Pel and the Predators Page 8

  ‘How long has she been there?’ he said. ‘Twenty-five years. Perhaps thirty. Perhaps even forty. At the moment, I can’t say.’

  He looked at Pel as if he had achieved a minor triumph. He was a small man, as bad-tempered as Pel himself and given to undue sarcasm and, because he didn’t like Pel – since it was mutual, it didn’t worry Pel overmuch – it was always his pleasure to present him with problems that couldn’t he solved. After a lapse of so many years, he felt certain this one couldn’t.

  He sat at the other side of Pel’s desk with Doc Minet, smugly pleased with himself. ‘Those caves are dry and well ventilated,’ he went on, and Claudie Darel, who had just produced coffee for them, paused at the door to listen.

  Doc Minet moved in his chair. Unlike Leguyader, he loved his fellow men so that he and Leguyader made a strange combination.

  ‘She’s not strictly a mummy,’ he said. ‘Though mummification’s certainly taken place. It would appear it was a natural process. There was free access of air and a gradual process of drying must have occurred. She’s really just a shell of dried skin and bones because the usual process of putrefaction had taken place and with it the deposit of flies’ eggs which eventually hatched and became larvae that devoured most of the soft tissues.’

  Pel frowned. ‘How long before we can have anything that might identify her?’

  Leguyader and Minet exchanged glances.

  ‘We’ve placed her in a glycerine bath,’ Leguyader said. ‘It’ll take several days for the skin to soften enough for an examination. At the moment, it’s impossible to move the limbs or alter the position of the head, which is twisted as if she had a wry neck. Have we anyone who disappeared who suffered from a wry neck?’ Leguyader rubbed his hands cheerfully, content that the facts so far were so nebulous as to be almost valueless.

  ‘There’s nothing else?’ Pel asked.

  ‘No. When the years have done their work the flesh disappears.’ Leguyader was at his most pontifical. ‘And after mummification takes place it’s very difficult to be certain of anything. I would say it’s virtually impossible to state exactly when she was placed there.’

  Pel sat in silence for a moment. Was she a war victim? Probably as long ago as forty years, Leguyader thought, which meant death might have occurred during the war. The university had been helpful, both about the geological effects of the caves on a body and about the incidents that might well have occurred there forty years before. Assuming the body had been placed in the cave at that time, as Leguyader suspected, then it had happened at a point in history when France had been occupied by an enemy. Thousands of Frenchmen had been living away from their homes, and there were thousands of Germans around, probably even Americans, Poles, English, and God knows what. Was this one a foreigner? Pel frowned. He could see it was going to be a tough one.

  When he presented the report, the Chief was particularly interested because he had lived near Drax as a boy.

  ‘But I never heard of any fatalities in that area,’ he admitted. ‘Though people used the bigger caves for air raid shelters when the bombers came over. Could she have gone in, perhaps in terror, and hurt herself? Fainted, perhaps, and died?’

  ‘It’s hardly likely,’ Pel said. ‘She was wrapped in a sack with stones on top. Besides, there are no records of any bombs falling in that area. Goron was there as a boy throughout the war and he doesn’t remember any. And she couldn’t have been flung into the spot where she was found. It wasn’t possible.’

  Pel was still intrigued by Dominique Pigny’s interest in the caves. Had she known about the body? Was she searching for it? Had she heard of some old crime and gone investigating? It sounded the sort of crazy thing she might have done. But if she did know, how did she know? And why would she know of a body which had been in the caves without being discovered for years before she was even born?

  It was quite obvious they weren’t going to make much headway until they’d established the identity of the dead woman and the intelligent thing to do was to bring the press in on it. At Pel’s summons, they arrived outside his office like a pack of hounds in full cry. Fiabon, of France Dimanche, Sarrazin, the freelance, and Henriot of Le Bien Public.

  Giving them the details, he left it to them and the following day, half of France was aware of the corpse in the caves of Drax.

  ‘WHO IS SHE?’ France Soir demanded. ‘HOW DID SHE GET THERE?’

  ‘CAVE FIND HORROR,’ France Dimanche said, producing pictures of Didier and Louise Bray.

  ‘BODY FOUND IN CAVE.’ Le Bien Public was always more conservative than the others.

  That weekend sightseers turned up at Drax in such droves Coron decided his season should start earlier than normal and in no time the pay booth and the souvenir shop were open. Unfortunately, nobody was interested in the main caves with their coloured stalagmites and stalactites, concealed lighting and the statue of the Madonna, while the cave where the body had been found had been roped off and two policemen occupied the entrance.

  ‘Nobody goes in there,’ Pel had ordered.

  The policemen had looked at each other. Drax was a long way from anywhere. ‘How long are we likely to be here, Patron?’

  ‘Until you’re relieved.’ Pel couldn’t resist sarcasm. ‘There’s a tap near the pay booth so you’ll be all right. Water’s always more important for survival than food.’

  Nine

  With Pel occupied with two murder cases – one of their own and one which still belonged to Le Bihan by virtue of the fact that the body had been discovered in Beg Meil – it was difficult for Darcy to do more than make arrangements that he should be constantly watched. With the Chief’s permission, he arranged that Aimedieu and Morell should take turns to cover him at all times, then he set about the almost impossible task of searching Montchapet where Philippe Duche had last been seen.

  Montchapet was a spiderweb of streets, all of them old enough to be narrow but none of them old enough to be a curiosity. They’d been built around the period of Napoleon III and time hadn’t improved them. There were a lot of bars and Darcy moved quietly from one to another until he learned that a man answering to Duche’s description had been seen in an apartment in the Rue de Lomy.

  The apartment was as cramped as a rathole, with the walls patched with damp and the stink of urine and stale food on the stairs. The furniture was shabby, the settee held upright with a house brick in place of a leg. The owner was a man called Sacha Guinot, known to his associates as The Russian. He was small, unshaven, with the blank vicious eyes of a ferret, and had been in and out of 72, Rue d’Auxerre, which was the name by which the local prison was known, most of his life. He’d been brought before the magistrates on charges of assault, fraud, burglary, carrying an offensive weapon, beating his wife – who had left him as soon as she’d seen him safely sent down the line – conspiracy, cruelty to children, robbery and even attempted rape. He was well known at the Hôtel de Police and Darcy saw no point in beating about the bush.

  ‘I’m looking for Philippe Duche,’ he said.

  Guinot’s small evil eyes blinked. ‘What have I to do with Philippe Duche?’

  Darcy smiled. ‘He used to be a friend of yours.’

  ‘I wouldn’t give him house room.’

  Darcy’s voice grew harder. ‘You did give him house room,’ he snapped. ‘Last week.’

  Guinot’s face fell. ‘It’s a lie!’

  ‘No, my friend. It’s no lie. He was seen. You weren’t careful enough. Had he a gun?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Give him one?’

  ‘Where would I get a gun?’

  ‘Did you give him a gun?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘You can trust me.’

  Darcy’s smile came again, showing his strong white teeth.

  ‘I’d trust you, my friend,’ he said, ‘about as far as I could throw a grand piano. Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You can do better th
an that. Has he got a girl?’

  Guinot shrugged. ‘He had one.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Name of Marie-Celeste Brionne. They call her Carmen Cocu because she was on the streets for a while. She probably still is.’

  ‘Where’s she live?’

  ‘She had a flat in the Rambollet district.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Rue Lamartine. Flat 4, Number 5.’

  Darcy closed his notebook. ‘Good. Keep your nose clean.’

  Guinot shifted uneasily. ‘With you bastards around I’ve got no option.’

  Always preferring to know his subject, Darcy headed back to the Hôtel de Police and looked up Marie-Celeste Brionne, alias Carmen Cocu. She was a Marseillaise by birth and had a record for soliciting, shoplifting and carrying an offensive weapon – to wit, a knife – with the intent of doing grievous bodily harm to another girl who had elected to frequent her pitch.

  Armed with the knowledge, Darcy drove to Rambollet, and knocked on the door of Flat 4, Number 5, Rue Lamartine. It was opened at once and Marie-Celeste Brionne appeared with a smile on her face, which vanished at once as she saw Darcy.

  ‘You a flic?’

  Darcy flipped his identity card at her and studied her. ‘Expecting someone?’

  ‘Just a friend.’

  She was small, dark and surprisingly pretty, but somehow she seemed to go with Philippe Duche because her eyes were cold and her voice was thin and hard. She was wearing a housecoat with not very much underneath.

  ‘Wouldn’t be Philippe Duche, would it?’ Darcy asked.

  She gave him stare for stare. ‘Who’s Philippe Duche?’

  ‘You know who Philippe Duche is. Has he been here?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for two years. I’ve got better things to do than get mixed up with men like him.’

  ‘Stop lying.’ Darcy thrust his way inside the flat and stared around. There was no sign of Philippe Duche’s presence, until, as he pushed the door to, he saw a pair of men’s shoes tucked away in the shadows behind.

  ‘Whose are those?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘My father’s.’

  ‘Your father’s in Marseilles. I’ve checked.’

  ‘He’s been on a visit. He left them by mistake.’

  Darcy gave her a push and she sat down heavily on the settee.

  ‘Philippe Duche has a foot about that size,’ he said. He was still moving through the flat, his eyes everywhere. In the bathroom, he picked up a safety razor. The blade was covered with short stubbly bristle.

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘I shave my legs.’

  Darcy looked down at them. ‘You’re dark-haired. Why is the hair on the razor blond?’

  ‘My friend must have used it. She was staying with me.’

  ‘You’re a liar,’ Darcy said. ‘But, unfortunately, not a good one. This is chin stubble. I think I’d better take you in.’

  She looked nervous. ‘What’ll happen to me?’

  Darcy was casual. ‘A month or two inside. Philippe Duche’s an escaped prisoner, and he’s wanted.’

  ‘He’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘He is if you hide him. You could be in the dock with him.’

  She looked scared now. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. He was here. But he only stayed one night.’

  ‘One night. Two nights. A month. A year. It makes no difference. You’d better come clean. Where is he?’

  ‘He left the city.’

  ‘Marseilles? Paris? Somewhere like that?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He said he’d be back. I don’t think he’s far away.’

  With a car, you could be within reach of a city fifty miles away. And a circle drawn round the city fifty miles from its centre covered a lot of ground. Darcy looked at the girl. Despite her hard calculating eyes, there was something pathetic about her youth.

  ‘You’re wasting your time with Philippe Duche,’ he said.

  ‘He wants to marry me,’ she snapped defiantly.

  Darcy shrugged. ‘Philippe Duche would never marry you. You haven’t the class. Philippe Duche thinks he’s big time. He chooses girls without records. He’s like his brother.’ Darcy paused, wondering how much good the lecture would do. ‘And he’ll end up like his brother, too. Dead.’

  Six days later Doc Minet and Leguyader, of the Lab, appeared in Pel’s office with the results of their examination. After five days in a glycerine bath the skin of the body found at Drax had softened sufficiently for an examination to be made. As they had straightened it out the twisted neck had fallen into a normal position.

  ‘They’re the remains of a European woman between twenty and forty,’ Minet said, accepting a cup of coffee from Claudie Darel. ‘But it’s not possible to establish the age with any certainty. The bones on the right side were better developed than those on the left, which suggests she was probably right-handed. Apart from fragments, the internal organs have disappeared due to the action of fly larvae but we decided she was not pregnant at the time of her death.’

  Pel leaned forward and Claudie paused by the door to listen as Doc Minet continued.

  ‘There appear to be no injuries to the skull and the strange position of the head was due to the way she’d been crammed into the slot in the rocks where she was found. There were no fractures of the chest. A softening fluid of ethyl alcohol, formalin and sodium carbonate was used on her and chemical tests indicate no poisonous substance was present.’

  ‘We found animal bones in the cave,’ Leguyader said. ‘Which is understandable because it could have been a fox’s lair, but there was nothing to indicate the possibility of a violent death there. She was dead when she was placed there.’

  ‘What about identification?’

  ‘The teeth are all there,’ Minet said. ‘But dental records weren’t kept as immaculately in those days as they are now, and, since it was probably wartime, a lot of things were allowed to lapse.’

  ‘Because of the weight of the stone on her,’ Leguyader went on, enlarging on their theme, ‘everything about her became married into the flesh. The sacking, the clothing, the stockings. It’s even possible to see the marks of a fold of the sacking along what remains of the cheek and even the hem of the dress has left a mark along the outer thigh.’

  Leguyader was clearly set to talk all day and Pel interrupted quickly. ‘How did she die?’ he asked. ‘I can read the details in the report.’

  Leguyader sniffed, affronted. ‘We seem suddenly to have discovered the importance of our new position,’ he said.

  Pel glared. His feud with Leguyader was a long-standing one. Leguyader glared back and Doc Minet hurriedly came to the rescue to avoid trouble.

  ‘She was strangled,’ he said.

  Pel swung in his chair to face him. ‘Can you be certain?’

  ‘Absolutely. The upper horn of the thyroid cartilage was fractured. It’s a little bone and it never gets broken alone, except when the neck’s gripped tight by a strangling hand. It’s the pressure of a finger tip or thumb that does it.’

  ‘Could it have been fractured during a fall? Could she by the wildest chance have been flung down by the blast of a bomb and injured her voice box against a stone? And then, perhaps because of bad weather, have crept into the cave for warmth and died there? Perhaps even found the sacking already there and wrapped it round her against the cold?’

  ‘And covered herself with stones?’ Leguyader said coldly.

  Pel ignored him and looked at Minet, who shrugged.

  ‘It’s not impossible,’ he said. ‘It’s even possible that her body was later found by someone who thought he ought to give her a decent burial and placed her in the crevasse and covered her with the stones. But not the broken bone. I’ve seen the whole thyroid crushed, with fractures of both horns and both wings. I’ve also seen one wing and one horn broken together. But never only the horn, and I’ve examined hundreds of cases. The only time I’ve seen it has been in cases of manual strangulation. Besides—’ a
s he paused, Pel leaned forward again ‘—on the material of the sack we found a yellow deposit which, when analysed, was found to be the remains of slaked lime. Whoever placed her there probably used it to keep down the smell of decomposition. Perhaps, even, it was hoped to destroy the body because lime has a reputation for destroying flesh. But if that was the reason, whoever used it had his facts wrong. Slaked lime has no destructive action. In fact, it would kill insects, which would cause it to act as a preservative. It’s because of the lime that there were fragments of the internal organs still remaining so that it was possible to guess she wasn’t pregnant, and it also helped to preserve the injuries to the throat.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We calculated the height when alive at around a hundred and sixty centimetres with a centimetre or two either side. At the maximum, a hundred and sixty-five. At the minimum a hundred and fifty-five.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell.’ Minet gave a little smile. ‘And I don’t think you need be in a hurry. Whoever put her there will have stopped running long since. Still—’ he shrugged ‘—to give you an idea: I think she was young. In her twenties. The teeth were good and well formed. Slightly built. Reddish hair—’

  ‘Well, there’s less of that around than there is of the other colours.’

  ‘It was done in plaits coiled round the ears. I think they were called “earphones” in those days. Hands – as far as we can tell, in good condition, as if she didn’t do manual work. Even perhaps not much housework. She was married. Or at least on her left hand was a wedding ring – not a very expensive one. But no engagement ring, which is odd because most married women usually wear both, though the engagement ring, being the more valuable, is worn on the outside so it can be removed when washing or doing housework. She also wore no earrings but her ears had been pierced and the holes seemed to have been torn, as if the earrings might have been removed in a hurry.’

  ‘As if she’d been killed for her jewellery? A straightforward robbery with violence?’

  Minet shrugged. ‘Shoes,’ he went on. ‘In good condition. Slight. Neatly built. Probably careful of her appearance.’