gave some of his favourites the same, or already existing, names and titles – to humiliate the original owners, probably and keep them in their place. But the effects proved unexpectedly long term. For even now, if you place a Napoleonic noble higher up the table than an Ancient noble with the same name, the Ancient noble and all his family, will simply turn over their plates and refuse to eat.’
‘What? Just sit there?’
‘Yes. And that is the sort of family we’re probably dealing with here.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
‘It would be seen as a calculated insult, Macron. Just like someone saying that the schools of Marseille produce only cretins. Such a statement would be palpably untrue and, in consequence, subject to castigation – except in certain extreme cases, of course, when it is found to be perfectly correct.’
25
For three hours Gavril had paced the streets of Les Saintes-Maries searching for any sign of Alexi, Sabir or Yola. During that time he had bearded every gypsy, every gardien, every street musician, ostler, panhandler and palm reader that came into his ken, but he was still no further along.
He knew the town intimately, his parents having joined in the annual pilgrimage right up until his father’s death, three years earlier. Since that time, however, his mother had dug in her heels and now refused to travel more than thirty kilometres in any direction from their home campsite near Reims. As a result of her intransigence, Gavril, too, had drifted out of the pilgrimage habit. He had been lying, therefore, when he had declared to Sabir that of course he was heading south with the rest of his clan. But some mulo had prodded him, none the less, into challenging Alexi to meet him at Sainte Sara’s shrine. Some unconscious – even superstitious – force, whose exact origin he was unaware of.
What it finally came down to was this. If he could just get rid of Alexi – take Yola from him and marry her himself – his gypsyhood would be proven. No one could deny him his place inside the community. For Yola’s family were gypsy nobility. He would be marrying into a bloodline that stretched all the way back to the great Exodus and beyond. Maybe even as far as Egypt itself. Once he had sons and daughters of such a lineage, no one could reasonably question his rights or his antecedents. The stupid, hurtful story of his father kidnapping him from a gadje woman would be laid to rest for ever. He might even become Bulibasha himself one day, given luck, money and a little measured diplomacy. He would grow his hair long. Dye it red if he chose to. Piss in all their faces.
It was the two gadje policemen who had been the first to plant the larger idea in his mind, with their calling cards and their hints and their miserable insinuations.
As a direct consequence of their intervention, he had made up his mind to kill Alexi, then betray Sabir to the authorities for the promised reward. No one could blame him for defending himself against a criminal, surely? Then he would be free to revenge himself on that other gadje bastard who had so humiliated him and carved up his leg.
For that guy, too, had proved to be a fool – like all gadjes. Hadn’t he given away exactly what he was after, with all his questions and his threats? Something to do with the statue of Sara-e-Kali itself? Gavril kicked himself for having wasted so much time parading around town and asking dumb questions. The man and Sabir were obviously linked – both, after all, had shown an unlikely interest in the festival. They must be after the same thing, therefore. Perhaps they wanted to steal the statue and hold it to ransom? Make all the gypsies in the world pay to have it back? Gavril shook his head in wonder at gadje stupidity. Gypsies would never pay for anything. Didn’t these people know that?
Now all he had to do was to wait at the Sanctuary door and let them come to him. The festival, after all, was a mere forty-eight hours away. That gave him ample time to put his plan into action. And when he needed to rest, there was always Bazena. It would be child’s play to persuade her to stand in for him. The silly bitch still imagined he wanted her. Well, it would be very convenient indeed to have her on tap. So he would cosy her along a little – feed her a sliver or two of hope.
First thing on his wish-list was to get her begging outside the church – that way no one could go past into the Sanctuary without her noticing. And she would be making money for him at the same time. A double whammy.
Yes. Gavril had it all worked out. He was finally coming into his own – he could feel it. Now, after all these years, he would make the bastards pay. Pay for a lifetime of grief and petty humiliations because of his blond hair.
With the idea still burning in his head, Gavril hurried back through the town towards Bazena’s father’s caravan.
26
Achor Bale watched Gavril’s antics with something close to bemusement. He had been following the idiot ever since figuratively firing him out of the gun at Gourdon – but the last three hours had finally and categorically persuaded him that he had never in his life trailed a man so sublimely unconscious of everything that was going on around him. Talk about a one-track mind. This gypsy merely had to think of a thing and, from then onwards, he would concentrate on it to the exclusion of all else – his thought processes almost clanked each time they fell into place. He was like a racehorse fitted with blinkers. The man had been ridiculously easy to trail from Gourdon, after the leg-skewering. Now, in the tourist-infested streets of Les Saintes-Maries, the thing took on a simplicity quite out of kilter with the potential end results. Bale spent a happy fifteen minutes watching Gavril browbeating a young woman into agreeing with some new plan or other he had hatched. Then a further twelve as she settled herself on a patch of cleared ground in a corner of the square nearest to the entrance to the church. The girl almost immediately began begging – not from the gypsies, you understand, but from the tourists.
You devious little bastard, thought Bale. That’s the way. Get other people to do your dirty work for you. Now I suppose you’re going off to catch your forty winks?
Ignoring Gavril, Bale settled himself down in a nearby cafe, put on a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses as a sop to the local police force and began watching the girl.
27
‘ Putain! Look at this place. It must be worth a fucking fortune.’
Calque winced, but said nothing.
Macron hobbled out of the car. He stared out at the mass of Cap Camarat ahead of them and then at the wide crescent of clear blue water leading to the Cap de St-Tropez on their left. ‘It’s just the sort of place Brigitte Bardot would live in.’
‘Hardly,’ said Calque.
‘Well I think it is.’
A middle-aged woman in a tweed and cashmere twinset walked towards them from the house.
Calque gave a small inclination of the head. ‘Madame La Marquise?’
The woman smiled. ‘No. I am her private secretary. My name is Madame Mastigou. And Madame’s correct title is Madame la Comtesse. The Marquisate is considered the lesser title by the family.’
Macron flashed his teeth in a delighted grin behind Calque’s back. That would teach the snotty bastard. Serve him right to be such a snob. He always had to know everything about everything. And still he messed up.
‘Have you both been in a car accident? I notice your assistant is limping. And you, if I may say so, Captain, look as though you’ve come straight from the wars.’
Calque gave a rueful acknowledgement of his arm sling and of the tape still criss-crossing his newly-shaped nose. ‘That is just what happened, Madame. We were in pursuit of a criminal. A very vicious criminal. Which is why
