71
THE CALL CAME THROUGH ON Brunet’s phone at a little after seven o’clock. Jacquot, who was standing by his assistant’s desk, picked it up.
‘She here. Now.’ The caller didn’t bother to identify himself, his voice low and urgent. Jacquot could almost see the hand cupping the mouthpiece. The voice was also vaguely familiar.
‘Who is this, please?’
‘Gino Condotti. Pizzeria Blazots.’
Jacquot stiffened.
‘The woman in the photo?’
‘That’s the one. Sitting right here. A table in the window.’
‘Is she alone?’
‘Not alone, no. She with a man, a young man. The taxi driver, I think.’
‘Taxi driver?’
‘There’s an empty taxi in the car park.’
‘Did they come in together?’
‘I don’ know. I arrive just a few minutes ago and they already here. Half their pizzas are gone, so maybe thirty, forty minutes.’
‘Gino, try to keep them there as long as possible. Offer them coffees, some of those biscotti of yours. A drink on the house, okay?’
‘Si, si. I unnerstand. But come quick, eh?’
Jacquot didn’t waste a moment. He ordered up two squad cars, four képis and, on his way down to the underground car park, hauled Brunet out of the bunk room where he’d spent the last couple of hours. Ten minutes later they were thundering across the Durance bridge and looping round on to the autoroute, blasting through the Péage gate with sirens wailing and lights flashing. It took a further fourteen minutes to reach Salon, Jacquot briefing his team by radio as their convoy howled along the fast lane, sirens and lights doused as they neared their slip road exit.
Sunday evening traffic was light after the autoroute and it didn’t take long for them to reach the Blazots trading estate. As instructed, the two marked squad cars took up positions off the main road, hidden down side streets and ready to give chase if the need arose, while Jacquot and Brunet coasted into the car park and came round the back of the block as though they were making a delivery at the trade entrance. Condotti was waiting for them, as agreed, and came hurrying over. His face said it all.
‘They gone. They don’ wan’ coffee, or biscotti, or drinks. Just each other is what I’m sayin’. They out of here like their pants on fire.’
‘Merde,’ said Jacquot. ‘How long?’
‘Just a few minutes. Maybe five, six . . .’
‘What kind of car?’
‘A blue Mercedes. With a PelléCab light on the roof and the company name on the door panels. They a local firm, over in Pélissanne.’
‘Any idea where they were going?’
‘Somewhere private, I guess.’
‘I mean which direction.’
‘Back across the autoroute, that was the way they were headed.’
‘You know where the office is, for Pellécab?’
‘We got their card, all taxi cards – for customers who want a lift home. I bring it for you, here.’ He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Jacquot through the driver’s window. ‘The cab number is eleven. I write it on the back.’
‘Gino, merci bien,’ said Jacquot, passing the card to Brunet.
‘Tell her when she get her Loto winnings she come here and spend it, okay?’
Condotti gave Jacquot a wink, and then stood back as he swung back out into the car park and on to the road. Up ahead, the two squad cars pulled out to follow, keeping a hundred metres back as instructed.
It didn’t take long to locate the PelléCab office, a whitewashed, single floor property on the corner of Gambetta and Charles de Gaulle in central Pélissanne. It wasn’t much larger than a domestic garage, two of their cabs drawn up to the kerb, drivers sitting outside on an old sofa, smoking and chatting, waiting for calls.
Once again the two squad cars held back, pulling into a Post Office car-park near by to await instructions while Jacquot parked beside the cabs and went straight into the office. Its front door and every window stood wide open, to bring in some evening cool after the heat of the day which had left the small room stuffy and smelling of plastic, bad coffee and cigarette smoke.
The dispatcher, a worn-looking woman in her fifties, hair dyed red, face puffy and punctured like an old balloon, sat behind a wire-glass window and gave Jacquot a squinting look through a curl of cigarette smoke.
‘I’m looking for a cab.’
‘Then you come to the right place, Monsieur,’ she said, with a look on her face. She’d just seen him get out of a car. What did he need a cab for?
‘And a driver,’ continued Jacquot. ‘Number eleven.’
The woman sighed, rolled her shoulders, as though she’d known this wasn’t a routine call, preparing herself for bad news.
‘And you are?’
Jacquot showed his badge.
‘What’s he done now, then?’
‘He’s not in any trouble. It’s the fare he picked up we want a word with. A young woman. It wouldn’t have been more than an hour ago? I just need the pick-up address.’
‘Well, he didn’t get anything booked through here. And he’s off tonight anyway.’ The woman finished her cigarette and mashed it out in a tin ashtray.
‘He moonlight?’
‘They all moonlight, chéri. Scribble their own numbers on the back of our cards. Special rates. Not much we can do about it. Just so long as they turn up for their shifts when they’re meant to.’ She nodded past Jacquot at the drivers outside on the bench. ‘The older ones are always the best, the most reliable. It’s the young ones like Albert take advantage.’
‘Albert?’
‘Albert Garbachon. Al.’
‘Can you call him in?’
‘If he’s in the car and got his radio on, sure. You want me to try?’
‘Just say you got a fare for Aix and no one to take it.’
‘Like that happens,’ grunted the woman, picking up a desk mic and putting the call through.
‘Al . . . Albert, you there? Got a fare for Aix, you interested? Everyone else is out.’
There was a crackle of static. She repeated the call, but there was no response.
‘Either he’s in it and switched off,’ said the woman, ‘or he’s out playing.’
‘You got a home address?’
‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘Lives out on St-Cannat, with his mother. Can’t remember the number but the house is painted pink and there’s a palm tree out front. You can’t miss it.’