Death at the Clos du Lac (9 page)

Rocco decided to walk to the barracks and take a chance on catching Inès in. It wasn’t far, out towards the eastern suburbs, and the exercise and fresh air would help him think. He checked in at the guard post and was given a pass and directions to Inès’s room. The single rooms for visiting personnel were located in a separate wing of the barracks building set apart from the central offices by a low wall. He followed a stone walkway and entered the building through a glass-panelled door, following the signs up to the first floor.

There was no need to knock at Inès’s door: it was open. He heard someone humming and looked inside. The floor was being swept by a woman in a grey cotton overall. A cleaning trolley stood just inside the door, loaded with sheets and cleaning items.

‘Dion? She’s gone,’ said the woman, and checked a clipboard on the trolley. ‘Yes, she checked out early this
morning. I thought she was staying longer, but there you go – that’s the military for you.’ She smiled. ‘My husband was in the army for thirty years. Hated every day of it. Killed him in the end.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it. In action?’

Her look could have frozen a lemon. ‘You could say that; he fell out of a second-storey window when a woman’s husband came home.’

Rocco felt as if everything was getting away from him. ‘I suppose you don’t know where Dion went?’ It was a vain hope, but he’d been lucky in the past with such chance remarks.

The woman smiled, the ice gone as quickly as it had appeared. ‘Sorry. They don’t tell us what they’re doing.’

He walked back outside, then turned and went back in and showed the cleaning lady his card. ‘I’m investigating a murder and need to get hold of Inès Dion. Was there anything left behind … any papers she might have disposed of?’

‘Take a look, Inspector.’ She flapped a hand towards the cleaning trolley out in the corridor. ‘I just emptied the waste basket in the bag on the back.’

Rocco checked, but other than a magazine, some food wrappers and some used toiletries Inès had clearly decided were no longer worth keeping, there was nothing.

He thanked the woman for her help and walked back to the administrative office and another brick wall.

‘Sorry, Inspector,’ said the manager, examining his card. ‘We’re not allowed to give out the private addresses of military personnel without a court order and instructions from the Defence Ministry. It’s a matter of security. I’m sure you can understand.’

Rocco thanked the man and returned to the station in a dangerous frame of mind. He rang Captain Michel Santer, his former boss in the Clichy-Nanterre district of Paris.

‘Before you start,’ he told Santer, ‘I’m planning on coming to the city, so name a restaurant and I’ll let you know when.’ Santer was constantly reminding him of the favours he had done Rocco, and the expensive meals he was owed as a result. The captain was probably one of his closest friends, and a man he trusted implicitly.

‘God, touchy today, aren’t we?’ Santer said with a smile in his voice. ‘Still, never let it be said that I can’t be magnanimous.’ His voice dropped. ‘What do you really want, Rocco? Another favour, I’ll bet. It usually is.’

‘An opinion, that’s all.’

‘Ah, an opinion. Well, I’ve got lots of those, mostly uncomplimentary and uncouth, yet true, about detectives who disappear off into the countryside and forget about their old comrades. Go on, then.’

‘There’s a PTT office in Neuilly, called the Central Services Department. Know anything about it?’

‘Ouch. That’s a locked box, my friend. Why do you want to know about it?’

Rocco told him in brief about his conversation with the telephone service supervisor.

‘Well, you can rest assured that the person you talked to was telling the truth. I know that office block and it’s got more security than the president’s private bathroom. You don’t intend breaking in there, do you?’

‘No. Nothing like that. Just checking that I wasn’t being spun a line.’

‘You weren’t, take it from me. If that office issued an
instruction to disconnect a number and eradicate the details, it came from somewhere not too far from the Place Beauvau.’

Back to the Interior Ministry. Wheels within wheels.

When he got back to the office, he was handed a message to call Captain Antain in Evreux.

‘I’ve dug around as you asked,’ Antain told him, ‘and can confirm that there was a Stefan, listed as the elder son of Honoré and Maude Devrye-Martin, with a younger sister, Josette. Several cousins live in the area, too, mostly elderly and female. The family has been established here since 1730, and apart from various business dealings have been active in local politics, although they are less so now. The parents are both in their eighties and rarely seen in public these days. Josette lives in Switzerland. As I indicated to you before, the family is very private, wealthy, with extensive land ownership, much of which is leased out to tenant farmers in the region and further south.’

‘Stefan’s the name I have,’ Rocco began, then stopped. ‘You said “was” listed.’

There was a brief hesitation, then Antain said, ‘Well, there we have a small problem, Inspector. According to our records, Stefan Devrye-Martin is dead.’

Rocco felt the air go out of him. ‘How – and when?’

‘Three years ago in Thailand. A report lodged with us from that time states the cause as blood poisoning following a motorcycle accident. Apparently he didn’t receive adequate treatment in time and infection set in. He died ten days later. Not uncommon in that part of the world, I understand.’

Rocco could confirm that. He reached across the desk and picked up the American photography magazines. He checked the issue dates on the front.

They were just two months old.

‘There’s no other S. Devrye-Martin?’

‘No. Not even a woman’s name. Sounds as if your information is wrong.’

‘Yes, it does.’

Antain cleared his throat. He sounded unsure of himself, and his voice dropped a few notches. ‘Actually, Inspector, this might not be relevant, but I don’t actually come from here, you see, so I don’t have a feel for all the local history. But when I asked around about Stefan, I hit something of a brick wall. It seemed as if people were reluctant to talk about him.’

‘Who did you ask?’

‘Colleagues of course, an
avocat
who comes in regularly … one or two locals. It was only when I asked a friend who’s lived here all his life that I actually got anywhere.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, it seems there were rumours of a nasty scandal surrounding Stefan about ten years ago. It all blew up, but just as quickly blew away again after a barrage of lawsuits by the family closed it down.’

Rocco felt his pulse quicken. ‘What sort of rumours?’

‘Something about taking inappropriate photographs of children at a swimming pool. I say pool, but it was more of a public swimming area in a lake. A father who went looking for his eight-year-old son was charged with assaulting a man he said was using a camera to take pictures
of children in a state of undress. I believe it was fairly relaxed around here then and young children changed clothes without bothering too much about covering up. Anyway, Stefan Devrye-Martin was treated by a local doctor for cuts to his head and his attacker was arrested.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘That’s the odd thing: the case was later dropped when the accusations of assault against the father were withdrawn by the family. The local police captain at the time tried to press ahead with the investigation, because some of the children confirmed that Stefan had indeed been taking photos of them – and it wasn’t the first time. My friend said Stefan was rumoured to be a bit soft in the head, so it was thought he wouldn’t have known what he was doing was wrong. We have no way of confirming that, of course. In the end, the captain was overruled by a magistrate with, um, connections to the family.’

‘Connections?’

‘A cousin.’

‘You sound almost sceptical, Captain,’ Rocco observed.

‘Well, if it had been me, I’d have made a fuss. But money talks, I suppose, as it always has. Not long afterwards, Stefan disappeared to the Far East and nobody heard anything more about him until the report came in of his death three years ago.’

Convenient, thought Rocco cynically. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had been reported dead in an effort to foil justice. But was it relevant? And would a supposed dead man be stupid enough to come back and take out a magazine subscription in his real name?

‘Was the body repatriated for burial?’

‘There’s nothing on record. I checked.’

Also convenient. It seemed on the surface to be a dead end. But Rocco wasn’t so sure. Something about this business didn’t sound right. Any family able to suppress an investigation of this kind had the reach and influence to do more, if they needed to. The idea raised his hackles enough to want to follow it through. And there was only one way of seeing if this had any legs or not.

Visual confirmation.

‘This is a long shot, Captain, but do you have a photo of Stefan on file?’

Another pause, longer this time. Then Antain said, ‘Are you sure this is about stolen property, Inspector?’

Rocco hesitated. This was a sensitive issue, but he had no choice but to take a punt on the captain’s professionalism. He explained that he was investigating a murder, and had been trying to be discreet in the process so as not to alarm the family unnecessarily. Antain hadn’t seemed to mind the small lie, and even sounded impressed.

‘I don’t have a photo here – the family’s very shy of publicity, as I told you. But I know the owner of the local newspaper. He might have one. Do you want me to ask?’

‘I’d consider it a favour, Captain Antain. But be careful. If the family is connected, you don’t want to make official enemies.’

‘No problem. If there is anything I’ll get it couriered to your office.’

That evening, he called round to give Mme Denis the news about the pipes.

‘I know,’ she said grumpily, her chin jutting out. ‘I heard.
You think I want charity? Preferential treatment because I’m old? I don’t need that kind of help, thank you very much.’

Rocco sighed inwardly. He preferred dealing with criminals – they were so much easier to negotiate with. You never needed to placate them, and if they got too bolshy, you could always threaten to lock them up for the night.

‘I realise that,’ he said. ‘But if you were my mother, I’d do the same. Why keep pumping water when you can simply turn on a tap?’

‘It’s not the tap I object to, young man!’ she snapped. ‘It’s the special treatment.’ Then her face softened. ‘I don’t want people thinking I need your help.’

‘Well, I need more eggs,’ he replied. ‘So, let’s look on it as a trade. You get your pipes first, and I get to eat more omelettes. We both win. How’s that?’

She scowled at him in suspicion and said, ‘One moment.’ Then she went inside, She returned moments later with a small basket of eggs. ‘That’s a down payment.’ Then she slammed the door.

But not before he saw her face break into a smile.

‘Union leaders, businesses and members across the political spectrum are today calling for a new rationale regarding trade talks with the two Chinas. With opening discussions between French representatives and the People’s Republic of China in Peking now under way, there has already been some dissatisfaction expressed by Peking at the very highest level at the ongoing negotiations with their political rivals in Taiwan. These negotiations were started some months ago at the instigation of industrial leader and magnate, Robert Bessine, and there are fears in Paris and the wider commercial community that these smaller, rival trade discussions, mostly focused around the supply of military and commercial aircraft being built by Bessine’s own companies, could derail any progress on a much wider front in Peking.

General Secretary of the Confédération Générale du Travail, André Pallemart, has expressed concern that greater
gains for workers across the industrial and commercial sector in France could be put at risk for the sake of what he called “warmongering production for private profit” – a direct attack on Bessine Industries and its charismatic leader. Elsewhere, Minister of Commerce and Industry Louis Bricusse has reinforced his support for exclusive talks with Peking, while Secretary of State Michel Combray has suggested that the Taiwan talks are “not in France’s national interests”. When asked for his response to these statements, Robert Bessine was reportedly unavailable for comment. A spokesman has said that he is unwell but will respond shortly. In other news—’

Rocco switched off the radio, glad someone else was having a tough day. After checking in by phone to the office, to make sure there hadn’t been an outbreak of gang warfare while he was asleep, he decided to go to Paris. He had two reasons for making the trip: one was to see Santer and catch up with the long-promised lunch, the other was to dig around for whatever information he could find on Ardois – or was it Rotenbourg? Stefan had been very cagey. They were the only names he had, but they were better than nothing. He rang Santer and agreed to meet him at a restaurant within the Clichy area, then set off for the capital.

On the way, he remembered to call in at the village café to arrange drinks for the men putting in the pipes to his house and that of Mme Denis.

The owner, Georges Maillard, greeted him at the door. He brought the smell of last night’s beer and cigarette smoke hanging in the air around him, and a stained roll-up hung from his lip, unlit. He was a large man with uncontrolled
hair, a professional beer belly and a two-day beard, and in Rocco’s limited acquaintance with him, seemed to wear a permanent air of disillusion.

‘My licence is all in order, Inspector,’ he grated automatically.

‘Glad to hear it. But I’m not here about that.’ Rocco explained about the workmen Delsaire had hired to connect the water pipes, and handed over some money. ‘If they come in, this should cover a few drinks each.’

Maillard’s eyebrows rose a notch or two, and his expression brightened. ‘That’s very generous of you, Inspector. And there’s no “if” about it; they’ll have smelt the money the moment you took it out of your pocket.’ He peeled off two notes and handed them back. ‘You won’t need that much. This’ll see them happy enough.’ He stuffed the money in his shirt pocket and rubbed his face with a meaty hand. He looked uneasy and glanced past Rocco’s shoulder before speaking. ‘Um … since you’re here, Inspector, there’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s a bit delicate.’ He backed away inside and closed the door.

At the far end of the bar room, a man was setting up a large white screen held in place on wires. A projector stood on the floor by the bar, trailing wires, alongside a stack of film reels. The man nodded at Rocco but said nothing.

‘It’s all right – he’s deaf. It’s film night tomorrow night. You should come – it’s a Fernandel double – his
Don Camillo
stuff. Supposed to be excellent.’

‘Thanks,’ said Rocco. He’d seen some of the posters on walls and telegraph poles around the village. The idea of sitting here watching a scratchy film on a wobbly screen, surrounded by locals catching up on the latest gossip had
its merits, but not right now. ‘Maybe next time. What’s on your mind?’

‘Right. Well, these men have been coming in over the past couple of days. Three of them. Never seen them before, but I don’t think they’re from anywhere around here. They have a few drinks, a laugh, chat, the way customers do. But I’ve always had the feeling they were waiting for something … as if they were checking me out, you know?’

‘You think they’re planning to rob you?’ Rocco had an idea how tight margins were for bar and café owners, many of whom had other lines of business to keep themselves afloat. But he couldn’t imagine Maillard’s place – even if it was the only café in Poissons – being a target for robbers.

Maillard shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He swept a hand around the interior, which was clean, but had seen better days. The decor probably hadn’t changed in three decades and the last coat of paint had been varnished over by years of cigarette smoke. ‘Hell, look at the place. You see cash coming out of the walls?’ He shrugged fatalistically and continued, ‘Anyway, the last time they called, they told me they’d got a whole load of drink going cheap from a restaurant gone bust in St Quentin. Wine, spirits, beer – all good quality.’

Rocco had heard it a hundred times before. ‘Let me guess: no paperwork, no questions asked?’

‘Right. And cash in the hand.’ He rubbed fingers and thumb together.

Rocco was frowning. Investigating the back-door peddling of cut-rate alcohol wasn’t strictly his problem. But living in such close proximity in a small village like Poissons meant he couldn’t simply ignore it as if it didn’t
exist, especially if he was being asked for help. ‘It’s a long way to come from St Quentin,’ he said, ‘to sell cheap drink. It must be a good deal.’

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Maillard sniffed. ‘I must be the only café owner in Picardie to pass up such an offer. Well, don’t get me wrong, I’m not pretending to be a saint, and I’m not averse to making a few francs on a deal if I can. But these three are different; they don’t look the sort to take no for an answer, if you know what I mean.’

‘Have they threatened you in any way?’

‘No. Not as such. But I felt threatened. Is that the same thing?’

‘Near enough. Why – what happened?’

‘One of them had a gun. I saw it under his coat – like I was meant to.’

Armed peddlers of hooch? It wasn’t unknown, but usually in the cities, not all the way out here. Somebody must be desperate to unload it. ‘How did you leave it with them?’

‘They’re coming back this evening about seven – with a van. They said to have the cash ready.’ He shrugged. ‘Like I have any choice in the matter.’

‘Does anybody else know?’

Maillard shook his head. ‘Are you kidding? If I’d told some of the soaks around here, they’d think it was Bastille Day and New Year all in one. I’d have a queue back as far as the
Mairie
.’

‘Good. Keep it that way. I’ll call in around seven.’