51

ON THE LAST FRIDAY OF the month, a little before lunchtime, a convoy of lorries came off the A7 autoroute, pounded across the Durance bridge and pulled up one behind the other, hydraulic brakes wheezing, on the corner of Cours Bournissac and rue Dumas. All four were painted in black livery, the carrier’s name – France Auto Logistiques – printed in shadowed silver across the lorries’ sides. A few moments later the police tape that had been put up the night before to seal off place du Tourel from all approach roads was lowered and the lorries moved forward and parked. Within thirty minutes their crews were hard at work – all dressed in black T-shirts, hard hats, big-soled climbing boots and gunslinger tool belts – hauling out scaffolding from the back of the lorries to start rigging the stage for the appearance of Monsieur George Benson the following evening. A holiday feeling gripped the residents of Cavaillon and it wasn’t long before word spread through the bars on Cours Bournissac and along the pastry counter at Auzet’s that there was almost certainly going to be a surprise guest appearance from George Benson’s sometime playing partner, Monsieur Al Jarreau.

Jacquot watched these preparations from his table outside Fin de Siècle. It was late afternoon and the construction crews had pretty much completed the public seating areas and were now working on the stage scaffolding around the town’s Roman arches. It was through these that Monsieur George Benson would make his entrance, playing on two fronts – to the street crowds milling along Bournissac and to the paying audience in seats and side bleachers in place du Tourel.

‘You going to be there?’ asked Guy Fourcade, tipping more pastis into his glass and shovelling around in the bucket for fresh ice.

‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

‘Professional or social?’ asked the town’s examining magistrate, dropping ice into his glass.

‘Both I should think. On hand, of course, but sitting with Claudine and Midou and praying no one needs me. What about you?’

‘Row four, behind the Mayor. You?’

‘Bleachers, in front of the tourist office.’

‘You hear the rumour about Jarreau?’

Jacquot nodded, smiled.

‘Who told you?’

‘Patric at Le Tilleul. He had some press boys up from Nice, and they said it was as pretty damn near certain as it got.’

‘It would be a treat. Let’s hope.’

The two men fell silent, and watched the first spotlights being swung into place on scaffolding gantries set behind the back row of bleachers. All around was the ring and clang of scaffolding, and the tap-tapping of hammers.

‘I was talking to Rochet the other day,’ Fourcade continued. ‘He said there might be leads on the Blanchard case. That it’s part of a bigger operation, like you said.’

Jacquot had been waiting for this ever since Fourcade had strolled past the bar, seen him and joined him for a drink. It might have seemed like an accidental meeting, but Jacquot knew better. Even so, Fourcade had finished his first pastis before he started in.

‘Six murders so far, in a little under five months. Different jurisdictions so they won’t have been flagged. Three in Marseilles, and two outside Forcalquier since the Blanchard killing.’

Fourcade nodded, took it in. Gave it a minute or so’s careful consideration.

‘Suspects? Leads?’ he asked.

‘Two sisters. Corsican. Marita Albertacce and Marina Manichella. We’re keeping a low profile on the investigation so we don’t spook them. Right now we need to draw them out.’

‘They’re here? Around Cavaillon?’

‘That’s a distinct possibility,’ said Jacquot, recalling the close encounter in St-Beyelle the previous evening.

‘You’re laying bait?’

Jacquot finished his Calva.

‘You could say.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Claudine and Midou.’

Fourcade gave a start.

‘Claudine? You’re not serious?’

‘I wish I wasn’t. But that’s where the action seems to be pointing. Two sisters getting even for the deaths of their brothers. Targeting anyone who was involved, but taking it out on their families, lovers . . .’

‘Is there anything you need? Any help?’

Jacquot was surprised to hear what sounded like genuine concern from the town’s prosecutor.

‘Just keep an eye out for a dark-coloured VW and two women, one tall, one short. If you spot them call me.’

Over on place du Tourel a bank of lights blinked on, bathing the stage in a bright glare that seemed to make the dusk grow darker. In seconds, it seemed, a host of moths and other insects swarmed in the beams of light.

‘If I were looking to get even, it seems to me tomorrow evening would be a good time to do it,’ said Fourcade.

‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ replied Jacquot.