Death at the Clos du Lac (4 page)

The lunchtime crowds were out in force as two men strolled along the east side of Place de la Concorde in central Paris. Steering clear of the Obelisk in the centre, a focal point for the bulk of tourists, they kept to the outer perimeter, automatically scanning the people around them for familiar faces.

Both men were dressed in suits and ties, gleaming white shirts and polished shoes, the quality indicating a position above the ordinary rank and file of office workers and bureaucrats populating the area. Neither man had any legitimate reason not to be there, but being seen together, while not illegal or sanctioned, could give cause for interested speculation among those who knew them.

On their left was a stone wall topped by a balustrade and trimmed hedge around the Tuileries Garden, a good place for a private chat. But the shorter of the two men indicated the broad pavement leading down to the north
bank of the Seine. The road here was blocked to traffic and quiet.

‘Less likely to be noticed along here,’ he commented briefly. ‘And we can hear ourselves speak, too.’

His name was Josef Girovsky, and he was a
fourth-generation
Pole who had never been further east than the Alps. He had the square build and thick, grey hair of his forefathers and the smooth, coiffed appearance of a man of money – something those forefathers would have given their right arms for. Whenever his name appeared in the national press, which was rarely, he was referred to as an industrialist, even a capitalist, with a chain of businesses and joint ventures around the world, from engineering to finance, from farming to fishing fleets. But he preferred the title of investor, for that is what he was. He invested in anything that made money, and he was very good at it.

He was also ruthless about increasing his reach for more.

‘So where’s Levignier?’ he asked. ‘Why couldn’t he come like he usually does?’

‘What’s the matter – are you worried about being seen with me?’ His companion was tall and slim, with thinning hair and a chillingly direct gaze. He possessed a lazy smile that rarely left his mouth yet never quite managed to touch his grey eyes. And he had about him a stillness that made other men very wary indeed.

‘If I knew who you really were,’ Girovsky muttered with a touch of acid, ‘I might. But you haven’t told me yet.’

‘Because you have no need to know who I am. I’m simply a functionary – a messenger. I work for Commander Levignier.’

In fact, the tall man was known mostly by the name
Delombre, which he enjoyed for its double meaning; his work was predominantly in the shadows, so therefore entirely appropriate. At other times, when it suited him, he used other names, each fictitious and disposable, like a cheap suit. He worked a decent rifle shot away from where they were now walking, in the depths of the Ministry of the Interior in Place Beauvau, in a department few people knew about, and which Girovsky only knew of at arm’s length.

‘What happened at the sanitarium?’ he asked. ‘I received a rambling message from Drucker. He’s not supposed to contact me. What does he hope to gain?’

Delombre gave a small sigh. ‘I know. He panicked when he couldn’t contact us, so he chose you instead. It’s the people we have to work with, you see.’ He smiled without humour, his cold eyes resting for a long moment on the Pole. ‘Don’t worry, it’s being taken care of.’

‘The same way the guard was taken care of? I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘If you don’t have the stomach for the answers, you shouldn’t ask the questions.’

Girovsky’s head swivelled at the abruptness of the response. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Think about it. I’m sure you’ll understand eventually.’

‘I don’t like your attitude.’

‘That’s too bad.’ Delombre stopped, forcing Girovsky to halt and face him. He waited for a pretty young woman with a student’s satchel over her shoulder to go by, his gaze drifting down to slim, bare legs, lightly muscled, then said, ‘Do we continue with this or not? Because we can always abandon it and close it down, you know.’

Girovsky gasped. ‘You don’t have that authority!’

‘Not directly, not here and now. But I know somebody who does. Only …’ He hesitated and stared up at some pigeons flying overhead, their wings a muffled beat of panic.

‘Only what?’

‘I’m not sure you’d like the consequences of our stopping things right now simply because you don’t approve of our methods. And I’m pretty sure your business colleagues would be very cross with you. Actually, speaking of them, I’m surprised you weren’t on the flight to China with the rest of the trade party. Were you not invited?’

Girovsky’s face coloured at Delombre’s mischievous tone, but he held himself in check. He cleared his throat, the action of a realist faced with little alternative. ‘My presence is not required at this stage, that’s all. I have colleagues on the trip, naturally, but it was not thought … necessary for me to go until the talks have progressed further.’

‘I see. You mean the others know how to use their chopsticks.’ Delombre yawned, ignoring the other’s protest. ‘Still, I know what it’s like to live in the shadows, being shunned by polite society.’ He chuckled, and Girovsky grunted angrily at being the object of this man’s sarcasm. His press coverage over the years had not been entirely kind, due to both his ancestry and his business methods, and he therefore operated behind the scenes where the media was concerned. The opening trade talks involving the Chinese government were a prime example, and one where he was forced to take a back seat for the time being.

‘Very droll.’ He straightened his jacket. ‘I must go – I have appointments. Tell Levignier that we must continue, of course. I’m concerned, that’s all. There’s a great deal riding
on this project, and the Chinese won’t wait while we sort out our internal problems. If they sense trouble, they’ll pull out and take their business elsewhere. We can’t have that.’

‘The Chinese.’ Delombre’s lips twitched. He turned to stare across the city rooftops at the hazy shape of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. It looked glorious in the sunlight and he wished for a moment that he was over there, enjoying watching the pretty girls with their skirts gusting in the breeze rather than here with this toad of a man. ‘Yes, we mustn’t upset them, must we?’

‘I hope not. The country needs them. They are the future. You see – in twenty years’ time they’ll be the world’s new powerhouse economy.’

‘So everybody keeps telling me.’ Delombre didn’t like business people; they were greedy and boastful of their achievements and unable to see that not everything came down to money. But with the exchange of words had come a subtle shift in positions, with the Pole now holding the higher ground simply because he was right. For now, anyway. ‘What else are you worried about?’

‘The policeman who intervened – Rocco, is it? I hear he’s pushing for answers.’

‘You hear too much. You want to watch that – it could be dangerous.’

‘It’s what I pay people for: to keep me informed. It’s how I run a successful business. Information is power.’

‘Well, rest assured, that problem is being dealt with, too. Rocco’s a country cop with pretensions of greatness; he’ll back off or give up, whichever offers the easiest solution. Word has already gone down the line to cut him off. The case is on its way to being closed.’

‘How so? There’s a body. Two bodies.’

Delombre smiled this time, his face creasing. It still didn’t reach his eyes. He checked his watch, a sturdy, businesslike model covered with fine scratches, each one of which could tell a tale. ‘Actually … that’s not quite correct. Not now. We couldn’t do anything about the guard, not after Rocco found him. But the other one has … disappeared. For good.’

Girovsky’s look of surprise was overtaken by relief. ‘I see. Good.’ He glanced around them before asking, ‘What about the … the business today? I haven’t heard anything on the news. Did it happen?’

‘It’s done, that’s all you need to know. What did you expect – a fanfare and a public announcement?’

‘No, I assumed there would be some … outcry, I suppose. Did nobody notice?’

‘If they did, it was kept very quiet. After all, we wouldn’t want to panic the nasty kidnappers, would we? And before you ask, don’t bother. She is not your concern.’

‘As you wish. What about the other patients?’

‘The prisoners, you mean.’ Delombre allowed a brief moment of cynicism to show at the terminology. ‘They were there for a reason, each one of them. That doesn’t change and it certainly doesn’t concern you, either. The only one who did is no more. So forget him. Forget
them
.’

Girovsky blinked, but forged on, his tone resentful. ‘They were common criminals, weren’t they? Deviants.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Why they were getting special treatment is beyond me.’

‘It was hardly special. Or are you suggesting that a bullet for each of them would be the better option – and save the
state a few francs into the bargain?’ He tapped Girovsky on the chest, making him flinch. ‘Now that
would
be messy, don’t you think, shooting prisoners? If it caught on it could lead to all sorts of excesses. Although,’ he chuckled without humour, ‘I grant you, it might be much cheaper in the long run.’ He chewed his lip. ‘Come to think of it, you own an armaments company, don’t you? God in Heaven, you’d even make money out of that. Now that’s what I call clever.’

Girovsky said nothing, but his expression showed what he would like to do with this pushy government functionary who treated him with so little respect.

‘Are we clear on everything else?’ Delombre’s eyes were touched with glints of colour, as if filled with an inner fire. Another shift had taken place, each man finding their position in the order of things, and remembering that, like it or not, they needed each other.

‘Do what you have to.’ Girovsky’s voice was calm, flat, resigned. ‘Tell Levignier that.’

Delombre lifted an eyebrow and leant forward slightly for emphasis. He said softly, ‘We always do what we have to, Mr Girovsky. You should bear that in mind.’

‘I know this place.’ Alix leant forward and stared through the window of Rocco’s Citroën as they approached a ramshackle farmhouse and a collection of tumbledown buildings down a narrow single-track lane. They were just a few kilometres from Poissons, but the village could only be reached from here by a circuitous route. ‘I was out here only a week ago.’

The place was owned by Thomas Portier, one of two brothers. His younger sibling, Hervé, owned the farm adjacent, just visible across the fields. A report had been filed about shots being fired. At first the brothers had claimed they had been sport shooting at targets in the back fields. But then Hervé had been admitted to hospital with gun pellets embedded in his shoulder, and the truth had slowly emerged.

‘They’ve been squabbling over the division of land for years,’ she explained. ‘Their father left Thomas a bigger
share because he’s older, and it’s been eating away at Hervé ever since. Claude said it’s been going on for years. He’s been out here more than once to keep them apart, and I came out last time – but that was only to make sure the government vet didn’t get shot when he came to run a regular test on their animals for disease.’

‘Well, they’ve escalated their argument up the scale from squabbling,’ said Rocco. His mind was still half on the Clos du Lac affair, but this job had been dropped on his desk by Massin and he couldn’t ignore it. ‘Somehow we’ve got to put a stop to it before they kill each other – or anybody else. Any suggestions?’ He pulled to a halt and cut the engine, then took out his service weapon and checked the magazine.

‘Short of actually shooting them both, you mean?’ Alix eyed the gun with raised eyebrows. ‘A bit extreme, I’d have thought.’

He gave a grim smile. ‘Never go into a situation where guns are involved without being prepared. If they’re ready to use them on each other, they’ve already crossed one line; I wouldn’t want to be next.’

Alix nodded and took out her own gun and checked it, releasing the magazine and reinserting it with easy familiarity before sliding the gun back into its holster. She nodded. ‘Ready.’

They climbed out and walked across a rough gravel area to the house. Up close, it was clear that it was in need of more than just running repairs, with broken and missing tiles and peeling paint on the shutters and windows. The chimney was skewed precariously to one side as if waiting for the next strong wind to knock it down through the roof,
and a collection of rubbish was scattered across the front of the property, completing an air of desperation and neglect. A line of barns and outhouses stood behind the house, along with an assortment of ancient farm equipment, a trailer made from an old lorry chassis and the customary large dung heap being picked over by a bunch of mildewed chickens.

On the house roof itself, a line of nervous pigeons stared down at the newcomers and shuffled along the ridge tiles like a badly rehearsed chorus line.

The door opened before they reached it and a large man with a grey beard and a belly stepped out, hostility in every bone. He was dressed in traditional blues and rubber boots, with white chest hairs sprouting from a grubby check shirt. Rocco judged him to be in his late sixties.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded, and stared at Alix. ‘Come back to show off your uniform again, have you?’ He sneered at Rocco. ‘Who’s your boyfriend?’

Rocco stepped forward and said, ‘My name is Rocco. Inspector of police. You are Thomas Portier?’

‘Yes. So what?’

‘Is your brother around?’

‘Not on this property, he isn’t.’ Portier gave a lopsided grin. ‘Haven’t you heard – we don’t really get on.’

‘So I gather. In fact, you don’t get on so much, you shot him.’

‘Rubbish.’ Thomas waved a work-calloused hand. ‘It was an accident, like I already told your lot. He happened to be standing on the edge of my land when I shot at a polecat. Serves him right. Anyway, he retracted the charge against me this morning, so there’s no case.’ He stepped
back and began to close the door, but Rocco jammed his foot in the way.

‘Where is he now?’

Portier let the door open fully. ‘I don’t know. Who cares? He’s probably over at his dump of a house on the other side of the field, watching us through field glasses and hoping you’ve come to rearrest me.’ He jerked his head sideways, and Rocco looked to where the upper windows of a house showed just above a dip in the ground.

‘Would he come here if we asked him?’

‘I doubt it.’ Thomas turned and reached round the edge of the door. When he drew his arm back, he was holding a shotgun. He had a glitter of something malicious in his eyes. ‘I hope he does – then I’ll give him another taste of this. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do, so piss off – and take the little girlie with you.’ He snapped the barrels shut with a loud click.

Rocco sighed. This one could run and run until somebody ended up dead. Probably somebody like Alix or Claude, called out to do their duty and running into a long-standing bitter feud between two men who would never give way.

‘I’m sorry to hear you say that.’ He took out his own gun and pointed it down at the ground, then pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. The reports were shockingly loud and scared up the clutch of pigeons on the roof in a rush of flapping hysteria and falling plumage.

Thomas stared, wide-eyed, and swallowed. But the gun barrels dropped. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘Far from it. I know at least three cops who would have already shot you dead for pulling that trick.’ Rocco stepped forward and took the shotgun from him, and handed it to
Alix. ‘Consider it a lesson for the future. Now, let’s wait for your brother to get here, shall we? Something tells me he won’t be long.’

Sure enough, moments later, they heard the whine of a 2CV engine, and a small grey car came barrelling across the open fields towards the farmhouse, trailing a spiralling cloud of dust and grass fragments and veering from side to side.

Rocco nodded for Alix to walk out and show her uniform. He knew Hervé was nursing buckshot wounds, but he didn’t want to take the chance on the man being as quick-tempered as his brother, and to come out of his vehicle shooting.

The car stopped and a younger, carbon copy of Thomas climbed out and walked urgently across the yard, leaving two dark-brown spaniels jumping up and down in the back. He was dressed in boots and rough corduroy pants, with a greasy peaked cap on his head and a leather jacket. One arm was held tight in a sling.

Rocco was relieved to see that his other hand was empty.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ the newcomer yelled. ‘Have you shot my idiot brother?’ He gave a bark of laughter when he saw Thomas still standing, and nodded slowly when he spotted the gun in Alix’s hand. ‘That explains it. He pulled that on you, didn’t he? He thinks he lives in the Wild West.’ He stopped alongside Alix and shook his head. ‘So what brings you out here, officers? I dropped the charges, although I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t, now.’

‘You stole my cow!’ Thomas shouted, his face going deep red and revealing the extent of the passions between the two men simmering not far beneath the surface.

‘Why would I do that? You think I want your
disease-ridden
bags of bones?’

‘Because you’re greedy and always have been. You resent everything about me and you’re a thief into the bargain!’

Rocco stooped and picked up the two shell casings from his gun and dropped them in his pocket. Then he checked the magazine, making a series of loud clicks in the silence and deliberately ignoring the two men. They watched him, their argument momentarily suspended.

He put the gun away. ‘This has got to stop. I’ve got two murders to investigate, and a backlog of other cases, so I’d appreciate it if you two would sort out your differences without resorting to open warfare.’ He looked at Hervé. ‘Did you steal his cow?’

‘No! He’s lying, as usual. Go count them if you like.’ He pointed at his bandaged arm and added quickly, ‘He shot me for no good reason!’

‘You were on my land, that’s reason enough for me,’ Thomas retorted, but some of the wind had gone out of him.

Rocco said to Hervé, ‘How many?’

‘What?’

‘How many animals have you got, as a matter of interest?’

‘He’s got twenty-six,’ muttered Thomas, ‘because I went over and counted them last night while he was lying in hospital playing the wounded soldier. He only had twenty-five before. Go on, ask him.’ He glared at Hervé. ‘Or are you claiming a case of divine intervention made your herd grow by one overnight?’

Hervé pulled a face. ‘I’ve always had twenty-six and you know it.’

‘Really?’ It was Alix, stepping forward to join in the conversation. ‘Are you sure about that, sir?’

‘Huh?’ Hervé looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I came up here and visited both farms about a week ago with the government vet – to make sure he was safe. I had nothing else to do, so I helped him fill out some forms while he did his tests.’

‘Well, good for you. So what?’ Hervé, Rocco noted, was suddenly looking sullen, and rubbing his injured shoulder.

‘I distinctly recall you having twenty-five heads, and your brother having thirty-six. You and I counted yours together and you signed the form to confirm it.’

‘So I made a mistake. What are you going to do, lock me up for having a lousy memory?’ He gave a snort, but it lacked conviction.

‘See?’ Thomas crowed, pointing at him in triumph. ‘I knew it – he was lying! I want my cow back, officers!’

Rocco raised a hand to shut them both up. ‘Seems to me we have something of a trade-off.’

Both men looked at him. ‘What?’ muttered Thomas.

‘Thomas can be charged with using a firearm to intimidate two officers performing their duty, and Hervé can face a charge of cattle rustling.’

‘There’s no such charge,’ Hervé blustered. ‘That’s cowboy stuff from films.’

‘Yes, there is. It’s under an old land and properties act, I grant you, but it’s still enforceable and carries a prison sentence. Quite a stiff one.’

Hervé looked stunned and his mouth snapped shut like a trap.

‘The gun charge,’ Rocco continued, ‘is definitely current
and also carries a prison term. Would you like me to arrange a shared cell? Or I can drop both charges on your personal assurances that you will stop arguing … and Officer Poulon and I can get on with finding out who murdered two people just over the hill from here.’

‘You’ve got it.’ Thomas was the first to speak. ‘I promise.’

Hervé nodded. ‘Yes. Me, too.’ He spat on the ground. ‘Rustling. I can’t believe it.’

‘Shake hands on it,’ said Rocco.

‘Mother of God, do we have to?’ Hervé began, then saw the look on Rocco’s face. He stepped over and the two brothers clasped hands.

‘So who killed who, then?’ said Thomas, scratching his belly. ‘I didn’t hear anything about a murder.’

‘Probably the same person who drove down the lane and dumped a piece of shit moped on my land,’ Hervé murmured. ‘Mind you, what kind of murderer rides a moped, eh? Not exactly Jacques Mesrine’s style, that’s for sure.’ He grinned at his brother and got a wink in reply at mention of the notorious gangster.

Rocco stared at them. It was as if the argument and shooting and the misappropriation of a cow had never taken place. He said to Hervé, ‘A moped. When was this?’

‘Sometime last night. I heard a motor, figured it was somebody taking a shortcut up the lane. Some still do, though not often. Never thought anything more until I got up this morning and took a walk across the field. The machine was lying in the ditch just inside the fence. I wouldn’t have seen it if it hadn’t been for one of the dogs. Whoever left it there would have had quite a walk, though, if they were heading for the road to Amiens.’

‘Have you moved it?’

‘No. I was planning on going back when I had time. Why?’

‘Because I need to inspect it. It might have been used in the crime.’ After getting directions across the fields, Rocco repeated his warning about prison sentences and left the two men standing together in the yard.

‘Hey,’ yelled Thomas. ‘What about my gun?’

‘You’ll get it back in a few days,’ Alix replied, stowing it in the boot. ‘They’re like kids,’ she muttered, as they got back in the car. ‘Do you think it will last?’

‘I don’t know. Probably not. Just be careful if you’re ever called back out here. And don’t forget your gun.’

‘Right. Is that correct, about the rustling charge? It’s on the books?’

‘No idea. We never had much call to worry about it up in Clichy.’