Death at the Clos du Lac (14 page)

Her mobile prison had moved again.

After an interminable period of inactivity, with no sounds to connect to the outside world, Leather Jacket had opened the door and told her to lie down. Moments later, the engine had started and they had rumbled over what seemed like a patch of rough ground, before picking up speed. She had lost track of time, slipping between wakefulness and fractured sleep, her head spinning as if she were drunk. Then the van had slowed and stopped, and the engine had been turned off.

Silence.

She had waited a long time before hearing footsteps. The door had opened and Leather Jacket had placed a cardboard box on the floor by her side. She had leant over and felt the contents. It held fruit, bread and a plastic bowl of what smelt like rice and vegetables. She was becoming quite adept at telling what she had by smell and touch,
she thought. Much more of this and she’d know what was coming before it reached her.

‘What time is it?’ The question came without thought, a touch of normality, as if she had woken alongside her husband on a normal day and all was well with the world. She went hot, oddly embarrassed at sharing such an intimate moment, although she doubted Leather Jacket would have made the connection. She had the distinct impression, although she could have been wrong, that there was no Mrs Leather Jacket waiting at home for him.

‘Early,’ he said shortly. ‘Or late. What’s the difference?’

She nodded, and felt for the bottle of water in the box. What difference indeed? Late or early, she was always thirsty in this bloody cell. As her fingers found the smooth shape of the bottle, she paused. Her stomach jumped.

Toothpaste. She could smell fresh toothpaste on his breath. And the air coming in from the outside was cool and moist.

Signs of morning.

She smiled inside her hood. It was only a small victory – a tiny one in the grand scheme of things. But to her, right here and now, an important one.

‘What’s up – not hungry?’ the man demanded, misinterpreting her hesitation. ‘I can take it away if you like, throw it in the hedge. It’s all the same to me.’

Hedge
. Was that another clue? Were they near a park?

‘No. Leave it, please. I’m stiff, that’s all. I need time to loosen up.’

There was a familiar clank as he placed an empty bedpan on the floor, and she heard him grunt as he lifted the one she had used, then backed out of the van, closing the door behind him.

She no longer felt any embarrassment at the deeply personal nature of the exchanges. Since he had chosen to put her through this, he could put up with the indignity of handling her soils twice a day. She had even developed, after the initial desire to scream with frustration, an ability to deal with her panties and stockings as efficiently as her constraints allowed, while blind and bound and trying not to spill the bedpan as it filled. At least the man had finally agreed to untie her legs, which had helped. And at least, she decided, if his mind had ever veered in that direction even for a moment, he surely couldn’t feel anything like a physical interest in her. Not now.

She ate an apple and nibbled at the rice and vegetables, sipping water to help it down. Her throat was still raw, but not as bad as after the first day. She was adjusting. She wondered if she was becoming institutionalised. And what her husband was doing. He must be going out of his head.

As usual, the man had given no explanation as to why they had moved again earlier, merely saying that she should lie down and be ready. She had done so at once; small rebellions or demands were sensible in her view, to at least demonstrate in a small way that she was no weeping wallflower. But allowing herself to become injured through her own stupidity was ridiculous. Besides, she was still waiting for that slight chink in his armour, that little gap that might allow him to say something that would tell her where they were and what they were going to do with her.

But there had been one development: she had heard a conversation between the two men, this time from the other side of the bulkhead panel between the back of the van and the driver’s cab. It had been brief but revelatory.

‘…
had orders to move
…
a nosy cop coming to see why we’re
…
here.
’ It had sounded like Leather Jacket, although she couldn’t be certain.

‘
At last. Getting fed up with
…
glad to get rid
…
no longer our problem.
’

‘…
we must do
…
handover
…
don’t want them sending that crazy legionnaire bastard after us.
’

They stopped talking. Moments later the van rocked slightly and the rear door opened. It was Leather Jacket.

‘I have something for you,’ he said. She heard the hiss of released gas and the glug of liquid.
He was pouring her a drink
. He took her hand and pressed a bottle into it. It was cold and pear-shaped, with beadings of moisture down the sides. She recognised the smell of citrus. ‘Freshly opened,’ he told her. ‘Frankly, I got sick of seeing you drink tepid water.’ He loosened the drawstring on the hood and held a cup to her mouth. She felt the glorious liquid fizz across her tongue and down her throat, and threw all caution to the wind. It was such a relief she nearly cried. She gulped the rest like a child given a rare treat.

Soon they were on the move again. The earlier exchange between the men had told her very little, save that they, Leather Jacket and the driver, were scared of somebody – and it wasn’t the police. Whoever they answered to, she decided sleepily, laying back and feeling her eyes begin to close, it sounded as if he would not put up with failure.

She yawned and wondered who the crazy legionnaire was. Maybe Robert, who knew some very strange people with dangerous eyes and quiet manners, had some even
crazier legionnaires who might get her out of the living hell she was in.

It was only as she found herself drifting off that she realised the noise and movement of the van were receding, leaving her with a dull, drifting sensation, and the citrus drink had left her with an unusually bitter aftertaste in her mouth.

When Rocco arrived at the office next morning, he found René Desmoulins waiting for him with a knowing grin.

‘Some snoot from the Ministry was asking after you,’ he said. ‘He called twice, demanding to know when you were in. Have you been annoying them again?’

‘Only a little. Did he leave a name?’

‘No. I asked, but he got shy. He said he’d call back.’

‘How do you know he was from the Ministry, then?’

‘Because he sounded like he’d got a stick up his arse and refused to leave his name.’ Desmoulins smiled. ‘As my old maths teacher used to say, “QED”.’

Rocco nodded his thanks and went to his desk. There was a note to call Michel Santer. He dialled the number at the Clichy commissariat, and got put through.

‘You move in mysterious ways, don’t you?’ said Santer. ‘The Renault came up blank. We all know what that means.’

‘Official,’ said Rocco. Or criminal, although he doubted that.

‘That’s my boy.’

‘And the woman?’

‘Now that’s where it gets interesting. According to the records, the driver’s name is Jacqueline Roget. She’s the daughter of a career diplomat who’s served most of his time overseas. She works for the Interior Ministry, although I haven’t found out which section. I floated the name around and it seems she has various friends at Place Beauvau, but nobody special.’

The Interior Ministry. Like a bad penny, forever in the background. He shouldn’t have been surprised, given the way they operated; any and all means were permissible in the interests of the state, even, it seemed, using the seductive offspring of one of their own to spring a trap. Only it hadn’t quite worked in his case. As before, proving it would be next to impossible. He was willing to bet that one of the young woman’s ‘friends’ was Marcel Levignier.

‘There’s something else,’ Santer continued. ‘I think your Mademoiselle Roget is playing two sides of the same street.’

‘How so?’

‘I had a rare moment of inspiration, and ran the car number past a friend of mine who works on buildings security in and around the Quai d’Orsay. Her car has been logged in five times over the past two months at an annexe to the Pensions Ministry. He didn’t say it directly, you understand, but he gave me that squinty look.’

‘What?’

‘The look that says they have nothing to do with pensions. He sort of hinted they might be part of the DST.’

The DST (Directorate of Territorial Surveillance) was the domestic intelligence agency responsible for, among
other things, counter-espionage and the protection of national technology and industry. ‘Is he sure?’

‘Well, she’s quite nice to look at, and he remembers faces. I know Bobo well – he’s good at that kind of stuff.’

Rocco thought it over. He wasn’t sure what it told him other than that Jacqueline Roget, she of the fragrant perfume and the broken heel, mixed with some very devious people. It was not impossible for people to work for both agencies, either on loan or semi-permanently. But which one had set her on him last night? He couldn’t believe the DST would have an interest, although nothing was beyond them. The ISD, perhaps?

‘You’re getting in deep again, Lucas,’ Santer warned him. He only called him Lucas when he was worried. ‘If they’re going to these lengths to do whatever it is they’re trying to do, they must have their reasons.’

‘Or they have something to hide.’

‘I don’t even like to think about that. Hiding things is their job. Is whatever you’re working on worth it? Can’t you simply enjoy the benefits of a quiet, rural existence and homely country girls?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Rocco replied. ‘Thanks for the help.’

‘I’m serious. If you were an important figure in the government or, say, the military, I’d say you had just missed being drawn into a honeytrap last night. Think yourself lucky, my friend: had you not had the resistance of a monk, not to say the romantic soul of a peasant, you could now be compromised … or worse.’

Rocco put the phone down and thought over what Santer had said. He didn’t think the DST or Levignier’s group would sink to the outright murder of a cop; but they would almost
certainly try to put him off an investigation if it suited them.

His phone rang.

‘Inspector Rocco?’ The voice wasn’t one he recognised, but it carried the authoritative ring of someone accustomed to being heard. The caller Desmoulins had mentioned?

‘Yes.’

‘Why are you making enquiries about the Devrye-Martin family?’

The question threw him for a moment. Not about last night, then. He said, ‘Who’s asking?’

The man batted the question aside. ‘Let’s just say that it’s enough for you to know that I represent the Ministry of the Interior. I say again, why the interest in this family?’

‘None of your business,’ Rocco replied easily. He put the phone down and waited. He had no doubts that the call was indeed from the Ministry, but he wanted to see how long it would take the man to call back.

Two minutes went by before it rang again.

‘Is my name good enough for you?’ It was Levignier of the ISD. He sounded tense. ‘Speak to my colleague, Inspector Rocco, or face sanctions.’

Rocco thought about it. Pursuing an investigation wasn’t an offence, but disobeying Ministry orders was. He said, ‘What kind of sanctions?’

‘Let me see. How about suspension for obstruction and lack of cooperation to start with, along with unprofessional conduct? Then, since you will subsequently become a civilian, criminal prosecution for interference in official matters that do not concern you. Does that sound enough?’ There was a thump as the handset hit a desk. Moments later another voice came on. It was the first man again.

‘Let me repeat my question, Inspector. Why the interest in this family?’

Rocco thought about it. If they were asking this, they knew he’d made enquiries about the family, and therefore Stefan specifically. So why were they being coy about mentioning his name? Still, it meant an alarm had been tripped somewhere along the line between him speaking to the policeman in Evreux, and the request being put to the local newspaper. Someone somewhere had been tipped off.

Captain Antain in Evreux hadn’t been exaggerating: the Devrye-Martin family had influence, and they had evidently used it.

‘The name appeared on some property recovered from the Clos du Lac,’ he answered neutrally. ‘I was following a lead in relation to the killing of André Paulus, the security guard at the sanitarium. Levignier knows about it. Ask him.’

‘One moment.’ There was a hollow sound as the phone was covered, during which Rocco could hear only a murmur in the background. Then the man came back. ‘There is no connection, Inspector Rocco. I think you are wasting your time.’

‘You can’t know that. Nobody can.’

The man ignored him. ‘The Paulus death must have been due to an unrelated matter, outside the sanitarium. I think we can all imagine what that might have been. You should concentrate your energies on pursuing that avenue. If you cannot find a solution, the case should be abandoned until more evidence is forthcoming. I’m sure you must have other important duties to attend to.’

The line went dead. Rocco put the phone down. The message was clear.

He’d been warned off.

Rocco picked up one of the photography magazines and leafed idly through the pages. Being reminded of Stefan had set him thinking about what the man might know … and where he might be now. In some state-sanctioned hideaway, no doubt, courtesy of his family’s influence. He tossed the magazine aside, frustrated by the tangle that was opening up before him. He had no illusions about the workings of government departments. To most of them, the furtherance and protection of the state underlined everything they did. But he also knew that every barrel held at least one rotten human apple who saw nothing wrong in misusing the power of the state machinery, whether in some perverse interpretation of their duty to the country or for their own criminal or career ends.

The magazine had landed on the edge of his out tray, and had balanced in such a way that the pages began to flick over in slow motion. He watched it, wondering where to direct his attentions next. Stefan or …

The pages stopped turning. Settled back and lay still. The uppermost photo was a startling picture of sand dunes in the early morning, the black and white showing the contrast been shadow and light, smooth sand and ragged peaks. A sidebar gave the technical details of the snapshot, from the camera and film used, down to the settings, lens size and the time of day taken.

And something written in hand along the inside margin.

He reached forward and tugged the magazine towards him. The writing was faint, in pencil, and hard up against the crease in the spine. Not so much hidden but tucked away where it would not be easily noticed. He turned the magazine sideways and worked his way through the scrawl, letter by letter.

12 bis, Rue des Noces, Pontoise.

He sat up. Glanced at the map on the wall. He knew Pontoise. It was a commune in the Val d’Oise, on the north-western outreaches of Paris. Small enough to be ignored and nudging close enough to its capital neighbour to hide within its shadow. He’d been there a few times following suspects on the run from Clichy. The town was a short car ride or train journey from the capital to make it a first stop for desperadoes who didn’t quite fancy their chances out in the countryside. Other than the criminals he’d chased down, he remembered the place for its contrasts of an elaborate and historic cathedral and the gloomy narrowness of some of the backstreets where he’d been forced to trawl for runaways.

But why would Stefan have written such an address in one of his magazines? He checked the front cover again. Recent enough to make his nerves tingle.

He pulled the phone towards him, intending to ask the front desk to get the number for the Pontoise police, then thought better of it. If the note in the magazine meant what he thought it did, talking to the local police could be a mistake. Not that he suspected them of anything underhand; but if any word that had been put out to watch out for anyone seeking information on the occupants of the house in Rue des Noces carried official clout, they would have no option but to report it.

The problem was, treading on a neighbouring district’s toes could provoke a lot of questions over jurisdictional discourtesies. And Massin would hate that.

Tough decision. He picked up his car keys and looked across the room to where Desmoulins was scratching out an arrest record. He looked bored and restless. Rocco waited until the detective’s sixth sense pricked him into looking up, then nodded towards the car park at the back and waved his keys.

Desmoulins dropped what he was doing and reached for his gun and jacket.

‘I need someone to watch my back,’ Rocco explained, when they met up outside. ‘But this is slightly outside our area,’ he warned him.

‘Slightly?’

‘Well, a lot.’

‘Fine by me,’ said Desmoulins happily. ‘That paperwork’s driving me insane. I’d much rather be out there doing something constructive. Who are we going to shoot?’

They climbed in Rocco’s car and he briefed the detective as he drove.

Number 12
bis
had a ratty-looking door adjacent to a butcher’s shop not far from the town’s railway station. Rue des Noces was a misnomer, Rocco decided, looking at the depressed state of the buildings and the general air of gloom caused by the dark brickwork and lack of colour. If any weddings had taken place here recently, they had got off to a poor start.

He drove past the house and turned into a side street out of sight. Parking his car outside would have been like sending up a signal flare; if Stefan Devrye-Martin was inside, as he was hoping, he doubted the man would be keen on receiving visitors.

They climbed out and walked back to the corner. The street was quiet save for a couple of old ladies in traditional black, shuffling along clutching shopping bags.

‘There’s an alley two doors along,’ Rocco said quietly. ‘I’ll take the front door, you see if there’s an exit at the back. And watch yourself.’

‘Got you.’ Desmoulins sloped away, hugging the buildings on the same side of the street as number 12
bis
, hands in his pockets and trying to look as if he belonged. Rocco gave him a few seconds start to get into place, then followed.

He arrived at the door. Close to it showed peeling paint and a filthy pane of frosted glass behind an ornate metal grill. Dark-blue metal shutters covered the downstairs and upstairs windows, and the brickwork was in need of some attention. He counted to ten, then knocked firmly and waited. Seconds later he heard the scuff of footsteps approaching.

‘Who is it?’ The voice was wary, but familiar. It was Stefan.

‘Simon,’ said Rocco. ‘Simon Ardois.’

‘
What?
’ The door flew open. Stefan stood there, mouth open, dressed in a sloppy jumper and stained slacks, with a pair of ancient leather slippers on his feet. A cigarette hung from his lower lip, held in place by a line of dry nicotine-stained saliva. The jumper was riding high on one side, revealing an expanse of belly covered in hairs and a red rash. Rocco didn’t like to think what the cause of that might be.

Stefan did a double take on seeing Rocco and tried to slam the door against him. He would have found it easier to stem an incoming tide. Rocco jammed one foot against the door and put his hand against the man’s chest, gently but firmly propelling him backwards into the hallway. It was like pushing a giant, sweaty marshmallow, and far less pleasant. He made a mental note to wash his hands afterwards.

Stefan’s legs pumped rapidly as he tried to keep his balance. He bounced off the wall behind him, his torso wobbling, and blinked in shock. The cigarette detached itself from his lip and dropped to the linoleum-covered floor. His mouth moved in protest but only a squeak came out. Rocco kept up the momentum, steering him past a flight of uncarpeted stairs piled with boxes, into a long, narrow front-to-back room untidy with clothing, dirty plates and mismatched furniture, all layered in dust. A small kitchen ran off to an extended part of the building. It was as squalid as the rest of the place, and the feel of grease hung heavy in the atmosphere.

He pushed Stefan towards a sofa strewn with an array of photographic equipment – lenses, tripod, bags and a
camera – and forced him to sit. Then he went to the rear of the room and peered through the window. A tiny yard strewn with rubbish ended barely three metres away in a high wall and a gate, opening, he guessed, onto a passage for access.

‘You’re not an easy man to find,’ said Rocco. ‘Are you shy or just trying to hide something? Like the fact that you’re supposed to be dead.’ He returned and stood in front of the sofa, preventing Stefan from getting to his feet.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Stefan rubbed his chest where Rocco had pushed him. His mouth was slack with shock. ‘What are you talking about? You can’t do this to me – you’ve no right.’

‘Why not?’ Rocco walked round the room, studying the contents. The place was what some might charitably call minimalist, meaning sparsely furnished, with the sofa, a couple of chairs and a table bearing a battered typewriter and a box of envelopes. He flicked through them. They were blank. ‘Because your family says so?’

‘Huh?’

‘You heard.’ He turned and faced Stefan. ‘You think you’re untouchable because your family has influence, don’t you? You’d better get wise. You’re not untouchable and you’re not as invisible as you might think.’ He leant forward. ‘What, for example, would the good citizens of Evreux say if they knew you were not only alive and breathing, but back on French soil? You think they’d be understanding, just because your family has friends in high places? I wouldn’t bet too much money on family connections if I were you; I’ve got a feeling you might be on the verge of becoming an expendable commodity.’

‘You’re not making sense.’ Stefan struggled to get up but Rocco prodded him with a finger until he subsided again. ‘This is illegal, what you’re doing!’

‘You’re probably right. But not as illegal as what you’ve been up to.’ Rocco leant over and picked up the camera from the sofa. It was a Nikon, and looked very expensive. A long cardboard box lay alongside it. He opened the end flap. The box contained a telephoto lens of the kind he’d seen used by photojournalists in Indochina, and more often by horse racing enthusiasts. ‘Nice piece of equipment. Expensive. What do you use it for?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘You think?’ He dropped the lens back in the box, eliciting a squeak of protest from Stefan. ‘I’m not making judgements; I’d just like to know, that’s all. Why – what’s the secret? Or is there something you don’t want me to know?’ He tipped up a hard-backed chair to shake off a pile of magazines and sat down opposite Stefan. He looked at him with a faint smile and counted to twenty. Silence was always a great way to loosen tongues, he’d found, especially with the guilty. ‘Come on, Stefan. There’s no need for us not to be friends, is there? Help me out here.’

‘Why should I? We have nothing to talk about.’

‘Really? See, you haven’t even asked what I want. That’s a bit of a giveaway in my profession.’

Stefan merely looked sulky. He shrugged. ‘All right. So I like taking photos. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Photos?’

‘Landscapes. Pastoral stuff.’ His lower lip was trembling and he was breathing rapidly. Rocco wasn’t sure what the man’s normal colour might be, but he didn’t look healthy.
He hoped he wasn’t about to have a heart attack on him.

‘Don’t get excited. I’m not really interested in your decadent little hobbies, Stefan. I’ll leave that to others.’ It was a lie, but he felt no guilt about it. If he could find anything on this man, he would. But for now Stefan appeared to be protected from any further action.

‘What do you want, then? Why are you here – and why pretend to be Simon Ardois?’

‘Because it was quieter than the alternative.’

‘Huh?’

‘Kicking down your front door. Now, let’s stop messing about. I want to hear everything you can tell me about the Clos du Lac and the people in it.’