The Nostradamus Prophecies Read Online Free PDF Page B

signalled to one of her friends. ‘Heh. The gadje thinks we eat dogs.’
    A man came running into the clearing. He was instantly surrounded by young children. He spoke to a few of them and they peeled off to warn the camp.
    Sabir watched intently as boxes and other objects were swiftly secreted beneath and inside the caravans. Two men broke off from what they were doing and came towards him.
    ‘What is it? What’s happening?’
    They picked him up between them and carried him, splay-legged, towards a wood-box.
    ‘Jesus Christ. You’re not going to put me in there?
    I’m claustrophobic. Seriously. I promise. I’m not good in narrow places. Please. Put me in one of the caravans.’
    The men tumbled him inside the wood-box. One of them drew a stained handkerchief from his pocket and thrust it into Sabir’s mouth. Then they eased his head beneath the surface of the box and slammed shut the lid.

17
    Captain Calque surveyed the disparate group in front of him. He was going to have trouble with this lot. He just knew it. Knew it in his bones. Gypsies always shut up shop when talking to the police – even when it was one of their own who had been the victim of a crime, as in this case. Still they persisted in wanting to take the law into their own hands.
    He nodded to Macron. Macron held up the photograph of Sabir.
    ‘Have any of you seen this man?’
    Nothing. Not even a nod of recognition.
    ‘Do any of you know who this man is?’
    ‘A killer.’
    Calque shut his eyes. Oh well. At least someone had actually spoken to him. Addressed a comment to him. ‘Not necessarily. The more we find out, the more it seems that there may be a second party involved in this crime. A party whom we have not yet succeeded in identifying.’
    ‘When are you going to release my brother’s body so that we can bury him?’
    The men were making way for a young woman – she manoeuvred herself through the closed ranks of women and children and moved to the forefront of the group.
    ‘Your brother?’
    ‘Babel Samana.’
    Calque nodded to Macron, who began writing vigorously in a small black notebook. ‘And your name?’
    ‘Yola. Yola Samana.’
    ‘And your parents?’
    ‘They are dead.’
    ‘Any other relatives?’
    Yola shrugged and indicated the surrounding sea of faces.
    ‘Everyone?’
    She nodded.
    ‘So what was he doing in Paris?’
    She shrugged again.
    ‘Anyone know?’
    There was a group shrug.
    Calque was briefly tempted to burst out laughing – but the fact that the assembly would probably lynch him if he were to do so, prevented him from giving in to the emotion. ‘So can anyone tell me anything at all about Samana? Who he was seeing – apart from this man Sabir, of course. Or why he was visiting St-Denis?’
    Silence.
    Calque waited. Thirty years of experience had taught him when and when not, to press an issue.
    ‘When are you giving him back?’
    Calque summoned up a fake sigh. ‘I can’t tell you that exactly. We may need his body for further forensic tests.’
    The young woman turned to one of the older male gypsies. ‘We must bury him within three days.’
    The gypsy hitched his chin at Calque. ‘Can we have him?’
    ‘I told you. No. Not yet.’
    ‘Can we have some of his hair then?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘If you give us some of his hair, we can bury him. Along with his possessions. It has to be done within three days. Then you can do what you like with the body.’
    ‘You can’t be serious.’
    ‘Will you do as we ask?’
    ‘Give you some of his hair?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Calque could feel Macron’s eyes boring into the back of his head. ‘Yes. We can give you some of his hair. Send one of your people to this address…’ Calque handed the gypsy a card. ‘Tomorrow. Then you can formally identify him and cut the hair at the same time.’
    ‘I will go.’ It was the young woman – Samana’s sister.
    ‘Very well.’ Calque stood uncertainly in the centre of the clearing. The place was so completely alien