Free Impure Blood by Peter Morfoot Page B

march into the auditorium itself. He gave a disdainful chortle.
    ‘I’m sure you’ll agree with me, monsieur, that individually, each of the forces represented here today knows exactly how to do its job. By the look of it, this meeting is just to make sure that everyone knows where one outfit’s role ends and another’s begins.’
    ‘I do not agree with you. When disparate police groups have to work together, smooth co-ordination between them
is
a vital consideration. If it’s not done well, things might fall apart. And the more there are of these groups, as there are nowadays, the more likely it is to happen.’
    ‘Do I detect, monsieur, that you think there are too many links in the chain of our modern police structure?’
    ‘Perhaps. At one time, you realise, we had just the opposite problem. Everything was monolithic, unwieldy, slow to react. We needed change. But we may have gone too far in the opposite direction. Time will tell.’
    Granot glanced at his watch as they entered the auditorium proper. With still just over fifteen minutes to kick-off, there was plenty of time to take in an exhibition of photos lining the rear wall. The shots portrayed celebrated battles from almost a hundred years of the Tour.
    ‘Will you be able to see these alright, Monsieur?’
    ‘I’m not completely blind, Granot.’
    After commenting on each contender in turn, they came to a photo depicting perhaps the most celebrated battle in Tour history. Granot gave a long, contented sigh.
    ‘Anquetil versus Poulidor. Puy de Dôme, ’64.’
    Drawing down the corners of his pinched slit of a mouth, the old man nodded.
    ‘It was good tussle, no question. But there were greater. And greater riders.’
    ‘So who would you regard as the greatest, monsieur?’
    ‘Oh, it must be the Cannibal – Merckx. But my favourite was the Angel of the Mountains. Now who was that?’
    Vincent turned, giving Granot a look he felt go right through him. Perhaps a consequence of the old man’s impaired vision, the effect was unnerving, nevertheless.
    ‘Charly Gaul,’ he said, passing the test somewhat to Dantier’s annoyance. ‘What a climber. The worse the conditions, the better he climbed.’
    ‘That man was no stranger to suffering. Inspiring – so much so that when he retired, my interest in cycling retired with him to some extent. Although latterly, I did enjoy watching Pantani. Even though he was, shall we say, assisted in his efforts.’
    Granot suspected the same could have been said of Charly Gaul but he made nothing of it.
    ‘It was sad, wasn’t it – what became of Charly.’
    ‘Losing it upstairs, you mean? Very sad. And then becoming a recluse. Recovering for a time. Losing it again. And all the physical problems. Hospitals. Think – the heart that powered him up all those mountains…’ Vincent stared off, shaking his head. ‘That heart… failing. Pulmonary embolisms – all manner of complications.’ Closing his eyes, he waved a hand in front of his face as if Charly’s fate was something he preferred not to confront, or perhaps as an indication to some unseen arbiter that he was not ready to fall into a similar decline himself. ‘Let us continue.’
    The remaining shots provoked further debate in which Vincent always sought to gain the upper hand, Granot noticed. Competitive to the end. It was a quality he admired.
    ‘Time to take our seats, monsieur.’
    Vincent turned and peered into the auditorium. Accessed by three aisles of steps, the stalls tiered steeply down to a stage milling with blurred shapes.
    ‘Which are ours?’
    ‘End of the third row back from the stage. We’ll just take this side aisle down and we’ll be right there.’
    ‘It’s stepped. Bugger.’
    ‘Remarkably, we haven’t yet talked about Lance Armstrong. Where would you place him in the overall panoply?’
    ‘Not for the moment. I need to concentrate.’
    Cursing under his breath, Vincent held on to the banister rail and began his descent.