Death at the Clos du Lac

The man was standing on the bottom of the therapy pool in the Clos du Lac sanitarium, his white cotton shirt billowing out like gossamer in the clear, blue water. Staring up through the glass-panelled roof at a pale, three-quarter moon bathing the world in an eerie light, his expression was one of deep melancholy. But that may have been because his face was some way beneath the surface, and breathing was a thing of the past.

Garde Champêtre
Claude Lamotte’s rubber-soled boots crunched with grit as he moved along the side of the pool for a closer look. Behind him a woman in a nurse’s uniform was sobbing quietly, reluctant to come closer. Somewhere in the distance a door creaked open and shut repeatedly, a lonely drumbeat in the night.

The combination of sounds and atmosphere, more than the sight of the body, caused the hairs on the back of Claude’s neck to stir uncomfortably. Responsible for
policing the area around Poissons-les-Marais in rural Picardie, he was accustomed to moving around the lakes and rivers and marshes in the small hours, inured to the sometimes sinister mists and dark waters and sudden unexplained rushes of hidden movement in the night. But a death in this place, a supposedly secure haven of luxury and quiet, was something else entirely.

He propped his shotgun in the corner by the door and sniffed at the chlorinated air. It reminded him of his army days and the enforced swims with fellow conscripts every morning. The only difference then was they never had to contend with finding corpses in the water. Not real ones, anyway.

He shivered in spite of the clammy warmth, and gripped his flashlight for reassurance, irritated by the spider-touch of fear crawling up his back. Maybe this was what the training had been all about: finding stiffs in pools and remaining calm.

Signalling to the nurse to stay back, he forced his breathing to settle and knelt with a grunt by the edge of the water. A residue of cold moisture from the ribbed tiles soaked through his heavy cord trousers. At this level he could see every detail of the pool and its grisly contents, lit by a number of underwater lights spaced along one side. A faint mist was lifting off the surface as the colder air from outside met the warmer temperature inside. He debated shedding his jacket and boots and going in. Maybe there was a trace of life left in those staring eyes, a remote chance that he could keep that thread going.

Then a glance at the man’s feet decided him against it. He felt a cold tremor go through him. ‘
Merde!
’ The word
slipped out unbidden, and he glanced guiltily at the nurse. ‘Sorry.’

A large metal milk churn was resting on its side on the tiled bottom of the pool. It was attached to the dead man’s ankles by a heavy chain, the links bright and glistening against the dark of his trousers. Holding the chain in place was a padlock.

According to the nurse, from the time she’d noticed the lights on and had come to investigate, to when she had finally rushed out of the pool house to seek help, the man must have been in there for at least twenty minutes, probably longer. Even if Claude could get the chain off, it would take a kiss of life of which only God himself would be capable to bring the man back from whatever dark and distant place he’d gone to.

‘A telephone. I need to call this in.’ He had to get Lucas Rocco here. He’d make sense of it. He was an experienced investigator, accustomed to this kind of stuff.

He stood and followed the nurse as she hurried away to a desk near the entrance to the pool house. The movement made his stomach lurch, and he fought against the urge to let it all go. He’d seen his share of fights, stabbings, shootings and the gut-churning results of car crashes and agricultural accidents over the years. But nothing like this. It seemed worse, somehow, in a setting associated with health, to see death standing here so casually, so cavalier and blatant.

There was no answer from Rocco’s house in the village of Poissons a kilometre away, so he rang the office in Amiens and left a message. The duty officer recognised Claude’s voice.

‘The inspector’s been called in to an unexplained death in the town centre,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a message to him. Is it urgent?’

‘Very,’ Claude breathed. ‘Tell him I’ve got another dead one for him, even more unexplained. And he’ll need Doctor Rizzotti and his swimsuit for this one.’ Rizzotti was the Amiens area’s forensic representative, a self-confessed amateur seconded from his role as a GP to fill a post vacant now for two years. But the doctor was good, and Rocco had faith in his abilities.

Claude had no wish to return to the pool, but he felt bad leaving the dead man alone. Not that the poor soul would notice, of course, but it just felt wrong. Besides, as first man on the scene, Rocco would want his opinions, so he walked back across the tiled floor and knelt once more by the edge of the water.

He focused on the knuckles of the man’s right hand, just breaking the surface. The fingers, with a sprouting of coarse, dark hairs, were locked into a fist, gripping a thin, helical steel wire running up to a boxed wheel device sitting on an overhead cable stretched across the pool. He followed its length, wondering at its purpose. The cable was held at each end of the pool house by steel plates bolted to the walls, with a wire running out to the box. The down-wire was taut, he noted, and the only thing keeping the body upright.

He heard a scuff of footsteps and found the nurse standing nearby. Her face was a pale oval, the expression unchanged since he’d seen her running out of the building earlier. He didn’t know her name, although he’d seen her in the village once or twice, at the co-op store. A handsome
woman with a nice figure. Or maybe it was the uniform. She was lucky he’d been passing, otherwise she would have had to call for help and wait for a team to arrive from Amiens. She had clammed up now, though, he noted. Probably shock.

‘I’d put some coffee on, if I were you,’ he suggested kindly. The activity would keep her occupied until Rocco and the others got here. ‘And if you haven’t done it already, wake your boss because this place is going to be invaded.’

‘My boss?’ Her eyes flickered uncomprehendingly, edging towards the body in the water with reluctant fascination, then away again.

Claude let it slide. ‘Coffee,’ he said again. ‘Make it a big pot.’

Less than half a kilometre away, a dark figure waited for the moon to slip behind a cloud, before emerging from the cover of a hedgerow and walking with a confident stride along the edge of the lane leading away from the Clos du Lac. The narrow route was little used in daytime, even less at night, but the man believed in taking simple precautions.

He was dressed all in black, from flexible, rubber-soled boots to the woollen cap covering his head, practically invisible to anyone unless they took him by surprise. But that wasn’t likely to happen. Even so, he stopped periodically to test the air around him, using skills gained over many years to seek out the presence of others. All he heard was the faint, mournful shriek of a fox drifting on the night air, and a flap of wings in the trees nearby. Satisfied he was unobserved – by humans, at least – he moved on.

He reached a small, dilapidated barn at the side of
the lane and stepped inside. He moved easily in the dark, having scouted the place in daylight two days earlier to study the layout and memorise any obstacles. The air was thick with the smell of old straw and mould, and he felt his nostrils react to the dust in the atmosphere.

He reached out and located the moped parked against the wall of the barn. From a pannier on the back he took a slim flask and opened the cap. The aroma of coffee with a lacing of cognac took over from the smell of straw. He poured a measure and drank it quickly, savouring the warmth spreading through his gut. He wanted a cigarette, too, another craving, but it was a risk too far. He would save it for later.

The moped held a second pannier, this one containing a collapsible net and rod, and a box of bait. But he was no fisherman; they were props, simple distractions in the unlikely event that he was stopped by a patrolling policeman or spotted by a farmer with insomnia. Fishing without a permit was easily excused, given the right amount of reasoning and charm and a willingness to apologise. As he knew all too well, the success of a mission was in the preparation, not simply the execution.

He smiled at the play on words. Tonight’s job had been just that – an execution. And it had gone as planned, if a little convoluted at the end. But he didn’t mind that; it added to the frisson he still gained from a task done well. Tomorrow was the next phase, and undoubtedly the most important part of the plan. However, that was for others to deal with. His skills lay more in the role of a troubleshooter – a fixer of problems.

He replaced the flask and checked his watch using a flick
of a flashlight. The glass over the face showed a tracery of fine scratches. Plenty of time to get clear. He had to be back on his way to Paris before sunrise. Seconds later he was wheeling the moped out of the barn and along the lane, heading for a route deep into the countryside that connected eventually with a back road out of the area, and his car.

Once he was certain he was well beyond earshot of the Clos du Lac, he jumped on and pedalled at a steady pace, travelling a full half-kilometre before engaging the engine.

He smiled to himself and placed his feet together on the central rest, enjoying the quirky feeling of using such a bizarre mode of transport away from a killing.

Inspector Lucas Rocco studied the dead man in the pool. His gaze lingered for a moment on the chain around the ankles, before following the wire upwards just as Claude Lamotte had done, running from the water to the overhead cable, then to each end of the pool house where the supporting cable was fastened to the walls by strong steel brackets.

‘One day I’ll get a dry one,’ he murmured, looking back at the body. ‘Someone who just curled up in a bed and died normally. No water, no canal, no ponds or lakes. Just a layer of dust and a spider or two for company.’ Water, it seemed to him, had been an overriding feature of sudden deaths around here ever since his posting from Clichy, in Paris, the year before, and he was wondering if the region possessed some kind of deathly affinity with the stuff.

‘What is this place?’ he asked Claude. He’d seen the building at a distance, but there was nothing at the front
to inform outsiders, no signs advertising its services, no indication of a specific function, save for an air of tranquillity and quiet purpose. It was simply a large stone mansion with an outbuilding housing this pool, set inside high stone walls covered in ivy, located down a narrow lane in the Picardie countryside.

Claude moved closer. ‘They call it a sanitarium,’ he replied softly, as though wary of disturbing the dead man. ‘Used to be owned by a local landowner with fingers in shipping. He decided to make it into some kind of health retreat for his rich friends, but sold it before the war. Nobody knows who owns it now.’ He pulled a face. ‘They don’t answer questions, only employ outsiders and never get involved in the village save for the odd visit by one of the staff. Even the lane outside is marked private, although it’s not really; it’s to discourage visitors.’

‘How did you get here so quickly?’

‘Stroke of luck. I was on the trail of a poacher along the canal and came up here to get a better view. This is on high ground, and you can see down the slope all the way to the canal and the lake beyond if you stand in the right place. Anyway, as I came through the gate, I heard a scream and saw her running out of the house, yelling her head off at me. Bloody scary at the dead of night, I can tell you.’

‘You should try Clichy,’ said Rocco. ‘Happens all the time there.’ Clichy in north-west Paris had been his base until he was posted to this rural region. He still missed its vibrant air of activity and tension, although less and less the longer he was here. He sometimes wondered if he was being sucked into the atmosphere of country living, having his edge slowly rubbed away.

He gathered up the tails of his long, black coat and squatted by the edge of the pool. The water was a pleasant shade of light blue, destined, no doubt, to draw people in and make them feel relaxed. But the glow of the underwater lights caught a trace of pink hanging around the dead man’s hand like fine strands of hair. Bending closer, he saw traces of torn flesh on the fingers and palm. The dead man had been fighting frantically to pull himself out.

Difficult to do with two hands, he decided; impossible with the other hand tied by rope to the chain around his lower legs.

He’d never seen anything quite this inventive in Clichy.

‘I left word for Dr Rizzotti,’ he said softly. ‘Nobody comes in here until he’s had a look.’

Claude nodded. He was already carrying a coil of rough string to tie off an approach to the body. Rocco and the doctor had established a clear understanding between them that a crime scene should not be tainted by unnecessary traffic, and everyone was clear on the procedure.

Rocco looked up at the cable structure holding the dead man upright. ‘What the hell is that thing?’

‘I asked the nurse earlier. She said it was invented by the original owner to help his daughters to swim, but they learnt like most kids by jumping in the lake. Since then it’s been used for helping residents who don’t have the strength to keep themselves buoyant. Therapy, they call it. Didn’t help this poor soul much, did it? Can’t we use it to pull him out?’

‘Not with that milk churn tied to his feet.’ Rocco stood
up. ‘And he wouldn’t notice the difference now, anyway. I need to speak to the nurse and whoever runs this place.’ He looked around, puzzled by the quiet. ‘Where is everybody?’

‘No idea. It was like this when I arrived. The nurse can probably tell you. She’s in the kitchen in the main building.’ Claude gave him directions. ‘Her name’s Dion. I didn’t ask her first name. She’s a bit fragile.’

Rocco smiled grimly. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t use a rubber hose on her unless she becomes difficult.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘Is Alix at home?’

‘Yes. You want me to call her?’ Alix was Claude’s daughter, and a recent addition to the local police as a
gardienne
. In a burst of policing initiatives across the country, one of which had led to Rocco being transferred here, she had been recruited to help with sensitive cases involving women and children. Rocco had a feeling her skills might be needed before the night was out.

‘Yes, please.’

He left Claude and walked out of the pool house across the yard to the main building. Through the entrance, which was open, he passed through an impressive foyer with marble columns and hung with elegant chandeliers. The walls were panelled with dark wood, no doubt courtesy of its original designer and unchanged by the current owners. The kitchen occupied a section of the lower floor at the rear of the mansion, and was furnished with a range of professional equipment in stainless steel. The room was cold and lacking in character, and he reflected that in his short time in Poissons, he’d seen milking parlours with more warmth.

A woman in nursing whites was sitting at a large wooden table, staring into a glass of amber liquid. She was attractive, with strong features and dark hair tied in a bun. No wedding ring.

‘Mademoiselle Dion?’ Rocco felt he was looming over her; it wasn’t difficult with his height and broad shoulders, so he sat down across from her. She didn’t stir or acknowledge his presence, and he guessed she was in shock. There was probably a professional as well as a normal humane cause for concern in what she had discovered, but he had to establish a connection with her before she shut down completely.

‘If you’ve got any coffee and another one of those,’ he said softly, nodding at the glass, ‘I’ve had a long night.’ It reminded him to check his watch. With the previous case he’d been to – a bizarre case of suicide, or so it seemed – he’d lost track of time. It was coming up to five in the morning and a spring light was already showing through the windows over the fields at the back.

The nurse seemed to shake herself. She stood up. ‘Of course. I’m sorry …’

‘Lucas Rocco,’ he said. ‘Inspector of police. I’m here to help.’

She nodded and turned away, picked up a percolator and poured him a cup of black coffee. Then she fetched a glass and poured a shot of cognac. She placed both on the table in front of him, gesturing at a box of sugar cubes and a small jug of milk.

Rocco picked up a newspaper from the table. Etienne Maintenant, the foreign minister, was shown boarding a flight to Peking and waving to the cameras like a film star. The headline was stark:

France confirms diplomatic relations by sending foreign minister and trade delegation to China!
The dawn of a new era for French trade?

Minister Maintenant, Rocco thought dryly, looked a little uneasy at the top of the steps leading to the aircraft door, as if he thought he might be on a one-way trip and desperately wanted to change his mind at the last moment.

‘Quite a development,’ said the nurse, nodding at the newspaper and sitting back down.

‘We live in interesting times,’ Rocco agreed, scanning the faces but seeing nobody he recognised. Nurse Dion showed no sign of having recognised his paraphrasing of the alleged Chinese curse.

He picked up the glass. It was both too late and too early for it, but he showed willing by taking a sip. It was better quality than he’d expected; maybe they kept it for staff emergencies. He poured the rest into his coffee. His relaxed approach worked, and Dion took a sip from her own glass, wincing as she swallowed.

‘So tell me,’ he said, ‘who did you call?’

She frowned. ‘Call?’

‘Yes. You’re a professional, I can tell. In a place like this, there must be standing orders to call someone in case of emergencies. Who was that?’

‘Director Drucker. I called him. He should be here soon.’ She looked nervous and he wondered why. With help coming from various quarters, she should have been feeling reassured.

‘Where did you train?’ he asked. It was a distraction question only, but might prove useful. She looked about
forty, at a guess, which meant she would have been old enough to be involved in the war, had she wanted to be. If so, she would be tougher than she seemed right now.

‘In Brest,’ she said vaguely. ‘Other places, too. Wherever I could get work.’

‘Places like this?’

‘Hospitals, mostly. Why are you so interested in me?’ She looked pale but somehow in control, as if a core of durability lay beneath, sustaining her. She was tough all right.

‘I’m interested in everybody and anybody,’ he replied, and sipped his coffee. ‘I’m also interested in why nobody else is around. As I understand from Officer Lamotte, you screamed loudly enough when you discovered the body to have attracted a lot of attention.’

‘Scream?’ She looked defensive. ‘I did not. I was calling out.’

‘Of course. Who for?’

She stared levelly at him. ‘For anyone … for help – I saw a man entering the driveway and didn’t know he was a policeman until he told me. I was probably panicking a little. Shouldn’t you be getting the man out of that pool?’ She brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, her starched uniform rustling crisply in the silence.

‘We will, soon enough.’ He changed tack. ‘What’s the dead man’s name?’

There was a lengthy silence, then she said, ‘I can’t talk about that.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. I have instructions. You’ll have to speak to Director Drucker.’

‘I will, of course. But let me tell you something,
Mademoiselle: in the matter of a murder investigation, my instructions supersede any that you might have.’ He breathed easily. ‘Let me start again. Why is there nobody else here, and who is the dead man? Two very simple questions. Take them in any order you wish.’

Dion said nothing for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I am the only one on duty tonight. There was … there’s nobody else. A relief nurse when required, and two cleaners on rota – but that’s it.’

Rocco jumped on the hesitation. ‘You were going to say something else. What was it?’

‘Nothing.’ She twisted her fingers together, then appeared to relent. ‘We have a security man, but I don’t know where he is. He arrived for his shift yesterday evening, but I haven’t seen him since. I called, but he didn’t come.’

‘And his name? Or is that something else you can’t tell me?’

‘André Paulus.’

At last. ‘Good. Now, how many patients do you have here?’ Rocco was amazed at the lack of activity. Surely someone else had heard the commotion? And could a man have been overpowered and chained up like this, then manhandled into the harness and dropped into the water without arousing attention?

She shook her head. ‘I can’t discuss that, either.’

‘Are they sedated? Is that it?’

Her eyes flickered in alarm. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s a fair assumption, isn’t it? A sanitarium in the middle of the night, a murder and a scream – pardon me – a shout. And no reaction from the other residents. What other reason would there be? Unless they’re locked in their rooms.’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘Really?’

He let the silence build. Now he’d got her talking and knew she wasn’t going to fall apart in front of him, he could apply some pressure. Yet something told him it wasn’t going to be that easy. She acted as if she was scared of someone. But it clearly wasn’t him, or the police.

So who, then?