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further, chief.’
    Darac heard a message ping into his inbox.
    ‘Except one thing.’ Bonbon dragged his armband back over his wiry bicep. ‘They’re all dying to meet you.’
    ‘I’ll bet. Have you seen Granot?’
    ‘Yes – he filled me in on the unfortunate Monsieur Emil Florian. The old woman still wearing her chief suspect’s hat?’
    ‘In the absence of anyone else.’
    ‘We’ll do better.’ Shielding his eyes, Bonbon glanced across the street. The young officers Yvonne Flaco and Max Perand were still struggling to get through their quota of interviews. ‘I was going to do the apartment houses next but…’ He gave Darac a look. ‘What do you think?’
    ‘I’d give the guys a look first. Or we could be here all day.’
    ‘See you later.’
    Darac’s text was from his girlfriend, Angeline. There had been a change of plan, it seemed. No jazz club for her tonight. Some of her fellow academics had decided to go out for a drink after the final session of the conference they were attending. Probably turn into dinner. Best make his own plans. She signed off simply:
A
.
    Darac stared into space for a moment before replying:
Enjoy it, chérie – Paul.
    Frènes’s instruction to tread carefully came back to him as he took off his shoes in the vestibule. Featuring cartoon-like musical notes fighting to free themselves from a page of sheet music, his socks would probably be considered bad form. But he stepped into the prayer room itself doubting anyone would notice them.
    A single fan circulating in the middle of the ceiling was doing a good job of stirring up the warm air. The uniform on watch, Jacques ‘Seve’ Sevran, was a short, chunkily built individual. Raising eyebrows as rounded as Norman arches, he acknowledged his superior’s arrival with a wry, conspiratorial smile rather than a salute. He was safe: everyone knew Darac’s couldn’t-care-less attitude to hierarchies cut both ways.
    ‘How’s it going, Seve?’
    ‘Not so bad.’ His eyes slid down to Darac’s socks. ‘Tasteful. No wonder they wanted to kick you off this thing.’
    ‘Frènes hasn’t seen these. I’ll give you ten euros to leave them out of your report.’
    Seve’s smile didn’t match the strained look in his eyes.
    ‘Listen, we’re all sorry about Hélène. But she’s doing better, I hear.’
    ‘Practically got a season ticket for that hospital. But yes, she’s responding well this time, thanks.’
    ‘That’s good.’ He waited a respectful couple of beats before casting a glance over his shoulder. ‘So you’ve been in here from the start?’
    ‘More or less.’
    ‘And you haven’t had to interpret at any point?’
    Seve shook his head.
    ‘So the people in here haven’t twigged you can understand what they’re saying?’
    ‘No. And why should they? I’m white, low-ranking, middle-aged – just a glorified guard dog, really, aren’t I?’
    Pursing his lips, Darac nodded ambivalently.
    ‘I suppose they could see it that way. Have they been speaking to each other in French?’
    ‘Not all the time, no.’
    ‘Pick up anything?’
    ‘I’m only really fluent in Arabic, remember. I’m pretty sketchy on most of the West African languages. They’ve been talking about what happened, naturally. But they seem as bemused by it as everyone else. The fellow who led the outdoor congregation – Toulé? He gives me the creeps, though.’
    ‘Which one is he?’
    ‘Over in the corner, the two talking together? He’s the one in the white agbada.’
    Darac turned. Toulé was a tall, wisp-bearded man wearing a full-length caftan-like garment. A joyless smile featured a row of long, protruding teeth.
    ‘What’s your problem with him?’
    ‘He reminds me of a character in
I Walked with a Zombie
. The zombie, to be exact. And how about those teeth? He could chew a corn cob through a Venetian blind, this guy.’
    ‘Seve, you are a wicked man.’ Darac took Bonbon’s notes out of his back pocket and consulted the