‘Then point it out for me.’ Bale crouched down beside Gavril. He opened a local map. ‘The scale on this is one centimetre for every 500 metres. That means that the house should be marked on it. It better be, for your sake.’
‘Can you untie me?’
‘No.’
Gavril started sobbing again.
‘Just a moment. I’ll fire up the horses.’
‘No. Please. I can see it. It’s marked. There.’ He indicated with his elbow.
‘Any other houses nearby?’
‘I’ve never been there. I only heard about it. Everybody heard about it. They say Yola’s father must have cheated to have won the right to use it off Dadul Gavriloff.’
Bale stood up. ‘I’m not interested in folk tales. Have you anything else to tell me?’
Gavril turned his head back towards the ground.
Bale strolled a few yards until he found a twenty-pound rock. He hefted it under his arm and returned to Gavril’s side. ‘This is how you died. You fell off your horse, with your foot twisted inside your stirrup and you smashed your face against this rock.’
Gavril half turned his head to see what Bale was doing.
Bale brought the rock down on Gavril’s face. He hesitated, wondering whether to do it a second time, but the cerebrospinal fluid was already leaking out through Gavril’s nose – if he wasn’t dead, he was certainly dying.
Pointless spoiling the set-up. He placed the rock carefully at the side of the track.
He unlooped the lariat and dragged Gavril by one foot towards his horse. Taking Gavril’s left foot in his hand, he twisted it around in the stirrup, until the foot was inextricably caught, leaving Gavril half trailing along the ground. Then he retied the lariat to the pommel.
The horse had begun grazing again by this time, calmed by the methodical pace with which Bale had conducted his chores. Bale rubbed its ears.
Then he mounted his own horse and rode away.
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.’
