Death at the Clos du Lac (20 page)

When Delombre arrived at the unoriginally named
Café Sportif
in the centre of Amiens, his contact, named Ferrand, was sitting behind a cold beer with a wary expression, eyes on the door. The only thing sporting about the place, Delombre noted, was a large colour poster of French cyclist Jacques Anquetil, mounted in a glass frame on the rear wall. It looked more like a shrine than a celebration, and he reminded himself to figure out one day what it was about the Tour de France that aroused such passions in the nation.

‘Someone killed your dog?’ he muttered, and ordered coffee. Something about Ferrand’s expression told him they weren’t going anywhere soon.

‘He’s gone,’ Ferrand muttered.

‘Gone where? Why didn’t you follow and leave a note?’

‘Because the place was in an uproar. Every cop in the town must have been there,
Gendarmerie Mobile
, plain clothes, auxiliaries, the lot. It was like somebody jabbed
a stick into a hornets’ nest and they all woke up with a screaming headache. Before I could do anything, they were all up and gone. I didn’t see Rocco, but I think he was among them.’

Delombre had a good idea what the fuss was about. Levignier’s intelligence bulletin must have stirred them into action. Well, that was something, at least.

‘Is it worth going after them? Somebody must know where they’ve gone.’

‘I doubt it. We’d probably get jumped on. You’ve got the official muscle – can’t you ask at the station?’

‘I could, but I don’t want to.’ Walking into the police station meant he’d leave a trace and he didn’t want Rocco picking up on his presence. The man seemed to have a sixth sense for trouble and Delombre didn’t need the problem right now. ‘What does he look like?’

‘Rocco? He’s big, tall – taller than you, has dark hair cut short and usually dresses smart, like an undertaker. Long black coat and trousers, shiny shoes, looks expensive.’

‘So he’s a fashion model.’

‘Yes, but they say don’t let his looks fool you. He’s got a pair of shoulders on him and can handle the rough stuff.’ Ferrand toyed with his beer. ‘I hear he used to work with the anti-gang units before transferring out here, and he’s been involved in a few incidents since he arrived.’

‘What kind of incidents?’ Delombre didn’t plug into the office chatter much; he did his work and left the gossip alone. Any stories circulating about cops were usually blown out of proportion by the cops themselves, eager to gain some good publicity as hard men and a chance of promotion on the back of it along the way.

‘He stopped an assassination attempt on de Gaulle not long ago. A bunch of English gangsters were involved and he put them down. End of story.’

Delombre lifted an eyebrow. Perhaps he should start taking more notice of gossip. He’d clearly missed something here. ‘You’re saying he’s a hotshot?’

Ferrand hesitated, as if wary of singing Rocco’s praises too much. ‘He’s a hunter. I’ve seen him at work, the way he checks out the scene when he’s out and about. He doesn’t miss much.’

Delombre smiled and pushed his coffee away untouched. ‘But he missed you.’

‘Yes. He missed me.’

This Rocco sounded like a challenge. But not right now. If he was pumped up by the thought of taking down a kidnap gang, he’d be even more on the alert than usual. ‘Very well. We’ll give this one a miss. Stay on him for another twenty-four hours, but well back, you understand? I don’t want him picking up a sniff that he’s being watched.’

‘He won’t.’ Ferrand said it without boasting; he knew how good he was.

‘Let me know anything you hear, then stand down.’ He stood up and walked out, leaving Ferrand sitting at the table.

The farm looked deserted. It was situated at the end of a long track meandering through flat fields some two kilometres outside the town of Doullens, the house and buildings nestling against a backdrop of trees. From a distance the place looked forgotten in time, abandoned to nature, with long, flowing grass on the track in, and
tendrils of ivy crawling across the front porch and through a broken pane of glass in the door.

Rocco studied the place through binoculars, paying particular attention to the windows at the front and the outbuildings at the rear. Wooden shutters hung at the window on the left, secured by what looked like a heavy chain. But the door and right-hand window were uncovered, suggesting that somebody had been inside recently. A tramp, maybe?

He checked the chimney, but saw no sign of smoke. Didn’t mean a thing.

‘My men reckon it’s empty,’ said
Sous-Brigadier
Godard, sliding up alongside him. ‘They’ve been watching for a couple of hours and haven’t seen a thing.’

‘What are your instructions?’

‘To report back and wait. No movement until we get word to go from Massin.’

And until Massin gets word from the Ministry, thought Rocco sourly. Everybody wants their say in what happens now.

‘Is there a back way out?’

‘Only on foot. We checked that first.’

The place reminded him of the farm owned by Thomas Portier, yet in an even worse state of disrepair. He could see why someone seeking isolation might choose it as a hideaway, but only if they were a painter or writer – or seriously antisocial. For anybody dragging a kidnap victim along with them, especially a high-profile one like Véronique Bessine, there had to be plenty of places far more convenient they could have found. Out here was putting a stretch on the term remote, and its very location, with no
secondary way out, also made it vulnerable as a trap. What he couldn’t understand was how the intelligence unit had heard about the place being used.

‘Have your men spoken to any locals?’

‘Only some old guy in a field down the road. He says nobody’s been here for a long while. The land is poor and the house would be easier to knock down than restore. Mind you, he said a few uncomplimentary things about morons from Paris throwing their cash around to get in touch with the land, but I don’t think he was talking about anyone coming here.’

‘But he wouldn’t know if someone had turned up while he was away.’

‘True. But my men took a close look at the track. There’s been nothing on wheels down there for months. It rained less than a week ago, and the ground here is soft; even a nun on a bike would have left some kind of sign. There’s nothing.’

Rocco studied the line of the track leading up to the front door. It was straight and narrow, bordered by a ditch and a wire fence each side, both overgrown. The track surface itself was lost in a sea of moving grass, mesmerising and lush. Anyone inside the house would have a devastatingly clear shot all the way down, with nowhere for an approach vehicle to go but back. And going back would mean ending up in the ditch.

Or dead.

‘Seems a shame not to try something,’ said Godard. ‘We’ve trained hard for this stuff; just never got to use it yet.’

Rocco looked up at the sky. The afternoon was rolling on, bringing a grey sky studded with heavy cloud. If they
left it too long, anybody in the house might decide to cut their losses and try to get past them once the light fell.

He looked behind their position. They were on the edge of a bank bordering the track, where a bend offered them a slightly elevated spot from which to see the house. The rest of Godard’s men, the uniforms and other police units were all out of sight at the top of the track where it met the road to Doullens.

He studied the chimney on the house. It had a tin pot protruding from the stack, battered by the elements and blackened around the upper rim. It would make a hell of a noise if it took a bullet. But any action like that was Godard’s call.

‘That chimney,’ he said casually, ‘is a heck of a target.’

‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Godard agreed. ‘And the noise would scare the shit out of anybody inside.’

‘Long shot, though. It would have to be a good man to hit it from here.’

Godard took a look through the glasses. ‘Are you kidding? I could hit that myself – and I’m not the best. Still, if there is someone in there – and with Bessine?’

‘I’d lay good money that there isn’t. Send two of your best men down the track as close as they can get to the front door. As soon as they’re in place, get your sniper to take a shot, and the other two go in hard.’

Godard nodded slowly and pursed his lips. ‘I can do that.’ He added, ‘See the last fence post on the right, just before the track opens out into the front of the house?’

‘Yes.’

Godard gave a short whistle. Immediately, a man’s hand slid up the fence post, then disappeared again.

‘Patrice. There’s another man on the left.’

Rocco smiled. ‘You had this planned.’

Godard returned the smile. ‘What – you think we sit round all day polishing our boots? Give me three minutes and the chimney’s gone. Wait for my whistle but don’t stand up until the shot’s been made.’ With that, he slid back down the bank and disappeared back along the track at a jog, using the lay of the land.

Rocco waited, hoping he was right. If Mme Bessine was being held in there, he was making a serious mistake. Yet every fibre of his body told him this place was empty. Somehow the intelligence unit had been handed false information. It happened.

He heard Godard’s warning whistle and focused the glasses on the chimney pot. The shot when it happened took him by surprise, and came from no more than twenty metres behind him.

The pot exploded in a cloud of thick soot and a shower of twigs, probably an old bird’s nest, and tumbled down out of sight on the far side of the roof.

Instantly he saw the tall figure of Patrice leap up out of the grass and sprint across the front yard, closely paralleled by another man in the same black uniform. Both carried handguns. Patrice made it to the porch and ran straight through the front door, taking it off its hinges. The other man dodged round the side, both of them calling out their positions to each other.

Moments later, they reappeared through the front door. They looked relaxed.

Patrice signalled with a shake of his head.

Empty.

‘Empty as in never used,’ Patrice told them as they approached the front door. He looked disappointed at the lack of action and nodded at Rocco, adding, ‘There’s some stuff in the back room, but it could have been left by a vagrant passing through.’

He led them through the front of the house, which was bare of furnishings, the ancient plaster walls showing the wooden lathes beneath in large patches where damp had wreaked its worst over the years, and into a rear space which had once doubled as a kitchen and workroom, with a shallow stone sink in one corner and an old knife grinder beneath a broken window.

‘Christ, I haven’t seen one of those in years,’ said Godard. He pushed the stone wheel, but it was jammed solid.

In the corner away from the sink lay an old army greatcoat and a filthy towel. Alongside was a battered spirit
stove. A metal mug with chips out of the enamel had a layer of black covering the base and sides.

Rocco bent and sniffed at the spirit stove. He’d used one like it in the army for a while. The familiar tang of spirit made his nose twitch and brought back memories of long waits for anything to heat up, usually battered by wind and rain. The mug had a dark residue in the bottom which could have been coffee. The greatcoat was filthy. He checked the pockets. A crumpled cigarette packet. Empty.

He toured the room. Damp had penetrated the floorboards and eaten into the walls, and black spots of mould were scattered across the ceiling. There was no electric wiring, but a stub of a candle on the windowsill had grown a white fuzz, like a rabbit’s tail. The sink had harvested a layer of leaves and twigs, as had the floor, no doubt blown in through the window.

He turned back to study the greatcoat.

‘What’s up?’ asked Godard, reading his expression.

‘It’s too neat. The greatcoat hasn’t got any mould on it and the spirit hasn’t evaporated.’ He tried to think what it reminded him of and immediately got it: it was like a museum exhibit he’d seen in Paris once, dedicated to the war in the trenches in 1918. It was just stuff left lying around, genuine enough but not real. ‘No vagrant would leave the coat, even at this time of year. And the stove would bring a few francs if he was desperate.’

Godard nodded, pursing his lips. ‘But why – and how come there’s no signs of entry along the track?’

Rocco shrugged. ‘It was a distraction, to keep us occupied. Checking this place out thoroughly would take a couple of days if we got a full team in here. As to how, one
man could have carried this stuff across the fields without leaving a trace. We’ll probably find the same set pieces in the other two locations.’

Godard nodded. ‘I’ll get in touch with my men. You want them to go straight in?’

‘Yes. But tell them to be careful. This could just be a feint.’

‘I’ll do that.’ He turned and left, ushering his other men with him, leaving Desmoulins with Rocco in the kitchen.

‘Are you sure about this?’ said Desmoulins. ‘I don’t mean you’re wrong, but why would anyone risk doing this? If it’s not the kidnappers being really clever, how did the intelligence section get the information in the first place?’

Rocco shook his head. He didn’t answer. But he didn’t much like the ideas that were forming in his mind.

By the time they returned to Amiens, calls had come in from Godard’s observers in the other two locations at Roye and Neufchâtel. Both were isolated properties outside the towns, and had been under surveillance without any sightings of vehicles or potential kidnappers. Both had offered good potential as hideouts for the kidnappers and their victim.

Both were empty save for some telltale items.

‘Same results,’ Godard reported. ‘A few bits and pieces to suggest a bolt-hole, but nothing elaborate. It’s the sort of crap you can pick up at any flea market for a few francs, mostly ex-military.’ He scratched his head. ‘Whoever did this didn’t have much imagination, though. I mean, why bother if it wasn’t going to fool us for longer than two minutes?’

Rocco had been going over the possibilities, and had come to one conclusion. ‘It was both a delaying tactic and a distraction. They knew we’d have to wait before going in, while keeping the houses under observation. They also figured we’d spend even more time going over the stuff we found with a magnifying glass looking for clues, because that’s what we do. Both options take men and time.’

‘Distracting us from what, though?’

‘From getting too close, maybe?’ Desmoulins threw in, but without looking convinced. ‘If so, I wish the kidnappers would let us know for sure how close. That poor woman must be going out of her mind.’

‘If she’s still alive,’ said Godard, with feeling. He, like all experienced cops, knew that after a certain amount of time, things did not look good for kidnap victims. He looked at Rocco. ‘I need to debrief the men. What do we do about a report?’

‘Leave it to me. I need to think about it. Are the three sites secure?’

‘Yes. All locked up tight. Give me a shout if you need us again.’

Rocco signalled for Desmoulins to follow him, and walked into the main office, which was temporarily empty as the search teams sorted themselves out, some signing off, others returning to their normal duties.

‘I think you were right both times,’ he told the detective quietly. ‘We are getting too close. But this stays between us until we figure it out.’

Desmoulins nodded. ‘Of course. But if that’s the case and we’re close to finding her, shouldn’t we call in the big guns, let the Ministry know?’

Rocco hesitated. He still wasn’t sure, but the thoughts he’d had earlier wouldn’t leave him alone. The main problem was, if his suspicions were correct, he’d have to prove it before speaking out. But to do that, he’d be taking one hell of a risk with somebody’s life.

‘Where’s that bulletin you had earlier? It might help if we knew who was behind the kidnapping.’

Desmoulins pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over, saying, ‘It was thought to be Sicilians at first. Then someone suggested it could be a group opposed to trade deals with the Chinese Republic – that’s the lot in Taiwan, not their bigger cousins. Bessine’s currently in talks with their government on the supply of fighter jets and other airplanes.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I’m no student of international politics, but it doesn’t sound much like any Sicilians I’ve ever met.’

China.

Rocco scanned the bulletin quickly. He couldn’t see any connection, either. He wondered if the suspected kidnap group was affiliated to either side, since each would have their own reasons for ensuring a disruption of talks over the supply of warplanes. He sat down, trying to organise his thoughts. Pascal Rotenbourg had mentioned the Chinese, based on his brother Simon’s fears of high-level collusion to influence trade talks; Stefan Devrye-Martin had mentioned them, too, also based on claims voiced by Simon. And Simon had claimed that ‘extreme methods’ were going to be exerted on a senior industry figure to force him to change the direction of his negotiations.

Could it be possible, he wondered, that ‘extreme methods’ could include kidnapping an industrialist’s wife?

‘There’s a big sticking point,’ he said finally. ‘What if telling the Ministry could be signing the victim’s death warrant?’

‘Eh?’ Desmoulins stared. ‘What – you mean … No!’

‘You asked the question yourself: how did the intelligence section come up with the information on these locations in the first place?’

‘Yes, I know, but I was just sounding off …’ He stopped. ‘Jesus, that’s crazy. But why would they do that? Surely they must have known somebody might figure it out.’

‘Human nature,’ he replied. ‘You give a bunch of cops the most obvious but most ludicrous suggestion for a guilty party, and they’ll spend days running round in circles trying to find an alternative, simply because they won’t want to contemplate the truth. None of us does.’

‘Fair enough. But that still doesn’t explain why.’

‘They knew we’d find nothing, but didn’t care. We weren’t meant to. It took us away from what we were doing, because that’s all somebody needed.’

‘Somebody?’

‘Somebody in the Ministry … or an outsider with contacts inside that they could use to disseminate the information.’ He was thinking about Levignier. He’d have the means. And he’d already displayed his contempt for the rule of law by spiriting away the dead body from inside the Clos du Lac. But would he conspire openly with a kidnap – and if so, to what end? If not, there was someone else who might be a prime mover: the shadowy figure behind him, with the power to command Bezancourt and his men to follow Rocco.

The man known as Delombre.

Desmoulins said, ‘The Ministry. Christ, you don’t exactly pick the easiest enemies, do you? What do we do now?’

Rocco picked up his telephone and dialled Massin’s internal number. He was going to make a report, and Massin would do the rest. ‘We let them think we’re going to investigate all three locations.’

Desmoulins smiled, recognising the tone in Rocco’s voice. ‘Then what?’

‘Then we’ll do the exact opposite.’