Death at the Clos du Lac (12 page)

Next morning, after a brisk early run down the lane and back to shake the cobwebs loose, Rocco arrived at the office to find Massin waiting for him. The
commissaire
flicked an imperious finger and led him upstairs to his office. He told Rocco to close the door before retreating to stand behind his desk.

‘Inspector Rocco, would you mind explaining why you were in Paris yesterday?’ Massin stared at him for a second before sitting down, his authority imposed. ‘Only I feel you may have forgotten that your transfer here last year means you no longer have to work the Clichy district. Or can they not cope without your valued assistance?’

‘I should have spoken to you first, I know,’ Rocco conceded mildly. He wondered how Massin had found out. ‘But I had a lead to follow up on and I didn’t want to leave it too long. You were out.’

‘Yes, I was. Part of the reason I was out was because I was having my ears chewed off by my superiors from the Ministry,
due to an investigator under my control finding it impossible to follow orders.’ He tapped a rapid drumbeat on his desk, then said more evenly, ‘I hear you and Lamotte apprehended three men last night in the course of an armed robbery. Well done. Was it anything to do with the Clos du Lac business?’

‘Thank you. But no. They were gutter rats looking for an easy hit.’ He brought Massin up to date on his investigations into the sanitarium deaths, carefully omitting any mention of Rotenbourg and concentrating instead on the possibility that one of the inmates had been Stefan Devrye-Martin, who was supposed to have died in Thailand. ‘As soon as I have a photo, I’ll be able to prove it.’

‘I see. That could prove … awkward for someone to explain.’

‘Someone in the Ministry, certainly. It would have needed a signature to get him in there.’

‘In that case,’ Massin reached down and slid a brown envelope across his desk. It was addressed to Rocco. ‘I think this might be what you’re waiting for. I picked it up from the front desk.’

Rocco opened the envelope and slid out a large black and white print. It showed a fat man climbing out of a car. In the background was a flurry of pennants and bunting, and a crowd of people dressed in summer clothes. The man was grinning at somebody off to one side, a lock of hair damp with sweat clinging to his face as he heaved his corpulent body out of the passenger seat. Around his neck was a professional-looking camera.

Rocco handed over the photo. ‘That’s him.’ Stefan had lost a lot of weight since the picture was taken, and his hair was shorter. But there was no mistaking him: it was the man he’d talked to in the pool house.

‘And he’s supposed to be dead, you say.’

‘According to Captain Antain in Evreux. Blood poisoning following an accident.’

‘This is serious. Extremely serious.’ Massin placed the photo on the desk and took a turn around his office, lips pursed. Rocco knew instantly what he was thinking: Stefan had been hiding in a government facility; if his ‘death’ were true, then they were faced with what amounted to possible state-sponsored deception.

‘I’d like to sit on this for a while,’ Rocco said, giving Massin a way out of reporting this to his superiors. Instinct told him that if this went up the chain of command, it might disappear and never be mentioned again.

‘Why?’ Massin sounded unsure, no doubt weighing up his options to find the least damaging one.

‘I still think the death of the security guard, Paulus, is tied in with the murder at the Clos du Lac,’ he added. ‘It’s too coincidental that they died on the same night.’

‘How so?’ Massin sounded distracted.

‘Paulus either helped kill him and was then disposed of to keep him quiet, or he saw what was happening and the killer was forced to deal with him. The business about a crime of passion is a nonsense.’

Massin lifted his eyebrows. ‘Why? Do they not go in for that sort of thing around Poissons?’

It was the nearest Rocco had ever come to hearing Massin make a joke. ‘I’m sure they do,’ he replied dryly. ‘But crimes of passion in the countryside involve shotguns, axes or knives – maybe poison. Not nine-millimetre pistols. And Paulus was navy-trained; he wouldn’t have been easy to fool or overcome.’

Massin lifted his chin and stared at the ceiling. ‘So he was killed by someone he knew or trusted?’

‘I believe so.’

Massin looked down at the photo. ‘So where do you go from here? How does this “dead” man walking figure in all this?’

‘I think he might know more than he was letting on when I met him. According to nurse Dion, he didn’t always take his medicines and was in the habit of wandering the corridors at night, looking for anything he could pry into or steal. She described him as highly manipulative. I’d like to find him and see if he saw anything.’

What he didn’t say was something that would have had Massin flying into a panic: that if Stefan Devrye-Martin was hiding in the Clos du Lac with official connivance under an assumed name, who were the other patients whose names were not their own? And why were they being hidden?

‘Inspector Rocco?’

A call had been put through to Rocco’s desk. The caller was Pascal Rotenbourg.

‘Speaking. Thank you for calling, Mr Rotenbourg. I’m sorry to disturb you on what might be an irrelevant matter, but I wonder if you can answer a question for me?’

‘Of course. How may I help?’ The man sounded cultured, his voice calm and measured. Not normally the case, Rocco thought, when members of the public had messages to call the police and expected bad news.

‘Do you have any male family members, by any chance?’

A momentary hesitation, then, ‘I do, as a matter of fact. A younger brother. What is this about, Inspector?’

‘Could you tell me his name?’

‘Yes. It’s Simon.’

The woman felt faint when she came to this time. The food supplied by the man had been plentiful and edible, with pasta and fruit, but she’d had no appetite beyond a slight nibble to show willing. It was obvious the men were looking after her for a reason, yet that made little difference to her situation.

She was still a prisoner.

She tried to work out how many days it had been since she’d been taken. It felt like a lifetime already, but she knew she was suffering the effects of dehydration and fatigue. She tried to relate it to her inner sense of time and the regularity of food, then by bodily functions. On the first night of captivity she had been provided with a hospital bedpan of uncertain vintage, and water to wash herself. But the trauma of being kidnapped and the ever-present fear at what might happen to her since then had played havoc with her system, obliterating any kind of feel she
might have once possessed for her own body’s functions. It could have been anywhere between two and five days, although she couldn’t tell for sure.

Leather Jacket had remained all but mute, keeping his conversation to instructions about when to move, what to do, what not to do. He had not repeated his earlier threats, but she doubted that was out of kindness. His tone of voice seemed to be that of a man who was comfortable with himself and certain that he would not be disobeyed. A man doing a job.

The harsher threats might come later.

He was a soldier, she thought at one point. Or had been. But in post-war France, like the rest of Europe, soldiers were common enough, so what did that tell her?

She tried to judge where they might be, but she was finding it hard to marshal her thoughts. The stuffiness in the van was at times intense, until the man opened the door and allowed in some fresh air. But for all the good that did, in terms of seeing her surroundings, she might as well have been sealed in a cardboard box.

The van had been moved three times now, a mobile prison cell. But never far. A few streets, perhaps, or kilometres, she couldn’t tell. It started up, it moved, she was thrown around, and all the time the man sat in the back with her. He never answered her questions, never said anything to show her the slightest comfort. But then, he never actually mistreated her, either.

It was her one consolation. Surely, if he ultimately meant her harm, he would care little about how she fared physically or mentally. But did that mean she would be allowed to one day go free?

She felt greasy and grubby; the first from not being allowed to do more than cat-wash, the second from being thrown around on the dirty mattress and the metal floor of the van. And each time the vehicle moved, it set up a curtain of dust which she could taste even through the hood that was always over her head. As for her hair … she thought with a grim sense of the banal what a waste of money that had been. Going to Marcel, only to have these men throw her around like a parcel moments after leaving the salon, must rate as some kind of wicked joke. Maybe, she reflected sadly, that should tell her something.

Levignier thought long and hard before making his next two phone calls. The first was slightly risky and could blow up in his face. But news from a reliable contact had confirmed that Rocco was closing in on a possible source of information, and where he would be later that evening. In addition, Levignier’s own emotions were driving him to ignore the minimal risks. Partly it was the desire to win, and the awards that would bring if men like Girovsky kept their part of the bargain. He hadn’t set out on this plan out of a desire to be the loyal servant, expecting no reward for himself; the Pole had made it very clear what he could expect if Levignier played his part and the negotiations with the Chinese went as expected. But this particular idea had been fuelled by recalling an image of the person he was thinking of, who worked not two hundred metres away from his own office, several floors down. He dialled an internal number which got him the research section of the Ministry.

A woman’s voice answered. Cultured, smooth, like silk on bare skin.

‘Marcel Levignier,’ he said, his throat suddenly dry with excitement. ‘I have a job for you. It’s very important.’ He described what he wanted done, that it needed her attention right now and how he couldn’t entrust the task to anyone else. The agreement was immediate, if slightly wary, as he’d expected. She wasn’t, after all, a case-hardened officer. When he was asked about risk, which he’d also anticipated, he added smoothly, ‘Don’t worry. There’s no danger, I promise. It’s not that kind of job. But since you ask, I have arranged to have two of my men close by at all times, watching.’

‘So I just find out who this man is and what he’s doing?’

‘That’s all. You’ve been trained on constructing chance encounters?’ He knew the answer to that one.

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. Make the contact, talk, a drink, maybe coffee – somewhere public, of course, with lights. But be discreet.’

‘Of course. Is he likely to be suspicious?’

The basic training course for all low-level officers, he remembered, with its bullet points of steps to consider when making a first ‘cold’ contact. It was kids’ stuff, really, and he could have recited the questions she was asking like a rota. Still, at least she was remembering the lessons.

‘He has absolutely no reason. Trust me.’ He read out Pascal Rotenbourg’s address in Montrouge, and gave a detailed description of Rocco so that she couldn’t make a mistake, then said, ‘Go there at seven forty-five and wait. Be discreet, but when you see him arrive, check the area and see where he goes. Remember the training. The rest is up to you. Afterwards, ring me and I’ll tell you where
to come. I want a personal report. This is not for paper or telephone.’

‘I understand.’ Her voice ended on a tone of uncertainty, but he ignored it. He knew why: a personal field report was a rarity, and lifted this task above the merely mundane.

He put down the phone, for a brief moment wondering if he hadn’t oversold the assignment or misjudged this person’s abilities. But the situation was too serious for hesitation; risks were necessary to achieve success, and he had to get Rocco out of the picture in a way that did not suggest Ministry interference in his police duties. Next he dialled another number and gave the man who answered the same address. He outlined what he wanted done.

‘How rough do you want it?’ the man asked.

‘As rough as you feel necessary,’ Levignier purred. ‘Rocco won’t be happy to see you, that’s for sure. But don’t let that sway you. Use your own judgement.’

There was no sign of the concierge when Rocco arrived back at the apartment block in southern Paris. It was eight in the evening and the streets of Montrouge were quiet. He buzzed to gain entry, and announced his name into a speaker box. When the door clicked, he made his way up to the fourth floor, his footsteps echoing on the tiled stairs. He kidded himself that he needed the exercise, but knew it wasn’t that. Something about the ancient lift raised the spectre of being caught in a confined space, with no way out … another reminder of his time in the suffocating jungles of Indonesia.

A neat, slim man in his sixties was standing at the top of the stairs on the fourth-floor landing. He was comfortably dressed in expensive slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, with leather slippers on his feet. He nodded and extended his hand.

‘Inspector. I would like to say welcome, but I have a
distinct feeling this is not the right occasion. Please, come this way.’ He turned and led the way into an apartment overlooking the front of the building. It was neat – like the owner – and almost spartan in appearance, with no clutter, few ornaments and only a few shelves of books to relieve the cool colour of plain walls.

‘I break with common practice and have coffee at this time of the evening, Inspector,’ Rotenbourg announced. ‘I find it helps me sleep, although I’m always being advised otherwise. Will you join me or would you prefer something stronger?’

‘Coffee’s good, thank you.’ Rocco made a show of checking the books while Rotenbourg disappeared through a doorway into a small kitchen. He hadn’t got far before the man returned moments later with a tray piled with cups, saucers and a battered metal percolator with a glass top.

‘My mother’s,’ Rotenbourg explained easily. ‘Makes the best coffee this side of Morocco. You’ve given me a good excuse to use it for more than just myself.’ He indicated a chair. ‘Please, sit down and help yourself.’

While the ritual pouring and addition of cream and sugar went on, they were both silent, until Rotenbourg put his cup down and said, ‘So. This is not good news, I take it?’ His manner was wary, Rocco noted. But wary and composed. He hoped it was going to make things easier, although time would tell, depending if he had got the correct Rotenbourg or not.

He explained about the death of a man in the therapy pool of a sanitarium, glossing over the lack of his identity by saying that there was a question of confidentiality, but that he wanted to move things along a bit faster. He added
that a member of staff had let slip the name, but that it had not been possible to confirm it through any official channels.

‘I’m sorry if it seems indelicate,’ he added, ‘but there are times when rules and regulations get in the way of resolving a case such as this.’

Rotenbourg nodded. ‘Bureaucrats love to surround themselves with words and safeguards,’ he acknowledged. ‘Pity the rest of us who have to live with the results. How did you find me?’

‘I used to work out of the Clichy commissariat. They helped.’ When Rotenbourg frowned, he went on to explain, ‘You had some damage done to your car, I believe.’

The other man’s face cleared. ‘Ah, that. I’d almost forgotten. Some street kids, I believe, although they never found out who did it.’ He examined his fingernails. ‘Tell me, did you get a look at this unfortunate person?’

Rocco nodded. ‘I did. But I’d be lying if I said I could describe him.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ He turned to a small side table and picked up a photograph in a frame, lying face down. He handed it across and said, ‘Is this him?’

Rocco stared at the photo. The man smiling out at him was in his fifties, slightly heavy around the jowls, with thinning hair and frameless glasses. The resemblance to Pascal Rotenbourg was clear in the eyes and around the mouth.

It was the man Rocco had seen in the pool at the Clos du Lac.

He handed the photo back. ‘I’m very sorry.’

Rotenbourg took the frame and studied it for a few
seconds, then brushed his fingertips across the glass before putting it back on the table, this time face up. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. Outwardly he seemed unaffected by the news, but Rocco could see a pulse beating in his forehead.

‘How did he die?’

Rocco hesitated only for a second, then gave the details of the Clos du Lac and the swimming device that had caused his death. Although Pascal Rotenbourg would probably never find them out for himself, he felt he owed it to the man to be honest.

Pascal listened without expression all the way through. After a few moments silence, he said, ‘And the official conclusion is what?’

‘That I can’t tell you.’ Didn’t want to, was what he wanted to say. He was hoping this man could give him a lead, no matter how tenuous.

‘You’re thinking it was suicide? It sounds … complicated.’

‘Possibly. I’m afraid I’ve seen more complex methods, though. Any drugs he was on could have contributed, of course.’ He continued apologetically, ‘Is it possible your brother was suffering from depression?’

‘My brother Simon worked for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Inspector. To me, that kind of stifling environment would have certainly been depressing. But Simon was nothing like me. He loved his work. I’m not sure what he did exactly, but it was mainly in the area of overseas trade.’ He smiled thinly. ‘He wasn’t a spy, in case that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘I wasn’t, but it’s good to know.’

‘But spying is what he finally did. What probably got him killed.’

The words dropped into the room like a thunderbolt, and Rocco, about to take a sip of his coffee, froze. ‘I’m sorry?’

Rotenbourg stirred in his chair, and for the first time allowed some emotion to cross his face. ‘I don’t mean he got caught digging his fingers into our defence files or taking photographs of documents and turning them into microdots, Inspector. Nothing quite so mundane. But he was threatening to reveal some information that he had stumbled upon. I believe that is why he was squirrelled away in some secret place such as the one you just described.’

‘Can you tell me what he found out?’

‘Certainly, although I doubt that you as a state employee will be able to do much with it. However, it might make me feel a lot better knowing that a man who relishes bending the rules to get to a solution also knows what Simon did.’ He dusted imaginary lint off his trousers and continued, ‘My brother and I were never very close; we had different paths, different aims. I ran my own business in the clothing industry for many years, while he preferred the safety of the government sector.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Much good it did him, from what you now tell me … although I can’t say I’m surprised.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, in spite of our differences we kept in touch. About six months ago, Simon came to see me. He was very … disturbed, I think the word is. He had discovered evidence of a conspiracy within the Foreign Affairs Ministry to direct trade negotiations away from certain countries in favour of others, drastically affecting certain industrial figures here in France and overseas. Now, you
might say isn’t that what the Ministry is supposed to do?’ He shrugged. ‘To an extent, yes. As long as France does not lose important trade deals which endanger jobs here, that is their primary concern.’

Rocco was already getting a sense of something nasty in the woodshed, but he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. ‘Which countries are we talking about?’

‘One being favoured was communist China versus Taiwan. The Taiwanese are already unhappy at the signals they are getting. According to Simon, the deals being discussed were mainly defence issues.’

‘Arms?’

‘Correct. Along with a few add-ons, like agricultural machinery and engines to please the doves on both sides. The other country favoured was Russia, although I don’t know who was disadvantaged. He never got round to telling me. His main concern was that important figures in what he called the “grey” government – the civil service, in the Quai d’Orsay and Place Beauvau – were working rather too closely with certain influential industry leaders to steer talks along, shall we say, chosen routes.’

‘Wouldn’t industry overall have been the winners?’

‘Some of them, absolutely. But where there are winners, Inspector, there are always losers. Take my own commercial sector, clothing. For every deal I won, one of my competitors would lose out – and vice versa.’ He gave a slow, emphatic shrug. ‘It’s the way of the world. Next time, one of us would have to sharpen our pencil accordingly and hope to redress the balance. But what if I had managed to gain an advantage over my competitors by enlisting the help of government figures who should have remained neutral in the matter?’

‘It would change things.’

‘Of course. And what Simon told me about wasn’t a deal for a few thousand shirts or dresses; he was talking major trade agreements, of the kind that companies live and die by and countries such as ours will do almost anything to secure.’

‘You’re talking about collusion at a high level … in return for what? I can see what it would be for the industries concerned, but why would the government employees seek to steer the negotiations?’

Pascal held out his hand and rubbed his fingers together. It produced a faint rasping sound in the silence of the room. ‘Money, what else? Money and influence – even the promise of jobs in the private sector, if that’s what they wanted. Help sign off a trade deal worth many millions of francs and you could expect substantial rewards for your efforts.’ His face twitched with bitterness. ‘I might not have been very close to my brother, Inspector, but the idea that he was silenced for profit makes my soul ache.’ He sighed. ‘Sadly, the people working for money or power are the easiest to understand. I’ve met plenty of them in my time, and business thrives for them and because of them. It’s the ones working for duty who frighten me most. The patriots.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’re the most relentless in their aims, the most committed. And our country has more than its fair share of men who will do anything –
anything
– under the thin and misguided veneer of their patriotic duty. Even murder.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘All I can tell you is what Simon told me – and what
subsequently happened to him. He took his concerns to his superiors, and laid out everything he knew. Names, dates, details. They did nothing, merely told him that they would investigate. Then he began to notice small things. Things that frightened him.’

‘Like what?’

‘He was being followed. Here in Paris, then when he travelled overseas. His mail was delayed, and he began to notice odd sounds on his telephone line. Friends found themselves being questioned about him, then rumours began to circulate about his reliability and suitability for the job. For a man who had reached a level of some responsibility it was akin to being attacked in public and having his sanity questioned. In the end he broke. Or, at least, that’s what they said. That’s when he came to see me. Shortly afterwards, he was suspended and confined to a secure hospital just outside Paris.’

‘Were you able to see him?’

‘Only under supervision, and never for long.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘I say this not to insult you, Inspector, but have you ever considered just how close we are to living in a police state?’

Rocco said nothing. He already knew there was no answer that would satisfy this man. And there were many like him who were level-headed and sane.

‘Everything hinges on control through power: the army, the paramilitary machine, the police – even the fire brigade. And worst of all, the invisible army of bureaucrats.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Do you ever come up against them – the men in suits? I would hazard a guess that you do.’

Rocco nodded, remembering the various grey men with
whom he’d butted heads. He allowed a few moments to pass, but it was clear that Pascal was done.

‘You’re saying you think your brother was silenced by the state because he knew things that he shouldn’t.’

Another shrug. ‘Possibly. Probably. Actually, I’m saying he was silenced by certain elements working
within
the state because he was willing to question what was going on. And questions like that are not permitted.’

‘Do you have any proof of this? Anything at all?’

Rotenbourg sighed. ‘Simon didn’t leave me a dossier of facts and names, if that’s what you mean. But he did tell me something interesting. The last time I saw him before he was moved on – undoubtedly to this Clos du Lac place you mentioned – the escort who was with us all the time during my visits was called away for a telephone call. It wasn’t long, but it gave me a chance to ask Simon what was really going on. He was having trouble organising his thoughts by then – I’m pretty sure because of the drugs he was being given to calm his nerves. But he managed to tell me that there was a plan in place to force an important industry figure to abandon negotiations with the government of Taiwan and switch to China instead. This individual favoured Taiwan because he didn’t trust the Chinese – and he was digging in his heels on the matter and looked like taking senior government figures with him. It was threatening to destabilise the whole series of negotiations, so a plan was hatched to use “extreme methods” to change this man’s mind. It was Simon’s emphasis on those words, not mine. The economic figures, he said, easily justified the means to those involved, although the French government itself would not have been aware of anything underhand.’

‘Who was this man?’

‘I never found out. Our escort returned and I was asked to leave.’ He stared out of the window for a long moment, before turning back to Rocco. ‘That was the last time I spoke to my brother.’

‘Do you have anything to support your belief that he was killed? I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but it’s a question we have to address.’

Rotenbourg nodded emphatically. ‘Absolutely I have proof. The one single thing that tells me his death wasn’t an elaborate and sickly form of suicide, Inspector, is that Simon had a pathological fear of water. It had been with him since he was a child. He would no more have considered climbing into a harness such as you describe and drowning himself than he would have contemplated swimming
La Manche
.’