Death at the Clos du Lac (8 page)

The woman came to with a start. She was shivering with cold and her buttocks and back ached unbearably where the mattress had failed to cushion entirely the ribbed surface of the metal floor. She coughed, her throat painfully dry where her breathing had rasped while lying on her back. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, but it must have been a long time. And no idea whether it was day or night. Instinct, though, told her it was daytime.

She tried to spit. There was a bitter taste on the back of her tongue. Bile, perhaps. Or was it something the man had put in the water? She shook her head. She was definitely light-headed, the same feeling she’d experienced after taking an occasional sleeping tablet.

She held her breath and listened. Not a sound: no voices, no movement, no traffic. Just the pounding of fear in her head. It must be morning, but how late? Or early. She had no way of knowing.

Was that a fluttering of birds somewhere close by? Instinctively she knew the van was inside a building – a shed, perhaps, or a warehouse. The birds were probably sparrows, nesting beneath the rafters. It was somewhere big enough, anyway, to take the vehicle, and removed enough from human habitation or a road to dull any noise.

The idea brought panic. Had they taken her outside Paris? If so, how far? What if they had run off and left her here, tied up like this and unable to escape? How long could she last before being found?

She forced herself to think rationally. She had been kidnapped, and kidnaps only ever happened for ransom. And the men who’d brought her in here and tied her up knew who she was – and who her husband was. That meant she had a value to the people who had taken her. So why would they simply run away and lose the chance of making a lot of money? It would be beyond stupid.

Unless they had been scared off by police activity.

She found it a struggle to sit up, groaning as her back and stomach muscles ached in protest. It reminded her of a camping trip many years ago in the Loire, when Robert had persuaded her to take a weekend away in a tent before they were married. It had been very daring then – even shocking. And the passion they had felt and exchanged that first weekend had not diminished, although it had left her with a wry memory of aching bones and, she recalled with a faint blush, even now, of scraped knees.

She lifted her hands and tried to remove the hood. But the man she had come to think of as ‘Leather Jacket’ had tied it securely at the back with some sort of drawstring, and she couldn’t reach the knot. Then she tested her bonds.
The tape was thick and unyielding, strong enough to hold heavy furniture and certainly impossible for her to break or move. She gave up and began to search the inside of the van by touch, starting with the area immediately around the mattress, and widening her probing until she was moving on her buttocks like a mermaid. From mattress to metal floor was a stark reminder of her plight, but she tucked the fears away and stretched out until she made contact with the side of the van.

Wood. A smooth grain, but she could just detect by feel the wavy lines in the surface. Plywood. She ran her hands across until she felt a join, and a horizontal line of nails or screws bisected by another line, this time vertical. The join between the sheets of ply was close, barely enough for her to insert a fingernail. She knocked on the wood with her knuckle. It made a dull sound, muffled and solid. So they
had
built a baffle. A simple layer of wood, with maybe something stuffed down inside.

She felt a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. This had been no random snatch of a chance victim, but a well-planned and prepared kidnap. They had known what they were going to do in advance.

This was where she was going to stay. The thought made her stomach heave and she had to swallow hard to avoid throwing up.

She steeled herself and continued her search, shuffling around the van on her bottom. Her skirt and slip began catching on the rough floor, but she ignored that; there was time for dignity later. She stopped now and then to listen. It would do no good to be caught looking for an escape, and would make her situation all the worse. It was a reminder
that she was thirsty once more, and desperate for the feel and taste of water. Hungry, too, although that could wait.

She was close to what she thought might be the front of the van’s interior when she heard a noise. A bang, a rattle of a chain, then footsteps. Hard heels on a concrete floor. Coming closer.

Without hesitation she rolled backwards, tumbling over like a child until she felt the mattress cushion her body once more. Quickly arranging herself as best she could, she lay waiting for the door to open.

But there was nothing.

Coward
. The word came floating before her, as much a silent curse as self-accusation. So what if he found her sitting up, she asked herself? What could he do that he wasn’t already doing? But she knew the answer to that. He could do far worse than simply keeping her trussed up like this. She didn’t like to think about it, but thoughts of what had been done to other women flooded in on her, and she lay still, waiting.

Then the footsteps moved away, followed by a slamming door and the rattle of chains.

Silence.

Barely five kilometres away, in the district of Pantin, in north-east Paris, Divisional Inspector Drueault was sharing a brief meal with his men in a café near the railway station. They were tired and frustrated, but still upbeat.

They had found a trace.

‘We nearly had her,’ said Sebastien, chewing a hunk of bread. ‘I’m bloody certain of it.’

Drueault nodded slowly, scooping up a forkful of fried
potatoes. He wasn’t about to let dismay lower the morale of the small group. They had to keep trying. ‘Close, but not close enough. But that’s better than anybody else would have done.’

Captain Detric had been the first to pick up a scent. After drawing a complete blank on Avenue de Friedland, the last place the woman had been seen, they had spread their search zone further out, looking for any signs of unusual activity. It was a huge task, but one Drueault believed would pay dividends. Digging deep in the normal way, by asking questions from house to house using uniforms and publicity bulletins, would alert the kidnappers and cause them to panic. But this way, merely asking those on the street if there had been anything odd or unusual lately in the everyday traffic in the area, would arouse nobody’s suspicions.

First Detric had chanced on a street cleaner working near the Parc Monceau mentioning a delivery van turning into a side street along de Friedland, where he’d been assigned to cover for a sick colleague the previous day. The day of the kidnap. The van had turned in, then out again almost immediately. It had been early, when most shops had been about to open. But discreet enquiries had revealed that
Salon Elizabeth
had opened early that morning for two select clients. It had proved sufficient to give them an initial idea of the type of vehicle used, albeit very tentative. But later, Detric had talked to a shopkeeper who’d complained of a furniture van with a smoky exhaust late on the evening of the kidnap, pulling out of a side street where some demolition work had been going on, but where the site had been closed due to the demolition firm going bust.

The street was in the St Denis district, not a million kilometres from Avenue de Friedland.

The team would not have given this incident much thought had it not been for Sebastien mentioning at the next briefing a furniture van knocking over a parked bicycle and driving off. The witness hadn’t got the licence plate, but had said all the police had to do was look for a van by following the trail of exhaust smoke. This had happened in the Livry area, further to the east.

Drueault had relied on his nose. Two delivery vans with bad exhausts were hardly unusual in this city – they had a hard life driven at ridiculous speeds by morons. But you followed whatever clues you had until they proved worthless or fruitful. Further, it made sense that if the kidnappers had gone anywhere, it would not have been further into the city centre, where there was too much risk involved of a random stop by police. Instead, they would probably have made for a prearranged location where the woman could be kept quiet and away from the public gaze.

But why use a delivery van – if that’s what they were doing? Unless they were keeping on the move. He’d known it done before, to good effect. The advantage was that it put them ahead of any police cordon and nosy neighbours. The weakness in the idea was that constant movement put them at risk of being noticed, either because of the vehicle breaking down or a simple road traffic accident.

Then a report had come in from a council worker in Pantin, just a few kilometres further on, saying that a large truck had been parked overnight in the grounds of a war-damaged and disused church. The man had only noticed it because he knew restoration work would be
starting there shortly and the truck had driven through a rope barrier to gain entry. When he’d wandered over to take a look, he’d been stopped by a man in a leather jacket, who’d claimed he was resting before continuing his journey.

Drueault fastened on it like a dog on a bone. Delivery van, furniture van, large truck … and using abandoned or unused sites to park up. And each sighting had been on a progressive line from Avenue de Friedland out through the north of Paris to here in the north-east. It wasn’t much to go on, but better than anything else.

‘When we’re done here,’ he said, finishing his meal, ‘we spread out and keep asking questions in this area. Whoever they are, they aren’t moving far. Find empty building sites, warehouses, bomb-damaged lots – anywhere a van can park up without attracting too much attention.’

His men nodded, quietly electrified by his positive manner.

When Rocco got to the office, he looked up the number of the Evreux police and asked to speak to the captain of the uniformed branch. In his experience, the uniforms had a more detailed knowledge of their towns than investigators, who usually went where they were pointed and did not have the same depth of local network.

‘Captain Franck Antain. May I help you?’ The voice sounded brisk and efficient.

Rocco introduced himself, and said, ‘I’m looking into some papers believed stolen from a resident of Evreux.’ He gave the captain the address. ‘Would you have any way of checking whether a Mr Devrye-Martin at that address goes under the name Stefan?’

‘It’s a local family, I know that much, Inspector,’ Antain replied. ‘I don’t know all their names, but I can find out. What’s the interest?’

Rocco decided to be cautious. ‘Some personal belongings
were handed in yesterday, and the name was on a magazine.’

‘I’ll have to get back to you. I know of the family, enough to know they are somewhat reclusive, to be honest, and don’t encourage questions.’

‘What’s their background?’

‘Land, mostly, which is a lot, around here and further south, and several houses here in town that I know of. I’m not familiar with all their business, but they used to have connections in various manufacturing areas, although I think that’s all gone now. But they’re not exactly short of cash or properties, you know? It’s old money and they know how to keep it.’ He said the last with a light chuckle.

‘That’s fine, Captain. Whatever you can find out, I’d be grateful.’ He rang off before the captain could press him further, and went in search of Dr Rizzotti. He was in his office across the yard, as usual, immersed in a large medical treatise. He dropped the volume readily enough, and his verbal report on Drucker’s place was brief, as Rocco had feared.

‘Clean. Very clean. I’d hire him to do my place.’

‘But?’ Rocco felt slightly deflated. He’d been expecting something interesting, something he could get his teeth into.

‘I’ve taken samples from the bathroom and sent them with the empty cleaning fluid bottles to the laboratory in Lille.’

‘Samples?’

‘Scrapings from between the tiles and around the skirting board.’

Rocco felt his ears prickle. ‘Now why would you bother to do that?’

‘Because only my mother-in-law uses cleaner on that scale. But she’s a mental case, not a murderer. I can’t be certain, but you’re right in being suspicious about the bathroom. I’ve seen isolation rooms in clinics with more bacteria. If a special clean-up job was done, it can only have been for one reason.’

‘Blood?’

‘Most likely. Hopefully, if there is any in the samples, the laboratory will find it. Nobody’s that good at eradicating all traces entirely. Well, except my mother-in-law.’ He hesitated. ‘I took a look at that moped found on the Portier farm. Nothing to help, I’m afraid. The machine was old, no identifying marks, and the panniers and fishing equipment were standard, store-bought items. I could ask for a fingerprint search, but after being outside in a ditch, it’s likely there’s nothing left.’

Rocco thanked him and went back to the main office. He handed the slip of paper with the car registration number that Mme Denis had given him to a sergeant in the records office and asked him to check it out. Then he walked along to the café on the corner, a favoured spot where the local cops went to drink, gossip, complain and try to act normal. Mostly they didn’t quite pull it off.

There were several officers present, blue uniforms half camouflaged by a heavy fog of cigarette smoke. He nodded greetings and placed his order with the barman before finding a table in one corner where he could sit and think things over without being disturbed. The waiter placed a heavy cup and saucer of black coffee in front of him, then left him alone.

Rocco felt uneasy. He recognised the signs of a chase
building, and wondered where it would lead. He usually found his tolerance for caffeine growing when he got into a case, and this was one of those times.

Running through what he had so far, he realised ruefully that it amounted to not very much. Someone, identity unknown, had gained access to the Clos du Lac and murdered an inmate, identity also unknown. A security guard, a serving naval cop assigned to the same establishment, had also been murdered at an unknown location, either to get him out of the way while the first murder took place, or because he’d been involved in setting it up and had been silenced because his services were no longer required. Gilles Drucker, the Clos du Lac’s director, a man apparently obsessive about his duties, had since disappeared, along with the office records and complement of patients, numbering five, identities also unknown. And now a trio of men from an obscure security department within the Interior Ministry had been through the place and closed it down.

Rocco felt he was lagging behind the race. Along with the unknowns, he so far hadn’t got a clue as to the who or why. With most murders, there was a selection of motives, and a few names of who would benefit from the killing. But all he’d got here was a vague suspicion or two. The most worrying part was that something about the events after the killings had been organised in a way that only someone with considerable clout could manage. Levignier and his men had been unexpectedly quick to arrive on the scene, and only a government department could have arranged for such an equally rapid and efficient removal of a body and the remaining patients. But proving it was another
matter, especially when that government department had the means to remain well beyond the reach of anything Rocco could throw at them.

His immediate problem was how to prove or disprove ISD’s involvement. He could hardly ring Levignier and ask him; the man would simply put down the phone and make a complaint to someone high up in the Interior Ministry. The next question was what precisely was the purpose behind the whole Clos du Lac set-up? Something had to make it worthwhile, even if only to one person. Yet nothing was springing to mind from the paltry evidence he had so far.

He finished the coffee. With such limited amounts of information, Massin would stand firmly in his way if he suggested approaching the Ministry. The Clos du Lac was clearly an official facility, and any cooperation from that end would be unforthcoming. But he was damned if he was going to let go of it yet.

Drucker. The man was at the centre of all this, if only because he probably knew more than anyone else. He’d had the paperwork, he knew the details, he’d seen the people. And the letter confirming his salary increase wasn’t just because he dressed nicely.

He’d also called Levignier before attending the scene. A reflex action for a man with connections.

Back in the office, he found the sergeant waiting for him.

‘That registration number’s assigned to a fleet car in the Ministry,’ the sergeant told him. He didn’t need to say which ministry: in police parlance, there was only the one. ‘I asked who would have been driving it, but they as good as told me to get lost. The usual thing, I’m afraid. You want me to try again?’

Rocco shook his head. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. That’s good work.’ It would be a waste of time pursuing the matter. A large number of cars were used by various departments in the Interior Ministry, many of them on confidential business. Rocco had come up against their intransigence before when working in Clichy, after a vehicle had been towed away, leaving a hapless official or undercover officer stranded. The matter rarely got reported and never went anywhere.

He sat down at his desk, wondering how much of an interest Levignier and his men were going to take in his life. It was probably second nature to them, scooping up whatever information they could find. Without thinking, he dialled Drucker’s number. He realised his mistake and was about to drop the phone back on its hook when he noticed something odd.

Silence. No ring tone. Nothing.

He got onto the PTT, the Post and Telecommunications service, and asked them to check the number.

‘It’s been disconnected,’ the female operator told him.

‘But I was there yesterday,’ he told her. ‘I used the phone myself.’

‘Sorry, Inspector, that’s all I can tell you.’

Rocco asked to be put through to a supervisor, who told him the same thing.

‘I’m an inspector of police,’ Rocco told him calmly, ‘and I’m investigating a murder, and now,’ he added, ‘the sudden disappearance of this subscriber. Who authorised the disconnection?’

The supervisor sounded unimpressed, but agreed to check. He came back a few minutes later. ‘I’ve got the
job card here, but it doesn’t tell me much. Just says to disconnect the line and withdraw the number.’ He sounded faintly puzzled, and Rocco could hear the rustling of paper in the background. Then, ‘That’s pretty unusual, though. Can you hold on a minute?’

Rocco waited, the line crackling with static, until the supervisor came back and said, ‘The order to withdraw the number originated from our Central Services Department in Neuilly. Beyond that, I can’t help you.’

‘Then give me the number in Neuilly.’ He knew the area slightly, a mix of residential and commercial buildings in north-west Paris, with a growing influx of new businesses and government offices. It wasn’t too far from his old base in Clichy.

The man gave him the number, but added, ‘It won’t do you any good, Inspector. I can tell you from experience that all instructions originating from Neuilly come under a government ordinance. Any details about the number are automatically marked as a closed file.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘The Neuilly office has a special function. It deals with all state subscribers and services, from the Élysée Palace on down. They even have their own team of engineers, all security checked and monitored. This disconnection order came from a government department, which means you’ll need an act of legislation or a senior judge to unlock it. Sorry.’

He put the phone down. Another dead end. That left Inès Dion. Without Drucker, she was the one remaining constant in all this. She had been in a relationship with Paulus, the dead security guard, and she was still a serving
member of the naval establishment. Did she know more than she was letting on? Or did she know more than she realised, some snippet that might unlock what was going on here?

He checked his notebook and found where he’d made a note of the number of the Clos du Lac. She might still be there. He dialled and waited. And waited.

No reply.

He put down the phone and went in search of Alix. She was back at her desk in the basement, processing paper. He asked her if she had got Inès Dion’s address.

Without looking up, she said, ‘Setting up a date, Inspector?’ Then she glanced up and saw his expression. She apologised, flushing red. ‘Sorry. Yes, it’s here.’ She checked her notebook and read out the details. It was a street in Amiens.

‘Why do I recognise that?’

‘It’s a block of apartments and rooms attached to the military barracks, used by visiting personnel,’ she replied. ‘Inès told me she was allocated a room there while she was working at the sanitarium. Is there a problem?’

‘If there is, I’m already too late.’