Confession Read online

  ‘And what was it like?’ Cabrille had asked, amused and intrigued by his daughter’s cool.

  It had taken a moment for Virginie to find the right word. And then, almost wistfully, she had replied: ‘Interesting.’

  Virginie might never have killed another dog, but Arsène Cabrille knew that she’d made up for it elsewhere. At twenty-three, with a degree in business studies from Sciences-Po, which he had insisted she complete, she’d come back to Marseilles and asked for a job in the family business: drugs primarily, with a healthy measure of murder, extortion, gambling and prostitution as useful, and often associated, sidelines. But there was a condition, she’d told her father. She wanted to be out in the workplace, not behind a desk balancing the books, s’il te plaît, Papa.

  So, with a raising of his hands and a shrug of surrender, he had given her to Taddeus and his twin brother, Tomas, whom Cabrille trusted above all his troupe. The Corsican twins had taken her on, taught her a few useful tricks and after a six-month apprenticeship, Taddeus had reported back that La Mam’selle was well able to look after herself. A true Cabrille, he’d said. And so his little Virginie joined the firm. It was the proudest day of Cabrille’s life. He couldn’t have wished for more.

  But she was headstrong, too. Impatient with the measured pace of Cabrille operations. She always wanted things to move faster, more efficiently, was always looking to streamline the business. Which was not the way that Cabrille had learned from his own father. Doucement, doucement, the old man had told him. We’ll get there in the end, and be safe too. That’s the secret. That’s the import ant thing. And Cabrille had gone along with it, biting his tongue sometimes but always following his father’s wishes.

  It was not the same with Virginie. He could often feel the tension radiating off her, the impatience, the tongue-biting. Maybe it was just youth, he decided. Maybe she’d grow out of it, learn to control it. And when she did, then she’d be ready to take over. Only then.

  On the Daimler’s CD player, Charles Trénet’s ‘Que reste-t-il de nos amours?’ started up and Cabrille smiled. Along with ‘La Mer’ and ‘Boum’, it was one of his all-time favourites. Such a smooth voice, that Trénet – smoother, longer, sweeter than Rossi, or Gabin, or Chevalier. The soundtrack of his youth . . . all those old haunts like Cage d’Or on République and Bateau Bleu off Canebière. Champagne in ice buckets, spotlights and sequins, the sweet scent of cigars and Soir de Paris. Ah, he thought, those were the days, and he started to hum along, waving a bent finger to follow the beat.

  But the fond mood didn’t last. Looking past Virginie towards the Joliette docks, he spotted a banner strung up between two dockyard cranes, bellying in the wind and scrawled with a rain-smeared message of defiance: Enfin le Mort du Port.

  ‘So the strike has begun?’ he said, Trénet forgotten for the moment, lips now pursed in irritation.

  ‘Tuesday, Papa. The Chamant gate on the Mirabe basin was the last to close,’ Virginie replied. ‘Now it’s stalemate from here to Corbière. Which is good.’

  ‘And why would that be good when we have a hundred-million franc cargo in the hull of Hesperides waiting to be unloaded?’ asked Cabrille with an icy precision.

  ‘Because, cher Papa, if our little girl’s in Marseilles, she won’t be going anywhere any time soon. That’s why.’

  Up ahead a truck started to pull out into the fast lane without indicating. Coming up behind him but refusing to brake, Virginie tooted the Daimler’s horn and accelerated past with just centi metres to spare. ‘Salaud,’ he heard her whisper under her breath.

  ‘And what is so important, so valuable about this missing young lady anyway?’ continued Cabrille, not really listening, more concerned by the enforced hold-up of his latest cargo.

  ‘Because, while we wait for the dockers’ strike to end we can earn ourselves the same amount – maybe more – finding the girl and making that ransom demand ourselves.’

  Virginie wasn’t actually thinking about money, but she knew it was a word that her old father understood. She wasn’t convinced that he’d quite appreciate the refinements that she had in mind.

  ‘And what makes you imagine her poor parents will have sufficient funds to cover such a ludicrous demand?’

  Virginie grunted, slanting a look at her father in the rear-view mirror. ‘Because, as you will have read in the newspaper, Mama is an heiress and her stepfather is Georges Lafour of Banque Lafour et Finance.’

  ‘An heiress? Banque Lafour?’

  ‘Shoes, Papa. The Bonnefoy botte. Her great-great-grandfather supplied Napoleon’s army. As for Georges Lafour, he runs one of the most successful private investment banks in the country. And, coincidentally, gave a series of lectures my second year at Sciences-Po,’ she added.

  ‘Well, we’d better keep our eyes open then, hadn’t we?’ said Cabrille, trying to work the ache out of his fingers, knowing there were more important matters on the agenda than some missing girl, though it pleased him to see his daughter so preoccupied with the promise and possibility of profit, even if it was in unrelated fields. And then, ‘How much further?’

  ‘A couple more minutes,’ Virginie replied. ‘Just up ahead.’

  On the CD player, ‘Que reste-t-il de nos amours?’ came to an end. A second later, Trénet launched into ‘Boum’.

  14

  ARSÈNE CABRILLE WATCHED HIS DAUGHTER unzip her boots. He was sitting in the back seat of the Daimler which Virginie had thoughtfully driven into Valentine’s workshop. He wouldn’t have to get out of the car, he needn’t even get wet. The CD player was still on, a bouncy accordion accompanying Fréhel on ‘La Java Bleue’. The Breton singer added a certain raddled joie de vivre to the proceedings, he decided.

  Placing her boots together, Virginie got up from the bench and flexed her legs, drawing each to her chest, clasping it with her arms, barefoot now save for a band of white tape around both heels and just above the toes of her right foot. She was still wearing the combat trousers but she’d removed her leather jacket, and her wide swimmer’s shoulders stretched her T-shirt. She looked powerful, muscular, highly tuned.

  ‘So tell us about Chief Inspector Gastal,’ she began, tugging on what looked like a pair of cycling mitts.

  Valentine was standing between the two Corsicans. They had taken off their overcoats and jackets and had made something of a performance of it, carefully draping their clothes over the bonnet of the Daimler. Nice touch, Valentine had thought. Stripping off like that made it so much worse, like there really was going to be a mess. As Virginie approached, the two men reached for Valentine’s wrists and pulled out his arms, tugging against each other so that he was crucified between them. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  ‘Gastal?’ he asked, as though the name was unfamiliar.

  Virginie was lethally fast. Less than a metre from Valentine, she rose on her toes, spun round and, using her hips for added momentum, brought the point of her left elbow slicing across his left cheek. His head snapped back from the blow, but the Corsicans held him fast. When his head rolled forward again there was a trail of green snot draped across his cheek, just a centimetre above a long gash that opened red and smooth, like a second mouth, running from cheekbone to chin. Blood seeped from the wound and flowed down his neck into the front of his veste.

  Virginie contemplated the result of her handiwork, flexing movement back into her elbow, straightening and bending the arm.

  ‘Never answer a question with a question, cher Jules,’ she chided. ‘It’s very impolite. So. Once again. Gastal. Remind me.’

  Valentine shook his head and the line of snot followed the blood, slithering down his cheek like a long green worm. ‘He’s a flic. Used to work in Toulon and here in Marseilles – vice, narcotics – but long gone. Up in Lyons the last I heard.’ His voice was low and croaky, almost fractured from the blow he’d received.

  It wasn’t what Virginie wanted to hear. Shaking out her elbow, she suddenly tipped back on her right foot and, with ju
st the merest spring, she brought the heel of her left foot hard down on Valentine’s right knee.

  In the back of the Daimler Cabrille heard the snap of tendons before the man’s voice wailed out in agony: ‘Ay-ay-ahhhh-fuckin’-fuckin’ sheeeeet!!’ He shook his head sadly. Valentine should have known better.

  ‘Please, please, please, mon petit,’ purred Virginie, walking to and fro in front of Valentine, rolling her shoulders, her neck, getting into her rhythm. ‘Such language.’ The man was now sagging to the right on an obscenely bent leg. If it hadn’t been for the two Corsicans he’d have been down on the ground. But Virginie seemed unconcerned. ‘You know as well as I that your little copain, Gastal, is right here in Marseilles,’ she continued. ‘Because the two of you have been seeing rather a lot of each other. Am I right?’

  ‘You’re right, you’re right. He’s back. But I swear . . .’

  Whatever Valentine was about to swear, Virginie was not prepared to listen. Twisting back to her right this time, her left foot shot up like a piston and slammed into the man’s left shoulder.

  Valentine spat out another shriek of pain as the shoulder dislocated with a hollow crunch, the Corsican holding his left wrist adding a few wrenching tugs for good measure. The three of them had done this before.

  ‘What did he want?’ asked Virginie gently, circling the three men, retaping the Velcro on her mitts. ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘The girl . . . the one who was killed. Not anything else! Not you, nothing. Rien de rien. Just this girl, that’s all.’

  Virginie looked over at the Daimler, caught her father’s eye.

  ‘Girl?’ she asked.

  ‘He wanted to know if Fonton was still around. Wanted to know if he and his boys had her . . . here in Marseilles. I told him Fonton was gone. There were others now . . . working the lines.’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘It’s good money. Safe if you get it right. And regular.’

  ‘You got any names for me?’

  For a moment Valentine didn’t respond, panting out the pain from his knee and his shoulder, licking at the blood and the snot. The Corsican on his left gave his wrist another encouraging tug.

  ‘Santarem . . . Murat Santarem,’ Valentine screamed out. ‘That’s a name I heard.’

  ‘And what is it that this Murat Santarem does, exactly?’ asked Virginie, standing in front of Valentine once more.

  ‘He’s a fixer,’ gasped Valentine. ‘Arabe. Used to run drugs round Toulon, and here in Marseilles. Just a courier. Nothing big. Now I hear he gets girls, passes ’em on. Small time traffic but does okay.’

  ‘And where does this Monsieur Santarem live?’ coaxed Virginie, flexing her fingers, cracking the knuckles one by one.

  Valentine shook his head, and was rewarded with another swipe of her elbow, crunching into his right cheekbone this time. Another spill of blood coursed down his chest.

  ‘It’s years . . . I don’t know now . . . Could be Toulon. Could be here.’ The man was beginning to weep, tears tracking down his bloodied cheeks.

  ‘And that’s it? Just this girl?’

  ‘Like I said, it was nothing about the family. I wouldn’t do that. Not the Cabrilles.’

  Virginie let a smile slide across her features. Nodded understandingly. ‘And you’re quite sure about that? It was just the girl he was interested in?’

  ‘That’s all. On my life . . . I swear to you, on my life.’

  Virginie straightened her shoulders and let out a breath, worked her neck. ‘Funny you should mention that,’ she said, looking back at her father and getting the nod. ‘Because, as of now . . . it’s over.’

  Lifting his head, grunting with the effort, Valentine tried to focus his eyes on her. The last thing he saw was the ball of her hand, mittened fingers curled back, streaking towards his face. There was no time to avoid it. He felt the blow, heard the cartilage in his nose snap, and sensed a cold sliver of bone slide into his frontal lobe.

  Jules Valentine was dead before he hit the floor.

  15

  Paris

  SHORTLY AFTER VALENTINE’S BROKEN BODY was tipped into the inspection pit of his Commanderie workshop, Daniel Jacquot pushed open the heavy plate glass doors of La Résidence Camille on the Left Bank of Paris. He had caught an early train from Cavaillon, as agreed the night before with Madame Bonnefoy, and had spent the last four hours going through the Lafour case file which the examining magistrate had brought with her to Kuchnia in the expectation that he would accept her commission – which, of course, he had. The file was dense and on the journey north, chased all the way by the rain, he’d had time for just two read-throughs – from the initial missing person’s report timed Saturday evening and the reports of the Parisian investigating officers, to witness statements and background profiles on the Lafour family – Elodie, her mother Estelle and her stepfather Georges Lafour, an increasingly influential adviser in Chirac’s administration, according to the sheaf of photocopied newspaper clippings that formed part of his profile’s appendix.

  It had made interesting reading and the foyer of La Résidence Camille confirmed what the file had noted: that the Lafours were, indeed, an extremely wealthy family. Which made the lack of a ransom demand all the more unusual, and disquieting. If there was no boyfriend, as Solange Bonnefoy had assured him, then murder or possibly trafficking were all that remained.

  Brushing the rain from the shoulders of his coat and wiping a hand across his forehead, Jacquot crossed the marble foyer to the concierge’s desk, a rich, unlikely summer scent of honeysuckle and gardenia in the air.

  ‘Chief Inspector Daniel Jacquot,’ he said to the concierge, now rising from behind his desk to intercept him, a small man given bulk and authority by his topcoat, its generous braiding as warm and golden as the matching gilt mirrors, candle sconces and ormolu buffets that furnished La Résidence Camille’s foyer. A pair of white gloves was strapped beneath one of his braid epaulettes, and the gold keys of St Peter glinted on his lapel. The man’s hair was black, parted high on one side and glistened with pommade, which made him look, Jacquot thought, like a vaudeville performer from the turn of the century, exuding a greasy master-of-ceremonies bonhomie. All that was missing was a curling moustache. ‘I have an appointment with Madame Lafour,’ Jacquot told him.

  ‘You are expected, monsieur. Please, this way,’ the concierge replied, leading him to one of a pair of gilt-caged lifts, hauling back the concertina doors with an oily, rattling ker-chunk, ker-chunk. Jacquot wondered how many times the concierge had performed this particular duty. He could probably have done it with his eyes closed: from desk to lifts and back to the desk.

  Before stepping in, Jacquot turned to him. ‘Your name is Claude Carloux?’

  ‘That is correct, monsieur.’

  ‘And you were the concierge on duty when Mademoiselle Lafour left the building on Saturday?’

  ‘I was, monsieur.’

  ‘Dites-moi,’ said Jacquot, leaning forward as though wishing to share a confidence, ‘did the young lady seem happy to you? Or distracted in any way?’

  Despite its size, the Lafour file he’d read on the train had not recorded the mood of the girl on the morning she went missing. Indeed, Jacquot had found it hard to work up any picture of the girl at all, save for her age, her looks, the reports of academic ability from her school. Her music. Her painting. There had to be more.

  Carloux frowned. Considered the question. ‘Why, she seemed very happy,’ he replied. ‘En effet, come to think of it, the happiest I have seen her in a long while.’

  ‘She is not normally so happy?’

  The concierge spread his hands and glanced across to the stairs, rising up either side of the lifts to a mezzanine floor. In a softer voice, he confided, ‘She is a beautiful young lady, Chief Inspector. It is hard not to notice her, you understand. But sometimes, for someone so young, so pretty, she seems . . . too serious for her years. When she should be full of the joys of spring, n’est-ce-pas?’ An
d Carloux turned his eyes to the foyer, nodding towards it as though to suggest that anyone fortunate enough to live at La Résidence Camille could surely have few worries. Then he shrugged, shook his head. ‘It is terrible. Poor Madame Lafour.’

  ‘And poor Monsieur Lafour,’ added Jacquot with a smile.

  Carloux let out a puff of breath. ‘Oh, mais oui, bien sûr. Mais . . .’

  ‘Mais?’

  ‘But, I mean, he is the stepfather. It is different, I think.’

  Jacquot nodded, as though in agreement, then stepped into the lift and pulled the cage-doors closed.

  ‘Which floor?’ he asked through the bars.

  ‘The sixth, monsieur,’ replied Carloux. ‘Apartment eighteen.’

  Jacquot waved his thanks and pressed the button. With a surprisingly swift and silent power the old lift rose away from the foyer, past four floors – four doors a floor – until the cage sighed to a stop on the topmost level. Pulling open the doors, Jacquot paused to examine the control panel. Ascenseurs Famille Yaeger Orfèvres, 1923. The real thing, he could see, but given a make-over for the great and the good of La Résidence Camille.

  Stepping out of the lift, closing the doors behind him, Jacquot looked around. Like the foyer and floors below, this top floor landing was ludicrously spacious, marble tiled, and furnished in choice Empire ormolu, its half-dozen gilt sconces and chandelier casting a soft golden light over three large hunting scene tapestries. But it wasn’t the space or the furnishings that gave him pause for thought. Up here there were just two doors leading off the landing, not four. Since La Résidence Camille occupied an entire block, it was clear that these two top-floor apartments shared one whole side of the street between them – far, far larger than the sixteen apartments below. According to the case file, La Résidence Camille was the Lafours’ pied-a-terre in Paris, their weekend home being further out of the city in Neuilly.

  Another world, thought Jacquot, pressing flat number eighteen’s doorbell and wondering what he would find inside.