Confession Page 12

  The Chamant wharf was deserted save for three small freighters berthed along the inner quay and two larger merchant ships in the outer basin. Their lights flickered through the rain, but otherwise there was no movement. Normally, the wharf would be humming – fork-lifts, carriage-tractors, balers, stockmen, cranes working on the ships’ holds – but this morning there wasn’t even a seagull to be seen. Just the sound of the rain and a low passing whoosh of early-morning traffic from the flyover behind him.

  Jacquot found the shipping offices beyond the last bale-house, a motel-style two-storey terrace dwarfed by its neighbour, the lights inside gleaming gold against the grey morning light. He started at Poseidon, which Franco had recommended, and asked for Yionnedes. It was a good opportunity to practise his lines and get into character before he moved on to the shadier outfits.

  ‘That’s me,’ said the man behind the counter. He was tall and slim, mid-forties perhaps, with bristling grey hair and long sideburns. When Jacquot told him what he wanted, Yionnedes turned down his mouth and shook his head. Regrettably there were no openings on offer, he said, but in case anything came up he took Jacquot’s name (Muller) and the phone number of Auberge des Vagues.

  ‘Good breakfasts, non?’ said Yionnedes, noting down the contact details.

  Jacquot agreed they were, indeed, very good.

  ‘If the strike goes on any longer, you may be having quite a few of them,’ he continued, handing back Jacquot’s papers. And then, pointing outside, he said, ‘There are other agents here, other shipping lines. You might as well get your name down with all of them while you’re at it. Et bonne chance, eh?’

  After calling in and leaving his details with three more agencies (polishing his cover with each visit) Jacquot came to the two Lebanese shipping agents, their offices side by side, whose names Franco had also mentioned. Although all the lights were on, the first office’s doors were locked. He peered through the half-closed slats of the blinds but could see no one inside. At the next office, he had to press a buzzer to be let in.

  ‘You speak understand Arabic?’ asked the agent in heavily accented shorthand, a toad of a man with wobbling chins, sleeve suspenders and a slick of greasy black hair that curled over a shabby open collar. Jacquot admitted that he did not. The man smiled regretfully and showed him to the door. ‘You speak Spanish, you try next office,’ he said, as Jacquot stepped back into the rain. ‘Who knows?’

  Recalling Franco’s mention of a Spanish operation, Jacquot moved along to the next office, Ribero Agence Maritime, the name printed on a rectangle of card that had been stapled to the top of the door frame. As he pushed open the door Jacquot noticed that the staples had gone rusty, a brown tracer line along the bottom edge of the card.

  Like all the offices he’d visited so far, there was nothing remarkable about the Ribero set-up: a smell of coffee, cigarettes and old after-shave or air-freshener, charts on the walls, a map of the Marseilles waterfront and, through a half-closed door, a back room equipped with a kitchen worksurface, cupboards and sink. In the front office, at one of two metal desks facing each other across the carpet tiles, a young man sat tilted back in his chair, flicking through a magazine, feet up on the desk. The first thing Jacquot noted was his polished fingernails and weighty signet ring, and the fact that he appeared to be better dressed than most of the other agents, neatly turned out in jeans, open-necked white shirt and a blue sweater, the shoes on the desk buffed to a shine, and expensive.

  ‘Nous sommes fermés, monsieur,’ said the man, not even bothering to look up. His French was good, but the look of him and the accent were Spanish. So was the magazine he was reading.

  ‘But your door . . .’

  ‘Erreur. Je suis désolé . . .’ he gestured to the door, again without looking up.

  ‘A guy called Franco, at Auberge des Vagues, told me to call by,’ said Jacquot, trying to muster what he hoped was passable Spanish. Un hombre que se llama Franco, del Albergue des Vagues, me a dicho que lo visite. If the Arab next door wanted an Arabic-speaker, then this fellow might be impressed if he had a handle on Spanish.

  ‘Franco? Franco Delavera?’ This time the man put down his magazine.

  Jacquot shrugged. ‘Just Franco,’ he replied, dropping back into French.

  Another voice broke in. ‘If you’re a friend of Delavera, you can fuck off now.’

  Jacquot turned to see a second man – broad shoulders, big hands, with a sharp unfriendly glint in his eyes. Unseen till now, he’d come through from the kitchen. He was drying his hands on a ragged strip of towel.

  ‘Just a man I met,’ said Jacquot. ‘Talking, you know? He told me to come down here to sign up for crew.’

  ‘It’s okay, Citron. I’ve got this,’ said the Spaniard. Levering his expensive shoes off the desk he gave Jacquot the once-over, a long look, head to toe, then back again. ‘Where you from, marin?’

  Jacquot told him Rotterdam, not Cavaillon.

  He gave this some thought. ‘You got papers?’ he asked.

  Jacquot brought out his passport and union cards, offered them.

  The Spaniard nodded at Citron who stepped forward and took them, flicked through them.

  ‘You got a log?’ asked the Spaniard.

  ‘Back at the hostel.’

  ‘You got a good tan working out of Rotterdam,’ said Citron, handing back his papers.

  ‘I get around,’ replied Jacquot.

  ‘There still that bar down Delfshaven?’ asked Citron, with a half-smile, as though testing him. ‘On Schanstraat? Cleo, is it?’

  This time Jacquot shrugged, as though such a place would be of no interest. ‘I’m at sea. Who knows? Who cares? It’s the work I’m interested in.’

  The Spaniard considered this, then nodded as though Jacquot had said the right thing. ‘So how come you’re here? Right now, with the strike, all the crews are heading down to Toulon or up to Fos.’ The Spaniard gestured through the door, further up the coast. ‘Northern ports too.’

  ‘Too many birds, too few worms,’ replied Jacquot. ‘Another week and I’ll be front of the queue when the docks open down here.’

  ‘So what’ll you do between time?’

  ‘Whatever I find. I’m easy. It’s been a lean few months.’

  The Spaniard nodded. ‘You look like you can handle yourself. Am I right?’

  ‘If I have to,’ replied Jacquot.

  Citron didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off Jacquot.

  The Spaniard smiled. ‘Auberge des Vagues, you said? That’s where you’re staying?’

  Jacquot nodded. ‘Anything comes up, just let me know. Anything at all.’

  ‘Yeah, sure thing. I’ll let you know,’ said the Spaniard and, with a final long look, he swung his feet back on to the desk and reached for his magazine.

  31

  ALAIN GASTAL SAT IN AN unmarked car chewing on a sugared length of chichi-fregi. The coil of browned dough was still warm, his fat lips were coated in sugar and its sweetness filled his mouth. They served something like it in Marseilles – a kind of French take on Spanish churros. But if you wanted the real thing – or an equally delicious chick-pea panisse – you had to come to L’Estaque and sniff out one of the small kiosks with their tubs of bubbling oil.

  But Gastal hadn’t just made the journey from Police headquarters for the chichi-fregis, much as he liked them. He’d come to find himself a new snout. At Bar-Café La Toppa, in the heights above L’Estaque. This was where he’d collared Valentine, and now the man was dead. Maybe the two were unconnected, but maybe they weren’t, and someone in La Toppa had seen them together and been telling tales out of school. It could have been anyone putting Valentine down, for any number of reasons, but after his little talk with Alam Haggar, Gastal favoured the Cabrilles. The two gorilles in matching outfits, an English limo in the Fifteenth, a woman driving, and someone in the back. And the Cabrille family didn’t take too kindly to anyone getting chatty with the flics. Or, if it wasn’t the Cabrilles, maybe it was
someone holding the girl. This Santarem character Valentine had mentioned. Whichever, Gastal considered it a win-win situation. Either a lead on the Cabrilles, or on the girl. Or maybe both. And a new snout into the bargain, now that Valentine had been retired. Right now, it was the only way to go.

  Pushing the last piece of chichi-fregi into his mouth, Gastal balled up the newspaper cone it had come in, tossed it on to the back seat and set about licking his sticky fingers before brushing the sugar off his tie. He looked at his watch. It was coming on for midday and he’d been sitting there for an hour. He’d wait as long as it took.

  To make his mark, Gastal had come out to La Toppa the previous night and taken up position across the street from its parking lot. He knew what he was looking for and didn’t have long to wait.

  At a little after 10 p.m. two kids had come out of the bar and hurried into the parking lot’s shadows. Gastal was out of the car as fast as he could manage and waddled across the street, pulling out his service Beretta and coming up on them between two parked cars. With the rain pelting down, the dealer and his customer didn’t hear a thing until Gastal put his pistol to the dealer’s head. ‘Police. Blink and you’re dead,’ he’d said, then turned to the kid. His mouth hung open and his eyes were out on stalks. In his hand was a roll of notes. Gastal relieved him of the roll and waved him away. ‘Casse-toi, petit, or you’ll get the same. Go on, beat it.’ The kid didn’t need any further encouragement. He spun on his heel and legged it across the lot.

  When they were alone, Gastal had pushed the dealer into a doorway, caught hold of his wrist and twisted it round. When he had the nark on tiptoes he tapped the muzzle of the Beretta against the man’s elbow. ‘Have you any idea how it feels when a bullet mashes through this? And the damage? Believe me, you don’t want to find out.’

  That was all he’d had to do to get just what he wanted: a name, a description, a regular at La Toppa, someone connected. The dealer didn’t have to think twice about it. Lévy, he’d said, Marcel Lévy.

  ‘He likes his lunches, does Marcel,’ the dealer told Gastal. ‘Tall, fat, not a lot of hair. Somewhere in his fifties. Drives a Solex and sits by himself in the window.’ But he’d been unable to supply an address.

  Nor had police records when Gastal ran a check that morning. No current address listed. But there was a mug shot, a set of fingerprints and a good long rap-sheet going back to Lévy’s late teens, small stuff most of it, but a spell at Baumettes in the early eighties for assault. Since then, nothing. According to records the man was clean.

  And that’s who Gastal was waiting for, back at La Toppa again and occupying almost the exact same parking spot he’d taken the night before, listening to a slow rain drum on the roof of his car, waiting for the lunch crowd to assemble, and for Monsieur Lévy to make an appearance.

  It didn’t take long for the man to show, swinging into La Toppa’s parking lot on a sagging Solex that looked a couple of sizes too small for him. Drawing up outside the bar’s steamy window, Lévy hauled himself off the saddle, kicked the bike back on its stand and hurried inside. From the car, watching through the rain and two sets of smeared glass, Gastal saw him drop down at a table in a corner of the lit window and snap open a paper. Ten minutes later, the first of three courses and three demi-pichets was served to him. And with every course Gastal’s irritation mounted, wishing he’d bought another cone of chichi-fregi and wondering whether he could chance a quick trip to the kiosk down on des Canes.

  Gastal had pretty much decided he could make it there and back before Lévy finished his lunch, and was reaching forward to start the car, when the man got up and slid some notes on to the table. A moment later he pushed out through the door, pulled up his collar and hurried to his bike.

  Out in the street, Gastal started up the Renault, hoping Lévy would head back the way he had come. If he didn’t, Gastal realised he’d have to turn the car and risk losing him in L’Estaque’s warren of narrow back streets where that sagging Solex would have the advantage over the Renault.

  But luck was on his side. Without bothering to stop at the entrance to La Toppa’s parking lot, Lévy spun out into the road and headed back the way he had come. Before he’d reached the corner Gastal was on his tail, noting with satisfaction that Lévy’s Solex had no rear-view mirrors on its handlebars.

  Keeping a reasonable distance between them, he followed Lévy and the Solex down chemin du Marinier, approaching the entrance to the railway tunnel as Lévy braked for the turn at the other end. Hunched behind the wheel, Gastal decided it was just as well they were going downhill. If he’d been following Lévy uphill, the Solex would have been doing a quarter of the speed and it would have been impossible to tail him. As it was, the bike was getting ahead of the Renault on the slope, swinging round into Chemin de la Nerthe as Gastal came out of the tunnel. For a moment the Solex was out of sight and Gastal put on a bit of speed, enough for the Renault’s back end to slide out on the rain-slicked surface, but enough for Gastal to glimpse the Solex turning down Traverse Mistral towards the port. Another few moments and he would have lost his man.

  At the bottom of Mistral, just before the coast road, Lévy slowed and steered his bike up on to the pavement, freewheeling to a stop outside a chandlery shop. When Gastal drove past, Lévy was pulling out a key and letting himself in through a glass door. Lights went on.

  Open for business, thought Gastal, and parking the car on the next block, he walked back up to Lévy’s shop.

  ‘Can I help you, monsieur?’ asked Lévy as Gastal wandered down the aisle to the counter.

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ he replied, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a knotted plastic bag. ‘Here, catch,’ he continued, and lobbed it over the counter.

  Lévy instinctively reached out and caught it. By the time he’d opened his hand and seen what he was holding, Gastal was plucking it away from him.

  ‘And that will do very nicely to begin with,’ he told Lévy, holding the four-ounce polythene bag of coke by its knotted end and dropping it back into his pocket.

  ‘I think you will agree, Monsieur Lévy, that life just took one of those nasty little lurches . . .’ Gastal smiled, bringing out his badge and laying it on the counter. ‘At least, for you it just did.’

  32

  THE DINER BERNARD OFF RUE Tapion was humming when Marie-Ange and Pascale pushed through the doors for a late lunch. Given a choice, Marie-Ange would have spent the ninety minutes behind the wheel of her car, cruising the streets of Arenc, Chamant and Mirabe with the hairclip in her pocket, keeping an eye out for a man called Jan Muller. But she’d promised Pascale that lunch was on her, at Bernard’s, this very lunch time, and there was nothing she could do to get out of it. And besides, Pascale was a friend, she owed her, and if that meant listening to a ninety-minute monologue on the latest man in her life then so be it.

  There was a no-reservations policy at Bernard’s – first there, first served – which meant that coming late they’d had to wait ten minutes under the rain-tapping awning outside before it was their turn to be seated, both of them ordering the morue without bothering to look at the menu.

  Reaching for her cigarettes, Pascale lit up and started in on Jean-Charles. He was a beast, she said, but just a fabulous lover. Marie-Ange made all the appropriate noises but her attention was elsewhere. Ever since she’d picked up the hairclip in the lorry park, she’d been waiting for something to happen. But so far nothing had, save for her certainty that the hairclip belonged to someone Lucienne Viviers had known, someone connected to her in some way, someone in trouble. And now that hairclip was in her pocket, pressing against her thigh. It was then, scooping out the last of her morue with a toasted pain, that she realised Pascale was no longer listing the questionable talents of her latest lover.

  ‘I don’t know how they can bear it,’ she was saying.

  ‘How who can bear what?’ asked Marie-Ange.

  ‘Why, those poor people. You know, the ones in Paris. Their daugh
ter is missing. It was on the news this morning. And look, there, in the paper, there’s the story.’

  Marie-Ange looked over where Pascale was pointing, to the rack of newspapers set out for lone diners. Beneath a headline about proposed tax cuts was a photograph of a man and a woman standing on the steps of what looked like an apartment block.

  ‘She’s been missing since last week,’ continued Pascale. ‘No word from her. No ransom. Here, take a look,’ she said, pulling the newspaper from the rack and handing it to Marie-Ange, ‘while I powder my nose . . .’ She gave Marie-Ange a conspiratorial wink. ‘You want some? It’s a little present from lover boy. Only the very best.’

  Marie-Ange smiled and shook her head. ‘Non, merci. Pas pour moi. You should know that by now. A drink, a cigarette, a spliff now and then. That’s all for this little lady.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, chérie,’ said Pascale, and reaching for her bag, she headed off for Les Filles.

  To pass the time, Marie-Ange unfolded the paper and looked at the photograph of the couple in Paris, then read the caption. Monsieur et Madame Lafour whose daughter, Elodie, has been missing since Saturday, make a plea for her safe return. Full story, page three.

  Pascale was right, thought Marie-Ange, examining the parents’ faces. How could they possibly cope with such a terrible thing? Their daughter taken, maybe dead. In the photo the mother looked as though she hadn’t slept for a week, her eyes dark and haunted but her lips set in a stiff, severe line, holding everything in. Her husband had his hand up, as though trying to quieten the mob of photographers gathered around them.

  Without thinking, Marie-Ange opened the paper only to reel back as a strong scent blasted off the page. Versage. The scent Versage. Coming off the newsprint, as though the page had been soaked in it. She recognised it immediately, a popular scent with young girls – Marie-Ange had used it herself – but could see no reason for it being there. Had there been some promotional gift from the manufacturer tucked between the pages? Had some girl spilt her perfume on it?