Death on the Marais (20 page)
‘What did he say about the photo?’ asked Claude.
‘That’s the odd thing. I don’t think he’d ever seen it before.’
‘Really? It was on the board in his house.’
‘I know. If he’s telling the truth, then someone else put it there – possibly the same person who tried to kill him. Unsettle him first by reminding him of the past … then bam.’
‘Christ, this is getting complicated. What next?’
‘We check and recheck our facts. Can you meet me down at the Blue Pool in twenty minutes? There’s something I want to look at.’
He went out to the car and saw Mme Denis on the other side of the hedge, hoeing her garden. She waved at him.
‘You seem very busy, Inspector,’ she said genially. ‘This place hasn’t seen such drama in years.’
‘Sorry about that,’ he replied. ‘I’ll try to get it under control as quickly as possible.’
She shrugged fatalistically. ‘Good luck with that. I’ve lived here long enough to know everyone and everything, and do you know what, Inspector? There are always surprises. Always.’
He nodded at this touch of philosophy and got in the car, then drove down to the
marais
. The village was quiet. He eyed the co-op as he passed through the square, but the windows reflected blankly back at him.
Parking on the turning circle near the big lodge, he put on his new boots. There was no sign of Claude yet, but that was fine: he wanted time by himself to think things through. As he made his way through the undergrowth to the Blue Pool, he felt clumsy in the unaccustomed footwear, but at least it kept out the water soaking the ground underfoot.
He circled the pool several paces back from the edge, studying the various directions of approach from the
marais
. It quickly became obvious that there were few options available, either because of impenetrable bushes or stretches of soft ground oozing with dangerous-looking mud. Even a heavy plank of wood, no doubt having once been used to negotiate a stretch of soft ground, was being absorbed gradually under its own weight.
He moved closer to the pool, narrowing down the most likely direction, then went round to the opposite
side and knelt down, running his eye over the long grass on the far side to see if there were any telltale signs from this perspective. He could just about make out a dark, zigzag pattern showing through the undergrowth where someone had walked or run, but it was too close to where he and Claude had stood on their first visit to be certain.
A car engine disturbed the silence. He recognised the urgent whine of a 2CV, followed by the tinny slamming of a door. Moments later came the tramp of footsteps and Claude appeared.
Rocco bent back to his task. Then he felt a jolt. A clump of earth had been torn away from the edge of the pool on the far side, like a bite from a pie crust. It was too distinctive to be mistaken, but had he been on the other side, where Claude was now standing, it would have been hidden by the overhanging grass. He stood up and walked round until he reached the spot, beckoning Claude to come closer. He needed another set of eyes to witness this. The grass here was flattened, and when he bent over to examine the edge of the pool, he felt the familiar thrill of the hunter finding a clue.
‘See what you read from this.’ He stood aside to allow Claude to examine the spot, and ran his eyes over the surrounding area of undergrowth. He could almost picture the scene like a shot from a movie.
Nathalie Berbier must have run through the grass from the direction of the lodges, her path just about visible from the bent and broken stems. Too heavy and coarse to adjust themselves easily, they had
browned and gone dry, leaving a faint but discernible trail. Unaware of the danger in her path, she had run straight towards the pool. Propelled by whatever forces were driving her, she had been unable to stop herself in time, and had plunged over the edge. The water soaking into her uniform and whatever drink or substances had been in her system would have done the rest.
‘Did she fall or was she pushed?’ murmured Claude, reading the situation.
‘I think she fell. If she was pushed, there would be signs of a struggle.’
He bent down alongside Claude and peered over the edge. As he had seen before, the sides were clear white with a blue tinge, curving gently like the inside of a giant cereal bowl, the surface smooth and unbroken all the way down to the dark funnel in the centre. He reached below the surface and dug his fingertips into the side, feeling a shiver worm its way down his back as they sank without resistance into the soft texture. There was no chance of anyone pulling themselves out with this stuff, especially a woman weighed down by wet clothing. He pulled out his hand and rubbed his fingers together.
Chalk. Soft and slimy. He wiped his hands on the grass and remembered the white substance on the dead woman’s shoes and what he’d taken as scuff marks on her uniform.
‘How did you arrive at this?’ Claude sounded faintly sceptical, but Rocco could tell he agreed with the scenario. ‘You had one quick look days ago.’
‘Random signs, that’s all.’ He explained about the fresh water in Nathalie Berbier’s lungs and stomach and the chalk marks on her shoes. ‘This is the only place where fresh water gathers. Anywhere else and her lungs and clothing would have been full of silt.’
‘Like the lakes.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I see. But how did the killer get her out without leaving more signs? She’d have been very heavy.’
Rocco led him to the other side of the pool to where he’d seen the discarded plank of wood. He had no proof of what he was thinking, but it seemed a logical explanation. ‘I once saw a river cop use a ladder to get a drunk out of the Seine. No way he could have lifted him, so he used leverage instead. The killer would have slid this under the body, then dragged her along the plank until he could lift her clear.’ He peered along the roughened wood and plucked a thread of dark cloth from the grain along one edge. ‘There. Minimal traces left behind and just possible for a strong man to do.’
‘Or two.’
Rocco shook his head. He’d discounted that possibility, although with no rational explanation other than simple gut feel. ‘Two men would have left more traces: heavier treads, more difficult to conceal. This was one man being very careful.’
‘So why take her to the cemetery? He could have dumped her in one of the lakes or buried her in the marsh. She’d have been gone for good.’
‘Because burying a body would have taken time. He might have been seen. And bodies have a nasty
habit of reappearing. Dumping it elsewhere also took the connection away from the
marais
.’
‘And the lodges.’
‘And the lodges.’ He turned and looked in the direction of the big lodge, hidden by the trees.
‘Doesn’t seem right, does it?’ breathed Claude, as they walked back to their cars. ‘Not in this place.’
‘It never does,’ Rocco said calmly. It was always the seemingly innocuous which carried the greatest threat. He’d learnt that very quickly in Indochina, a country of beauty and innocence masking horrible dangers. Only this time it wasn’t some exotic and harmless-looking jungle clearing hiding unseen traps: sharpened stakes tipped with excreta to infect anyone who stepped on them. This was the equivalent to home territory, greenery just like that familiar from his boyhood. There were no poisonous dangers lurking here other than the occasional rabbit snare, no mines waiting for a careless footfall, no trained killers waiting in the greenery with AK47s set on rapid fire.
Just a clear, blue pond where nobody dared swim.
Rocco walked back into the house after saying goodbye to Claude and was greeted by the phone ringing. He sat down to take the call, then noticed the Resistance photo lying on the floor.
‘Lucas? Hello … are you there?’ It was Viviane.
‘Yes. Sorry – I was just checking something.’ He bent and picked up the photo, and looked around the room, the hairs on his neck rising. Everything looked normal, untouched, as he had left it … yet he was certain he’d wedged the snap under the phone directory.
‘You wanted to speak to Sophie Richert,’ Viviane continued, ‘in number 10 … across the hall from that young Berbier woman.’
‘I did?’ Rocco had to stop and think, separating
in his mind the murder of Nathalie Berbier from the attempted murder of Didier Marthe. He’d found in the past that working cases in tandem like this caused moments of confusion, but never quite the way it was just now. Perhaps because these two had occurred in the same small corner of France, rather than in unconnected streets in the capital, often as distinct as foreign countries in appearance, atmosphere and population. ‘I do, you’re right.’
‘Well, you’d better hurry. She’s on her way to America for several months. She wasn’t keen on being involved, but Nathalie was a friend and I said she could trust you. She’ll be at the airport this evening at six. Can you meet her there?’
He looked at his watch. The airport meant Orly, on the other side of Paris. It would be a bastard of a drive but he could make it – just – as long as there were no delays. There was no guarantee that the young woman would have anything useful to add to his meagre stock of information on the background of Nathalie Berbier, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to talk to her – especially as she seemed to be instigating it herself. In any case, once she was in the States, she might just as well be in another world and beyond his reach.
‘Tell her I’ll meet her in the bar near check-in,’ he told Viviane. He remembered the small bar, usually crowded and smoke filled, the final watering hole for nervous flyers and, in his experience, criminals fleeing overseas one step ahead of the law. It wasn’t the ideal place to conduct a murder interview, but it was the
only familiar spot he could think of at short notice. ‘Thanks. I owe you.’
He dropped the phone back on the stand and changed his muddied clothes for clean slacks and a dark shirt. As he grabbed his coat ready to head out to the car, his attention was drawn to the French window looking out over the rear garden.
A corner of the net curtain was jammed in the frame.
Orly Airport was a busy rush of travellers, meeters and greeters when Rocco dumped his car in a convenient slot and hurried into the main terminal building. It was just on six o’clock.
He entered the bar across from check-in. The atmosphere was as he recalled, heavy with smoke and chatter, the floor around the tables littered with luggage. A young woman was sitting by herself in one corner, glancing at her watch. She wore a short, red dress printed in an interlocking triangular pattern, and knee-high white boots which Rocco thought might be plastic. He assumed she was what young fashion workers thought of as stylish and cutting-edge. As he got close, he saw she was studiously ignoring the attentions of two men at the next table who were trying inelegantly to chat her up. Neither had luggage or looked remotely like travellers and he pegged them as professional airport lizards, trawling for an easy mark.
‘Miss Richert?’ He smiled at her and saw her react with a mixture of wariness and relief. ‘Lucas Rocco.’
He didn’t want to use his title unless absolutely necessary.
One of the two men leant over and said loudly, ‘Hey – granddad. Try your own age range, why don’t you?’
Rocco turned and looked down at the men, then nodded his head towards the exit. If he was right about who and what they were, they would read the signs and move on. It took a moment or two, but they finally got the message, stood up and walked away without looking back.
‘That was neat,’ Sophie murmured. He wasn’t sure if it was meant as a compliment until she added, ‘The times I’ve wished I was with a guy who could do that.’
‘It doesn’t always work,’ he said with a smile. ‘Sometimes I have to start throwing furniture. Can I get you a drink?’
‘If you want. Whisky.’ She had the lazy confidence of someone older, although he guessed she was no more than twenty-five. Maybe that was what going to America did for you: gave you years beyond your years. He couldn’t recall what he’d been like at twenty-five, only that he’d probably been full of vim and holding a gun, which lends confidence of a different kind.
He caught the eye of a waiter and ordered two whiskies, then sat down across from her with a view of the concourse where the two men had gone. He didn’t usually drink while working, but since he was – technically, at least in terms of time – off duty, he decided to relax the rule.
‘Thank you for agreeing to speak to me, Miss Richert. How much time do you have?’
She checked her watch, an expensive gold timepiece, and shrugged with near condescension. ‘Less than thirty minutes. How can I help?’
He paused while the waiter served their drinks, then said, ‘You know what happened to Nathalie?’ He decided to cut straight to the chase: there was neither time nor reason to be circumspect.
She nodded and sipped her whisky. ‘She drowned in some river. I still can’t believe it. She was such … fun. It’s horrible.’ She shivered and tossed her head. ‘I’m glad I’m going away. Is that unkind, wanting to put it all behind me?’
‘No. It’s normal. How well did you know her?’
‘Pretty well, actually. We were friends, I suppose.’
‘So you moved in the same circles.’
‘You mean did I know her other friends?’ Sophie was quick to catch on and her reply was cautious. ‘We had a lot of the same friends and acquaintances here in town, but we didn’t live in each other’s pockets.’ She toyed with the glass and Rocco guessed she really didn’t like whisky, that ordering it had been for show … or because of nerves.
He beckoned the waiter over and asked him to bring a glass of white wine. The man nodded and wheeled away, returning moments later with the order. He shifted the other whisky to Rocco’s side of the table.
Sophie eyed Rocco for a moment, then shrugged and took a sip of the wine. ‘That’s better. Thanks. What were we talking about?’
‘I need to know who Nathalie mixed with,’ he replied curtly, aware of time ticking away. ‘Not her “town” pals; not her beauty stylist or favourite pastry chef, or who cut her toenails. But who might have taken her away to a weekend party in the country with a bunch of strangers so she could end up dead. Like that.’
