The Angel (Jacquot Book 4) by Martin O'Brien

Author:Martin O'Brien [O'Brien, Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MobukPress
Published: 2012-11-26T06:00:00+00:00

50

"There's a body," said Brunet, when Jacquot arrived at the smoking remains of the HacheGee Furniture Warehouse. Behind him, the building's corrugated, red plastic roof sagged down from the brick retaining walls, the A-frame beams that had once held it in place crumpled and blistered from the heat. Through the rising coils of smoke a blue sky smiled on cheerfully as though unaware of the blackened scab beneath it.

A body? Jacquot frowned. This was not what he'd expected. Another insurance job, he'd decided on his way out to Rocsabin, the owners looking to make something from a business that was not performing. Jacquot had been to the warehouse himself when he first arrived in Cavaillon, bought a desk and a bookshelf for his cramped apartment because someone had told him there was always a sale on, bargains to be had, items marked down, every day a sale day. Arson almost certainly, he'd decided. But he hadn't figured on a body. Suicide? Murder? Or maybe it was just an accident, an insurance scam gone wrong? Leaping to conclusions again. Jacquot reined himself in.

"Name?"

Brunet shook his head. "Fournier's there now. In the office at the back. What's left of it."

Brunet led Jacquot between the fire engines assembled in the front parking lot, stepping over the canvas snakes of empty, flattened hose, shards of window glass blown out by the inferno crunching underfoot. Firefighters sat on their footplates, taking a rest, chatting, smoking cigarettes. They looked done in, shoulders hunched, faces oddly clean where oxygen masks had protected them from the soot and smoke.

According to Brunet the fire had been called in at 12:27 am and had taken most of the night to subdue, fed by the melting plastic roof, the plastic display units, sofa and cushion fillings, rolls of rubber-backed carpet, lino tiles and plastic packaging.

Poisonous fumes, thought Jacquot, the acrid scent of burnt timber laced with a cool, chemical note. It had been a blaze alright. He'd seen the glow from his bedroom window. Even against the night sky you could see the roiling black clouds blotting out the stars. It was astonishing they'd even found a body.

Jacquot and Brunet skirted the edge of the smouldering ruin and turned into the back yard. A delivery van stood a few steps from what had once been the back wall. The side panels facing the fire were scorched and peeled, the bumpers at front and rear were grotesquely warped, and the van's nearside tyres had burst, making the vehicle tilt drunkenly to one side. The white lines marking out the delivery bay where it stood were blackened and bubbled, and the ground was gritty and wet underfoot. Everything was running with water, or steaming gently. They must have poured millions of litres on the place.

"Through here, boss," said Brunet, passing an intact section of brick wall no more than shoulder high, and stepping through what remained of a doorway.

Fournier was down on his knees sifting through a mound of ash, the sleeves and legs of his white Nyrex suit smeared with black.

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