Текст книги "Death on the Marais"

Автор книги: Adrian Magson

Соавторы: Adrian Magson
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CHAPTER SEVEN

Rocco? Big and scary. A bit nuts. Women seem to like him, though, lucky bastard.

Capt. Michel Santer – Clichy-Nanterre district

‘Monsieur Paulais says we can use the station waiting room if we need to.’

Claude had driven off earlier in Rocco’s car to speak to the stationmaster. He had returned immediately with the news. ‘As I thought: he called the papers as well as the regional radio news channels. He’s already dressed in his best uniform, hoping to get interviewed.’

‘He’s welcome to it,’ said Rocco. ‘Can you put up a barrier across the lane? The last thing we need is the press trampling all over the scene.’

‘We could leave your car parked sideways across. They’d have to drive onto the fields to get past.’

‘That won’t stop them, will it?’

‘Not until Duchamel, the farmer who owns these fields, sees them flattening his crops; then he’ll come and shoot their tyres out. Anything for a bit of sport. I can arrange it, if you like.’ He looked positively eager at the idea.

‘Stop it. You’ll be selling tickets next.’

‘Hey, not a bad thought. By the way, you should get yourself something more practical than the Traction. Nice car, but not good for driving over these tracks. Too low for one thing: you’ll wreck the suspension within a week.’

Rocco hadn’t thought much about the kind of terrain he’d be covering until he arrived. City streets were either good or bad, and you took them at your own risk. But at least you went with the knowledge that they were usually passable. As he’d already seen here, anything less than a metalled road was little better than a cart track.

‘What do you drive?’ He hadn’t seen a car at Claude’s house, although there had been a building big enough to house one.

‘2CV Fourgonnette. Amazing vehicle.’ Claude looked enthusiastic. ‘I once saw a farmer overturn one in a field. Then he and his son flipped it back over and away he went.’ He dropped his lower lip. ‘A bit rippled here and there, I grant you, but as good as new.’

‘Thanks. I’ll keep this for now.’

‘Your funeral.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Rocco looked up towards the wood behind the cemetery. ‘Where does the track lead?’

‘Nowhere much. Only the farmers go up there, to their fields.’

‘And the wood? Or is it just a wood?’

‘Christ, no. You don’t want to go in there. It’s an old ammo dump, full of shells, bombs and grenades. You step on the wrong thing and baff! – you lose a leg. Or worse.’ He gestured towards his groin with a grim chopping motion.

‘Wasn’t it cleared?’

‘No. The commune kept asking, but there was never the money or the men – the experts. One suggestion was to lob in a couple of mortar shells and stand well back.’ He grinned. ‘That would have been worth seeing.’

‘It didn’t fly?’

‘No. It was vetoed on grounds of insanity. And despoiling the countryside.’ He spat on the ground. ‘Like they worry about that kind of thing.’

Rocco paced back and forth, returning to study the ground between the cemetery gate and the monument where the body lay. He’d already taken a stroll around the inside of the cemetery while Claude was away, and had seen nothing helpful: no clues revealing how the dead woman had got here, no telltale tracks, no arrows pointing to the guilty party. He stared at the hump of the body, now covered by a tarpaulin Cooke had got from the tool shed, the brick structure in the far corner of the plot. The forensics boys weren’t going to be happy, but it was better than allowing the legions of flies waiting to get in on the act to begin feeding, especially with this heat.

He wondered who the woman was. Had been. And why she was dumped here. She certainly hadn’t died in this place. The clothing, with the exception of the hat, had been in water; and he’d seen similar bloating to the skin on bodies pulled out of the Seine, which indicated that she had been immersed for a while. Then there was the uniform. Was it someone’s idea of making a point? If so, it was a grisly one. He deliberately hadn’t tried the pockets of her jacket yet, which might yet yield a clue; that would be best done with the forensics team in place, in case they found anything that might deteriorate rapidly and be lost as evidence.

‘Lucas!’

He turned. Claude was looking towards the main road where three vehicles – a black saloon and two chunky police vans, all with their roof lights flashing – were speeding towards the turn-off.

He walked to the entrance gate to meet them.

The man in charge was a cheerful-looking individual with a red face and a well-developed middle. He hopped from the car, followed by men from the other vehicles, and watched as Rocco approached.

‘Who are you?’ he queried. ‘This is the scene of an unexplained death.’

‘Good description,’ Rocco congratulated him. He took out his transfer orders and calling card. The officer read the details carefully, eyebrows lifting.

‘OK, that changes things, I grant you.’ He ducked his head. ‘Captain Eric Canet, Amiens Préfecture. We heard someone new was coming. My men are at your disposal, Inspector.’

‘I appreciate that.’ Rocco shook the captain’s hand, relieved that Canet wasn’t about to jump on his soapbox over who had primary position. By rights, Rocco should have presented himself at the Amiens office prior to coming here, but he had seen no reason to do so until absolutely necessary. ‘My colleague is Garde Champêtre Lamotte, based in Poissons, and the other man is the cemetery gardener, John Cooke. He’s English.’ He gestured towards the monument. ‘The body is at the base of the cross, covered with a tarpaulin against the flies. There are no obvious signs showing how it got there, or even the cause of death … but I’ll leave that to you and your men to determine.’

‘Of course.’ Canet acknowledged the courtesy and flicked a signal to his men. They began to mark out a pathway from the gate to the monument, examining the ground as they went. ‘To be honest,’ he added softly, ‘rather you than me on this one. Is it true about the Gestapo uniform?’

‘Yes.’

‘God help us. That’s all we need, stirring up old memories. That’s always bad news.’ He paused and nodded towards the stone cross. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’

‘Help yourself.’

Canet set off in the wake of his men and disappeared behind the memorial. He reappeared two minutes later and walked back to join Rocco. He looked pale around the eyes, his sights fixed on the ground.

‘Holy Mother,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve seen some stuff in my time, but that …’

Rocco nodded. They all would have seen far worse before, but the shock value in what lay beside the monument was the degree of contrasts: the bloated, stodgy skin of the dead woman against the black of the hated uniform.

Canet walked to the gate and spat onto the track, then wiped his lips. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, and checked his watch, glancing towards the road.

‘You expecting somebody?’

Canet nodded. ‘You won’t have been made aware of it, but we’ve just inherited a new divisional commissaire, starting today. It’s part of this big reshuffle. He’s from Marseille.’ It was clear from Canet’s wry expression that he looked on the senior officer’s move to Picardie as an odd, not to say controversial one.

‘Know anything about him?’

‘No. I was on leave until today and came out here as soon as I got in. His holiness was doing an arse-kicking tour of the sous-préfectures this morning so I don’t even know his name, only that he’s ex-military from way back. But I do know he’ll have something to prove … which is why he’s on his way here to take charge of the investigation.’

‘Oh, joy.’ Rocco was dismayed. Commissaires didn’t usually involve themselves in such matters, limiting themselves instead to making announcements to the press and their superiors in the Interior Ministry about successful outcomes and an increase in performance statistics. He could foresee an argument looming; one he would probably lose.

Canet sniffed in agreement. ‘Well … I’m not surprised. This thing looks like being a touchy subject – the Gestapo kit and all. It could make good headlines for him if it breaks quickly, bad if it doesn’t, in which case you’ll get responsibility.’

Rocco smiled. ‘Cynic.’

Canet shrugged fatalistically. ‘With good reason: I’ve seen it all before.’

Just then, the sound of car engines intruded on the quiet and both men turned. Two gleaming black saloons were approaching along the main road, moving at a sedate clip.

‘Shoulders back, stomachs in,’ said Canet, hitching up his trousers and stepping through the gate. ‘You ready for this?’

‘Not yet.’ Rocco had better things to do than tug his forelock for a bunch of self-important desk jockeys. He decided to take a tour of the outside perimeter of the cemetery instead. It might also offer a chance of getting upwind of the awful smell for a while. If standing on ceremony was important to the brass, they would wait. If not, they’d have to follow him and get their shoes dirty.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rocco? A nobody … a rebel … reckless. Lacks any respect for authority.

Col François Massin – former brigade CO, Indochina campaign

Rocco turned left out of the gate, then left again, following the wall across the width of the cemetery. The ground here was rough but easy to read, where neither weeds, grass nor farmers’ crops had taken root, leaving a half-metre perimeter of hard ground to follow like a path. There were no signs of disturbance, no footprints to help him except a few paw prints, and lots of rabbit droppings; a dead thrush, half-eaten by maggots and, a yard into the field, the carcass of a larger bird – a wood pigeon dead on the wing, no doubt the random target of a farmer’s rifle.

He was pretty sure the narrow strip of ground here was much the same as the day the men who had built the wall had packed up and left. He walked on.

He reached the next corner near the tool shed, where it looked as if access might be easy, and studied it carefully. Nothing. No marks on the wall to show anyone had climbed it, no traces of fabric caught on the rough brickwork. The ground below it was unmarked. Then, as he turned up the long stretch of wall abutting the wood at the top, he saw movement in the trees.

Rocco stopped and crouched as if examining the ground, all the while checking the tree line. Something or someone was up there, but he couldn’t see any detail. A flick of a branch, a change in the pattern of shadows, then it was gone.

He continued walking, head moving from side to side, and eventually reached the end of the wall where it butted up against the wood. The atmosphere here was still, densely packed with overgrowth, with not even the rustling of leaves on the branches to break the silence. He breathed deeply, sniffing the air, enjoying the raw smell.

He turned and followed the top wall across the width of the cemetery, the wood on his right shoulder. But he was no longer interested in the ground: he was already certain that whoever had dumped the body in the cemetery had gained access through the gate, not over the wall. Instead, he concentrated on listening to the silent mass of greenery to his right. It was thinner here, he noted, where selective trees had been felled or had fallen to nature. It allowed the air and light to penetrate, and there was a breeze, too, like a whispered conversation, the leaves and branches setting up a chaffing, clicking sound as if discussing man’s intrusion on this quiet place.

It reminded him of a jungle he’d once come to know, also a place of whispered noises and shadows. His head began to ache and he shivered, mentally pushing away the flickering images trying to intrude. No time for that; never time for that. He breathed deeply until his mind was quiet and his inner vision began to clear, the pounding in his head gradually subsiding. His hands, though, were clammy. He wiped them on his coat and forced himself to concentrate.

One thing he’d learnt in Indochina was that among trees and vegetation, human smells stand out far more than they ever could in a city street. And if you had the nose and the patience, not to say the nerve, you could tell if a stranger was close by simply using your senses.

Especially one who smoked Gitanes and had the body odour of a dead badger.

He wondered what Didier Marthe had been doing among the trees, watching the cemetery. Was it coincidence? Was he scouring the wood for shells to break up and just happened to be here? Or did the scrap man have some other reason for skulking around?

By the time Rocco got back to the cemetery gate, the two black cars were parked fifty metres down the track, the doors hanging open. Three men in smart uniform were walking towards him, one tall man in particular leading the way. The others – drivers and gofers – stayed smoking and chatting among themselves, no  doubt glad to be rid of the brass for a few minutes.

The tall man, bearing the badges of a divisional commissaire, spoke to Canet, who turned and pointed a thumb towards Rocco.

The senior officer stood where he was, clearly waiting for Rocco to join them. Rocco held his ground. He was being stubborn and would probably regret it, but he was beyond jumping through hoops for uniforms with nothing better to do than step on other people’s feet. Instead, he turned away, running his eye over the cemetery boundaries, trying to read what had happened here. If the men – and he was only guessing it had to have been more than one – had brought the dead woman through the gate, any traces they had left, such as footprints, would be indistinguishable against the grass, especially now Cooke and everyone else had tramped back and forth.

The one thing he didn’t know for certain was how the woman had died. Only that water had been involved in some way, either before, during or after death.

A crunch of footsteps sounded on the track behind him. He turned to find the three newcomers metres away, with the tall officer in the lead. He looked less than happy, his body language stiff and foreboding.

In the split second that he saw the man’s face, Rocco felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. The features, although older and more lined, were instantly, shockingly familiar. The expression was just as aloof, the bearing as pompous as he remembered and he was transported back to 1954. In that brief moment of realisation, of remembering, he saw that the officer remembered him, too.

Rocco steeled himself and wondered what malevolent twist of fate had sent this man here, to the same patch of soil as himself. Because when he had last set eyes on Colonel François Massin, the officer had been cowering in a foxhole in Indochina, screaming like a frightened girl.

CHAPTER NINE

Rocco? He shouldn’t be allowed out!

I’m totally innocent, I tell you … he had no right …!

Roni Ahkmoud – convicted serial killer and rapist – Clichy-Nanterre district

‘What are you doing here?’ There was no warmth in Massin’s greeting, no sign of even feigned familiarity, merely a frosty expression of disdain.

And of hesitation. As well you bloody might, thought Rocco, you cowardly, high-born bastard. Partly due to this man and his colleagues in the high command, a lot of good men had died in those far-off jungles and rice fields, victims of bloody battles and lethal mantraps. Others had been taken prisoner, only to emerge months later from captivity, broken and sick, ghostly versions of their former selves in body and spirit.

‘My job,’ he replied. ‘Investigating a murder.’

He wondered whether Massin remembered that Rocco had seen him in the foxhole, had witnessed his naked fear on display. Or had he managed to blank the entire incident from his mind?

He was surprised that his former CO had managed to migrate across to the Sûreté Nationale. What strings had he pulled to do that? No doubt friends of friends pulling strings in the invisible network of former colleagues encountered and nurtured in the elite French military academy of St Cyr. After being evacuated out from the battlefield in a state of pure funk, Massin must have seemed ripe for a career no more stressful than counting beans, far away from the sight of his former comrades – at least, the few who had survived – and indeed anyone else who might know what had happened. Yet here he was, resplendent in the uniform of a senior police officer, a pillar of the establishment.

‘Your job? Who says it was murder?’ The senior officer’s nose quivered as if he had just caught the first smell from the body. He looked away, momentarily distracted.

‘You got that?’ said Rocco abruptly. ‘That stink in the air? It’s called putrefaction. Decomposing tissue. It happens when a body has been in a warm place, or under ground or in water. The bugs and larvae begin attacking the tissue, laying eggs and eating their way inside. You might like to take a closer look … since you’re heading up the investigation.’

If Massin recognised the challenge, he ignored it. But a flicker of revulsion crossed his face. Or guilt, thought Rocco. Maybe even lack of guts, given his track record. Give him five minutes near this place and he’d be away back down the road to his office like bald tyres on a skidpan.

‘I’m perfectly familiar with the aftermath of death,’ Massin replied stiffly. ‘What I want to know is, who ordered you here, to this region?’

Rocco shrugged eloquently, a gesture calculated to annoy the man. ‘Me? I’m merely following orders. Part of the latest barmy “initiative” cooked up by someone with too much time on his hands, who thought investigators should be out in the country slopping through cow shit instead of in the cities, solving major crimes.’

‘Take yourself away. Now. You are dismissed.’ Massin was almost quivering with rage, his body stiff as a brush. Behind him, his two companions had stopped a few feet back, watching and listening.

‘Excuse me?’ Rocco gave the man his most insolent stare. He wasn’t sure whether a commissaire had the power to throw him off an investigation; it had never arisen before. Maybe this might be the moment he found out.

‘I said you are dismissed. I do not want you on this investigation!’ The words snapped out, surprising the other two men and causing the drivers and assistants to fall silent. Captain Canet and Claude watched from a distance.

‘Sir?’ One of the other officers, braver than the other, stepped forward. He looked at Rocco as if he had made an obscene suggestion, then introduced himself with a brief nod. ‘Commissaire Perronnet.’ Then in a soft aside to Massin, ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

‘Yes. This man is not needed here. I want him elsewhere – anywhere. But not here!’

Perronnet looked momentarily nonplussed. He touched Massin on the arm and murmured, ‘A word, sir?’

They turned away and talked in undertones, leaving Rocco staring into the distance. But he caught fragments of conversation, most of it coming from the junior officer.

‘… lead investigator … has a very good record … sent here from Paris … nobody else available … could be political … the uniform … neo-Nazi movement.’

When they turned back, it was as if a switch had been thrown. Massin’s face was more composed, and he was looking at Rocco with eyes that no longer held open dislike. He’s struggling, though, Rocco thought sourly. Like a cobra studying a particularly juicy-looking rodent.

‘Very well.’ Massin appeared to reconsider his decision. It took a few moments, during which the junior officer said nothing, but stared at Rocco with an intensity which conveyed a simple message: Don’t say a word or you’re on traffic.

‘It seems,’ murmured Massin finally, forcing out the words, ‘that you are necessary to this investigation after all.’ He lifted his chin, haughty and begrudging. ‘You have primary responsibility and I want regular reports on your progress, copied only to me. Nobody else. You understand?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Rocco. In other words, so you can stitch this up any way you like, you dumb shit, he thought dourly. Kill it off if it looks like causing inconvenient embarrassment, dumb it down if it can be passed off as a minor crime. Claim the credit if it goes hot.

Massin turned and strode across the lawn to the monument, accompanied by the second officer, leaving Perronnet studying Rocco with an open air of interest.

‘He doesn’t like you much, does he? Do you always affect people that way?’

‘It’s my friendly nature,’ said Rocco dryly. ‘Never mind, I’ll try to weather the disappointment.’

A raised eyebrow. ‘Insolent, I see. Is there history between you?’

Rocco thought about it for two seconds. He didn’t have to spell out his past to this man; if Perronnet were really that interested, he could delve into the personnel files. If he did, he’d no doubt be unable to resist taking a peek at Massin’s file, too, and something told him that would not be available for scrutiny. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

Perronnet looked sceptical. ‘Didn’t sound like it to me.’

‘If you don’t believe me, you could always ask him.’

Perronnet looked surprised by the challenge. He seemed about to reprimand Rocco, but merely said, ‘Maybe I will.’ He looked across the cemetery as the two men returned, both looking pale, Massin with his jaw clenched tight. ‘But let’s get this cleared up first, shall we?’ he continued softly. ‘And maybe tomorrow, you might do the courtesy of presenting yourself to the station and making your acquaintance with your colleagues. Just a suggestion to the wise.’ With that, he turned and fell in with the others, accompanying them out of the gate and back down the track.

‘You should try pissing on electric cables,’ said Claude. ‘It’s a lot less dangerous.’ He joined Rocco to watch the cars reverse down the track. ‘I’ve never heard anyone talk to a commissaire like that before and survive.’

‘You heard?’ He’d thought Claude and the others were out of earshot.

Claude smiled. ‘I might be getting on a bit, but my hearing’s still good. You know the top man – Massin, is it?’

‘It’s a long story.’ He turned and watched Canet and his men at work around the monument. He might as well leave them to it; for now, he had other things on his mind. ‘Tell me without looking in that direction, why would Didier Marthe be in the woods behind the cemetery?’

‘Didier?’ Claude visibly strained himself not to look towards the trees. ‘I don’t know. I mean, he might be looking for shells. But up there? It’s risky – even for him. You saw him?’

‘I could smell him. I’m just wondering if he was in the area when the body was dropped.’

‘We could ask him, but I doubt he’ll tell you.’

‘Maybe he won’t have to. Not directly, anyway.’