Confession Page 8
This was clearly not the kind of bank with a counter, where customers came and went, making deposits, withdrawals, arranging loans – or not the kinds of loan most people contemplated: for a car, a house, a holiday. Instead, Jacquot found himself walking down a panelled, carpeted corridor which opened into a wider foyer. The carpet felt as thick as the glass doors, hugging his boots and softening every step, the wood panelling was light and precious, and the air was filled with the same oaky scent he remembered from the library at La Résidence Camille. Set along the far wall of this foyer stood a long, uplit burr walnut counter, like a hotel reception desk, the grain black-spotted and whorled, its surface sanded paper smooth and polished to a mirror shine. Sitting behind it were two young women – blonde and brunette – both of them smartly dressed in crisp pinstripe suits, business-like and attract -ive. As he approached the desk Jacquot smiled at them, wished them both bonjour, but spoke to the brunette. She reminded him of Claudine, and he always felt comfortable with women who looked like Claudine. He told her his name and said he had an appointment with . . .
‘Mais, oui, Monsieur Jacquot, we have been expecting you,’ she interrupted with the sweetest smile. ‘Here, let me take your coat.’ In a second she was out from behind the counter and drawing it from his shoulders, peeling it away from him. He turned to face another beaming smile as she folded the coat over her arm and patted it. She would look after it until he returned. ‘Monsieur Lafour will see you straightaway,’ she told him. ‘If you take the lift there, it is the fifth floor. His assistant will be waiting for you.’
Alone in the lift, Jacquot smiled to himself. The bare, minimalist style, the confident and ordered efficiency, the staggeringly pretty girls . . . it was all very impressive. Hushed, swift, controlled . . . like the lift. If you had come here with money to invest, thought Jacquot, everything looked promising. Certainly Monsieur le Président had come to that conclusion.
The doors slid open without Jacquot even realising the lift had stopped. Unlike the reception area, the fifth floor had retained its eighteenth-century proportions. No open space here but a wide landing and a single corridor. There were four large oak doors to each side of this corridor, all of them open, the air between filled with the muted bleep of telephones and muffled voices. A young man in a silk-backed, tightly buttoned waistcoat stepped forward and introduced himself as Monsieur Lafour’s personal assistant, Félix. Even without a jacket, Félix looked effortlessy stylish, or maybe as a result of it – a light grey Prince of Wales check, silver linked double cuffs, polished black lace-ups, the easy toss of curly black hair as aristocratic as you could wish for, with a courtier’s deference as he ushered the way to Lafour’s office. Through the open doors of the corridor they passed along, Jacquot glimpsed marble fireplaces, herringbone parquet, moulded ceilings and computer terminals on ormolu desks, the men in shirtsleeve order like Félix, braces or waistcoats, talking on the phone, looking out of a window, conferring. Two of the rooms were occupied by women. One of them was at her desk, the other was coming out of her office. Silk blouse, pencil skirt, brown hair caught in a tight chignon, a warm spin of scent. Jacquot stepped aside for her and she caught his eye, smiled.
‘Et voilà,’ said Félix, two steps ahead, reaching forward to open a pair of double doors and waving Jacquot in.
Georges Lafour was standing behind his desk, a weighty slab of glass supported on a chiselled stone plinth. He was on the phone, listening not talking. As far as Jacquot could judge, at first glance, the man was elegantly handsome, almost patrician. Tall, slim, his face smooth and gently tanned, his hands long and thin and expertly manicured, the hair thick and grey and wavy. But as Jacquot drew closer he could see that the skin above his cheekbones seemed to bunch around his eyes, like a chameleon’s, the whites almost completely concealed, just the pupils, as round and as black as a shark’s, turning on him now and scrutinising him over black-framed bifocals. It was a cold, cruel, calculating look that a perfunctory, pursed smile did little to soften. Like Félix, Lafour was jacketless, his crisp white shirt overlaid by wide green braces that emphasised the narrowness of his shoulders and his stooping height.
Such a difference between them, was Jacquot’s second thought. Husband and wife. Mother and stepfather. A suit, an office; a dressing gown and darkened library. The one broken by Elodie’s disappearance, the other managing. Managing well. Maybe Jacquot shouldn’t have been surprised.
While Félix showed him to a chair, offering a range of refreshments all of which he declined, Jacquot was aware that Lafour followed the performance, acknowledging him with a tilt of the chin when their eyes met, watching as Jacquot took in his surroundings – the four mansard windows behind the desk, a pair of cerise-coloured Warhol screen prints of Elizabeth Taylor, a second set of double doors, what looked like a bronze Maillol nude on a stand – before bringing his phone conversation swiftly to a close. His voice was pitched higher than Jacquot had expected for such a large man – strained and sharp.
‘I am sorry, Nicolas. Il faut m’excuser. I have a most important meeting and I am late. Please call me later, if you need to. Oui, oui. Bien sûr. Salut,’ he said and put down the phone. Dismissing Félix with a ‘Merci bien, that will be all’, Lafour settled himself in a leather swing chair the same limestone shade as the plinth supporting his desk, and waited until the office door had closed before addressing Jacquot.
‘Alors. Chief Inspector Jacquot. Another policeman come to cross me off his list.’ It was not a question. He smiled and waved one limp, long-fingered hand, to imply there was no need for Jacquot to waste time denying it.
Jacquot remained silent.
‘However,’ continued Lafour, eyes flicking over his visitor, taking him in, possibly surprised there was no denial, ‘my sister-in-law called to say I should see you. My wife as well. Which means you arrive here with two very solid recommendations.’ He spread his hands, and managed a smile that was as fleeting as a swift on the wing. ‘So, how can I be of assistance?’
‘First of all, Monsieur Lafour, thank you for seeing me at such short notice. And, secondly, my sympathies at this difficult time.’
Lafour frowned. ‘My daughter is not dead, Chief Inspector. Just . . . missing.’
For a moment Jacquot was taken off guard. He had not expected such an immediate rebuke. Lafour was clearly a man to handle with care. ‘Of course, you are right, monsieur. What I meant was . . . I have just come from your wife. Obviously this is a very hard time for you both.’
‘Yes it is,’ said Lafour, with a note of impatience – as though it could be anything else. ‘But let us get on. What do you need to know? What can I tell you that I haven’t already told a dozen of your colleagues?’
‘To begin with,’ said Jacquot, glancing at the Warhols, the Maillol, ‘why do you suppose there has been no ransom demand?’
The question clearly took Lafour by surprise. He gave a soft grunt. ‘Up until now it is usually me who asks that question,’ he replied. ‘And when I do, the police tell me it is early days and that we should wait. Be patient.’
It struck Jacquot that Lafour was not the patient type.
Across the desk, he laced his fingers, stiffening them to inspect his nails. ‘But if you wish to know my opinion, I can only suppose that Elodie has met up with someone . . . someone my wife and I did not know about, and that she has . . . eloped. Or, possibly, that she has been taken by someone who does not realise who we are. How . . . able we are to answer any demand. If that is the case, then hopefully the newspapers will sharpen their wits, and they will make themselves known.’
Jacquot nodded. It was a reasonable, if limited, take on the situation.
‘There is, of course, a third possibility,’ said Jacquot.
Lafour levelled his chameleon eyes over the top of his black bifocals. They bored into Jacquot. He knew what the policeman was suggesting.
‘I will not . . . That is not a consideration. Elodie is alive. I know it.’
‘Ha
ve you thought of offering a reward?’ Jacquot asked.
‘I discussed it with my wife, and we mentioned it to the police. When Elodie did not come home. The second or third day. But they advised us that such a move would cause more trouble than they were able to manage, that it could easily compromise their investigation. Cranks, lunatics, all of whose stories would have to be checked. It remains, however, an option . . . if no ransom demand is forthcoming.’ He sounded, for a moment, as though he was formulating a business strategy.
‘Tell me, monsieur, how do you get on with your stepdaughter?’ Jacquot was careful with his choice of tense.
‘I prefer to think of her as my daughter,’ Lafour replied shortly. ‘She was seven when her father died and nine when I married her mother. She is like my own, Chief Inspector. I love and cherish her.’ The black eyes challenged Jacquot momentarily, then blinked away. ‘As to our relationship, I would say it is close. Warm. She is a most talented child.’
‘Hardly a child, Monsieur Lafour.’
Another black look swung Jacquot’s way. ‘A child, Chief Inspector. Not yet a woman. There is a difference.’
‘Someone else clearly doesn’t think so,’ Jacquot replied, taking a certain satisfaction in needling Lafour. He could see no good reason to tread gently with the man any longer. ‘You suggested that she might have “met up with someone”,’ Jacquot continued. ‘Do you think that is possible? That she could have . . . concealed a . . . such a friendship from you and your wife?’
‘I can only hope it is so, Chief Inspector. The alternative does not bear thinking about.’
There was a knock at the door, and Félix popped his head round.
‘It’s Jürgen. He’s coming up.’
Lafour reached for a gold pocket watch on the desk top, snapped it open and looked at the time. ‘He is early. Show him to the boardroom, Félix.’ When the door closed, Lafour slid the timepiece into his trouser pocket and turned back to Jacquot. ‘Please, Chief Inspector, do continue. Our German friend can wait.’ A curling, self-satisfied smile showed around his lips; his eyes narrowed, like the aperture on a camera lens.
Jacquot felt a shiver of distaste, gritted his teeth.
‘When Elodie’s father died,’ he began, ‘how did she take it?’
Lafour gave a grunt of surprise; clearly this was another question he had not anticipated. ‘She was devastated, of course. The two of them were very close.’
‘You knew her father?’
‘I knew of him. Through his work.’
‘An architect, n’est-ce pas?’
Lafour nodded, flicked at a fingernail.
Through the glass desktop, Jacquot saw him stretch out one leg and point the toe of his shoe. He’s bored, thought Jacquot. Time to rattle his cage again. Just because he could.
‘And how did Elodie respond to you, when you married her mother?’
Once again, Lafour looked taken aback, and for a moment Jacquot expected the man to turn on him and ask: And what might that have to do with her disappearance, s’il vous plaît?
But he didn’t. He appeared to give the question some thought, and then a slow smile slid across his features.
‘So I was correct,’ he said, levelling an indulgent gaze on Jacquot. ‘As I suspected, you are here to . . . to take my measure.’ The tone was amused, but still icy.
‘As I mentioned to your wife,’ replied Jacquot with a spread of his hands, ‘parents are always a good place to begin. It . . . places the missing person.’
‘And, of course, you couldn’t have done it on the phone.’ It was neither statement nor question. ‘You needed to see as well as to hear, n’est-ce pas? Well, I suppose I can understand that. Anything that might help get Elodie back . . . So, what was it you asked again?’
‘How Elodie responded to you? When you first met her.’
‘Warily. Uncertain.’ He shrugged as though that should be no surprise. ‘She was very . . . polite, I would say. It took some time to gain her trust, to get close to her.’
There was another knock at the door. Félix again. ‘Jurgen? . . . I put him in the boardroom.’
This time Lafour pursed his lips as though, now, he really did have to conclude their meeting. He got to his feet, reached for the jacket draped over the back of his chair, and slipped it on with an easy, unhurried grace.
‘So, Chief Inspector . . . Jacquot. I regret that now I really must bring our meeting to a close. Since you have had the opportunity to meet me, in order to . . . place Elodie, perhaps you would excuse me?’ Coming round the desk, he pulled a thin leather wallet from an inside jacket pocket and slid out a card. ‘But if you need anything, Chief Inspector, anything at all, do not hesitate to call me. At any time.’
Jacquot took the card, but Lafour kept hold of it and drew close, close enough for Jacquot to smell the mint on his breath.
‘Please find her, Chief Inspector. We want her back.’
And then the card was released. There was no handshake. Lafour gave a short bow of farewell, turned to the second set of double doors that led presumably to the boardoom, and Félix was ushering Jacquot out of the office and down the corridor to the lift.
‘A very impressive man,’ said Jacquot.
‘Monsieur Lafour? Formidable, oui.’ That toss of his hair, the lift doors opening as they approached. ‘How he manages at this terrible time . . .’ Félix stood aside. ‘As I say, formidable.’
Formidable, indeed.
Five minutes later, the plate-glass doors of Banque Lafour hissed closed behind him and Jacquot was standing in rue Baranot once more, pulling up his coat collar. So far that day he had spent four hours on a train to spend no more than an hour with Estelle Lafour and a little less than thirty minutes with her husband. And there was still the train journey home.
But the time hadn’t been wasted. He glanced at his watch. Just a couple more things to do before heading back to the station.
23
Marseilles
ALAIN GASTAL CALLED IN THE killing himself and by the time Claude Peluze and Charlie Serre arrived at Valentine’s workshop, followed soon after by the scene-of-crime boys and forensics, he had been through Valentine’s office and come up with two names: Ibin and Alam. He’d found them in the desk diary, today’s date. Booked in to do an exhaust job. The van was still up on the skids above Valentine’s broken body. He’d got their surnames from Valentine’s ancient Rolodex, both names on a single card swollen from use and smeared with grease. Ibin Hahmoud and Alam Haggar. Phone numbers and addresses.
‘Bring ’em in,’ Gastal had said, showing Peluze the card.
Now, three hours later, Alam Haggar was sitting in an interview room on rue de l’Evêché, tapping his foot as though he was in a hurry to get somewhere. Which he was. Out of there.
Gastal, just back from a fine lunch at Mère Boul’, the butter from a dozen escargots still glistening on his lips and chin, looked through the glass. Haggar was thin and wiry, bony shoulders hunched, a mop of black curls crowded over the top of an angrily pockmarked face. He was wearing a grey hooded sweat-top over a padded shirt. Because of the table Gastal couldn’t see below the kid’s waist but he guessed jeans and trainers.
‘Where d’you find him?’ he asked, dropping his chin to his chest and letting out a low contented belch.
‘At home,’ replied Peluze. ‘Place Lapeyre, like it said on the card. Told us he was sick. Hadn’t turned up for work. Then I found this in his pocket.’
Peluze handed Gastal a fold of notes. Gastal took it, lifted it to his nose, riffled through it.
‘Two thousand,’ said Peluze. ‘That’s when he tried to do a runner.’
‘What about Hahmoud?’
Peluze shook his head. ‘No sign of him.’
Gastal worked his neck out of the collar of his shirt, nodded absently, then headed for the door to the interview room. ‘Get me a coffee, will you? Just bring it through.’ As he opened the door he heard the smallest, lowest hiss of anger from Peluze.
He turned and shot Peluze a look. ‘Any problem?’
‘No, boss. No problem.’
‘Good,’ said Gastal, standing by the open door, waiting for his request to be carried out. With a nod, and clenched fists, Peluze went off to fetch the coffee. As the door closed behind him, Gastal slipped the fold of notes into his breast pocket. Oh, how he loved this posting.
And how he loved dealing with little mecs like Alam Haggar, who watched him close the door and cross the room, pull out a chair and settle himself at the table. Every move. Dark eyes darting over him. He hadn’t even opened his mouth yet and the boy was already squirming. Eighteen, nineteen, Gastal guessed. Turk or Arab, by the look of him.
Gastal took a new cassette out of his pocket, tore off the wrapping and slid it into the tape recorder screwed to the wall.
He pressed Record and looked directly at Haggar.
‘Baumettes . . . Baumettes . . . Baumettes,’ he said. Baumettes was the notorious prison on the eastern edges of the city. He stopped the tape, rewound it and pressed Play. ‘Baumettes . . . Baumettes . . . Baumettes . . .’ He pressed Stop, rewound the tape again and pressed Record once more. Loosening his tie, he gave his name, the date and the time.
‘So,’ he continued, settling back in his chair, ‘name, age, address, s’il vous plaît.’
‘I haven’t done anything. And I’m sick.’
Gastal switched off the tape machine. ‘I’m not going to ask again, shit-for-brains. Piss me about and I’ll break your toes. All I’ve got to do is say you tried to kick me and hit the table leg instead. It’s tried and tested, take my word for it. Understand?’ Gastal smiled, pushed the Record button and this time Haggar did as he was told.
‘So how long have you been sick?’
‘Last couple of days. Just kept my head down.’