everybody else? I don’t see you shaking down all the good citizens over there.’
‘We need to ask you some questions. If you answer them adequately, you can go. Along with your penknife and your no doubt unsullied record. If you don’t, we take you in.’
‘Oh, so this is how you get gypsies to talk these days?’
‘Exactly. Would you have spoken to us otherwise? In the camp, say? Would you have preferred that?’
Gavril shuddered, as if someone had walked over his grave.
No audience, thought Calque – this man would definitely need an audience in order to cut up rough. For a moment Calque felt almost sorry for him. ‘Firstly, your name.’
There was the briefest of hesitations – then capitulation. ‘Gavril La Roupie.’
Macron burst out laughing. ‘You’re joking. La Roupie? You’re really called La Roupie? That means rubbish where I come from. Are you sure it’s not Les Roupettes? That’s what we call balls down in Marseille.’
Calque ignored him. He kept his eyes fixed on the gypsy, watching for any change in facial expression. ‘Do you have your identity card with you?’
Gavril shook his head.
‘Strike two,’ said Macron, jovially.
‘I’ll make this simple. We want to know where Adam Sabir and his two companions have gone. He is wanted for murder, you know. And they are wanted as accomplices.’
Gavril’s face closed down.
Calque immediately sensed that the mention of murder had been a mistake. It had thrown La Roupie too much on the defensive. He attempted to back-pedal. ‘Understand this. We don’t think you’re involved in any way. We simply need information. This man is a killer.’
Gavril shrugged. But the potential conduit had obviously closed. ‘I’d give it if I could. The people you mention mean nothing to me. All I know is that they left here two days ago and haven’t been seen or heard of since.’
‘He’s lying,’ said Macron.
‘I’m not lying.’ Gavril turned to face Macron. ‘Why would I lie? You can make life very difficult for me. I know that. I’d help you if I could. Believe me.’
‘Give him back his penknife.’
‘But, Sir…’
‘Give him back his penknife, Macron. And one of my cards. If he calls us with information which directly results in an arrest, he will get a reward. Did you hear that, La Roupie?’
They both watched as Gavril jostled his way back through the crowd of early-morning shoppers.
‘Why did you do that, Sir? We could have sweated him some more.’
‘Because I made another mistake, Macron, in my long litany of recent mistakes. I mentioned the word “murder”. That’s taboo for gypsies. It means years of prison. It means trouble. Didn’t you see him close up like a Belon oyster? I should have come at him another way.’ Calque squared his shoulders. ‘Come on. Let’s find ourselves another one. I obviously need the practice.’
19
‘What did you tell the two Ripoux?’ Bale pressed the point of his knife against the back of Gavril’s thigh.
‘Oh Christ? What’s this now?’
Bale stuck the blade a quarter of an inch through Gavril’s flesh.
‘Aiee! What are you doing?’
‘My hand slipped. Every time you don’t answer one of my questions, it’s going to slip further. Failure to answer three questions and I’m through to the femoral artery. You’ll bleed to death in under five minutes.’
‘Oh putain! ’
‘I repeat. What did you tell the two Ripoux?’
‘I told them nothing.’
‘It’s slipped again.’
‘Aaahhh.’
‘Keep your voice down, or I’ll stick my knife up your arsehole. Do you hear me?’
‘Jesus. Jesus Christ.’
‘Let me rephrase my question. Where have Sabir and his two sea lice gone to?’
‘Down to the Camargues. To the festival. Sainte Sara.’
‘And when is this festival?’
‘In three days’ time.’
‘And why have they gone there?’
‘All gypsies go there. Sainte Sara is our patron saint. We go to get her blessing.’
‘How do you get a blessing from a saint?’
‘Her statue. We go up to her statue and get it to bless us. We touch it. We try to kiss it.’
‘What sort of statue are we talking about?’
‘Jesus Christ. Just a statue. Please take the knife out of my leg.’
Bale twisted the knife. ‘Is this statue black, by any chance?’
Gavril began to keen. ‘Black? Black? Of course it’s black.’
Bale snatched the knife from Gavril’s leg and stepped backwards.
Gavril doubled up, clutching his thigh in both hands, as if it were a rugby ball.
Bale rabbit-punched him on the back of the neck before he had a chance to look upwards.
20
‘We can’t wait until the festival, Alexi. We have to check out the statue before it starts. I don’t trust that maniac not to put two and two together and make it six. If he asks the right questions, any gypsy will tell him about Sainte Sara and the festival. It’d be like waving a red flag in front of a bull.’
‘But they’ll have it guarded. They know people want to come in and touch her, so they cordon her off. Post security guards there until the festival. Then she’s brought out and swung over the penitents. Everybody leaps up and tries to grab her. Men hold up their children. But she’s never out of someone’s sight. It’s not going to be like at Rocamadour. This is different. If we could only wait until the festival is over. She’s left alone then. Anyone can go in and see her.’
‘We can’t wait. You know that.’
‘Why does he want these verses, Damo? Why is he prepared to kill for them?’
‘One thing I can tell you. It’s not simply about money.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘You saw him, didn’t you? He was prepared to give up all his advantage over us simply in order to get his father’s gun back. Do you think that’s normal behaviour? For someone out to make himself a fortune? With the verses in his hands, he could buy himself a thousand guns. Publishers all over the world would climb over themselves in a bidding war to get their hands on something like that. That’s why I interested myself in the verses originally – venal financial gain. I’m not ashamed to admit it. Now I think there’s something more to them – some secret which the eye-man either thinks they will reveal, or which he fears. Nostradamus obviously discovered something – something of profound significance both to the world and to you gypsies. He had already predicted exactly when he was going to die. So he decided to protect his discovery. Not to publish but to hide. He believed in God – he believed that his gifts were specifically God-given. And in my opinion he believed that God would provide the correct outlet and the correct time frame, for his revelations to be made public.’
‘I think you’re crazy, Damo. I think there’s nothing there. I think we’re chasing a mulo.’
‘But you saw the carvings on the coffer? And under the Black Virgin? You can see the pattern for yourself.’
