Death on the Marais (21 page)
She frowned at his abrupt tone. ‘Is this her father’s thing?’ she queried defiantly. ‘Trying to make out it was something it wasn’t?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Well, it was a silly accident, wasn’t it? Nathalie got pissed and fell into some water. Or is the great Bayer-Berbier saying it’s something else? Are you under his orders? He’s got a lot of influence with the cops, everybody knows that.’ She took a slug of wine and glared at him, then looked away in contempt.
Rocco felt like slapping her. Could young people really be so arrogant in the face of death? He hadn’t seen any news reports, so had no way of knowing what Sophie might have read or heard about Nathalie’s demise. Whatever it was, Berbier
père
had probably put out a carefully sanitised version of events, avoiding any mention of drugs or violence. As if in their world, being merely
drunk
and dead was so much better than any other kind.
‘Actually,’ he said softly, projecting the words so that there was no possible misunderstanding, no way she could continue to treat the matter so coolly, ‘Nathalie was murdered.’
He waited for the realisation to sink in; for the
‘M’ word to be analysed and understood in whatever narrow, selective thesaurus her world permitted. When it finally hit home, it was signalled by a large tear rolling down her cheek.
‘That was unkind,’ she whispered. And suddenly the defiant, arrogant light was gone, leaving behind a young woman facing up to the harsh reality of loss.
He nodded. ‘You’re right, it was. I’m sorry. But I need you to know what happened because I’m trying to find out who was responsible for your friend’s death. And I only have …’ he looked dramatically at his watch ‘… twenty minutes of your valuable time left.’ It was rough but he was suddenly tired of having to tiptoe through the tank traps of convention and etiquette.
‘How would I know who could do that?’ she protested, her voice suddenly shrill as if finally tapping into a source of anger. ‘God, I didn’t know she’d been … you know. She loved life, for Christ’s sake. She was fun to be with, and how anyone could hurt her I don’t know! I don’t know any of that shit!’
Rocco allowed her to vent. He was aware of heads turning their way, and saw the bar manager approaching like a large missile, twisting impressive shoulders and hips skilfully between the tables and chairs. Rocco waited until he was almost upon them, then whipped out his badge and waved him away without a word. The man turned and went back to the bar.
Rocco leant across the table, giving her one last chance to help. ‘Listen, I want you to start talking
about who your friend knew, who else I can talk to. Because I really want to find out who killed her. For instance, who or what is Tomas Brouté?’
It meant something, he could see that. It was evident in her face, in the way her eyes flickered at his mention of the name.
Yet she shrugged and glanced at her watch as if it meant nothing. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I’ve never heard of him.’ She leant forward to pick up her bag, unwilling to look at him.
‘OK.’
She seemed surprised. ‘I can go?’
He shook his head. ‘No. In fact,’ he stood up and planted himself squarely in her way, bending and putting his face within inches of hers, ‘if you don’t help me
right now
, I’ll stop you getting on the plane. I’ll also inform the American immigration authorities that you are an undesirable, and that you’re helping with my enquiries into the brutal murder of a young girl. Do you have any idea how long it will be before you
might
be allowed into the States after that? Try years – ten if you’re lucky, more likely fifteen. The Yanks have strangely harsh views about importing potential foreign criminals, believe it or not.’
Sophie’s mouth fell open with a gasp. ‘You can’t do that! My father works for the Finance Ministry—’
‘No shit. You try pissing higher than me again and I’ll get a couple of uniformed cops in here to haul you out in cuffs. It won’t be pretty and I doubt Daddy will be impressed with you dragging his name through the news.’
She sank down slowly back onto her seat, her stunned expression betraying the realisation that Rocco wasn’t playing.
‘What do you want to know? I don’t know what I can tell you.’
Rocco sat and pushed the wine glass towards her. She took a sip, her face ashen.
‘Tomas Brouté,’ he repeated. ‘You recognised the name.’
‘No.’ She shuddered. ‘Yes. At least, I’ve never met him. He’s just a name Nathalie mentioned a couple of times … someone on the phone.’
‘What was the connection between them?’
‘Brouté arranges things for people. He’s a middleman.’
Rocco felt his gut tighten. ‘Things? What kind of things?’
‘Events. Parties. Weekends.’ Sophie looked sick. ‘He was a creep. She hated him.’
‘She said that?’
‘She didn’t need to. I saw her face whenever she was talking to him.’
‘What sort of parties?’
‘Drinking, talk – music, mostly, stuff like that.’
‘And when it wasn’t mostly stuff like that?’
She shook her head. ‘Can’t you guess? You’re a cop.’ She ducked her head and looked as if she were about to throw up.
‘Did you go to them – the non-talk ones?’
‘No! Never, I promise. It all sounded so … sordid. Nathalie was promised money if she went along and
helped things go with a swing. She thought it sounded fun. I thought it would be full of rich old men looking for young girls to screw.’
‘What made you think that?’
‘Because I knew another girl who went to one and she said it was exactly like that.’ She waved a hand. ‘And please don’t ask me who
that
was – she died of pneumonia in a clinic in Grasse two weeks ago.’
Rocco let it drop: if he had to pursue that one, it would be easy enough to do so later.
‘You said Nathalie was promised money. Why would she need it – her father’s rich?’
‘Her father’s a pig. So are his friends.’
In the background an announcement called for flights to New York. Sophie didn’t react.
‘Did you know Nathalie was pregnant?’
Her big eyes settled on him. She nodded. ‘She started puking in the mornings; it was pretty obvious. When I asked her she didn’t deny it. She was terrified it would become public.’
‘Did she tell you who the father was?’
Another tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed at it angrily. ‘She said she didn’t know. She didn’t have a regular boyfriend – not like that.’
So, more than one possibility. Rocco wasn’t surprised. ‘No boyfriend you knew of, you mean?’
‘No. We were close enough by then. If she got pregnant, it wasn’t a boy.’ The way she said ‘boy’ implied innocence, civility – a whole world away from any other kind. She finished her drink and pushed the glass away. ‘She talked about getting rid of it, but she
wouldn’t have dared tell her father and didn’t have any of her own money.’
An abortion. That would take a lot of money, doing it properly. Before and after the event. But was she desperate enough to go to these parties to earn cash for a stay in a clinic? Maybe so. Suddenly he began to see a possible motive for a young woman’s murder. If she had approached the child’s father – at least, the possible father – for help, the man might have seen a scandal coming and reacted with fatal consequences. It made sense and wouldn’t be the first time it had happened.
‘How many of these parties did she attend?’
‘Four or five, I think. The first about three months ago, then every few weeks after that. Not many. She hated them in the end … but I don’t think she had much choice.’ Sophie stared into the distance, twisting her fingers together. Rocco finally let her go and watched her drag her way across the concourse, all ego and arrogance deflated like a burst tyre. He almost felt sorry for her.
It was going to be a long flight to New York.
‘Lucas?’ It was the voice of Detective René Desmoulins echoing down the line and dragging Rocco from a troubled sleep. He threw back the covers and stood up, joints protesting after the long drive to Orly and back the previous evening. He checked the time. Eight-thirty. God, he’d slept late again. It was becoming a habit.
‘What have you got?’
‘Not much yet – and nothing from official records on a Tomas Brouté. It’s not an uncommon name, but not from this neck of the woods. Further south there are a few, and down on the Atlantic coast, but none called Tomas that I could find.’
‘OK, no matter.’ He rubbed at his scalp, feeling deflated. One pace forward and two back. Still, at least
he had progressed slightly with the Berbier killing. Small mercies.
‘Before you go,’ Desmoulins said quickly, perhaps sensing his disappointment. ‘I ran a check on that phone number you gave me. It’s actually registered to a Jean-Paul Boutin at 3, Rue d’Albert in Poissons.’
The information brought Rocco fully awake. Where the hell was Rue d’Albert? He still hadn’t managed to get a clear view of the layout of Poissons-les-Marais, as simple as it was. It had one through road, a square and maybe two or three lanes, one of them Rue Danvillers where he lived. He’d have to check with Claude later. ‘Good work. See what you can find on that name, will you?’
‘I already did that through the local registry. It’s not much help, though.’
‘Try me.’
‘J-P Boutin died two years ago and the house has no current occupant listed.’
‘You sure about that?’ Rocco strode through to the kitchen area, dragging the telephone wire after him. ‘The records aren’t out of date?’ He knew that local files were notoriously unreliable in parts of the country, relying on overworked administrative clerks toiling with ancient paper-and-card systems to keep them updated. With tight budgets and untrained personnel, it was an uphill struggle which had caused many a police investigation to flounder, starved of current detail about people and their movements.
‘I double-checked. The only way to make sure is to
go find the place and take a look. You want me to do it?’
‘No need. It’s just down the road from me. Anything from Massin on the photo shop?’
‘Nothing yet. I’ll chase him up.’
Rocco disconnected and dialled Claude’s number. ‘Boutin, Jean-Paul,’ he said without preamble. ‘3, Rue d’Albert. You know him?’
‘Jean-Po? Sure. He’s dead,’ said Claude. ‘He lived along the main street – that’s Rue d’Albert. You working beyond the grave now?’
‘You could be more right than you know. Meet me there in fifteen minutes.’
‘Make it twenty and I’ll bring coffee.’
Rocco put down the receiver and got dressed, grateful for Desmoulins and his desire to work, and Claude for his perception. The combination of helpers might make this job a whole lot easier.
He walked down to the village centre and along the main street. He saw Francine outside the co-op, arranging a display of fruit. She looked slim and lithe, dressed in a skirt and blouse. He waved when she looked up but received a cool look in return. He dropped his hand and walked on.
At least she hadn’t thrown rotten fruit at him.
There were few other people about and no traffic. A paper bag blew across in front of him, catching on a telegraph pole and fluttering in the breeze. It felt like a scene from a western movie, where the white hat walks towards certain death and dubious glory
against the black hats at the other end of town.
Cue a cowboy’s lament.
Claude was standing by his car outside a ragged plaster-faced cottage with shuttered windows. Posters had been plastered all over the available surfaces, displaying everything from soft drinks to the latest appearance of the overmuscled Shadow Angel and his fellow wrestlers.
Claude handed Rocco a mug of coffee and gestured at the cottage. ‘This is it. Not much to look at, I’m afraid. Boutin left it to a daughter nobody’s been able to find yet. What’s the story?’
Rocco sipped his coffee, then told him what Desmoulins had found. Claude looked dumbfounded at the idea of the man who had lived here being connected in any way with Nathalie Berbier.
‘Jean-Po? You’re kidding me. I knew the man. He was a bit reserved, didn’t talk much, but he was just an ordinary man. No side, no attitude. Worked on the railways as an inspector and kept himself to himself.’
‘Yet he had a telephone. Not many people do, here.’
‘That’s a surprise, I’ll grant you. Could have been part of the job, though.’
Rocco tried the front door. The wood was weather-worn but solid, as if fastened firmly on the inside, with no play in it. Bolts, he guessed, top and bottom.
He stepped back and checked either way along the street. The cottage stood on the corner of the main street and the lane leading to Didier Marthe’s house. To his left the street curved over a slight rise towards
Claude’s end of the village, while to his right a farm building and a few houses led back towards the co-op and the café, which was out of sight around a bend in the road. A telephone pole stood a few metres away, with a wire stretching across to the eaves of the Boutin cottage.
‘How did Boutin die?’
‘He tripped and fell on his way back from the café one night. They reckoned he’d had a heavy night at the bar. He was unsteady but otherwise OK. Someone thought they heard a car go by at about the same time but we never found any trace of one. He’d hit his head on a kerbstone, so it was written down as an accident while under the influence.’ Claude pulled a face. ‘Poor sod. A lonely life cut short.’
Rocco finished his coffee and handed the mug back. ‘I don’t suppose you have a crowbar in your car?’
‘Actually, I do. What for?’
‘I want to get inside. Find the phone.’
Claude looked doubtful. ‘Shouldn’t we check with the mayor first?’
‘Only if you want a lecture on town hall semantics. Is there a back way in?’
Claude went to his car and produced a large crowbar, then led Rocco down the adjacent lane to the back of the cottage. A wooden door gave way with a good push to a small back garden, overgrown with weeds and bordered at the end by a wattle-and-daub barn or storehouse.
