Maxim Jakubowski - Paris Noir

‘They gone?’

‘Yes, to the swimming pool.’

‘They interview you?’

‘I was concise and natural. I talked without telling them anything. If you must know.’

‘They were pretty well informed.’

‘Apparently.’

Zaraoui looked as though he’d swallowed a piece of rotten fish. Reyer stared at him until his resistance broke.

‘Actually, the chief wants us to move fast because he had a phone call from the TV people. This morning. He thinks the media were tipped off by the same mystery woman.’

‘And you forgot to tell me?’

‘I didn’t have time.’

Mostly you were afraid I’d go off and partner myself. Because the chief’s afraid I’ll flip my lid, live on TV. And as we’re the only ones he can lay his hands on, seeing as everyone else is spreading their toes in the sun, he asked you to keep an eye on me. Reyer considered giving his colleague a mammoth wallop but decided to take a deep breath instead. Zaraoui found a map of Paris in the car and located a few strategic points. They decided to start with Sportitude, the company where the three merry cyclists worked.

Sportitude, what a name, thought Reyer as Zaraoui parked on a pedestrian crossing. Sounds like vicissitude, turpitude, solitude. Sport Attitude would have been more appealing. Reyer made an effort to put his words away in a drawer in his mind. Those creatures were terrifying, ready to take off from your neurons and land on your stomach, ready to leap off again from your flabby bits in glutinous gangs bent on entering your ducts and crawling up them until they reached…

‘Blaise! Hey, old man, you OK?’

Call me old man again and you’ll get a mammoth fist in the face, kid, thought Reyer, giving his partner a look filled with loathing. The young lieutenant smiled at him. Reyer sighed, then stepped inside Sportitude. The place was inhabited by an army of dummies in cute little outfits. There was only one warm-blooded creature in the place: a girl with glasses. Reyer made a beeline for her, and she recoiled slightly. He showed his ID, the triumphant figure of the Republic intimidated the girl, even made the colour drain from her cheeks. As he felt no desire to question her, Reyer signalled to Zaraoui to act alone. The girl knew the merry cyclists, they were nice guys, she didn’t know anything about their private lives. And she looked uneasy. This little goose is sitting on a secret, thought Reyer before spotting a door with a sign saying Service Personnel Only. He walked over to it, heard the girl protest, flung open the door and came upon two youngsters smoking a spliff. He dealt them both a mammoth cuff around the ears.

‘POLICE!’

‘What the hell…?’ yelped the one who’d been knocked furthest.

Zaraoui raced over. He apologised for his colleague’s ‘overreaction’.

‘Go to the police and press charges. Feel free,’ said Reyer. ‘My chief smokes spliffs in his office too. The whole force smokes dope. We have the occasional Ecstasy rave, too. Right, joke’s over. Talk to me about Gamier and his trio of funny friends.’

After a hiatus, the youths regained their wits and their dignity and talked. He wasn’t sure how reliable their information was. The youngest one stated that Gamier had no enemies at work and ‘put more energy into cycling than working his ass off’. The other kid thought there was a married woman in Garnier’s life, but he’d never personally seen a husband complaining. The three merry cyclists seemed to get on very well.

‘Did Gamier ever join you for a smoke?’ asked Reyer.

‘No, he was a very healthy guy.’

Reyer walked out without a word. Zaraoui had to run to catch up with him. He found him sitting in the car, staring into space.

‘I thought inspiration had struck.’

Inspiration had struck . Nice, Zaraoui’s turn of phrase.

‘With me, the only things that strike are my fists.’

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Blaise…’

‘Made me feel great…’

Zaraoui’s mobile rang, interrupting them. Reyer gathered the lieutenant was talking to his mother about a lost key. Funny, these kids who take personal calls while on duty. Zaraoui ended the call and started to apologise.

‘Actually, yes, inspiration did strike,’ Reyer cut him short. ‘You’re going to call the swimming pool and ask to speak to Beatrice and Natasha. We need to identify the anonymous voice…’

Zaraoui called directory inquiries to obtain the number and did as Reyer had asked. He ended the call and looked embarrassed.

‘Sorry, but I can’t remember. I don’t have a musical ear.’

‘You’re useless, full stop.’

Zaraoui was about to open his mouth but thought better of it. He switched on the ignition and pulled away.

‘We’re going to the café,’ said Reyer.

‘I know.’

The two men let an awkward silence set in. Reyer could feel bad vibes exuding from Zaraoui’s body. Had he finally managed to annoy Mr Butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth?

‘You’re angry, Blaise,’ said Zaraoui. ‘But that’s perfectly natural. Basically, to achieve ataraxy, you have to control your emotions. You’re not ready for that, you’re too passionate.’

‘Ataraxy. Shit. Where did you dig that up?’

‘I studied philosophy. But as a guy can’t make a living from philosophy, and I wanted to be in the real world, I joined the police. I put myself in the firing line.’

Reyer nearly pinched himself to make sure an evil spirit hadn’t abducted him to some parallel universe. A North-African philosopher landing in the police force. Who’s on the wrong planet. Shit.

‘But what the fuck are you doing as a cop? Can’t you see the force is bent, the plebs and the people hate us and the politicos keep us on a tight rein. No need to put yourself in the firing line for that. And you can’t make a living as a cop either.’

‘Maybe not, but you can act day to day.’

‘Zaraoui, you don’t believe what you’re saying.’

‘Oh yes I do.’

They parked in front of Café Mirage and exchanged hesitant glances before getting out of the car. Reyer leant on the copper bar. A relic from the 1950s. A TV hummed on a high shelf, giving the latest on the Tour de France. The customers were heatedly predicting the winner. To wind up his partner, Reyer ordered a glass of champagne.

‘Have a drink with me? Just to put yourself in the firing line.’

Zaraoui ignored him and ordered a coffee. Reyer pointed to the barman, signifying that once again he’d leave Zaraoui to do the questioning. The barman hadn’t forgotten his recent tragedy. Four cyclists on the terrace, he serves them four diabolos, one collapses – dead. He brought down the table and the drinks in his fall. People were talking about the quality of the lemonade and the clientele. ‘Could an ill-intentioned person have slipped something nasty into Garnier’s glass.’ The barman didn’t think so. He hadn’t spotted any odd-looking customers. And besides, most people were avidly watching the sports coverage on the TV. Reyer asked him for his ID and made a note of his name and address. He downed his champagne in two gulps and went out to make a call. He ran into Lieutenant Corinne Moutin and asked her to check whether the barman had a record. He spied what he was looking for on the other side of the square.

He walked into the Pluie de Mots bookstore, strode over to the assistant and flashed his ID.

‘I need to check something in a dictionary.’

‘I’d have lent you one even if you hadn’t been a cop,’ replied the assistant with a half smile.

He pointed to a shelf. Reyer opted for the illustrated Larousse and looked up ‘ataraxy’. The definition made him raise one eyebrow, then the other: ‘a state of freedom from emotional disturbance and anxiety; tranquillity’. He dumped the dictionary on top of a pile of The Da Vinci Code. Moutin called as he was walking back across the square.