Текст книги "Death on the Marais"

Автор книги: Adrian Magson

Соавторы: Adrian Magson
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

‘Tell me about this.’ Rocco dropped the photo of the Resistance group on Didier’s hospital bed the following morning. The scrap man had been placed in a single room with a view over some gardens, a facility Rocco thought was better treatment than he deserved.

‘Never seen it before,’ Didier Marthe muttered sourly. The response was too quick to be anything but instinctive, but he was staring at the print as if it might bite him. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘Pinned to the noticeboard in your kitchen. What’s that about – reliving old times?’ Rocco turned to stare out of the window. Experience had taught him that while facial expressions could be feigned, there was often more to be sensed from the way a person spoke, and the timbre of their voice.

‘You’ve been in my house? Bastard!’

Didier lashed out angrily, sending the photo spinning across the room.

‘Calm down,’ Rocco warned him, bending to retrieve the snapshot, ‘before I sit on you. I’m pursuing a possible murder investigation, so yes, I went into your house. Anyway, the door was open after your little explosive episode.’ He slapped the photo back down on the bed where Didier couldn’t ignore it. ‘You can try suing me for trespass if you like, but I wouldn’t fancy your chances much.’

‘Murder?’ Didier instantly dropped the aggrieved expression and looked shifty instead. His eyes went back to the photo and lingered there in fascination. ‘I don’t know anything about any murder.’

‘Attempted, in your case. Somebody tried to kill you, didn’t they?’ Rocco dragged up a chair and sat down heavily. He needed at least a litre of coffee, but it would have to wait. ‘With the grenade.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was an old Mills, that’s all. British. It blew up. Unstable crap.’

‘Balls. It blew up because someone spiked it with plastique and a detonator.’ Rocco leant forward, pinning Didier with his gaze.

‘You’re insane.’ Didier looked away, rubbing subconsciously at the stump of his arm.

‘They left it lying around for you to pick up. But you recognised the detonator or the explosive for what it was and tried to get rid of it. You weren’t quick enough.’

‘That’s a fancy imagination you’ve got there, Inspector. How would I know about plastique? I only deal with ammunition I find in the ground.’

Rocco looked pointedly at the photo on the bed. ‘You were in the Resistance. That photo proves it.’

‘So?’

‘You’d know all about explosives, how they worked. Tell me I’m wrong.’ Didier said nothing, so Rocco pressed on. ‘I’m guessing someone doesn’t like you and they’ve decided to get even with you over something. Am I right?’

‘No.’ Another response that was too quick. ‘Go screw yourself.’

‘Wrong answer. There was a shooting accident last year in the woods. Guess who was standing next to the victim? You. A botched attempt on your life, was it? That didn’t work either. You must have more lives than a cat. Care to share with me who might be after you, Didier? Hopefully, before any innocents get caught up in this little vendetta.’

‘What’s going on here?’ It was the doctor Rocco had spoken to on the day he and Claude had brought Didier in for treatment. He was standing just inside the door, his expression chilly. ‘This is not permissible! Why are you interrogating this man?’

Rocco sighed. He’d get no further now. Didier would duck behind medical protection. And if he pushed the doctor, Rocco would likely end up being hauled out of here by a couple of Massin’s men.

‘Apologies, Doctor,’ he said politely. ‘Only I like to try and find out as early as possible why someone will try to kill a man using plastic explosives. It’s the protective side of our job, you know?’ He looked at Didier and tossed a card on the bed, then snatched up the photo. ‘If you have a relapse and remember a name, give me a call.’

‘OK … OK. Jesus! The plastique is mine, all right? I was trying an experiment.’

Rocco and the doctor stared at Didier in surprise.

‘What kind of experiment?’ Rocco wanted to tell the doctor to get lost, but he didn’t dare lose the moment now it had come.

Didier shrugged and licked his lips, eyes flicking left and right. His good hand was shaking as if he was running a fever. ‘What I do needs speed and lots of material, right? The quicker I can separate off the metal components, the more money I make. I was trying to use a small charge of explosive to split the grenade’s casing and expose the guts.’ He shrugged again. ‘It didn’t work.’

‘Bollocks!’ As convincing as Didier sounded, he knew the man was scrabbling for anything that could get Rocco off his back. The idea of anyone using plastic explosives to open up a grenade was ludicrous.

The doctor stepped forward, the focus of his attention now on Didier. ‘But how do you come to have plastic explosives anyway? Why would you have such a thing?’ Plainly the idea of possessing anything larger than a firecracker seemed astonishing to him.

‘Tree stumps,’ Didier blurted. ‘I have lots of them on my property and burning them out takes too long.’ Another shrug. ‘Blowing them out is quicker.’

‘Mother of God,’ whispered the doctor. ‘You people are truly insane.’ He turned and walked out, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘You’ll be charged with possession of prohibited materials,’ Rocco warned Didier. ‘That carries a prison term. Unless …’ He waited, sure that the wounded man would look for a deal if he could get one. A born survivor, he’d be quick to look for a way out of the dilemma. It had undoubtedly stood him in good stead in the Resistance, where quick thinking was a survival skill, and he would have lost none of that ability over the years.

‘Unless what?’ Didier looked sullen and defeated, but his eyes were sharp with cunning.

‘Unless you stop being an obstructive pain in the arse and help me.’ Rocco nodded at the photo. He had to get Didier focused on it: a trade of information in exchange for the illegal explosives charges being dropped. ‘Who are the others in that group?’

‘Christ, you expect me to remember that? It was twenty years ago in another life; they’re probably all dead by now!’

‘You aren’t.’

‘Might as well be, with this.’ He waved the stump of his arm, then slid down in his bed with a heavy sigh and turned to face the wall. ‘I need some rest. Close the door on the way out.’

Rocco realised that he had lost the initiative – for now, at least. Didier was tough all right. But for how long? ‘Fair enough. Just one more question: who owns the big lodge in the marais?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘Because you damn near live in the marais, that’s why.’

‘So?’

‘And it’s just across the stream from your place. You trying to tell me you’ve never seen or spoken to anyone down there?’

‘Of course I have. But they don’t tell me their business – why should they? They’re just lousy Parisians with too much money and no respect for the common man.’ His shoulder moved under the covers. ‘Show them the guillotine, I say. That’ll thin out their filthy capitalist ranks.’

Rocco gave up. This kind of pseudo-political nonsense could go round in circles. But he was convinced Didier knew far more than he was letting on.

‘I will find out what’s going on,’ he said, walking to the door, ‘one way or another. But you’d better hope none of your neighbours get hurt in the meantime. Otherwise, it’ll be you seeing the guillotine, not a bunch of posh partygoers from Paris.’

He made his way back out to the car, reflecting on what had just happened. As a first interview with a significant person in a case presented with a piece of evidence, it had been no different to most of the others he had conducted. Witnesses and suspects alike were often adept at expressing denial, then anger in equal measure. Mostly, it was just a matter of wearing them down.

As he climbed in the car, his thoughts returned to the photograph. The one impression uppermost in his mind was that Didier Marthe had never set eyes on it in his life before.

From the hospital, Rocco drove to the office where he found a detective making a pot of coffee. He introduced himself and they shook hands.

‘René Desmoulins,’ the man said. ‘I heard about you.’ He was in his forties, genial, with a thin moustache and a weightlifter’s chest and legs. ‘You want coffee?’

‘Is it strong?’ Rocco peered at the mixture; it looked like treacle.

‘It’ll float a brick if you want it to. Help yourself.’

Cups full, Desmoulins led the way to an empty office and closed the door. ‘I’m supposed to be working on a petrol scam on the outskirts of the town,’ he explained, sitting down. ‘It’s a crap job which nobody else wanted, and I drew the short straw. If you’ve got something more interesting, for God’s sake let me in on it. I’m dying of boredom.’

Rocco smiled. At last, a potential accomplice.

‘Who do I clear it with?’

Desmoulins grabbed a phone and pushed it across the desk in front of Rocco. ‘You know Eric Canet?’ Rocco nodded. ‘Dial two hundred and forty-one; to you he’ll say yes.’

Rocco dialled the number and Canet answered. He quickly outlined what he needed and saw Desmoulins making notes on a pad. ‘It’s not much,’ he said, ‘but I need someone to trawl through the records. This could go all the way back to the war.’

‘Tell Desmoulins to get on with it,’ said Canet with a smile in his voice. ‘He’ll much prefer that to the smell of petrol.’ He cut the connection.

Rocco relayed Canet’s agreement. ‘You’ll also have Massin’s blessing if you need it.’

‘Yeah?’ Desmoulins looked impressed. ‘That’ll do me – I need all the blessings I can get. What have you got so far?’

Rocco showed him the photo of Didier and his fellow Maquisards. ‘Not much, I’m afraid. This man’s a local in Poissons, although he doesn’t originate from there. He just blew himself up with a grenade – don’t ask, it’s complicated.’

Desmoulins laughed. ‘Christ, we heard about him. Take one idiot with a hammer and a death wish – and boom. Why the interest?’

‘Because I don’t think the boom was an accident. Somebody’s trying to kill him. He calls himself Didier Marthe, but that might not be his real name. Run it past anyone you can think of: police, military, medical … I can’t narrow the photo down to a specific location, but it would have to be somewhere with Resistance groups operating during the war.’

‘Tall order. It could be anywhere.’

‘Not really. There were large parts of the country without any organised resistance. I’ve a feeling he’d have been part of a known group, most likely communist in leanings.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘He’s got a line in angry left-wing rhetoric that’s too practised to be put on. If you can find any historians or archivists working in the field of Resistance groups and their affiliations, they might be able to help you. Massin is chasing up the source of the photo, so that might narrow it down, too. Liaise with him via Canet if you need to.’ He handed the detective his card. ‘Call me when you get something.’

‘Will do.’ Desmoulins made more notes, then stood up. ‘Sounds a lot more fun than chasing down petrol crooks. Anything else I can do?’

Rocco suddenly remembered the telephone number he and Claude had found in Nathalie Berbier’s flat. He read it out and Desmoulins scribbled it down. ‘Get the PTT to run it through their records. I need an address for the subscriber. It could be a Tomas Brouté but I’ll take whatever they’ve got. And I need it fast.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Rocco left Desmoulins and drove back towards Poissons, stopping at an agricultural supplies depot on the way for some rubber boots. He had no intention of making them a regular part of his wardrobe, but neither did he imagine that his ventures so far into the great muddy outdoors would be his last.

Continuing his journey, he wondered if his burgeoning network of worker bees, which now included Massin, a turn of events which still struck him as deeply bizarre, would accomplish anything. Maybe he was chasing shadows over Didier Marthe, but he couldn’t sit back and do nothing; he had too deep-seated a feeling that there was something there worth following up. All he had to do was tease it out into the sunlight.

He turned his thoughts to Nathalie Berbier. It seemed unreal that her death could be so blatantly denied by her father, with what amounted to the collusion of the Interior Ministry. It was almost an insult to the poor woman’s name, no matter what her lifestyle. Whether she had died by her own hand, by accident or at the hand of another, the least he could do for her was get to the truth.

He stopped off at the marais on his way into the village, and parked in the turning circle near the first lodge. He climbed out and did a tour of the building, testing the doors and shutters for weakness. But it was locked tight, with none of the play usually found in wooden structures. Whoever had built this place had paid particular attention to security. Perhaps it was natural, being so isolated and open to random burglars when nobody was about. Or maybe, he reflected cynically, the owners had something worth hiding.

He debated going to take another look at the Blue Pool, but decided to come back later. Whatever was there could wait. Instead, he drove to the house, surprising himself by experiencing a feeling of homecoming. Over the years his lodgings had been merely another temporary home in a long list of places to lay his head. Some had been better than others, most were unmemorable. Yet this place was different. Or was it he who was changing?

As he climbed out of the car, he saw Mme Denis standing by the fence between the two properties. She was prodding at the ground with a stick, unaware of his presence. He waved to her but she seemed too intent on her garden. He shrugged. Maybe she’d discovered Colorado beetle in her potatoes.

His pleasure at coming home was soured slightly by finding a journalist’s business card tucked into the metal grill over the glass panel of the front door. It bore the logo of a regional newspaper. He tossed it aside, not surprised that they’d managed to find him. In a village this small, it would have taken just a few minutes to discover that a cop was living in their midst. And the presence of a former Paris investigator would have been a clarion call for a story.

Inside, he bagged up his laundry ready to take to the co-op, then made coffee. While it brewed, he rang Claude and asked him for the mayor’s phone number.

‘Is this about the ownership of the lodges?’ Claude queried.

‘That’s right. What’s his worship like?’

‘He’s a pompous arse, but good on paperwork. Used to be a teacher in Amiens before retiring out here. His name’s Poitrel.’

The mayor answered on the second ring and Claude’s summary was spot on. Poitrel’s tone and words would have been more suited to a university lecture hall than a tiny village, but Rocco had come across his sort before. He remained businesslike and explained what he wanted.

‘I wish I could help, Inspector,’ the mayor replied loftily. ‘But that property is leased through a commercial agency in Lille. If they wish to give you the information, that’s up to them. If you hold on one second, I can give you their name.’ A clunk as the phone was put down, and he was back within seconds. He read out the details.

‘Thank you,’ said Rocco. The mayor probably knew more than he was saying, but was happy to pass the buck.

‘No problem, I assure you. I’ve tried to ascertain the ownership before – for our administrative records, you understand – but to no avail. However, the owners pay – via the agency – all the taxes and fishing licences, and even paid for laying the track into the marais for the benefit of other visitors and locals. So I could hardly criticise them too strongly for wanting to retain their privacy.’ His tone suggested he would like nothing better if he could get away with it, preferably with a crack team of riot police to break down the doors of the lodge.

A bureaucrat through and through, thought Rocco. But at least he now had another name to follow up, an additional link in the chain. He thanked the mayor again and rang the letting agency.

‘I’m sorry, but that’s impossible,’ said the manager. ‘We receive our instructions via a private holding company and have no means of checking ownership. In any case, we have no reason to do so. If, however, you’re suggesting there’s a criminal connection—’

‘I’m not,’ said Rocco, frustrated by yet more officious smoke being blown in his face. ‘Not yet, anyway. If I need to, I’ll be in touch.’

He dropped the phone on its rest. Evidently Berbier wasn’t the only person with something to hide. It was possible the owner of the lodge was shielding himself for tax reasons – something of a field sport in France – or to avoid the property falling into the clutches of a disenchanted marital partner. Either way, it wasn’t helping his investigation.

He grabbed his coat and decided to go for a walk. He hadn’t yet had an opportunity to explore the village, but now seemed a good time to do so. It might blow some fresh air through his brain as well as acquainting him with his new surroundings. On the way, he’d drop off his laundry at the co-op. Before leaving, he took out the photo of Didier and the Resistance group and placed it on the table, slipping one corner under the directory. He hadn’t yet figured out its place in the scheme of things, or even if it was simply a distraction. But as the only copy, it wasn’t something he wanted to misplace or get damaged. Looking at it later with a fresh eye might unlock an idea or two.

The lane into the village was deserted, as was the square. A flash of black swirled in the doorway to the church. A priest, short and well fed, scowling at Rocco as if he represented a challenge to his authority. Then he was gone, the heavy door slamming behind him with ominous finality.

No sign of Thierry, the gardener, Rocco noted, but perhaps the shock of finding what he thought was a bomb had been too much for him. He saw the odd curtain twitching as he walked along the main street, but ignored them. He was still an outsider and a cop, a double jeopardy in this environment. It was no surprise if people were reluctant to speak to him. But he did spot the plumber, Delsaire, coming out of the co-op and climbing into a battered Renault. He waved him to a stop.

‘Inspector,’ said Delsaire, ‘found out who owns that old water tank yet?’ He chuckled wryly at his own humour.

‘Working on it, but nothing yet,’ Rocco replied, falling in with the joke. ‘I might have to call in help from HQ.’ Then, before Delsaire could trump him with another one, he added, ‘Do you know who owns the big lodge down on the marais?’

Delsaire shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. I did some emergency work there once, but that was arranged via some property company. Lille, I think it was. Why?’

‘What sort of work?’

‘A blockage in the bath. The floor got flooded when a guest turned the tap on and went for a walk. Probably pissed if you ask me. The place had that kind of feel to it, know what I mean?’

‘Not really.’ At Delsaire’s quizzical look, he added, ‘In Paris, I’d know what you meant. But not out here.’

‘Ah, I see. Well, you know … secluded location, comfortable furniture, lots of alcohol about the place. Expensive stuff, too: whisky, vodka, rum, old Armagnac … all way above my budget. Looks a bit of a dump on the outside, but much nicer inside. Whoever owns the place spent money on it. None of it local, though. I never got a look in, apart from that one job. Everything done there comes in from outside.’ He pulled a face. ‘Maybe they think we country turnips can’t tell a copper pipe from a cow’s arse.’

‘True. One other thing: do you know of anyone locally named Brouté?’

‘Brouté?’ Delsaire frowned. ‘Unusual name. Certainly not one I’ve come across. Sorry.’ He paused and gave Rocco a sideways look. ‘As to anyone knowing about the lodges, you should try Didier Marthe. He spends enough time wandering around down there.’

Rocco thanked him for his time and watched him drive away. Delsaire had been too relaxed to be telling anything but the truth, and there could hardly be a man who knew more about the village and its inhabitants than the local plumber. That left out most other people around here. Except maybe Didier, who wasn’t being any help at all.

He walked across to the co-op and went inside. Francine was assembling a large blue plastic crate of groceries, packing them carefully and ticking off each item against a list. She smiled in greeting and stopped what she was doing.

‘Hello again, Inspector. Settling in all right?’ She stepped through a gap in the glass-topped counter and shook his hand. ‘And eating well, I hope?’

‘Getting there with both,’ he replied. ‘It’s Lucas.’

She lifted her eyebrows. ‘Is that Lucas Rocco or Rocco Lucas?’ Her smile was impish and Rocco felt himself flush. He had a feeling she knew perfectly well the order of his name, and was teasing.

‘Lucas is my first name,’ he confirmed gruffly, and looked around to cover his confusion. What the hell was a pretty woman like her doing in a place like this anyway? ‘Um … I gather I should leave my laundry here.’

She nodded and took the bag from him; picked up a ticket and pen from the counter, quickly scribbled down his name and pinned the ticket to the bag. ‘There. In the system. They collect tomorrow and bring it back in two or three days, depending on the workload. Capes and masks are extra, though.’ She giggled and blushed self-consciously. ‘Sorry – couldn’t resist it. We’re a long way from civilisation here. Simple minds and all that. You must find it unsophisticated … after Paris.’

‘Well, it has its attractions.’ He coughed, aware that it had sounded like the lamest of chat-up lines. ‘Sorry … that didn’t quite come out …’ He stopped. She was grinning at him, her eyes dancing, and he wondered if she was like this with everyone who came calling.

‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked. ‘I was just going to stop for lunch.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He nodded, unable to think of a reason to say no. ‘Tea would be nice. Thanks.’

She nodded towards the rear of the shop. ‘Come through. Don’t worry, I won’t kidnap you and subject you to some fiendishly barbaric sacrificial ceremony in the backyard.’

‘I’m sure you won’t,’ he replied, and thought maybe he wouldn’t object too much if she did.

She invited him to take a chair in the kitchen at the back and made tea, then sat down across from him with a packet of biscuits.

‘I should be a better hostess,’ she said, ‘and offer you sandwiches, but my mother always said that was going too far on a first meeting.’ She held out the packet and Rocco took one.

‘Your mother was a wise woman. What if I come back this time tomorrow?’

She lifted an eyebrow. ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’

He smiled at this and sipped his tea. It was Earl Grey, which had always seemed too fragrant for his tastes. Refreshing, though, after all the coffee he’d been drinking. He wondered what to talk about. ‘You run this place by yourself?’

‘Yes. Business is too slow to allow me to take on any help. With the young people moving towards the cities, the population’s not exactly thriving.’ She shrugged. ‘It wasn’t my chosen line of employment, but my husband died in a factory accident eighteen months ago and I had to do something. I heard about this place closing, so I decided to give it a go. I get by.’

‘I’m sorry. About your husband, I mean.’

‘Thank you. It was a shock, but I’m learning to cope.’ She looked at him directly. ‘How about you? Can we expect to see a Rocco family moving in down the road? I can offer good rates for regular customers.’

‘No. No family.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t …’ This time it was her turn to look embarrassed.

The silence lengthened until he grasped another topic of conversation. ‘I see you deliver groceries, too.’ He was referring to the crate she had been preparing in the shop, and wondered whether Mme Denis would be put out if he got his deliveries directly from the source. He suspected she’d take out a hex on him.

‘A few,’ Francine replied, then saw what he meant. ‘Oh, that’s a one-off. There’s a party at one of the lodges this weekend. I got a phone call saying they couldn’t get the usual delivery in time, so could I help?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Could I? I’ve been wondering how to get on their list of suppliers: I need all the customers I can get, especially the bigger spenders.’

Rocco’s ears pricked up. ‘Which lodge is that?’

‘The main one. It’s got a name but I don’t recall what it is. They said to deliver the supplies and leave them at the back. A cheque is on the way.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a gamble, but I could always burn the place down if they don’t pay.’ Her expression said she was joking, but her tone sounded oddly serious.

He smiled. ‘If it comes to that, let me know and I’ll show you how.’

‘That’s very gallant of you.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘Are policemen allowed to do that?’

‘It’s a little-known service we can perform for special members of the community. Don’t tell anyone or they’ll all want it done.’

‘Special already, am I? I can see I’m going to have to upgrade to sandwiches after all.’

Rocco felt the heat building around his collar as the jousting progressed, and wondered where it was coming from. He was never usually this open in a woman’s company until he’d got to know her better. He hid behind another question. ‘Do you have the name of the person who rang you?’

Francine frowned slightly. ‘Actually, I don’t. Why would you be interested? It’s just a delivery.’

He realised he’d jumped in with both feet and tried to pull back. ‘I was just interested. I need to speak to the owners about security. But nobody seems to know who they are.’ He ducked his head and drank more tea, wondering why he felt so inept in front of her. Maybe it was lack of practice.

‘Is this really why you came here?’ Francine put down her cup, her smile fading. ‘It is, isn’t it? That’s why you stopped Monsieur Delsaire outside, too.’

‘No, of course not—’

‘So this is how big-city police work – getting people to inform on their neighbours?’ Twin red marks had appeared on Francine’s cheeks, and her eyes had gone dark, as if a small storm was brewing in their depths.

Rocco wondered how to rescue the situation but realised that he’d already pressed her too far. With a man, he’d have been able to batter his way past it, but with a woman – this woman …

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and stood up. ‘Thank you for the tea and chat.’ He gestured towards the shop. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

He stood up and left the room, feeling her eyes on him all the way. Outside, the muted voices of children playing seemed to mock him all the way back down the lane.