Blood Counts

Brunet was waiting for him, followed him into his office, and laid down a file on the desk. If he noticed Jacquot’s pained, squinting expression he gave no sign of it.

‘All you need to know about Dyethelaspurane. Or rather, where you can get hold of it.’

‘Which is?’ asked Jacquot, pulling off his black jacket and tie from the day before. Across the road a flight of pigeons took off with a rattle of wings from the slatted belfry of the church.

‘Pretty much everywhere there’s a hospital pharmacy. You need a prescription and most supplies are directed in-house – for surgical procedures, sedation. What you can’t do is buy it over the counter.’

‘So we’re looking at someone who maybe works in hospitals . . .’

‘Or knows someone who does.’

What Jacquot had been hoping for was a tighter, more limited source for the drug, something easier to follow through – just a few hospitals, a few outlets. But it wasn’t to be.

‘Worth following up?’ asked Brunet.

‘Let’s just flag it for now – maybe revisit down the road if Forensics identify the same drug at another crime scene. And maybe check back the last twelve months . . . see if there’s anything on file.’

‘There’s something else,’ said Brunet, a dismissive wave of the hand, as though whatever he had to say really was of no importance, and he couldn’t think why he’d bothered to bring it up.

Jacquot knew that wouldn’t be the case. His assistant loved keeping the best for last. When Brunet didn’t say anything, Jacquot had to press him.

‘Eh bien,’ began Brunet, perching on the edge of his boss’s desk. ‘We have a maybe identification. From the photos.’

‘Who? Where? When?’

‘A friend of one of the uniform boys, Gaston Lapierre. He manages the Total garage on Avenue de Verdun. Coming into town from the autoroute, you drive right past it. No good for servicing, of course, now that Gaston’s boss has run down the workshop,’ added Brunet, for a little bit of local colour, ‘but the gas is cheaper than Briol’s place.’

‘Oui, oui, thank you,’ said Jacquot. ‘But what did he see? And when?’

‘A man and a woman. In a VW. A Beetle, he thinks. Dark colour: black, blue, green . . . he can’t quite recall. Filled the tank late afternoon, a few days before the Gilbert wedding in St-Florent. At first glance, from behind the till, he thought the driver was a man – wearing trousers and a trucker’s cap – but when he came in to pay, Gaston realised it was a woman.’

‘She pay card or cash?’

Brunet spread his hands, regretfully. ‘Cash, what else?’

‘Registration?’

A shrug this time from Brunet.

‘Young or old?’

‘Mid to late thirties, Gaston reckoned.’

‘And the passenger?’

‘He didn’t get a good look, but reckoned it was the husband. Tall, thinnish, a little older, wearing what looked like a leather jacket. Said the one who paid was wearing jeans tucked into black boots, and a blue jumper. Well-built girl, he said. Which means she had tits on her.’

A blue jumper. Jacquot remembered the threads taken from the service hatch at Le Mas Bleu, snagged on the rough wood.

Blue threads. Maybe, maybe . . .

‘I get the picture. Anything else. Voice? Accent?’

‘Two words was all she said. “M’sieur” when she went in to pay, and “Merci” when she took her change and left. The only reason he remembered her was the boobs.’

‘And they were coming into town, or leaving?’

‘Gaston thinks they were heading out, but he couldn’t say for certain.’

Jacquot gave this some thought.

‘So a few days before the wedding, if it’s them, they’re either heading for the autoroute or they’ve just come off it, which suggests they don’t live locally.’

‘If it’s them.’

‘Any luck with hotels, pensions, chambres d’hôtes . . . ?’

‘Nothing between Cavaillon and Apt and a dozen kilometres north and south – Cadenet, Lourmarin, Pertuis and up to Gordes, Roussillon. But like you said, maybe they came further. Drove in for the day and then hit the autoroute back home.’

In other words, Jacquot realised, there was no point pursuing that particular avenue. The further they went from Cavaillon, the more places they’d have to screen. It wasn’t worth the effort right now – not on such a slim chance, and with such limited resources. Of course, if he’d followed the plague pit ‘mourners’ at Minette Peluze’s funeral, he might have got to see what they drove. If it had been a VW, then they’d have had something to go on.

If only, if only.

Instead . . .