That morning Sabir walked from the encampment into the outskirts of Gourdon. He was wearing a greasy baseball cap he had liberated from a cupboard in the caravan and a red-and-black stitched leather jacket with lightning stripes, a plethora of unnecessary zips and about a yard and a half of dangling chains. If anybody recognises me now, he thought to himself, I really am done for – my credibility is shot for ever.
Still. This was his first time alone and in a public place since the camp at Samois and he felt awkward and nervous. Like an impostor.
Carefully skirting the main streets – in which the market was in full swing and law-abiding people were taking their breakfast in cafes, like regular citizens – Sabir was suddenly struck by how detached he had become to the so-called real world. His reality was back in the gypsy camp, with the dusty children and the dogs and the cooking pots and the long dresses of the women. The town seemed almost colourless by comparison. Up itself. Anally retentive.
He bought himself a croissant at a mobile stand and stood eating it on the town ramparts, looking back over the market, enjoying his rare taste of solitude. What madness had he let himself in for? In little more than a week his life had changed tack in its entirety and he was now certain, in his heart of hearts, that he would never be able to return to his old ways. He belonged to neither one world nor the other now. What was the gypsy expression? Apatride. With no nationality. It was their word for gypsyhood.
He spun abruptly around to face the man standing behind him. Did he have time to reach for his pistol? The presence of innocent bystanders in the square decided him against it.
‘Monsieur Sabir?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Capitaine Calque. Police Nationale. I’ve been following you since you left the camp. In fact you’ve been under continuous observation ever since your arrival from Rocamadour, three days ago.’
‘Oh Jesus.’
‘Are you armed?’
Sabir nodded. ‘Armed, yes. But not dangerous.’
‘May I see the pistol?’
Sabir gingerly opened his pocket, stuck two fingers in and retrieved the pistol by the barrel. He could almost feel the sniper scopes converging on the roof of his skull.
‘May I inspect it?’
‘Hell, yes. Be my guest. Keep it if you want.’
Calque smiled. ‘We are alone here, Monsieur Sabir. You may hold me up, if you wish. You do not have to give me the pistol.’
Sabir ducked his head in wonder. ‘You’re either lying through your teeth, Captain, or you’re taking one heck of a risk.’ He offered Calque the pistol, butt first, as if it were a piece of rotting fish.
‘Thank you.’ Calque took the pistol. ‘A risk, yes. But I think we’ve just proved something quite important.’ He hefted the automatic in his hand. ‘A Remington 51. Nice little pistol. They stopped making these in the late 1920s. Did you know that? This is almost a museum piece.’
‘You don’t say?’
‘It’s not yours, I take it?’
‘You know very well that I took it off that guy in the Rocamadour Sanctuary.’
‘May I take the serial number? It might prove interesting.’
‘How about the DNA? Isn’t that what you people swear by these days?’
‘It’s too late for DNA. The pistol has been prejudiced. I simply need the serial number.’
Sabir exhaled in a long, ragged outpouring of breath. ‘Yes. Please. Take the serial number. Take the gun. Take me.’
‘I told you. I’m alone.’
‘But I’m a killer. You people had my face splashed all over the TV and newspapers. I’m a threat to public safety.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Calque put on his reading glasses and took down the serial number in a small black notebook. Then he offered the pistol back to Sabir.
‘You can’t be serious?’
‘I’m very serious, Monsieur Sabir. You will need to be armed for what I am about to ask you to do.’