Nobody was missing from Mailly-les-Temps. Nor from Ponchet, on the other side of the motorway. And no one appeared to have noticed anybody drunk or getting drunk enough to collapse and be run over. Finally, no motorist had appeared who claimed to have seen the body lying on the road.
Perhaps it just happened that the dead man had fallen on the motorway just in time to be hit and no one had seen him until the cruising police car had found him. On the other hand, perhaps someone had seen him and, scared of the things that happened to motorists who stopped to offer help to stranded travellers, had preferred to ignore him.
‘So where did he come from?’ Pel surreptitiously reached for a cigarette from Darcy’s packet that lay on his desk. Darcy saw him and gave the packet a push. Pel sighed, deciding he was weak-willed and probably even feeble-minded. Anybody who was willing to smoke himself to death couldn’t be all there.
‘Could he have been put out of a car?’ Darcy asked. ‘Gangsters getting rid of an unwelcome friend? They’re the only types I can think of who would empty a man’s pockets deliberately. On their way from Paris, for instance, to confer with allies in Marseilles. They do that these days, patron.’
They did indeed. In the old days of horse travel you could reckon your killer, even if he were only the driver of a hit-and-run horse and cart, couldn’t have travelled far from his crime in twenty-four hours. Nowadays you could kill someone in Paris and be in Marseilles a few hours later. Even, for that matter, in America. Travel was so fast these days, alibis where minutes or hours counted were hard to break down.
‘It would account for the head injury, patron.’
‘Not quite. Cham says there was glass in the wound. And that’ – Pel frowned – ‘that seems to take us back to a car headlight or a car windscreen. Cham thinks he wasn’t dragged by a car – as he would be, for instance, if his clothes snagged on something – and he says there wasn’t a lot of blood where he was found.’
‘Which seems to indicate that he didn’t die there, patron. Those injuries to his head would certainly have produced blood. And if it wasn’t on the motorway, where was it? There was no rain to wash it away. That, patron, seems to indicate he was killed somewhere else.’
‘And that,’ Pel said firmly, as though it were something they had been working towards for some time, ‘seems to indicate that what we’ve got isn’t a hit and run at all. It’s murder or manslaughter.’
As they talked, there was a tap on the door. It was Claudie Darel. Both of them smiled at her. Everybody in the Hôtel de Police smiled at Claudie, though by this time everybody had given up hope of winning her.
‘It’s De Troq’, patron,’ she said. ‘He’s with Nosjean in Volnay-le-Grand. They were called there by the local police brigadier. They’ve got a man there. He’s admitted hitting the man on the motorway with his car.’
Pel and Darcy stared at each other. Hit and run after all! Back to square one.
His name was Emile Jourdain and he was an estate agent. He had been to a family celebration at Poitonne and had had too much to drink. His friends had tried to persuade him to stay the night but he had insisted on going home. He was a middle-aged man with a fat flabby body, two or three chins and watery eyes. He looked the sort of man who drank too much.
De Troq’, slightly built, neat and handsome, met them at the door of the substation and jerked his head in Jourdain’s direction. ‘He’s not one of the Tuaregs,’ he observed. ‘Those boys move fast and I don’t think this type could move fast if he tried.’
‘Where’s Nosjean?’
‘Morbihaux. We think one of the cars that were used in the Talant hold-up’s turned up. We’d worked out one of them must have been a souped-up Citroën 19 and there was one standing in the square at Morbihaux underneath the wall of the church. The owner of the bar reported it. It’s been there for three days – ever since the Talant hold-up, I imagine. We’ve asked Fingerprints to have a look at it. There’s also an old boy who uses the bar who remembers seeing another car there before it appeared. We think that one might have been the car the Tuaregs changed to from the getaway car.’
‘Is it a firm identification?’
‘Not by any means, patron. The old boy noticed a Ford Sierra 2000 parked under the trees. It was there all day. Next day on his way to the bar he noticed it had gone but near where it had stood was the Citroën 19. We’ve checked it. Stolen in Latou. No fingerprints. It belongs to a lawyer there.’
‘And the Sierra?’
‘Fawn-brown. They produced a lot that colour. The old boy didn’t think to take the number because at the time he didn’t think anything of it. Later, he wondered if somebody had driven into the square in the Citroën and left it there and driven away in the Sierra. It’s what we think the Tuaregs have been doing. Nosjean’s checking if something of the sort was done after the St-Blas hold-up and the other places. He’s also checking if the Sierra’s been seen anywhere else. It might give an indication of where they operate from.’
Pel nodded and gestured at the man sitting in the police office waiting for them. ‘We’d better see our friend there,’ he said. ‘Has he admitted knocking down the type on the motorway?’
‘Well, not quite, patron. We got dragged in because we were looking for the Tuaregs after the St-Blas hold-up. He’s admitted hitting someone on the motorway near Mailly but not to knocking him down.’
Pel looked puzzled. Jourdain, the man waiting in the office, enlightened him.
‘I had to get back,’ he explained. ‘I run a business and my secretary’s off ill. She’s got this influenza bug that’s going around and I couldn’t leave the office shut all day. You know how it is when you’ve got responsibilities.’
Pel said nothing and Jourdain spread his hands as though trying to show he had the stigmata. ‘And when you’ve had one or two drinks, responsibilities seem more important than ever. I decided to drive slowly for safety and I knew if I went down the motorway I’d be home in no time. But you know what modern cars are like. It’s hard to keep the speed down. It creeps up, especially when there’s an empty road in front and nobody in sight. I wasn’t going fast but I wasn’t going slow either. I live here in Volnay, which is only about forty kilometres from Poitonne, and I thought I was nearly home.’
He drew a deep breath and blew his nose. ‘Then, just after I passed the Mailly turn-off, I saw this thing in the road. I thought it was a dead donkey or something. It was just lying there. I must have dropped off and was half-asleep. You know how these long empty roads affect you. I was over it before I knew what had happened. I felt the bump. Well, two bumps. I’d gone over him.’
‘Which wheels?’
‘Right wheels. I tried to slow down and swerve at the last minute. He was lying near the verge.’
‘Which way round? Head to the centre of the road? Or feet?’
‘Feet.’
‘He wasn’t kneeling?’
‘No. Why?’
‘He had head injuries. If he were lying flat in the road and you just ran over his legs, how did he get them?’
‘I don’t know. He was flat when I saw him. I only saw him for a second in the headlights. He wasn’t wearing light clothing. Then I was over him and on. I was scared but when I looked in the rear view mirror I couldn’t see anything. You can’t at night, can you?’ Jourdain paused. ‘Well, that’s not true. I did see something. Just momentarily. But it looked just as it did when I’d first seen it. I was a bit scared and just drove on. I tried to persuade myself it was a tarpaulin that had blown off a heavy truck. They do sometimes. They’re quite dangerous.’
‘Not as dangerous as drunk drivers,’ Darcy growled.
Jourdain gave him a pained look. ‘Well, no. But I thought if it were a man there’d have been a bigger bump.’
‘So what did you decide it was in the end?’
‘Somebody’s goat or something like that. A big dog that had wandered on to the motorway.’
‘But you knew it wasn’t a goat or a dog or a tarpaulin, didn’t you?’ Pel said.
Jourdain nodded. ‘Yes,’ he agreed heavily. ‘I knew.’
‘Why didn’t you report it?’
‘I was scared.’
‘So why did you in the end.’
‘Because I was still scared. At first I thought I’d got away with it. Then Jean Amentaëz said something about a man being killed on the motorway near Mailly-les-Temps by a hit-and-run driver. He came into my office. He has the shop next door and goes up the motorway early in the morning to collect things. They were just clearing the scene, he said. There were cars and vans and things. He asked about it. His wife’s brother’s a cop and he’d heard about it. And then I knew what I’d done. In the end I couldn’t stand it any longer and went along and saw his brother-in-law. He telephoned somebody and then these two young policemen of yours arrived. They were decent enough, I must say. And now you’ve come.’
They let him have his say, then they sat back and looked at him.
‘Better tell us what you saw,’ Pel said.
‘I’ve told you.’
‘Tell us again. With more detail.’
Jourdain went over it again. ‘I was driving home,’ he said. ‘And then I saw this thing in the road and realised I’d been dropping asleep. I’m sorry about that and I expect I’ll probably go to prison or get fined, at least. But he must have been as drunk as I was to be lying there.’
‘How was he lying?’ Pel asked.
‘Well, he was just – well, lying.’
‘How?’
‘In the road.’
‘On his back? On his side? On his face?’
‘On his back. Feet to the road. I remember seeing his feet sticking up. He couldn’t have done that if he’d been lying on his face, could he? Not unless he was deformed.’
Jourdain gave a little snigger at his feeble joke but nobody smiled.
‘What about the rest of him?’
‘I didn’t see his face. He seemed just to be lying on his back.’
‘Feet apart?’
‘They must have been because I felt two distinct bumps.’
‘Arms?’
‘I didn’t notice. I was past and it was gone into the darkness behind too quickly.’
‘You didn’t stop at all?’
‘I slowed down a bit, thinking I ought to stop, but then I changed my mind and went on. Lost my nerve, I suppose. What will they do to me?’
‘They’ll charge you,’ Darcy said bluntly.
‘What with?’
‘They’ve got several choices. Manslaughter, for a start. Drunk in charge. Failing to report an accident. Failing to go to the assistance of a citizen in distress. That’s under Section 63. What about your insurance? Is that in order, because if it isn’t you’re in trouble with that, too.’
‘Holy Mother of God!’
‘Take it easy,’ Darcy said drily. ‘They might think up one to cover blasphemy as well.’
While Jourdain was making a statement inside, they went outside and examined his car. It was one of the big Citroëns, the sort of car a man would have who liked to be noticed. There were no marks on it.
‘Anything underneath?’
‘No, patron,’ De Troq’ said. ‘I had it down to the garage along the street and they put it up on the lift. I could find nothing. Perhaps Forensic’ll find something, but there’s nothing obvious.’
Pel frowned. ‘I don’t suppose there would be, would there, if he simply ran over his legs. Besides, it’s a streamlined car. Not the sort to cause the wounds Cham found. So he can’t be charged with manslaughter. Driving under the influence, failing to report an accident, all the rest, yes. But not with killing him. All he did was pass over his legs with his right wheels. Nothing else touched him. And, as Cham’s suggested, the man must have been dead already.’
There was plenty to occupy them. Statements had been taken and reports had been written and everything had been passed to the Procureur. The next step was for the juge d’instruction he assigned to the case to join the party.
In his office, Pel picked up the paper. The bribery cases in Lyons had reached the front page. ‘LYONS COPS ARRAIGNED’ one of the headlines said. ‘BRIBERY ACCUSATIONS MADE.’
Pel shrugged and tossed the paper aside. They’d all been expecting it. But nobody liked it. For a while, after such a case, everybody assumed that all cops were corrupt. He’d talked to the Chief about it and the Chief had been wary.
‘That chap, Misset,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you suspected him of this sort of thing?’
‘I’ve suspected he’s passed information to the newspapers,’ Pel admitted. ‘But I’ve never pinned it down.’
‘He’d better be watched. We can’t risk anything just now. After this, they’ll be looking out for it. You’d better be nice to the press for a change.’
Back in his office, Pel summoned the city newsmen in for a chat. They were Sarrazin, the freelance and the moving spirit among the press in the city; Henriot of Le Bien Public, the local rag; Fiabon, of France Dimanche. Ducrot, of France Soir, was down with flu. Between them, with linage, they represented almost every newspaper and agency in the country.
Pel indicated the line of chairs and beamed on them. It wasn’t a great success as an exercise in sycophancy. Pel wasn’t very good at stooping to the press, and the smile he offered looked more like the smile of a tiger spotting a victim. When he offered brandy, they seemed to think something was wrong and looked quickly at each other. As they all tossed it back, however, they seemed to feel reassured.
Pel explained their dilemma. ‘If anybody saw anything,’ he said, ‘we want him to come forward.’
‘It’s as good as done, patron,’ Sarrazin said, and that meant the others would follow his example. ‘There’s just one thing.’
Pel knew what was coming. Sarrazin never gave anything away without a collateral.
‘These hold-ups, Chief. The Tuaregs. There’ve been a lot of them. Eight to my reckoning.’
‘None of them big,’ Darcy said.
‘No. None of them big. But they’re using shotguns. When do you expect to nail them, Chief?’
‘When do you expect a big scoop to appear?’ Pel asked mildly.
‘When one turns up.’
‘That’s when we expect to nail the Tuaregs. When what we’re after turns up.’
‘What are you hoping will turn up, Chief? We might be able to help.’
Pel considered. They were looking for a fawn-coloured Sierra 2000, number unknown, but perhaps now wasn’t the time to make that information public property. Armed with it, the Tuaregs would know at once the car could lead to them and would promptly get rid of it.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing special. We’ve got a good team on it, though. Nosjean and De Troquereau. You know them both. They’ll turn something up. There’s a lot of luck in police work just as there is in newspapers.’
They accepted the parallel and went away, satisfied, to make much of what they’d got. It would be in the columns the next day; with an updated description of the man on the motorway and an appeal for anyone who knew him to come forward.
As they left, Pel headed back to his own office, considering he was entitled to a surreptitious drag at a cigarette and a glance at the paper. As he passed her office, Claudie Darel looked up and grinned. ‘You’ve got a visitor, patron,’ she said.
Pel scowled. He didn’t feel like visitors just then. He was hoping to enjoy a little peace and quiet in the comfort of his office – large, to go with his rank, comfortable chair, carpet colour of his choice, and a picture on the wall. He didn’t like the picture and the only colours they had had to offer for the carpet made him feel sick, but he had come to regard the place as a snug little bolt-hole to get away from people and do a little thinking.
It was Judge Brisard, he supposed, with his fat behind, big hips, smarmy manner and holier-than-thou attitude. The vendetta had been going on from the day when Brisard, new to the job, had first swum into Pel’s firmament. Pel usually led on points because behind his sour-innocent expression there was a lot of experience and a measure of deep cunning that Brisard could only match with spite. Pel didn’t bear him any ill will – only, perhaps, hoped he would drop dead – and he felt too tired and too riddled with what he was sure was influenza to be bothered with Brisard just then.
But it wasn’t Brisard. It was a young woman. She was small and dark and had the sort of figure that went in and out in all the right places. She looked round as Pel appeared and rose to hold out her hand. Her smile dazzled Pel. He wasn’t used to having attractive young women smiling at him.
‘Ghislaine Castéou,’ she said. ‘I’ve just come over to introduce myself.’
For a moment, Pel was at a loss, then the penny dropped and he understood the meaning of Claudie Darel’s grin. She knew who Ghislaine Castéou was, had probably been introduced to her by her boyfriend, Bruno Lucas, from the Palais de Justice.
‘You’re Judge Polverari’s relief,’ he said.
‘That’s right.’
Pel was thrown into a panic. Beautiful young women weren’t normally among the perks offered to ageing chief inspectors, and he was about to start roaring for Claudie to bring coffee when she appeared, with the coffee service they kept for special visitors. None of your thick mugs. She was doing her best to see the newcomer was impressed.
Pel flapped a little. ‘Castéou,’ he said. ‘I know that name.’
‘My husband, I expect,’ she said. ‘Armand Castéou. Ballistics.’
‘Got him. Gunsmith. He pinned down that murder at St-Denis. I thought he’d given up.’
‘He’s set up as a consultant. He leaves the gunsmith work to a manager. He’s so busy.’
‘I got on well with Judge Polverari,’ Pel said as he poured coffee. ‘We were good friends.’
‘I hope we will be, too,’ Judge Castéou said. ‘I know Judge Polverari well. He’s my uncle, in fact. He helped me get the job. He’s a great admirer of yours. He said there was nowhere better than here to learn the job. I was a junior in Marseilles, but there are so many there you get lost among them. I preferred somewhere I could take a bit of responsibility.’
‘You’ve met Judge Brisard, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’ The reply was so short and unadorned Pel could only assume that she liked Judge Brisard no more than he did himself. It pleased him to think he might have an ally.
‘I shan’t get in your hair,’ Judge Castéou said.
Pel didn’t know whether to be pleased or not. He couldn’t stand juges d’instruction sitting on his shoulder like vultures after carrion, but he felt Ghislaine Castéou could sit on his shoulder any time.
‘I hope we can work together,’ she went on. ‘My uncle said you worked best left alone. I’ll do what I’m supposed to do and leave the rest to you.’
He explained about the motorway case and she listened carefully, sitting close to him as he handed her the statements they’d prepared. Her perfume made him dizzy.
He was still bright-eyed when he arrived home. Yves Pasquier, aged twelve, from next door, was in the road when he drove up. His dog was with him and as usual Pel spoke to the wrong end. It was the original shaggy dog and it was hard to tell which end bit and which wagged.
‘He’s pleased to see you,’ the boy encouraged. ‘The evening paper says you’re trying to identify a man hit by a car on the motorway.’ He always took an interest in what Pel was doing because he had every intention of becoming a policeman himself. ‘Was it going fast?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Was there a lot of blood?’
For once Pel could answer honestly. ‘Not this time.’
‘They can always tell who did it, can’t they? They search for flakes of paint and match them up with the damaged part of the car.’
‘Not in this case.’
‘Why not?’
‘There weren’t any.’
‘Oh! Was he a crook?’
It was a possibility, Pel felt, but he refused to commit himself.
‘You never know, though, do you?’ the boy said. ‘I mean, look at the Count of Monte Cristo.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m reading this book. Monsieur Balanais – he teaches us literature – he says we ought to read French classics. So I found this book on the shelf. It’s about a man who pretends to be something he isn’t. He’s actually a sailor and he’s put in prison falsely. But he escapes and finds a lot of money, so he calls himself the Count of Monte Cristo and sets out to ruin his enemies. He does, too. You can never tell, can you? Your man might be a count.’
‘He might,’ Pel agreed. ‘But I don’t think he is. He’s more likely just an old man who was sick and confused. He was lying on the motorway when he was hit.’
‘Drunk?’
‘It’s possible.’
Satisfied with the daily report, the boy wandered off and Pel headed for the house. Madame Routy opened the door for him. It was as if she’d been waiting behind it ready to stab him.
‘What have you spoiled for dinner tonight?’ he asked.
‘Nothing that you need to worry about,’ she retorted, taking his briefcase and putting it down. ‘You wouldn’t know what good food tastes like.’
Pel nodded and she nodded back. It was another little daily ceremony taken care of. Pel and Madame Routy had been insulting each other from the day she had first turned up at his house as a new housekeeper. She had been found for him by his sister who was married to an outfitter in Chatillon. His sister had been worried that if he weren’t looked after his clothes would eventually begin to smell as if they’d been boiled in the soup.
His wife had also just arrived home and was pouring aperitifs. As they sat down, she turned up the record player so they could hear a little Mahler while they drank and talked. It was very comfortable, Pel felt – except for Mahler.
‘I hear Judge Polverari’s relief’s arrived,’ Madame said.
He wondered how the hell she had found out. ‘That’s right,’ he agreed.
‘It’s a woman, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Is she nice?’
‘I got on very well with her.’
‘Pretty?’
‘Not very.’
Madame laughed. ‘Go on with you,’ she said. ‘She came into the salon this morning for a shampoo and set before she came to see you. She was nervous and wanted to look her best. Sylvie did it. She’s gorgeous.’
As Pel settled down at home, Darcy was settling down in the Relais St-Armand. Opposite him was a girl.
That was usual enough for Darcy. But he was looking at this one thoughtfully. She was tall and slender and she was regarding him as though he were important. Darcy had known many girls. With a profile like a matinée idol and teeth that shone like jewels in a Disney cartoon, he had pretty well everything in his favour, so it wasn’t difficult. Girls had a tendency to fall at his feet and there had been times when he had had to fight them off. This one, Angélique Courtoise, though, had been around a long time. He had met her first when he had been involved in a drugs investigation at the university and they had got on like a house on fire at once. There had been interruptions since, of course, but somehow Darcy always came back to her.
‘Busy?’ she asked.
‘We’re always busy.’
‘Too busy to telephone?’
Darcy managed to look contrite. ‘You’d be surprised what a rotten world it is.’
‘It’s the television,’ she observed cheerfully. ‘That and porn videos. Your time must be very full.’
Darcy frowned at the teasing. He was at the peak of his ability but somehow he felt things weren’t as right as they should be. He had always felt he knew how to manage his life and Pel didn’t, but now that Pel had married he seemed to have settled down. He was as miserable as ever as a cop and just as relentless in his crusade against criminals, but there was a comfortable core to him these days that Darcy felt he ought to have, too – and didn’t.
Nobody had given Pel much hope of success at the time he had first met his wife in the Relais St-Armand because he had always been regarded in the Hôtel de Police as a dead loss where women were concerned. But Darcy had seen the possibilities in the Widow Faivre-Perret and had put his oar in occasionally to help the affair along. It had been well worth it, too, because nowadays there were occasional days when Pel wasn’t in a bad temper. He looked at Angélique Courtoise and wondered if she had chosen the Relais St-Armand because of what it had done for Pel.
‘Why didn’t you ever get married?’ he asked.
She looked at him and smiled. ‘I very nearly did,’ she said. ‘If you remember, when you first appeared on the scene I was about to be. At least I was engaged. You managed to persuade me my fiancé wasn’t suitable.’
‘You didn’t argue much. Did you ever have anything in common with him?’
‘Well, he wasn’t a cop and I was working for Professor Foussier at the time, so I suppose I did a bit. I must have. After all, we got engaged.’
‘It didn’t last long.’
‘Not after you turned up.’ She looked shrewdly at him. ‘Is something worrying you?’
‘Probably.’ Darcy paused. ‘A type called Goriot.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘A detective inspector. He was one of those who were injured in that explosion in the Impasse Tarien. He’s recently been declared fit and he’s back shoving his nose into things. He doesn’t like me.’
‘Does it worry you?’
‘A bit.’
‘I didn’t think you worried about anything. Not even me.’
Darcy reached out and laid his hand on hers. She gave him a grateful look.
‘That’s why I keep turning up,’ he explained. ‘Because I don’t have to worry about you.’
‘You might have to one of these days,’ she said seriously. ‘I’m twenty-eight now. It’s a nervous age for a girl. She begins to feel she might miss the bus. And buses keep coming past, you know. Good-looking buses with big cars and lots of money. They seem to need reassurance, too.’