Calque watched Gavril picking his way amongst the street-market stalls. This was the tenth gypsy whose movements he and Macron had monitored that morning. Being blond, though, Gavril blended into the background far more effectively than the others of his immediate tribe. But there was still something ‘other’ about him – some simmering anarchic streak that warned people that he wouldn’t necessarily conform to their mores, or agree with their opinions.
The locals, Calque noticed, gave him a wide berth once they had succeeded in clocking him. Was it the gaudy shirt, in definite need of a wash? The cheap-mock alligator shoes? Or the ridiculous belt with the branding-iron buckle? The man walked as if he were carrying a seven-inch knife on his hip. But he wasn’t. That much was obvious. But he might have one somewhere else about his person. ‘Pick him up, Macron. He’s the one we want.’
Macron moved in. He was still a patchwork of band-aids, hidden bandages, Mercurochrome and surgical gauze – not to mention tender on his feet. But Macron, being Macron, somehow contrived to hide these disadvantages beneath his own particular form of swagger. Calque shook his head in mild despair as he watched his subordinate home in on the gypsy.
‘Police Nationale.’ Macron flashed his badge. ‘You will please accompany us.’
For a moment it seemed as if Gavril were about to run, but Macron clamped his upper arm in the catch-all grip they were taught at cadet school, Gavril sighed – as if this were not the first time this had happened to him – and went along quietly.
When he saw Calque he hesitated for a moment, thrown by the arm sling and the nose bandage. ‘Who won? You or the horse?’
‘The horse.’ Calque nodded to Macron, who eased Gavril against a wall, legs splayed and patted him down for concealed weapons.
‘Only this, Sir.’ It was an Opinel penknife.
Calque knew that he wouldn’t be able to make any long-term legal running with a simple penknife. ‘How long is the blade?’
‘Oh, about twelve centimetres.’
‘Two centimetres longer than the legal allowance?’
‘Looks that way. Yes, Sir.’
Gavril snorted. ‘I thought this sort of harassment had stopped? I thought you’d been told to treat us like 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.’