Cash In Carry: Magali Rousseau mystery series, #2

By Curtis Bausse

One woman escaping her past, another trapped in a terrifying present.

One man with everything to live for, another with nothing to lose.

In a seaside town in the south of France, three days of anguish play out behind closed doors. And four destinies hang in the balance as events spiral out of control.

When a young woman is snatched from the centre of Marseille, no one suspects the kidnappers' motivations. With the woman's life in danger, and the pressure building up towards a disturbing climax, Magali Rousseau needs to show that she is the person for the job. Whilst knowing all along that she isn't.

Cash in Carry. A kidnap story with a twist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Curtis Bausse
• Release date: Feb 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386532385

Curtis Bausse

I grew up in Wales, was educated in England and have spent most of my life in France. I've been writing since the age of 10, when my first poem was sent to a competition by my English teacher. After moving to France, I ran a café-theatre till it got demolished, whereupon I scratched my head, wondering what to do next. Eventually I became a university lecturer, specialising in Second Language Acquisition, even though (apart, obviously, from French) I've spectacularly failed to learn any languages (I'm currently trying Dutch and can already say 'The turtle eats the sandwich', which is very encouraging). I spent two years in Mayotte, a tiny, unknown island in the Indian Ocean, which France bought for 1000 piastres in 1842. Magali Rousseau (my heroine) got into a lot of trouble there, but now, like me, she's back in Provence, where she jogs, paints, and catches murderers. You can find out more about us at curtisbaussebooks.com.

Book preview

CASH IN CARRY

Magali Rousseau Mystery Series n° 2

Curtis Bausse

CASH IN CARRY

Copyright © Curtis Bausse 2019

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All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. No part of the contents relate to any real person or persons, living or dead.

Cover illustration by Malcolm Prince

The Magali Rousseau Mystery Series

A private detective catches dodgy salesmen and adulterers, right?

Wrong.

Magali Rousseau’s first case, and it’s murder. Then comes another. And another. Until she finds herself trapped with a killer whose only aim is to make her his tenth – and final – victim.

Set in Provence, One Green Bottle is not just about the hunt for a serial killer. It’s also the story of a woman in search of a new life. But in a man’s world, she can only succeed by defeating her own doubts.

Magali Rousseau. A woman worth getting to know.

A single word to the police and she dies.

One woman escaping her past, another trapped in a terrifying present.

One man with everything to live for, another with nothing to lose.

In a seaside town in the south of France, three days of anguish play out behind closed doors. And four destinies hang in the balance as events spiral out of control.

When a young woman is snatched from the centre of Marseille, no one suspects the kidnappers’ motivations. With the woman’s life in danger, and the pressure building up towards a disturbing climax, Magali needs to show that she is the person for the job. Whilst knowing all along that she isn’t.

Cash in Carry. A kidnap story with a twist.

People come out here, they do things they wouldn’t do back home...

All they wanted was a quiet evening together. Then came the phone call. And a chain of events which would take Magali Rousseau into the sinister heart of the tropical island of Mayotte. Where a gloss of beauty hides a tangle of fears. Where the scent of perfume covers the stench of poverty. Where Charlotte Perle is about to lose her sanity and her freedom. And where Magali goes on a perilous search for the truth.

Perfume Island – a mystery story where the setting itself is a mystery. A geopolitical oddity seething with tension. A wonderland waiting to explode.

And everyone is paying the price.

FREE DOWNLOAD

Cash in Carry is a stand-alone book. At several points in the story, however, reference is made to events occurring in the first book in the series, One Green Bottle. There you will find an account of Magali’s initial steps as a private detective and her hunt for the man who killed Charlotte’s son.

Sign up for the author’s mailing list and get a free copy of One Green Bottle.

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Click here to claim your free download

Yes, send me One Green Bottle

Contents

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 1

For two and a half weeks, Magali Rousseau was famous. Not in the sense of front page news and selfie requests, but in Sentabour, where she lived, people she’d never spoken to came up to her in the street and gushed, ‘Ooh, you’re Magali Rousseau! Well done!’ Children on their way to school nudged each other and pointed to her. The woman behind the counter at the post office asked for her autograph. And when she took her lawn mower to be serviced, Monsieur Touque, whom she’d always thought surly and unhelpful, shook her hand warmly and offered to do it for free.

She could, if she wanted, have made more of it, extended her fame for longer, and beyond the confines of Sentabour into the national arena. She received requests for interviews from TV channels, press reporters and bloggers, but apart from La Provence, which she felt she couldn’t refuse, she turned them all down. She knew, because her son Luc told her, that her name had been mentioned once or twice on the national news – ‘Just think, Mum, that’s millions of people!’ – but she hadn’t watched herself, and when the presenters from C’est à Vous phoned to invite her on their show, she cringed at the very thought. ‘Any more of this,’ she said to Luc, ‘and I’m going to live in an ashram.’

Then the world moved on – shortly after the New Year, France was stunned by a terrorist attack on Charlie Hebdo – and Magali’s life became normal again. Her final spot in the limelight, which again she couldn’t avoid, was a brief ceremony at the insistence of Sentabour’s Mayor, in which he thanked her for the skill, bravery and tenacity she’d deployed in bringing to justice one of France’s most redoubtable serial killers. The few dozen people present, many of whom appeared as reluctant to be there as she was, dutifully applauded, and after making a thank you speech so brief that most people missed it because the deputy mayor had a coughing fit, Magali went home, put on some music and poured herself a glass of wine which she drank in the company of her cat.

Now it was March. Normality was the running track (eight laps of masochism in pursuit of a mind and body she felt able to live with), the studio (frustration and joy in pursuit of a style that might for once allow her to sell a few paintings), and her degree course in Nîmes (her final months in pursuit of qualification as a Private Investigator). After her triumph – La Provence had dubbed her Magali la Magnifique – the dour, demanding head of department, Alain Verney, quickly punctured any illusions she might have: ‘Well, you certainly struck lucky, Madame Rousseau. I had to resist calls to throw you out. Setting yourself up as a Private Investigator before you’re qualified isn’t the best way to go about it. I trust we can rely on you not to carry on like that until you pass your exams – if you do. At least you’ve had the sense to stay out of the public eye. Which is how it will remain. Now where are you doing your internship?’

‘I thought I’d ask Commander Balland. If he’ll have me.’

‘Hmm.’ Verney appeared dubious, his rubbery lips wriggling all over the place. ‘Hardly his job, you know, to train a P.I. Most students go to an established agency. But still, I suppose you’ve banked some credit with him, so give it a go by all means.’

Of the three gendarmes with whom she’d dealt, Yves Balland was the only one who had, up to a point, taken her seriously. Not enough to replace his own theory with hers, but enough to admit that if his turned out to be wrong, hers would be worth considering. And when in the end she was vindicated, he had the grace to congratulate her. At the same time though, he was prickly and brusque, careful to hide any grudging admiration behind a show of god-like condescension. ‘Shrewdness, determination, method,’ he’d said, nodding approval. ‘Make them your mainstays, Rousseau. Because you won’t always be able to rely on such luck.’ That was YB all over. A Pharaoh pissing on his minions from a great height.

‘An internship?’ he yelled when she finally plucked up the courage to get on the phone. ‘With me? What the hell put that idea in your head?’

And yet she detected pleasure, a subtle current of pride purring within the growl of his voice. She knew right then he was going to accept, but he made her resort to supplication, topped with a smattering of flattery, before admitting, ‘It so happens I’ll be down in Marseille next week. Got a mission there. Give me a call.’

Magali guessed it wouldn’t be easy, but all the same, by the time she finished the first day of her internship, she’d begun to regret asking him. On the Monday morning, without any explanation, he gave her a sheaf of printouts containing the dates, times and locations of telephone calls made by eight different people over the past ten months and told her to go through them all, looking for correspondences. Who received calls from whom? Did they then call someone else? For how long? Where were the callers located? How often did each of the eight call one of the others on the list? All this information was to be entered into a spreadsheet, comprehensively and clearly. ‘Might take you a while,’ he conceded as he gave her an ancient laptop and sent her to a room barely bigger than a broom cupboard. ‘Give me a shout when you’ve finished.’ And he strode away.

Halfway through the second day, Magali still hadn’t finished but she gave him a shout all the same. ‘Can we talk about motivation?’

‘What?’

‘To motivate people, they have to be given a reason for what they’re doing. I haven’t a clue. I don’t even know why we’re here. What’s a gendarme from Rondas doing in the police headquarters in Marseille?’

Grumpily, he said, ‘Oh, all right. Coffee in the canteen after lunch. I’ll explain.’

Five of the names on the list were policemen. The three others were informers. The policemen were under investigation, suspected of corruption, specifically of colluding with the informers to set up a drug trafficking ring. Balland was one of a cross-force team from outside, commissioned to conduct the enquiry and submit a report. Magali was collecting data in support of that.

‘Thank you,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘My life has at last acquired a meaning.’

‘My pleasure.’ He withdrew a packet of Gitanes from his pocket and started to fidget.

‘But I have another question. Why is all that data printed out? Can’t it be done on a computer?’

At that he gave a sheepish chuckle and said, ‘Bloody regulations.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Can’t smoke in here. I’m going outside.’

She trotted after him, round to the side of the building where the smokers had their spot. He lit up, inhaled deeply, and almost shuddered with pleasure. ‘You have to remember I’m doing you a favour.’

She wanted to retort that it wasn’t that obvious, but of course he was right. ‘For which I’m truly grateful. But I’m still rather –’

‘Double checking.’ He looked at his shoes and coughed. ‘Yes, it’s on a computer. There’s someone else doing it. You’re making sure they haven’t missed anything. It’s very important work.’

‘What?’ Magali spluttered. ‘Double checking, fine. But on paper? Even that lousy laptop you gave me could handle it. I could have done it in a day!’

‘Ah, computers. Yes, of course. But the human brain,’ he said, mustering all his vast reserves of pomposity, ‘is a muscle. It has to be kept fit. Sharp and meticulous.’

‘Fit? My brain’s getting gangrene! I was better off working as a cashier. At least I didn’t have to concentrate.’ She imitated the mindless scanning of grocery. ‘Beep, beep, beep. It was positively therapeutic compared to this.’

‘That’s just my point. Concentration. By the time you’ve finished, you’ll have that muscle ready to take on anything.’

‘By the time I finish, I’ll have died of boredom in the broom cupboard.’

‘This is Marseille, Madame Rousseau. Drug wars, Kalashnikovs, vendettas.’ He spread his arms. ‘How can you be bored? And you’re fighting corruption. Commendable! When I’ve finished here, you’ll be coming to Rondas. Population 5200. You’ll see what boredom is. The only reason you can’t hear a pin drop in Rondas is that no one drops any pins.’ His laugh ended in a wheeze, and he stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. ‘Come on, now. Back to work.’

But that evening, after pounding out the day’s frustration on the running track, she found a message on her phone: All right. I’ve got another idea. Intrigued, she called back, only for him to grumble, ‘I shouldn’t have taken you on in the first place. But you wheedled and begged and now that I have, I don’t know what to do with you. I’ll find stuff easily enough in Rondas but I’m an outsider here.’

‘And this idea?’ asked Magali warily.

‘Coralie Monnier.’

‘Who?’

‘Disappeared outside her home yesterday evening. Why don’t you find her?’

‘What? But how do I –?’

‘Since fighting corruption in the police force is beneath you, I thought you could tackle something more exciting.’

‘Oh... Well, that’s very kind of you. Am I joining a team, then? You’re in charge?’

‘Me? Not at all. I just heard it on the news. There’s a team working on it. Commissaire Allart in charge. Don’t do anything off your own bat. You’ll need his approval first.’

‘Approval?’

‘Of course. It’s his investigation. He doesn’t want anyone messing it up.’

‘Messing it –’ She curbed her indignation. ‘If that’s what you think, why are you asking me?’

‘Don’t be so touchy, Rousseau. It’s not what I think. But he might.’

‘Have you told him about me?’

‘Oh, yes. He knows the whole story.’

She preferred not to ask what he meant by that. ‘And?’

‘You’ll see.’ The accompanying exhalation said it all.

‘In other words, he’ll tell me to get lost.’

‘Use your charm. Or whatever it is you have. Pig-headedness.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk about charm.’

‘Complaining again, Rousseau?’ The roguish grin was audible in his voice. ‘It’s better than sitting in a broom cupboard.’

‘Yes, of course. But I don’t know where to –’

‘Report back to me when you’ve found her,’ said Balland, and rang off.

Chapter 2

Was this a bad joke? YB. The two imperious initials with which he signed his emails. On the rare occasions she addressed him to his face, he made her use the ridiculous formula, Monsieur le Commandant – though it was better, at a pinch, than the Mon Commandant and salute his subalterns had to perform. He wasn’t her commander, thank heaven, simply her... what? Tutor, she supposed, and indeed he’d signed a paper from Verney confirming him in that role, but she got the impression that in his mind she was not so much his intern as his punching ball. In which case she was determined to show him she could punch with equal pugnacity.

These cantankerous thoughts came to her as she lay in bed next morning, fuming at the impossible task he’d set her. They subsided somewhat when she realised there was at least one boon: she didn’t have to rush off to join the traffic jams to Marseille. If she wanted – and she did – she could skive all day. Report back to me when you’ve found her. What difference would it make if she didn’t start looking till tomorrow?

She sat up. It would make a difference: both she and YB would be giving Verney a detailed account of her internship, hers describing and analysing her daily activity, his describing and analysing her behaviour, commitment and aptitude. Skiving wasn’t an option. Nor, unfortunately, could she get away with saying that she’d spent a day searching her house and garden, and Coralie Monnier wasn’t there.

Once she was showered, dressed, and fuelled with caffeine, Magali switched on her computer. It had been in the news, YB said, but she hadn’t heard it herself. In fact, she hadn’t heard much of anything apart from the rustle of paper as she went through those telephone numbers. But a woman disappearing was always news and unless she’d chosen to run away, most of the time it was bad.

A bout on the internet confirmed it. Coralie Monnier hadn’t run away. She’d been abducted at 7.30 p.m. outside the Résidence Surcouf, the block of flats where she lived in Marseille. Not good at all.

There wasn’t much in the way of detail. The only two witnesses to come forward spoke of it being over before they even realised. Nor was it very clear who Coralie Monnier was, apart from ‘a banker’s wife, 32 years old’ and ‘mother of two’. Hah! Accessory to other people’s lives. Magali knew the feeling: for twenty-six years she’d been ‘wife of cosmetic surgeon, Xavier Borelly’, trotted out at social gatherings like a poodle jumping through hoops. It wasn’t till the end of the article that Coralie was granted a token life of her own: she helped in Bienvenue, an association that ran French courses for recently arrived migrants. There was also a photo: a thin-faced woman with long dark hair, her smile a little crooked. All the police could confirm was that they were looking for two men in a beige or light brown hatchback.

Magali sighed. In ten days YB’s Marseille mission would be over, and she’d be off to Rondas to finish her internship. And between now and then, she had to find two men in a car. Wonderful.

Maybe he thought she’d asked for it – trainees don’t complain. If they do, they’re given something they’re guaranteed to fail. Or else there was some deep message behind it – learning your limitations or not getting above yourself. On second thoughts, no, that was too charitable – he was probably out to write a damning report to prevent her from even qualifying. Yes, that was more like Balland. Why in God’s name did she ask him?

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Furious now with both herself and him, she went into the studio to complete her portrait of Zazie. At least she could do something useful with her day.

Half an hour of painting calmed her down, took her to a space entirely her own. She added a few orange berries to the giant plants on either side of the picture, just enough to brighten the vegetation, but not distract from Zazie, standing dead centre, staring out with a slightly astonished expression, as if wondering what she was doing there. Zazie was a multi-coloured zebra.

Leaving the berries to dry, she went back to her computer and brought up a map of Marseille. The Résidence Surcouf was in a desirable part of town, at the end of a cul de sac near the Avenue du Prado. She remembered an incident from years ago: on that same avenue, a young man had forced a couple at gunpoint to get into the boot of his car and driven off with them. They had a phone and they called the police and tried to describe the route they were taking but it was impossible. The next day, their bodies were found in the shrub land near Cassis. The culprit was soon caught, a depressed Legionnaire, high on a cocktail of drugs.

Couldn’t happen now, though. Phones back then couldn’t be traced the way they are now. But that meant only one thing: Coralie didn’t have a phone. Maybe she left it at home. Or else the kidnappers threw it away. Which meant they were smarter than a Legionnaire on drugs. If only being smart went with being less mean. Or even worse, perverted. Unfortunately it didn’t.

She switched off the computer. Why was she even thinking about it? Damn YB! He might as well have told her to find out who killed Kennedy.

Where to start? From the way he’d spoken about Commissaire Allart, she wasn’t in a rush to see him. Here’s my card, Commissaire. Just call if you need any help. Ha! She’d be a standing joke for years to come. The husband then? Maybe. Or no one at all. Crawl back into the cupboard and stare at Balland’s numbers till she was brain dead.

Tucking Zazie into a folder, Magali drove round to Luc’s house. As expected, he was busy – four deadlines to meet in as many weeks. ‘One of which is for Charlotte. I’m meeting her tomorrow.’

Was it just her imagination? Or did she see something mischievous in his smile? No, of course not. He had no idea that for the past three weeks, her mind had been going off on