Bed of Nails Page 15

  “Please, please calm down.”

  “You’re going to get your punishment, little boy.”

  “What?”

  “Oh my God, it’s test your I.Q. night, is it?”

  “Do I gather someone has already been round asking you this?”

  “No.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “Yes. Does that worry you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Incredible. Why should I trust you?”

  “I’m looking for murderers.”

  “You think that’s going to make me feel better? You could have told me I was pretty.”

  “But you are pretty.”

  Ariel gave a grin and slapped her leather-clad buttocks with both hands

  Guérin gave a start.

  “I’m going to have another. Not tempted?”

  “Yes.”

  *

  Le Bourget airport. North-west freight hangar, 2.30 p.m.

  The hearse is grey, with scrolled leaves on the smoked windows.

  A representative from the funeral directors signs the paper handed to him by an embassy official; a customs officer stamps the pages of the form and checks the seals on the coffin. The Stars and Stripes are draped over the shining black wooden box, which carries a sticker saying “Proudly made in America”.

  The American observes from a safe distance, arms folded.

  An airport vehicle draws up alongside the hearse, pulling a luggage trailer. Three airport staff load the casket onto it. The American hasn’t budged. The convoy leaves the hangar and slips under the wing of a 747 cargo plane, close to where a loading ramp has been lowered.

  John P. Nichols vanishes into the stairwell.

  It’s a day of sunny periods and passing clouds that bring the temperature down sharply. The wind ruffles his long hair. On his face the bruises are turning yellow and fading. He puts his hands on the rail and looks down at the Boeing. A Gitane is burning between his fingers. Various vehicles are busy around the aircraft. Like insects dashing around. The baggage ramp is hauled up, closing like the vagina of a sea monster. A tractor is hitched to the 747’s nose, lights flashing, and a man is waving his fluorescent batons. The plane reverses off the stand, the pilots adjust their headphones and turn their attention to the instrument panel.

  First stop Detroit, to unload top of the range German cars, then on to Kansas City, where the coffin will be deposited on American soil, along with spare parts for agricultural machines. The import–export transit of machines and veterans’ corpses.

  There’s another man on the terrace. John turns his head quickly. A tall man, with curly blond hair, gazing at the runways, hands in pockets. Just watching planes take off and land.

  The Boeing swivels, the tractor detaches itself. A roar from the engines and the plane begins to taxi. The engines roar again, then subside as it rolls over the tarmac. An Airbus without windows lands with a scream and a puff of smoke from the landing gear. The U.S. plane moves towards its take-off position. The engines now open up properly, thrusting their tons of steel and fuel forwards. John grips the handrail. The plane’s nose lifts, the roar of its engine fills the air. The Boeing starts its ascent into the sky. Alan’s coffin is leaving the ground, disappearing.

  John imagines Alan’s parents, in dungarees, on the other side of the Atlantic, waiting to welcome their son home. They haven’t seen him for ten years. He smiles. He’s thinking of an embalmer in Kansas City, working hard to put make-up on the tattoos. Alan’s dead, he won’t give a toss what he looks like in church. John turns his back on the runways of this gloomy airport with no travellers, and walks away.

  One plane lands, another starts to take off. The tall curly-headed man is watching wide-eyed like a little kid.

  Bye bye, mother fakir. Back to the wide-open spaces of your childhood.

  Curly-hair takes his hands out of his pockets and confronts John. He’s saying something, but the plane taking off drowns out his voice. He shouts louder.

  “John Nichols?”

  The sound fades. John looks at this young guy with the aquiline nose, who now shows him a police badge.

  “Yes.”

  “Follow me, please.”

  The policeman is smiling. A real kid’s grin, but a bit sad. John follows him. On the young man’s back is the name and number of a footballer he doesn’t recognise. The jacket is in the Spanish national team’s colours.

  They go down several flights of stairs, leave the airport building and cross a parking lot to where a small white car is parked. A man gets out, dressed in a ridiculous yellow mac: on his large round head is a deerstalker. He holds out his hand.

  John shakes it. Why is the little man looking at him as if he’s a foreigner? A foreign hippy, come to say goodbye to his best friend.

  “My sympathies.”

  The older policeman looks him in the eye with painful insistence.

  “Your embassy told me when the plane was leaving. I didn’t know if you’d be here. I’m Lieutenant Guérin. And Lambert here,” pointing to the tall blond man, “is my deputy.”

  Guérin glances across the deserted car park, checking that no-one else was expected, and opened the car door, inviting John to get in.

  Guérin and Nichols sat in the back, Lambert at the wheel like a chauffeur. The traffic got slower as they approached Paris. By Saint-Denis, it was bumper to bumper. The heat rose and the bright light made the car windscreens flash. Lambert glanced at the French national football stadium, the Stade de France – another thing kids like.

  Alan’s death was obviously filtering a set of people out of the mass, holding in its mesh some ill-assorted fragments: Hirsh, Bunker, Königsbauer, Ariel, himself and now these two detectives, a comical complementary pair, but with a stale whiff of death about them. The one beside him had an evasive expression, constantly looking about him. The placid junior balanced his boss’s nervousness. Two more extraterrestrials for Alan’s funeral procession.

  “Did the embassy tell you to keep me under observation?”

  “No, they just gave me some information.”

  “Do they want me out of town?”

  “I assure you, I have nothing to do with the embassy, Mr Nichols. Can I ask you who you are?”

  The lieutenant’s eyes weren’t moving, just his head.

  “I’m just a friend of Alan’s.”

  “Mr Mustgrave’s death, and your presence here, are not too popular at the American embassy. Can you tell me why?”

  John lowered his window, then almost immediately put it up again as the stifling heat from the idling engines was sucked into the car.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I went to the Caveau de la Bolée this morning. I met Mlle Quéroy. She told me about you. I didn’t know if you’d be at Le Bourget.”

  There was a note of disappointment in Guérin’s voice. Who else had he been hoping to meet?

  “Why did you go to the Caveau?”

  “You don’t believe Mr Mustgrave’s death was accidental.”

  “Is that what Ariel told you?”

  “Yes.”

  The policeman had gone slightly red, Ariel and her sumptuous breasts must have wowed him. John imagined the surrealist encounter of the tattooed dyke and the little detective.

  “Stop calling him Monsieur Mustgrave. Why are you so interested in how Alan died?”

  “Who did that to your face, Mr Nichols?”

  “Call me John.”

  “Well, John, I think it may be in our interests to talk to each other. That’s why I came to the airport. I’m just wondering whether the death of your friend might have some connection to” – he hesitated – “to my present investigation. I’m looking into a number of suicides. Or rather into murders disguised as suicides.”

  John somehow contrived not to jump.

  “I don’t know what you mean. It wasn’t an accident, but Alan did kill himself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was suicidal.”
<
br />   Guérin looked at him, amused by the absurd obviousness of his response.

  “That’s all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “You’re better at pretending not to be very bright than at telling lies, John. What’s going on with the embassy?”

  “You’ve spoken to Hirsh?”

  “No, I was put through to a Mr Frazer when I called them. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve only spoken to him on the phone, the embassy secretary. I can tell you what I know, but I need you to do something for me in return.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To talk to a dealer.”

  “The one who beat you up?”

  “They were working for him.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “It’s not going to be much help, because your story’s got nothing to do with mine.”

  Guérin’s head tipped slightly to the side and his eyes widened.

  “You and I have met each other, and the chances of that happening by accident are cause enough for suspicion.”

  “…?”

  Lambert drove under the périphérique and they entered Paris by the Porte de la Chapelle. Guérin pulled off his cap and started to rub at some invisible incrustation. John looked at the scratch marks on his head, then out of the window at the streets, which seemed to worry the lieutenant.

  “You think some people get their kicks out of suicides, go and watch them do it on stage? Is that your theory?”

  At the word “theory” Lambert gave a start and Guérin put his cap back on.

  “Alan did his fakir act, he was a junkie, he was gay and he slept with this guy at the embassy, Hirsh, who seems to have vanished from circulation. That’s why the subject is sensitive. O.K., it’s stupid to say that nobody’s responsible. Lieutenant, I’ve written a thesis on this and I’m not going to deny it. But when he was on stage, he was alone, and he knew what he was doing. Nothing can alter that.”

  Guérin smiled.

  “You’re lying more convincingly now, but your intelligence gives you away. I consulted the report on your friend’s death. The procedure was rushed through in double-quick time, to put it mildly. Did you know that the Medico-Legal Institute conducted no autopsy or analysis? Very shoddy police work. Or the opposite. The enquiry had been totally blocked. You think something else went on that night, don’t you?”

  John looked at the faces of the drivers in the cars around them. He had the disagreeable and recurrent feeling that he had taken the wrong turning; that he had deliberately got himself into a bewildering maze. He was just going to tell another lie, despite this policeman who inspired confidence, when a mobile rang. Guérin excused himself and replied. A nasal voice was saying something into the speaker. Guérin said nothing as he ended the call.

  His cheeks had become hollow and his eyes had retreated into their sockets. He had the pained and chagrined expression of a man who has had his worst fears confirmed. Lambert half-turned in his seat.

  “Everything O.K., boss?”

  Guérin, looking cadaverous, said haltingly:

  “We’re going to have to leave you here, Mr Nichols, we’ve got work to do.” He held out a card to John. “Call me tonight. Forgive us. Lambert, please drop Mr Nichols at the nearest metro station.”

  John said goodbye at metro Marx-Dormoy. Lambert had put the sun visor down. Guérin made a sign with his hand and the car pulled away.

  He had gone to the airport without knowing why, and as usual, the answer had come from somewhere else.

  *

  “Where are we off to, boss? It’s a woman, is it? You … um, you look a bit upset.”

  “No, not a woman … look, youngster, promise me you’ll look out for yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just promise me, look after yourself.”

  “Yeah, right, of course, I’ll take care. But what’s the matter?”

  “Savane’s dead. Topped himself.”

  “…”

  “…”

  “Boss, does … does that mean they’ll be after you again?”

  Lambert would have sooner bitten his tongue, but the idea came only after the words were out.

  *

  Lambert had his hand on his gun, and was shaking from head to foot. Guérin, lying on the pavement, and scarcely breathing, had grabbed hold of his leg to hold him back. He was clutching his assistant’s calf, groggily, incapable of speech. Lambert the faithful dog was showing his teeth, Roman was yelling. Shame was turning to rage, sullen hatred to violence, guilt into a show of honour. Three men, uniforms in disarray, were holding the beast back with difficulty, looking as if they wanted to turn him loose. The holstered Beretta, gripped by the tall blond junior, was banging against his ribs. Lambert had said nothing, but was white with rage. He bent his knees and slipped his arm under Guérin’s, without taking his eyes off Roman. Barnier had arrived and was trying to speak over Roman’s yelling.

  “Calm down, calm down, for Christ’s sake!”

  Roman roared.

  “Get that fucker out of my sight, now!”

  Blood was streaming from a cut on Guérin’s cheekbone, and his head was shaking. Three uniforms dragged Roman towards a car, panting. His feet scraped the ground as he tried to get purchase to attack again. Lambert watched him wild-eyed. Barnier was beside himself.

  “Lambert! Put the gun down! Or I’ll arrest you!”

  Lambert yelled now, louder than anyone else. “Get that scumbag out of here, Take him away!”

  Barnier decided to hold still, faced with the determination of this great fool, and took it out on a nearby fireman.

  “Look after Guérin, why don’t you? Can’t you see he’s hurt?”

  Guérin clutched at Lambert’s Spanish football jacket and leaned into the gutter to vomit. Berlion, who was still on his knees, was swallowing his tongue and holding onto his balls, his eyes popping out of his head. Lambert wore size 44 shoes and played football. Divisionnaire Barnier didn’t know where to turn. So he shouted at everyone. His entire team had just imploded.

  Savane, his arms and legs stiff, was laid out on his back in the middle of his living room. His eyes were open, his service revolver in his hand. Savane, a great big guy you couldn’t shift, a statue pulled down by a revolution. On the whites of his eyes, alongside the blue irises, sat drops of blood that the fixed eyelids had not blinked away. Lieutenant Savane, a bullet through his forehead, was staring at his colleagues with eyes that were red, white and blue, and nobody dared close them.

  The compress wasn’t staunching the blood streaming between Guérin’s fingers. Around him the room was full of noise, murmurs, embarrassed movements. One or two people had left the room, with expressions of disgust. Guérin knelt down beside the body, and some idiot muttered under his breath: “What the fuck’s he doing here? Kowalski wasn’t enough for him?” Guérin heard nothing, nor did he see Lambert stride across the room and plant himself in front of two men from Homicides. Ready to let them have it in the guts.

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  Lambert had already laid Berlion out. He was frothing at the mouth. The halfwit obviously had teeth. The two men got the hell out.

  Guérin, still on his knees was meditating on the pointless death of a police officer, worn to the bone by a job without a future, the absurd death of a perfectly good-hearted man who had been turned into a monster by a life he had hardly had time to understand. Out of all the suicides in Paris, it was inevitable that one day he would come across somebody he knew. The rarer possibility – that it should be someone he liked – made the experience all the more painful.

  He unbuttoned his yellow raincoat, took it off and spread it over the corpse. The gesture had an electric effect on the other people in the room. Relief at seeing that face disappear. The appearance of Guérin’s unfamiliar puny outline. The shedding of his eternal yellow second skin, like an insect emerging from a chrysalis. The tenderness and gentleness of his ge
stures. The respect for privacy and for the passing of a man. A gift from the tiny Guérin to the cooling mastodon. A game of deceptive appearances that went right over the heads of the officers still present.

  Guérin stood up, into a silence like that in church, hesitated, looking at the body which his raincoat only half-covered, then knelt on the floor again. He pulled the yellow shroud down a few more inches, with a slow gesture, and a smile … a promise.

  He walked out of the flat, leaving behind a group of horrified colleagues now stuck in the room with the corpse. Savane’s bloodstained face was once more staring at them with its red-spattered eyes over the top of the raincoat.

  Savane had made a deliberate effort to die with his eyes open. Someone else would have to close them for him. The guys from the Disciplinary Division, perhaps, the same ones who had used white-hot pincers to tell him he was being dismissed from the service. Or Roman, who had informed against his comrade in order to save his own undercover job? Or Barnier who had always thought him an idiot? Well, it wouldn’t be Guérin anyway, the only one who had spent a year trying to open them for him. Or the dealer from the Goutte d’Or, who had died in the night.

  Savane had looked the bullet in the face, a moment of truth, and it was only right that his little pals should experience it too.

  Only it was now Guérin’s job to bring down the whole show. A question of balance.

  “Thank you for stepping in, Lambert. Drop me off at the office, then go and have a few drinks and put your thinking cap on. Things are going to get complicated, and you’d better give your career some thought.”

  Lambert handed the boss his cap, which Roman’s left hook had sent flying.

  “Boss, I never wanted to be in the police, I wanted to be a nurse. But my dad said that was a girl’s job.”

  Guérin smiled and leaned towards his deputy, showing him the cut on his cheek.

  “What do you think about this, then?”

  “It needs stitches.”

  What connection is there between a man who weeps and a man who is angry? The weeping man wants to be a nurse, the angry man goes for the balls. And the only solution, the link, was Lambert. Not too bright, but in good working order. Guérin didn’t try to ask why, around him, suicide was becoming a miracle solution which prevented people from looking for any others.