The Awkward Squad Read online

  THE AWKWARD SQUAD

  MacLehose Press

  An imprint of Quercus

  New York • London

  Copyright © Editions Albin Michel—Paris 2015

  English translation copyright © 2017 by Sam Gordon

  Jacket painting © Miles Hyman and Carole Schilling

  Series design by www.Salu.io

  First published in the United States by Quercus in 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to [email protected].

  eISBN 978-1-68144-001-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hénaff, Sophie, author.

  Title: The awkward squad / Sophie Hénaff.

  Other titles: Poulets grillés. English

  Description: First edition. | New York : MacLehose Press, [2018]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017045299 (print) | LCCN 2017053710 (ebook) | ISBN 9781681440019 (ebook) | ISBN 9781681440002 (library ebook) | ISBN 9781681440033 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781681440026 (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Policewomen—Fiction. | Cold cases (Criminal investigation)—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Police Procedural. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PQ2708.E53 (ebook) | LCC PQ2708.E53 P6813 2018 (print) | DDC 843/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017045299

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10104

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  To my own little gang,

  and my parents too.

  Contents

  Glossary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Thank you

  Glossary

  36, quai des Orfèvres—the iconic headquarters of the police judiciare in Paris; division often referred to by its address alone

  brigade criminelle—the murder squad; combines elements of the American homicide division and major crimes unit; responsible for investigating murders, kidnappings, and assassinations; referred to colloquially as la crim

  brigades centrales—the division of the six central brigades within the police judiciare, including the brigade criminelle

  brigade de protection de mineurs—brigade dealing with the protection of children: kidnappings, distressed families, abuse

  brigade de répression du banditisme (BRB)—the antigang squad

  brigade mondaine—the vice squad

  capitaine—captain; senior to lieutenant and junior to commandant

  brigadier—sergeant

  commandant—chief of detectives

  commissaire—police commissioner, a rank just below that of divisionnaire; has both administrative and investigative roles plus full police powers

  commissariat de police—the police station serving as the commissaire’s headquarters

  divisionnaire (commissaire divisionnaire)—chief of police, one rank up from commissaire; has both administrative and investigative roles, plus full police powers

  juge d’instruction—“investigating judge”; responsible for determining if a case should go to trial; a role somewhat similar to that of an American district attorney

  IGS (inspection générale des services)—French police monitoring service; equivalent to the internal affairs division of an American law enforcement agency

  lieutenant—the first rank of the French police officer’s scale

  police judiciaire—the criminal investigation division of the police nationale; equivalent to the American Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI)

  RAID (recherche, assistance, intervention, dissuasion): the elite law enforcement unit of the French police; deals with counterterrorism and surveillance of high-profile criminals

  1

  Paris, August 9, 2012

  Anne Capestan was standing at her kitchen window waiting for dawn to arrive. She drained her mug in one gulp and set it down on the shiny green tablecloth. She had just drunk her last coffee as a police officer. Or had she?

  The brilliant Commissaire Capestan—the star of her generation, undisputed career-ladder-climbing champion—had fired one bullet too many. As a result, she had been dragged before an Inspection générale des services disciplinary hearing, received several reprimands, and been handed a six-month suspension. Then radio silence, right up until the telephone call from Buron. Her mentor, now in charge of 36, quai des Orfèvres, the headquarters of the police judiciaire, had finally broken his silence. Capestan had been summoned for August 9. Typical of the man: right in the middle of the summer break. A gentle reminder that this was no vacation, that she was unemployed. She would emerge from this meeting with or without her badge, stationed in Paris or the provinces, but at least the waiting game would be over. Anything had to be better than wallowing in limbo—this hazy, uncertain space where moving on was not an option. The commissaire rinsed her mug in the sink and told herself she would put it in the dishwasher later. It was time to go.

  She crossed the living room, where the familiar pulsating double bass of a Stray Cats record was thrumming from the stereo. The apartment was spacious and comfortable. Capestan had not skimped on the rugs, throws, and ambient lighting. Her cat, snoozing away happily, seemed to approve of her choices. But the coziness was punctuated by traces of emptiness, like patches of frost on a lawn in springtime. The day after her suspension, Capestan had watched as her husband left her, taking half the apartment’s contents with him. It was one of those moments in which life leaves you with a bloody nose. But Capestan was not one for self-pity; she refuse
d to run away from what had happened.

  Vacuum, TV, sofa, bed . . . within three days, she had replaced the essentials. That said, the round marks on the carpet were a constant reminder of the furniture from her former life. The wallpaper gave the clearest illustration: the shadow of a desk, the ghost of a bookshelf, the late lamented chest of drawers. Capestan would much rather have moved, but her precarious professional situation had kept her in this cage. Come the end of this meeting, she would finally know which path her life would pursue.

  She removed the elastic band she kept on her wrist and tied her hair back. It had turned blonde, as it did every summer, but soon a deeper chestnut tone would start reasserting itself. Capestan smoothed her dress with a mechanical motion and pulled on her sandals, without so much as a flinch from the cat on the armrest. Only the pinna of the feline’s ear twitched into action, tilting toward the door to monitor her departure. The commissaire hitched her big leather handbag onto her shoulder and slipped in the copy of The Bonfire of the Vanities that Buron had lent her. Nine hundred and twenty pages. “That’ll keep you busy while you wait for my call,” he had assured her. Waiting. She had had enough time to read all thirteen installments of Fortunes of France and the complete works of Marie-Ange Guillaume. Not to mention stacks of detective novels. Buron and his hollow words without dates or promises. Capestan closed the door behind her, turned the key twice, and set off for the stairs.

  Rue de la Verrerie was deserted in the soft morning light. In August, at this early hour, Paris seemed restored to a natural state, cleared of its inhabitants, as though it had survived a neutron bomb. In the distance, the flashing light of a street sweeper gave off an orange glow. Capestan walked past the window displays of the BHV department store, then cut diagonally across the square outside the Hôtel de Ville. She crossed the Seine and continued to the far side of Île de la Cité, arriving at the entrance of 36, quai des Orfèvres.

  She went through the enormous doorway and turned right into the paved courtyard, pausing to glance at the faded blue sign: STAIRWAY A, POLICE JUDICIAIRE SENIOR MANAGEMENT. Following his promotion, Buron had set up shop on the third floor, the cushy level for the force’s decision makers. No gun toting on that corridor, even for the real cowboys.

  Capestan pushed open the double doors. The thought of this meeting made her stomach lurch. She had always been a police officer, never considered any other options. Thirty-seven’s hardly the age to go back to school. The restlessness of the past six months had already taken its toll. She had done a lot of walking. She had followed every single line on the Parisian métro at street level: 1 to 14, terminus to terminus. She was desperate to be welcomed back into the fold before having to tackle the suburban trains. Sometimes she wondered if she might be forced to run the length of the high-speed TGV train tracks, just to give herself something to do.

  Face-to-face with the gleaming, brand-new engraved plaque bearing the name of the regional chief of the police judiciare, she gathered herself and knocked three times. Buron’s deep, booming voice instructed her to come in.

  2

  Buron stood up to greet her. His basset-hound face was framed by military-cut gray hair and a beard. Everywhere he went, he wore a kind, almost downcast expression. He was a good head taller than Capestan, who was not exactly short herself, and a good stomach wider, too. But despite his hearty appearance, Buron radiated authority: no one joked around with him. Capestan smiled at him and handed over the Wolfe novel. There was a small scuff on the cover, which prompted a flicker of disapproval from the chief when he noticed it. Capestan apologized, even if she failed to see what the fuss was about. It was nothing, he said, but he clearly did not mean it.

  Behind Buron, sitting in large armchairs, she recognized Fomenko, the former head of the drug squad and now deputy regional chief, and Valincourt, who had recently left a senior role at the brigade criminelle to become top brass at brigades centrales. Capestan wondered what these big guns were doing there. Given her current status, the prospect of her being snapped up by one of them seemed unlikely. She smiled at the lordly law enforcement triumvirate, sat down, and waited for the verdict.

  “I have good news,” Buron said, diving straight in. “The IGS investigation has wrapped up, your suspension is over, and you are formally reinstated. The incident will not go down on your file.”

  A huge sense of relief washed over Capestan. She could feel the joy coursing through her veins, and with it came a sudden urge to rush out and celebrate. But she managed to retain her focus as Buron continued:

  “Your new post takes effect in September. You’ll be heading up a new squad.”

  Capestan could not help raising an eyebrow at this. Her reinstatement had been enough of a surprise; entrusting her with a position of responsibility was starting to look suspect. Something about Buron’s little speech had the effect of the crack of knuckles that usually precedes a punch.

  “Me? A squad?”

  “It’s a special, force-wide initiative,” Buron explained with a distant look. “As part of the police’s restructuring that aims to optimize the performance of various frontline services, an ancillary squad has been formed. The squad will report directly to me, and will comprise some of the force’s least . . . conventional members.”

  While Buron delivered his spiel, his associates looked bored beyond belief. Fomenko was studying the collection of old medals in Buron’s glass cabinet without any real interest. From time to time he ran his hand through his white hair, tugged at the bottom of his vest, or gazed at the points of his cowboy boots. His rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed hairy, muscular forearms: a reminder that Fomenko could unhinge your jaw with one swing of his fist. As for Valincourt, he was fiddling with his watch in a manner that made it plain he wished it would speed up. He had clean, angular features and a dark complexion that brought to mind an old soul that had lived many lives. He never smiled and gave off a permanent air of irritation, like a monarch who takes offense at the slightest inconvenience. He was no doubt reserving his attention for more lofty concerns, an altogether higher purpose. Mere mortals would do better than to disturb him. Capestan decided to put them all out of their misery.

  “And practically speaking?”

  The casualness of her tone irritated Valincourt. Like a bird of prey, his head revolved abruptly to one side, revealing a powerful hooked nose. He shot Buron a questioning look, but it took more than that to ruffle the chief. Buron even allowed himself a smile as he edged forward in his armchair.

  “Very well, Capestan, here’s the bottom line: we’re cleaning up the police to give the stats some gloss. The drunkards, the thugs, the depressives, the layabouts, and everyone in between—the people hamstringing the force but who can’t be fired—are all to be absorbed into one squad and forgotten about in some corner. With you in command. Starting in September.”

  Capestan did not react at all. She looked toward the window, taking in the blue shades playing across the double glazing. Beyond the glass, she watched the gentle ripples of the Seine gleaming beneath the clear sky, giving her brain a moment to extract the meaning of this pitch from the men in suits.

  A shelf. One big shelving unit, basically. Or rather a trashcan. A bunch of down-and-outs discarded into the same Dumpster; the department’s shamefaced pigsty. And she was the cherry on top. The boss.

  “Why me in command?” she said.

  “You’re the only one ranked commissaire,” Buron replied. “Oddly enough, most people with a penchant for thuggery or drunkenness don’t get much opportunity for promotion.”

  Capestan would have bet good money that this squad had been Buron’s idea. Neither Valincourt nor Fomenko seemed to approve of the scheme: the former out of disdain, the latter out of indifference. Both of them had better things to do, and this whole business was a tiresome distraction.

  “Who’s on the team?” Capestan said.

  Buron stuck out his chin and leaned forward to open the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a thi
ck, bottle-green leather folder and dropped it on his blotter. There was nothing written on the cover. The anonymous squad. The chief opened the dossier and picked out a pair of tortoiseshells from the lineup of glasses below his lamp. Buron had a variety of spectacles that he alternated depending on whether he wanted to appear reassuring, trendy, or strict. He began reading.

  “Agent Santi, on sick leave for four years; Capitaine Merlot, alcoholic—”

  “Alcoholic? So there’ll be no shortage of personnel . . .”

  Buron closed the folder and handed it to her.

  “I’ll leave you to study it at your leisure.”

  She tested the weight: it was almost as heavy as the Paris phonebook.

  “How many are we? Are you ‘cleaning up’ half the police force?”

  As the regional chief sank back into his chair, the brown leather issued a creak of surrender.

  “Officially, around forty.”

  “That’s not a squad, that’s a battalion,” Fomenko jeered.

  Forty. People who had taken bullets, done days of stakeouts, piled on the pounds, and filed divorce papers for the sake of the force, only to be spat out into this dead end. They were being sent to a place where they would finally hand in their notice. Capestan felt sorry for them. Curiously, she did not count herself as one of them. Buron sighed and removed his glasses.

  “Capestan, most of them have been off the grid for years. There’s no chance you’ll even see them, let alone get them to do any work. As far as the police force is concerned, they no longer exist: they’re just names, that’s it. If any of them do turn up, it will be to swipe the stationery. Don’t be under any illusions.”

  “Any actual officers?”

  “Yes. Dax and Évrard are lieutenants, Merlot and Orsini are capitaines.”

  Buron paused for a moment and concentrated on the arms of his glasses as he twiddled them in his hand.

  “José Torrez is a lieutenant, too.”

  Torrez. Better known as Malchance: the unlucky charm, the black cat you would never want to cross your path. Finally they had found a place for him. Isolation had not been enough—they had pushed him even farther away. Capestan knew Torrez by reputation. Every police officer in the country knew Torrez by reputation and would always cross themselves when he was nearby.