The Nostradamus prophecies

42

Calque looked around the Place de l’Eglise. He checked out the cafes and the shopfronts and the scattered benches. ‘So this is where it happened?’

‘Yes, Sir.’ The auxiliary motorcycle gendarme had just been made aware that he was being asked these questions as part of an ongoing murder inquiry. His face had instantly taken on a more serious cast, as though he were being quizzed about the likely shortcomings of his family’s health insurance cover.

‘And you were first on the scene?’

‘Yes, Sir. My colleague and I.’

‘And what did you see?’

‘Very little, Sir. The gypsies were impeding us on purpose.’

‘Typical.’ Macron glared around the square. ‘I’m surprised they get any tourists at all in this place. Look at the filth around here.’

Calque cleared his throat – it was a habit he had recently got into whenever Macron made one of his more offensive public observations. After all, he couldn’t actually tie the man’s bootlaces for him, could he? Couldn’t tell him what – or what not – to think? ‘What did you deduce, then, Officer? If you couldn’t see.’

‘That the perpetrator, La Roupie, had thrown his knife at the victim, Angelo, catching him in the eye.’

‘Alexi Angelo?’

‘No, Sir. Stefan Angelo. There was no Alexi involved, as far as I understand it.’

‘Is Monsieur Angelo pressing charges?’

‘No, Sir. These people never press charges against one of their own. They sort out their differences privately.’

‘And of course Monsieur Angelo was no longer carrying his own knife when you went to his assistance? Someone had divested him of it? Am I right?’

‘I don’t know that for certain, Sir. But yes. In all probability he’d palmed it off on to someone else.’

‘I told you.’ Macron stabbed his finger in the air. ‘I told you this wouldn’t get us anywhere.’

Calque glanced across at the church. ‘Anything else of note?’

‘What do you mean, Sir?’

‘I mean did anyone notice anything else happening at the same time? Thefts? A chase? Another attack? Could it have been a diversion, in other words?’

‘No, Sir. Nothing of that sort was brought to my attention.’

‘Very well. You can go.’

The gendarme saluted and returned to his motorcycle.

‘Shall we go and interview Angelo? He’ll still be in hospital.’

‘No. No need. It would be an irrelevance.’

Macron made a face. ‘How do you work that one out?’ He seemed disappointed that his initiative over La Roupie had led them to a dead end.

But Calque’s attention was elsewhere. ‘What is actually going on here?’

‘I’m sorry, Sir?’

‘Why are all these gypsies here? Now? This minute? What is happening? Why have they come? It’s not another wedding, is it?’

Macron looked in amazement at his chief. Well. The man was a Parisian. But still. ‘It’s the annual festival of Sainte Sara, Sir. It takes place tomorrow. The gypsies follow the statue of their patron saint down to the sea, where it is immersed in the water. It’s been going on for decades.’

‘The statue? What statue?’

‘It’s in the church, Sir. It’s…’ Macron hesitated.

‘Is it black, Macron? Is the statue black?’

Macron breathed deeply through his nose. Here we go again, he thought. He’s going to scold me for being an idiot. Why can’t I think laterally, like him? Why do I always go everywhere in straight lines? ‘I was going to mention it, Sir. I was going to make that suggestion. That we look at the statue. See if it has any connection with what Sabir is after.’

Calque was already striding towards the church. ‘Good thinking, Macron. I’m so glad that I can count on you. Two minds are always better than one, are they not?’

The crypt was packed with acolytes. Candle smoke and incense were thick in the air and there was the continual murmur of people at prayer.

Calque made a quick appraisal. ‘Over there. Security. Yes? The one in plain clothes? With the name tag?’

‘I should think so, Sir. I’ll go and check.’

Calque moved to the side of the crypt, while Macron picked his way forwards through the crowd. In the dim, flickering light, Sainte Sara seemed almost disembodied beneath her many layers of clothing. It was next to impossible that anyone could get to her under these conditions. A hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on her at all times. The security guard was a massive irrelevance. If someone had the temerity to run across and molest her, they would probably be lynched.

Macron was returning with the security guard. Calque exchanged identity details and then motioned the man up the stairs towards the main body of the church.

‘I can’t leave. We’ll have to stay in here.’

‘Don’t you ever leave?’

‘Not during the festival. We take four-hour shifts. Pari passu .’

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Two, Sir. One on, one off. With a standby in case of illness.’

‘Were you in here when the knifing occurred?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘What did you see?’

‘I didn’t see anything at all. I was down here in the crypt.’

‘What? Nothing at all? You didn’t go out in the square?’

‘More than my job’s worth, Sir. I stayed in here.’

‘And what about the congregation? Did they all stay?’

The security guard hesitated.

‘You’re not trying to tell me that with a near riot going on outside in the square, everybody simply stayed in here and kept on praying?’

‘No, Sir. Most of them went out.’

‘Most of them?’

‘Well. All of them.’

‘And you followed, of course?’

Silence.

Calque sighed. ‘Look here, Monsieur…’

‘Alberti.’

‘…Monsieur Alberti. I’m not criticising you. And I’m not here on behalf of your employers at the Town Council. What you say to me will not go any further.’

Alberti hesitated. Then he shrugged. ‘Okay. When the crypt emptied, I did go up for a short look-see. I stood right outside the church door so that no one could come past me, though. I thought it might be a matter for Security. I thought I ought to look.’

‘And you were right. It might very well have been a matter for Security. I would have done the same.’

Alberti didn’t seem convinced.

‘And when you came back. Still empty?’

Alberti blew out his cheeks.

Calque felt around in his pockets and offered him a cigarette.

‘We can’t smoke in here, Sir. It’s a church.’

Calque cast a jaundiced eye at the plumes of candle smoke rising towards the low-slung ceiling of the crypt. ‘Answer my question then. Was the crypt still empty when you came back inside?’

‘As good as. There was just one man here. Stretched out in front of the statue. Praying.’

‘One man, you say? And you definitely hadn’t seen him when you left?’

‘No, Sir. I’d missed him.’

‘Right. Macron. Hold this man here while I check out the statue.’

‘But you can’t, Sir. This is a religious festival. Nobody touches the statue until tomorrow.’

But Calque was already striding through the massed phalanx of penitents like Old Father Time with his scythe.