Maxim Jakubowski - Paris Noir

‘Guillaume Gamier, these gentlemen’s friend, has just suffered a heart attack,’ explained Zaraoui. ‘A stone’s throw from here. In place Léon Blum.’

‘Because of the heatwave,’ added Perroux, the short, dark guy.

‘This gentleman’s probably right,’ adds Zaraoui. ‘But there was an anonymous phone call. A woman rang twenty minutes ago. To say that Gamier had been murdered.’

Reyer pinched the bridge of his nose; that helped him keep his cool. At the same time, he acknowledged that procedures were likely to be a bit hit or miss. Paris was suffocating in a crazy heatwave, the disastrous football World Cup defeat was still festering in people’s minds like an open wound, the Tour de France favourites had been disqualified for failing a dope test, and three clowns prancing around in poofter pants had been getting up the nose of the police force since dawn.

‘How did he die?’

‘He collapsed while we were taking a break. We’d stopped at Café Mirage for a drink, our bikes were parked nearby…’

‘What were you doing in a baking hot Paris when you could have been riding down quiet country lanes?’

‘The Tour de France arrives tomorrow, Inspector,’ replied Grémond, the tall fair-haired one.

‘I’m aware of that. So?’

‘We wanted to party all weekend, soak up the atmosphere.’

‘Too bad,’ retorted Reyer. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘At the forensic lab in place Mazas,’ answered Zaraoui. ‘But it’ll take ages. Nearby all the pathologists are on holiday.’

Reyer wiped a hand over his face, suppressing a superhuman urge to give the three jokers a mammoth clout – Zaraoui too, while he was at it. He’d left home on the verge of imploding. By 6 a.m. the thermometer was already announcing 29°C, the radio massacres and tsunamis, and his ex-wife a demand for money. She’d phoned early to be sure of cornering him to talk about their daughter who was off ‘to the States with her boyfriend and needed cash’. The boyfriend in question was a little jerk, with parents to match. And on top of all that, he had to team up on a ridiculous case that would have been done and dusted if some hysterical woman with a cock-and-bull story hadn’t got Zaraoui all agitated.

Reyer felt an attack coming on and made for the toilets, He splashed cold water on his face and the back of his neck and attempted a few breathing exercises, visualising a pure sky over an emerald sea, a method advocated by Marthe Morgeval, his new shrink. A girl with a velvety voice and sensational breasts. Reyer pictured himself with his nose buried in those silky, pneumatic torpedoes and managed to stem the tide of words rushing into his mind.

‘It’s going to be a tough day,’ he said to the the mirror, on which a cycling enthusiast had plastered a Floyd Landis sticker.

An hour later, Reyer and Zaraoui went up to the ticket window of the Josephine Baker swimming pool and asked to speak to the manager. He confirmed that Guillaume Gamier had spent his last evening swimming lengths in the company of his three friends.

’At a quarter to midnight, I had to ask them to leave. Otherwise they’d have spent the night here. Their wives sat waiting for them, sipping cocktails. Mind you, it was very nice.’

’I’m sure it was,’ said Zaraoui with a smile.

Another habit that annoyed Reyer. Why smile when you’re a cop? This wasn’t a fucking cocktail party at Paris town hall.

’I expect you’ll want to talk to Perroux and Lancel’s wives,’ added the manager.

‘Do they sleep here?’

‘Natasha Perroux and Beatrice Lancel are lifeguards. They’re on duty today. Last night they were off, but they still kept their husbands company.’

Reyer had an urge to take off his shoes and socks and go to question Natasha and Beatrice barefoot, by the side of the pool. The manager preferred to call them into his office.

‘Grémond’s single. So was Gamier,’ Zaraoui thought it useful to mention as they waited for the wives.

‘So what?’

‘Gamier was a good-looking guy.’

‘What do they do with themselves apart from cycling and taking dips?’

‘They’re reps for the same sportswear manufacturer.’

Reyer told himself that this case was far too sporty for a torrid July day. He’d wandered over to the bay window and was admiring the girls in swimsuits. Suddenly he froze, then got a grip on himself. Marthe was lying on a blue mat. She was wearing a white bikini that made her more seductive than ever. And chatting to a hulk who was lingeringly rubbing cream into her bronzed shoulders.

Natasha and Beatrice seemed upset by Garnier’s death. Natasha was a fine specimen but Beatrice had the eyes and voice of a little girl that must make some men want to protect her. Personally, Reyer would rather apply a mammoth slap. They both agreed that Gamier was a live wire.

’He could never sit still,’ added Natasha.

’Do you know if he had any enemies!’ asked Zaraoui. The question didn’t inspire the girls. Zaraoui moved on to the anonymous phone call, and Reyer took the opportunity to slip away. He showed his police ID to the girl in the changing room and demanded a pair of swimming trunks, a towel and an electronic locker wristband. He changed and ventured among the tanned bodies. Marthe was still lying on her stomach and Hulk was chatting to the small of her back. To see his shrink’s face, Reyer had to get into the water. He swam two lengths and got out of the pool. The girl in the white bikini wasn’t Marthe.

When he returned to the office, the manager was back, and Zaraoui and the two girls were exchanging platitudes. All four noticed Reyer’s wet hair, but nobody said anything.

’You didn’t go for a dip, did you?’ asked Zaraoui once they were back outside on quai Panhard et Levassor.

’You think I’d skive off when I’m on duty?’

Zaraoui shrugged.

’The girls are stunning, especially Beatrice,’ he went on. ‘Yes, but I can’t see them bumping off a cyclist…’

Reyer watched Zaraoui out of the corner of his eye. The young lieutenant was no more inane or disagreeable than any other, but his drawback was that he existed. That was his biggest flaw. Reyer wished he could take the Métro to Marthe the shrink’s place, bury his face between her breasts and fall asleep there for a century or two. But three little bicycles were beginning to do laps between his ears. That’s what was so awful about being a cop. You always ended up seeing evil everywhere. You always ended up getting interested.

‘Perhaps he was on something,’ continued Zaraoui.

‘He wasn’t competing in the fucking Tour de France, as far as I know! Have to wait till the lab guys feel like going back to work. Meanwhile, we’ll have to rely on hunches and legwork.’

Zaraoui merely raised an eyebrow. The complicated thing about him, apart from the fact of him, thought Reyer, is that side of him that’s smooth as a saddle, reliable as a well-oiled chain, straightforward as handlebars. Because, despite all of it, you want to give him a mammoth clout every five minutes. Reyer was about to get into the unmarked car just as three excitable characters drew up and parked on the pavement. Too late, Reyer spotted the TV camera, the mic covered in mammoth hair (mammoths were cropping up everywhere, this was getting worrying), and the France 2 logo. Zaraoui stepped in calmly. Reyer turned his back on the TV crew and lost himself in the blue-grey of the Seine, concentrating hard on the seagulls’ cries. He pictured himself floating towards Le Havre, in a little old tub, with Marthe. She was lying on deck in a white bikini, and he was rubbing cream into her back… ‘Blaise! Hey, Blaise!’

Reyer turned in the direction of Zaraoui’s voice. The journalists had evaporated into the thick air; all that was left were a few ozone fumes, and for once, Reyer was happy to breathe them.