decided to take a deep breath instead. Zaraoui found a map of Paris in the car and located a few strategic points. They decided to start with Sportitude, the company where the three merry cyclists worked.

Sportitude, what a name, thought Reyer as Zaraoui parked on a pedestrian crossing. Sounds like vicissitude, turpitude, solitude. Sport Attitude would have been more appealing. Reyer made an effort to put his words away in a drawer in his mind. Those creatures were terrifying, ready to take off from your neurons and land on your stomach, ready to leap off again from your flabby bits in glutinous gangs bent on entering your ducts and crawling up them until they reached…

‘Blaise! Hey, old man, you OK?’

Call me old man again and you’ll get a mammoth fist in the face, kid, thought Reyer, giving his partner a look filled with loathing. The young lieutenant smiled at him. Reyer sighed, then stepped inside Sportitude. The place was inhabited by an army of dummies in cute little outfits. There was only one warm-blooded creature in the place: a girl with glasses. Reyer made a beeline for her, and she recoiled slightly. He showed his ID, the triumphant figure of the Republic intimidated the girl, even made the colour drain from her cheeks. As he felt no desire to question her, Reyer signalled to Zaraoui to act alone. The girl knew the merry cyclists, they were nice guys, she didn’t know anything about their private lives. And she looked uneasy. This little goose is sitting on a secret, thought Reyer before spotting a door with a sign saying Service Personnel Only. He walked over to it, heard the girl protest, flung open the door and came upon two youngsters smoking a spliff. He dealt them both a mammoth cuff around the ears.

‘POLICE!’

‘What the hell…?’ yelped the one who’d been knocked furthest.

Zaraoui raced over. He apologised for his colleague’s ‘overreaction’.

‘Go to the police and press charges. Feel free,’ said Reyer. ‘My chief smokes spliffs in his office too. The whole force smokes dope. We have the occasional Ecstasy rave, too. Right, joke’s over. Talk to me about Gamier and his trio of funny friends.’

After a hiatus, the youths regained their wits and their dignity and talked. He wasn’t sure how reliable their information was. The youngest one stated that Gamier had no enemies at work and ‘put more energy into cycling than working his ass off’. The other kid thought there was a married woman in Garnier’s life, but he’d never personally seen a husband complaining. The three merry cyclists seemed to get on very well.