he was conscious of a final thought flitting through his mind: that here was yet another parallel between him and Marc. It had been a woman who had deepened the rift between Enzo and Jack. But while somehow the brothers Fraysse had found resolution and closure, the brothers Macleod never had.
Peter May
Blowback
Chapter Thirteen
An ice cold wind blew across the Massif, down from the north-west, blowing leaves and litter through the narrows streets of Thiers beneath a leaden sky heavy with the portent of winter. There was even a smell of snow in the air, although it was still too early in the season.
Enzo and Dominique sat behind the glass frontage of the Cafe Central on the corner next to the gendarmerie, and watched the traffic roll past. Buses, lorries, private cars, and pedestrians huddled in coats and scarves scurrying across the terrasse, tilting against the wind. Beyond, the shadow of the volcanic crags that rose above the town dwarfed the pale pastel houses that clung perilously to their slopes.
Dominique was off-duty, transformed somehow by her lack of uniform into the merest slip of a woman. Petite, elegant, with her hair tumbling luxuriantly across narrow shoulders, she was suffused with a femininity that the dark, gendarme blue, had contrived to conceal. Her lips and eyes were made-up in a way that would have been frowned on in uniform. But it was not overdone, being just enough to emphasise the fullness of her lips and the warmth of her eyes. She wore tight-fitting jeans with knee-high suede boots, and a warm, knitted sweater with a high, fold-over collar that swaddled her neck. Enzo noticed how small her hands were, folded together in front of her on the table, and how carefully manicured she kept short nails painted the faintest pearl pink. Her yellow anorak hung over the back of her chair, and she sipped her coffee, listening attentively and with wide-eyed curiosity as Enzo told her about the revealing notes he had found in Marc Fraysse’s computer.
“Did you know about a feud between the Fraysse brothers?”
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t. Of course, Guy only returned to the area after Marc got his third star. He’d been in Paris before that. But there was no hint of any animosity between them. Nothing apparent, anyway. And nothing said about it during the investigation.”
Enzo nodded. “What do you know about Marc’s gambling habit?”
“I know that he was accustomed to coming into town most mornings, when he wasn’t dashing off for interviews. He would buy the racing paper at the Maison de la Presse, and sit in here studying the form while he had a coffee, before heading off to the PMU to place his bets.”
Enzo frowned. In his experience the giant French betting franchise, Pari Mutuel Urbain, was invariably found in cafes and bars. “Where’s the PMU in Thiers?”
“In Le Sulky, a bar just down the road.”
“Why didn’t he take his coffee there?”
She shrugged. “Who knows? Some people like to separate business and pleasure.”
“Can we go and take a look at it?”
“Sure.” She pushed back her chair and got to her feet, pulling on her anorak. Enzo left some coins on the table to pay for their coffees.
Outside, the wind stung their faces, and she kept close to him, as if seeking to steal his warmth as they bowed their heads into the icy blast that blew up the Rue Francois Mitterand. They hurried past cutlery shops with lit windows full of Thiers and Laguiole knives.
Le Sulky stood next to yet another kitchen shop on the corner of a narrow street that zig-zagged up into the labyrinthine center of the old historic town. It had the seedy air of most PMU establishments, so often frequented by drinkers and gamblers. In days gone by, the bar would have been lost in a fugg of cigarette smoke. Now the smokers were forced to stand outside in the cold to pursue their habit, and the lack of smoke inside allowed the smell of stale alcohol and coffee grounds to predominate.
A man with almost shoulder-length, dark hair swept back from a lean, nervous, smoker’s face stood behind the bar. It was early yet, and business was slow. A television screen flickered on the wall behind him, but the sound was turned down. He recognised Dominique immediately, and was on his guard. A gendarme, even off-duty, was never a welcome customer. He found a smile from somewhere to greet them, but it stopped short of his eyes.
“ Salut, Fred,” Dominique said, as if she knew him well.
But Fred was much more formal in reply. “ Bonjour Mademoiselle. Monsieur. What can I get for you?”
Dominique smiled. “A little information.” And Fred’s smile slowly dissipated. He glanced nervously toward the few faces in the bar that were turning toward them now in curiosity.
“I don’t sell information, Mlle Chazal, you know that. Beer, liquor, coffee, and I’ll put your money on a horse for you. But information?” He shook his head. “Not my business.”
“I’m not buying, Fred. I’m asking. And I can ask you here, or I can ask you at the gendarmerie.”
Fred paled visibly. Anxious eyes darted toward Enzo and back again. “What do you want to know?”
“We want you to tell us about Marc Fraysse’s gambling habits.”
Fred frowned. Whatever he might have been expecting, it wasn’t that. He seemed to relax a little. “Is that case not long dead?”
“No. Marc Fraysse is long dead. The case is still very much alive.” Dominique glanced at Enzo, his cue to ask what he wanted to know.
Enzo said, “Fraysse was in here most mornings, is that right?”
“Sure.”
“To place bets on horses.”
“That’s what people usually come here for.”
“He never took a coffee, or a beer?”
Fred let a little burst of air escape from between his lips. “Not his kind of place, monsieur. I mean, nice guy and all, but he came here to put money on horses, not drink coffee.”
“How many bets would he place in a day?”
Fred shrugged. “I dunno. Varied. Three or four. Sometimes he went for a triple.”
“And what sort of money did he put on?”
Fred hesitated. “I don’t remember.”
“Oh, come on,” Dominique said, her tone sharp.
“Hey.” Fred laid his palms open on the bar in front of him. “The guy’s been dead, what, seven years? I get hundreds of people in here every week. How the hell am I supposed to remember what kind of money Fraysse put on his horses?”
Enzo spoke calmly and evenly. “The same way you remembered that he placed three or four bets a day, and sometimes a triple.”
Dominique said, “I can get the auditors in here, Fred. We can go back through every entry in your books for the last ten years, if that’s the way you want to play it.”
Fred’s pallor had a tinge of grey about it now. He shrugged again. “I dunno, fifty, a hundred euros a horse?”
“Are you asking us or telling us?” Dominique was getting impatient, and Enzo could see that Fred was starting to shut down. Whatever he knew, he didn’t want to say, especially not in front of Dominique.
“Well, thanks very much,” Enzo said, and he felt Dominique turn toward him in surprise. “That’s been very helpful.” He turned to Dominique. “Why don’t you head on up to the Cafe Central and get a couple of coffees on the table for us. I’m just going to have a little flutter here myself.” And he reached into his satchel for his wallet.
The skin around Dominique’s eyes darkened, and he saw the anger in them. He was getting rid of her, and she knew it. But whatever thoughts went through her mind she kept them to herself. “Okay,” was all she said. She nodded to Fred and left.
Enzo waited until the door had closed behind her before sliding a hundred euro note across the bar. “Whatever you tell me, Fred, is between us.” He raised his eyebrows. “Okay?”
Fred looked at the note, Enzo’s fingertips still on it, pinning it to the counter, then glanced up to search the
