Текст книги "Death on the Marais"

Автор книги: Adrian Magson

Соавторы: Adrian Magson
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rocco? I barely remember the man.

Not one of our best, in my opinion.

François Massin – former brigade CO Indochina campaign – now divisional commissaire, Picardie

‘Taking a chance, bringing that thing in here,’ said Claude genially, nodding back at the car. ‘Ground’s very soft off the road. Swallow a man whole in the wrong places.’

The shotgun barrels hadn’t wavered and Rocco felt the muscles in his gut contract. The idea of it going off even accidentally at this range didn’t bear thinking about. He tried to ignore it.

Very carefully, he slid a hand into his coat pocket and felt the reassuring heaviness of the MAB.

‘So I gathered,’ he said. He moved across the front of the house as if to study a poster wrapped around one of the heavy wooden uprights. The move was to take him out of the line of fire, but when he stopped and looked back, Claude had turned with him. ‘Could you point that thing somewhere else?’

‘Oh, sorry.’ Claude moved his hand and the gun broke. He extracted two red cartridges. ‘I was out hunting rabbits. You get used to walking around locked and ready to go in this place.’ A harsh sound broke the silence, and Claude glanced up into the trees behind the lodge. He inserted one of the cartridges, flicked the barrels up again. They locked into place with an efficient click, and he sighted at a crow sitting in the uppermost branches. Then he lowered it without firing.

By the time the barrel swung down again, Rocco had his gun pointed towards Claude through the fabric of his coat.

He still wasn’t sure about Lamotte. He was local, after all, and knew everyone and probably everything: which way was up, which was down; the good, the bad and the plain indifferent. He was genial, too, and appeared to have accepted Rocco’s arrival with genuine ease. Many would have been grudging at the very least, downright resentful at most. It didn’t mean he was up to anything, but Rocco had spent too many years learning not to take anyone at face value or to drop his guard too quickly.

As he stood there, wondering whether Claude was going to break the shotgun again, he detected the smell of the oil he’d used last night to clean the MAB, the aroma set off by the warmth of his hand. It had been relaxing, he remembered, and he’d taken his time, dismantling the weapon piece by piece, the movements practised and smooth.

The metallic aroma, coupled with the sunlight  through the trees, the thick, green carpet of reeds and the enforced silence after the clicking of the shotgun, reminded him of a long time ago. The close atmosphere of the jungle rushed in on him like a train, filling his head with images of the thick canopy, the narrow trails with their booby traps and their brightly coloured flowers, the darting flight of small birds and the sudden heave of soil and greenery as someone stepped on a mine or snagged a tripwire.

‘You all right?’ Claude broke the gun and stepped towards him. ‘You look like shit, if you don’t mind me saying.’

Rocco shook his head. ‘I’m fine. Had a bad night, that’s all.’

‘You should try walking instead of running in the morning.’ He grinned at Rocco’s look of surprise.

‘Someone saw me?’ He could have sworn there had been nobody about. So much for a cop’s eyesight.

‘Someone will always see you. It’s the way things are around here. You in training for anything special?’

‘No. I got used to it in the army, then at the police academy. It helps me think. That’s the theory, anyway. I should do it more often.’ He gestured towards the poster on the upright. It was advertising a tag wrestling match two weeks ago. ‘I thought this stuff had gone out of fashion.’ He watched Claude out of the corner of his eye, his hand still on his gun.

‘In Paris, maybe. Out here, though, they still have a taste for dramatic combat and the occasional spot of blood. Modern-day gladiators minus the lions.’ The poster showed a ludicrously muscular man in a flowing cape, wrestling costume and a full head mask, eyes glinting through holes cut in the black fabric. He appeared to be snarling at the camera, but might easily have been yawning. ‘Him especially. Shadow Angel … man of mystery.’ He read out the banner line in a dramatic hiss and smiled, eyes crinkling around the edges. ‘That’s what they’re already calling you in the village: Shadow Angel.’

‘Why?’

‘You dress like an undertaker, you’re built like a brick shithouse and nobody knows who the hell you are … only that you look as if you’re about to give them a kicking.’ He shrugged. ‘Not their fault – they’ve seen too many bad flic flicks.’

‘In that case, I’ll try not to disappoint them.’ Rocco nodded at the house. ‘Who’s the owner?’

‘No idea. The mayor might know: he collects the local taxes. I heard it’s a businessman from Paris, uses it for fishing and hunting parties at weekends. Brings his friends down to show what fun we ignorant peasants have in the marais.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Beats me why they come here, though. Hardly St Tropez, is it?’

‘There aren’t any photographers here scouting for Bardot skinny-dipping, that’s why. Much more private.’

‘I suppose. It’s closer to Paris than the Med, too. And people around here mind their own business. Most of the time.’

Weekend parties, thought Rocco. A brief rush of excitement for the idle rich with too much time on their hands and not enough ways to fill it. Hell, why not? They paid their taxes, they were entitled. The same thing happened in reverse in Paris: people drifted in for a weekend of fun and frolics away from the faces they knew back home. Nobody got hurt, nobody knew. Well, mostly. Unless you bumped into your next-door neighbour doing the same thing.

Claude was watching him closely. ‘You think the dead woman was here?’

‘Most likely. She wasn’t local, was she?’

‘No. She wasn’t. How do we find out who she was?’

‘No idea. Not yet. But we will, sooner or later.’ He related what Rizzotti had told him, then stepped away from the lodge and gestured at the marais. ‘Can anyone fish here?’

‘Sure. If they have a permit.’

‘And do they?’

‘Mostly, yes. Apart from a few kids.’

‘Are there other places like this?’

‘Sure. Come on, I’ll show you. Watch where you walk, though, in those shoes. Tread where I tread.’

Claude set off past the lake, heading further into the trees. Rocco found the going difficult, his soles slipping on the reeds and grassy undergrowth. It was possible to imagine someone hurrying through here and stumbling. It would be so easy to skid off the track and into the nearest stretch of water.

Why did he imagine someone hurrying? The thought bothered him, but instinct told him he was right. Whatever had occurred hadn’t been right here, but maybe not far off. All he had to do was find the place. Then the rest would become clear.

His coattails snagged on a cluster of thorns and he stopped to work them loose. He felt the soft ground shift underfoot as he twisted his body, the heavy air settling around him, with only the squelch of Claude’s footsteps to break the silence. He was reminded of the other oppressive landscape. Back then, though, he’d been dressed appropriately, because the landscape and those who lived in it had learnt to fight back with lethal force.

He shook off the thoughts and watched Claude, dressed in semi-hunting gear, in his element and easing through the vegetation with barely a whisper. He needed to get some appropriate clothing of his own, if he was to stay here any length of time.

Shadow Angel. Christ, if Santer ever found out, he’d wet himself.

Skirting more reeds around a second, smaller lake, and watching for Claude’s indications about soft ground and patches of dark mud, Rocco spotted another lodge. This was smaller than the first, but built in the same style. It was also locked and shuttered and weather-worn, standing on a smaller patch of ground, but plainly designed for the same function.

‘Does the same person own this?’

‘I don’t think so – I believe it’s a dentist from Lille, but I’ve never seen him.’

Claude wandered off and inspected the front door, then disappeared round to the rear. Seconds later he was back, gesturing to Rocco to follow.

Rocco went after him and rounded the corner of the building. The back door stood open, and a clear trail of damp footprints showed just inside the door.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rocco? Relentless … doesn’t give up.

Sgt R Desbordes – Contreband Task Force – Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur

‘Not mine,’ Claude said. ‘Recent, though.’ He lifted one boot to show Rocco the sole. It was heavily moulded with a zigzag design, whereas the footprints on the floor were smooth with no discernible pattern.

Rocco moved past him and listened. If someone was inside, they were keeping very quiet. A random intruder from the village, come to see what they could lift? Or the owner, spooked by hearing their voices? If so, how had they got here? There were no signs of transport other than Rocco’s Citroën, nowhere else to park nearby.

He pulled out his gun and motioned for Claude to stay where he was.

Searching the place didn’t take long. The downstairs was one big room, with a tiny enclosed lobby at the front door. The main room had a kitchen area at one end, with a basic sink and drainer, a two-hob Calor gas cooker and a bar for serving or preparing food. The room was clean and tidy, although well beyond the first flush of newness, and the air held a faint tang of bleach. Rocco checked a pedal bin near the sink; it was empty. An open stairway ran up the rear wall and disappeared into a large hatchway in the ceiling. It was difficult to see much detail because of the shutters, but Rocco got the general layout.

He exchanged a look with Claude, then walked up the stairs, making no effort to hide his progress, but treading warily. By now, anyone here would know of their presence. If a startled owner was about to erupt out of a cupboard brandishing a lump of firewood, he wanted them to know he was coming.

Like the downstairs, the upper level was one large area, with two single beds and two bunks. Two wardrobes and a mirror completed the furnishings. There was a bit more light here from a round porthole window at one end, just enough to see that there were no hiding places and everywhere looked clean.

‘Someone’s been here in the last half-hour,’ said Claude, as Rocco walked back downstairs. The footprints near the back door were still glistening, and it was clear that whoever had been here had progressed no further before turning and going back out.

Rocco bent and checked the lock, a simple tumbler mechanism. There was no sign of the door having been forced, and the tongue was shiny and well oiled.

‘Whoever it was had a key.’ He pulled the door shut behind them and said, ‘Could be a cleaner.’

Claude shrugged. ‘Not a local. I’d know otherwise. And why leave the place unlocked?’

‘Maybe we scared them off. Anywhere else we should look?’

‘Right here? Only one other place, smaller than this, at the back of the marais – but I just came by there on my way in. It’s a ruin … unused and wide open.’ He smiled. ‘A weekend visitor got drunk and hung himself from the ceiling a few years ago; the local kids believe it’s been haunted ever since and give it a wide berth.’ He gestured back at the lodge. ‘I was about to check this one when I heard your car. Some sounds carry through these trees.’

Rocco led the way back towards his car. It all seemed perfectly normal. A small village, miles off the beaten track; a couple of lodges used for weekend parties of hunters and fishers. No rush, no fuss, no noise. What could be more innocent? It seemed odd that the owner or owners didn’t use someone from the village to clean for them, but it was hardly illegal.

He noticed a small wooden jetty that he’d missed on his way to the second house. It jutted out onto the larger lake, sandwiched and almost hidden from view by the reeds. He veered off and stepped onto the planks, testing his weight first. He had no wish to go for an unscheduled swim, and no desire to drive back to the house in waterlogged clothing. But water had always held a strange fascination for him.

‘Watch yourself,’ called Claude. ‘You step off there, you’ll go straight down.’

Rocco peered down into a murky brown sludge dotted with lily pads. The atmosphere here was heavy with the smell of rotting vegetation, and out on the water the air was thick with the swirl of flies and midges. Moorhens and coots, startled by his appearance, scuttled away protesting into cover, while a kingfisher flicked past and disappeared into the trees.

‘A few years ago,’ said Claude, joining him with care, the jetty quivering under their combined weight, ‘a kid on holiday jumped off one of the jetties here. Not this one, though. Nice day, warm weather, must have been the most natural thing in the world to go for a swim.’

Rocco waited for the punch line.

‘His body came up three weeks later. It’s like soft toffee down there, waiting to grab you.’ Claude shivered and walked back. ‘Still gives me the creeps when I think about it – and I have to come out here regularly.’

‘Not nice.’

‘No. You ever used that in anger?’ Claude was looking down at Rocco’s gun. He’d forgotten he was still holding it.

‘A couple of times.’ He checked the safety and sighted on a log thirty metres away in the middle of the lake. He hadn’t been to the police range for a few weeks, although regulations required all officers to put in regular practice and submit score cards. Somehow he never found the time. He assumed the position and breathed in. ‘Firing.’

The first shot smacked out and lifted a splash of water two metres beyond the log. It caused pandemonium in the trees, as a score of birds lifted in panic and streaked away into the sky, protesting loudly. The echoes of the gunshot followed them through the marais, followed by another two as Rocco pulled the trigger in quick succession. Another splash with the second shot, then the log exploded as the third one took the damp wood in the centre.

He waved away a veil of gun smoke and looked at Claude. The garde champêtre was staring at him, mouth open.

‘Sorry,’ Rocco said. ‘Looks like I need the practice.’

‘You reckon?’ Claude shook his head and stepped off the jetty. ‘Didn’t look that way to me.’

They returned to the Citroën and Claude bummed a lift back to the village. Just before they reached the end of the track, he tapped Rocco’s arm and pointed off to one side. ‘Stop here a moment. There’s something I want to show you.’

Rocco stopped the car and they climbed out. He followed Claude for fifty metres into the trees, where they emerged into a small clearing, the middle of which was taken up by a circular stretch of water approximately ten metres across.

‘It’s called the Blue Pool.’ Claude pointed into the water. ‘Take a look.’

Rocco stepped up to the edge of the water and felt the hairs on his neck stand up.

The water was crystal clear all the way to the bottom, and about the same depth as the deep end in a public swimming pool. It was also the same colour blue, and the sides were uniformly curved, like a giant soup bowl.

‘I don’t get it,’ said Rocco. He’d never seen anything like it. And after the impenetrable murk of the lake just a short distance away, it was a distinctly odd contrast.

‘Creepy, isn’t it?’ said Claude. He bent down and dug his fingers into the side of the pool just below the waterline. When he brought his hand back up, his fingers were covered in soft chalk, like cream cheese. ‘It’s something to do with the chalk and the chemicals in the soil. It never gets dirty except after a storm, when mud gets washed in, and always stays the same depth. And nobody ever goes swimming in here.’

‘Not even kids?’

‘Especially not kids.’ He pointed to the bottom. ‘See that small dark area right in the middle?’ He stood up and cast around until he found a short branch, heavy with mud. He dropped it into the water and hunkered down to watch. Within seconds, the branch, too heavy to float, began to slide down the curved side of the pool until it reached the centre.

Then it was gone.

Rocco couldn’t help it; he stepped back from the water’s edge with a start. ‘What the hell happened?’

Claude shrugged. ‘I think it’s a freshwater spring, like a fumarole. Anything near the neck of the inlet gets sucked down by some kind of back pressure.’ He stood up and pulled a face. ‘Actually, I don’t have a clue how it works, but that’s what a water authority inspector told me a while back.’ He bent and scooped up a handful of water and tasted it. ‘Try it. It’s as good as Evian.’

Rocco shook his head. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He tried not to think about what else might have got dragged down there over the years and left its traces behind. No wonder nobody swam in there: the very idea would give even strong men the jitters.

As they walked back to the car, he looked back at the first lodge, silent and anonymous, shuttered against prying eyes.

‘I’d like to take a look inside,’ he said quietly. ‘What are the chances?’

Claude stopped and pursed his lips. ‘I’ll see if anyone knows who owns it.’ He dipped a hand in his pocket and took out a slip of paper. ‘Damn – I forgot. I had a phone call this morning. Wouldn’t give me his name, said you wanted this urgently but he wants to be left out of it. He sounded a bit shifty.’

Rizzotti. Rocco studied the names Claude had transcribed onto the back of an old fishing permit. The first was the senior magistrate who had signed the release papers for the dead woman. The second was the name of the dead woman herself, followed by an address. He felt his gut tighten. It was near the Bois de Boulogne, an area he knew well. Big houses, expensive cars, entryphones on the gates and armed guards for those who found that kind of accessory a necessary part of life. Not the kind of place you went calling unless you had a solid reason for being there.

‘She’s not just anyone,’ said Claude. It wasn’t a question – he’d written down the name and evidently recognised it.

Rocco nodded. He didn’t really care about the magistrate who had signed the release; he would keep for later. But if Nathalie Bayer-Berbier was who he thought she was, then she certainly wasn’t just anyone.

‘I need to go to Paris,’ he said. He climbed in the car and motioned to Claude to get in. It was time to trust this man. ‘But not in this.’

‘You could go by train from Amiens. Hey – you’ve got a radio! I didn’t notice before.’ Claude began spinning the dials like a kid in a toy shop. ‘Is this police issue?’

‘No. I had to buy it. The Bayer-Berbier place is close to my old stamping grounds; there’s too much of a chance someone will recognise my car.’

‘Ah.’ Claude nodded in approval as the soft tones of Françoise Hardy filled the car, interspersed with a hiss of static. ‘Beautiful girl, lovely voice. I take it you’re not going to ask anyone’s permission, is that it?’

‘Yes. I wouldn’t want to disturb them.’ It might be awkward if one of his former colleagues spotted him and word got out. Quite apart from treading on toes – maybe even those of his old department – he’d probably find his way blocked by politics, the shutters brought down tight. A favour called in, like the early release papers signed so efficiently by a senior magistrate, and the entire story would disappear under the rug. At least going in fast now, he might get some information before that could happen. He considered calling Massin, then dismissed the idea. It would be seen as calling in a favour from a big gun, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

He drove back to Claude’s house while Claude continued playing with the radio, sweeping the airwaves in search of some music, muttering at the stations playing rock by British and American imports. He was relieved when they arrived back at the house. Parked outside was a grey 2CV Fourgonnette, like the baker’s car and a million others on the roads of France.

‘Yours?’ said Rocco.

‘Of course. The best transport for my job – when I’m not using my bike, anyway. Of course, it would be even better with one of these radios.’

‘Is that how you got to the marais – by bike?’

‘Don’t worry – I’ll pick it up some other time.’ He jutted his chin at the 2CV. ‘How about it? Take us no time at all to Paris.’

‘In that? I’d break something … or suffocate.’ Rocco tried to imagine himself squeezing into the driving seat, and couldn’t. It was built for midgets, not men of his build – and it had as much speed as a donkey.

‘Why not?’ Claude shrugged. He got out and jerked a thumb at a rack on the roof. ‘There are thousands of them in Paris. Put a ladder on top and nobody will look twice.’ He grinned. ‘Especially if I drive. She’s a bit temperamental, you see.’

It had its merits, Rocco had to admit. But there was a major drawback. ‘Have you ever driven in Paris? It’s not like the roads here.’

Claude’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I had a life, too, you know, before coming here. I was a cab driver for a while … in Paris and other places.’ He looked triumphant at Rocco’s surprised reaction. ‘I had my share of big-name clients. In fact,’ he tapped Rocco on the chest, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I knew the street where that poor woman lived better than you do.’