Death at the Clos du Lac (13 page)

Rocco felt a wash of something approaching relief. The angry conviction in the man’s voice was unswerving. He had his lead after all. His problem, however, was proving anything.

‘If you can find the man,’ Rotenbourg continued, ‘this industrialist Simon spoke of, then I believe you will find the truth.’

As Rocco walked back downstairs, thinking about what Pascal Rotenbourg had said, his nose picked up a subtle hint of perfume in the stairwell. Pleasant. Expensive. It was a subtle reminder of his wife, Emilie. He experienced a familiar moment of regret, then it was gone.

He stepped outside the front entrance of the apartment block and walked along the pavement towards where he’d parked his car. He was glad of the feel of fresh air on his face and the sense of space around him. He’d left Rotenbourg with a promise that he would do what he could to find his brother’s killer. But they both knew it was going to take phenomenal luck to turn up any firm information – and then to process it through the system.

‘I know what the machine of state is like, don’t worry,’ Pascal had said, escorting Rocco to the door of his apartment. ‘I have no illusions about that. Greater injustices than this have been covered up, I’m sure.’

There were few people about and then only some distance away at the far end of the street. Across the way, the park was in darkness. This place, Rocco thought, was like a small oasis in the world of noise and movement just a block or two away. It was probably the quiet that allowed a faint sound of music to drift through the air. Melancholy and slow, it added to the atmosphere that he had known so well before his posting to rural Poissons-les-Marais, and he wondered if he would ever entirely lose his feel for the streets of the city. Maybe after a few more years, he conceded, but not yet.

His thoughts were interrupted by movement as the slim figure of a woman stepped out of a car just ahead of him. The door closed and the woman turned, then stumbled, dropping something to the pavement. Without thinking, Rocco bent to retrieve it. At the same time, the woman did the same, and they bumped shoulders.

‘Oh, my God!’ The woman was startled and stepped back, her heel twisting beneath her on the paving stones. She would have fallen had Rocco not grabbed her arm.

‘It’s all right,’ he said quickly, reassuring. ‘No need to be alarmed.’ He handed her the small purse she had dropped. ‘I’m sorry to have frightened you.’

‘No – thank you,’ she said quickly, turning her head and flashing him a smile. In spite of her surprise, her voice was soft and melodic, and he saw in the half light of the street lamps that she was tall and slim and elegantly dressed, with short blonde hair. As she took the purse, her fingers brushed his, and she placed her other hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry, but I think I’ve broken the heel of my shoe.’

Rocco looked down. The heel was bent at a critical
angle, leaving the woman teetering on one foot. He knelt and checked, but the damage was beyond anything he could do to fix.

‘Is it ruined?’ She leant over to see, a hand resting on his shoulder to steady herself. A couple of dress rings, he noticed automatically. No wedding ring. Her skin smelt of soap and another, faintly familiar fragrance he couldn’t quite place.

‘Sorry. It’s beyond salvage. If it was a horse, I’d have to shoot it.’ He stood up, glad she couldn’t see his face in detail. He felt like an idiot. Her hand stayed where it was on his shoulder, so that they both ended up standing close together. Rocco felt a momentary confusion. ‘Umm … Can I help you back into your car, or do you live somewhere close by?’

‘Actually, just two streets away,’ she said. ‘I had to park here because I was late back.’ She looked coy and added, ‘but I shouldn’t really tell a complete stranger that, should I? My father would be so angry with me, even though I’m not exactly a little girl.’ She gave a light laugh, showing small, perfect white teeth. ‘Although I suppose we’re hardly strangers, are we? You did, after all, save me from falling, so that puts you in the realm of a knight errant, don’t you think?’

Rocco reached for his card and showed it to her, to allay her fears. Some instinct, however, made him doubt this woman was the kind to be alarmed too easily.

She stared at the card, tilting it to read it under the weak light. ‘You’re a policeman?’ Her eyes widened. Then she appeared to recover and leant back to survey his dark clothes and shoes with an expression of obvious approval. ‘But you’re not in uniform.’

‘No. I’m an inspector.’

‘A detective? I’ve always wanted to meet a real detective! It’s my lucky day, after all … well, other than for my shoe, I suppose.’ She flicked back a stray lock of hair, uniquely feminine and natural. ‘Still, there’s no serious harm done, is there? Typical of the streets of Paris, waiting to trip the unwary … or bring salvation to the fallen.’

Rocco felt a small dig of unease. He had the feeling she was trying too hard. But why?

‘So, would you like me to help you further, or …?’ He left the rest unsaid. The soft smell of her was beginning to tickle his senses.

‘Well.’ She looked along the pavement in the direction he had been walking, to where a wash of light was flowing across the street from a bar beyond a large patch of shadow formed by a broken street light. ‘Perhaps you would let me buy you a drink, Inspector, as a thank you for your gallantry? Or maybe a coffee – unless, of course, you’re on duty?’

‘Actually, I’m not, but—’

‘Very well. It’s the least I could do.’

‘I don’t think so.’ His attention had been caught by a curl of cigarette smoke issuing from the window of a dark Renault near the patch of shadow.

‘How about dinner, then? We could get to know each other.’ Her voice was soft, gently insistent. ‘You could tell me about some of your more interesting cases.’ She leant in closer, her grip firm on his arm. He thought the look in her eye suggested that dinner was not what she was talking about.

The driver’s door of the Renault clicked open, and two
figures inside began to move. The pale oval of their faces were bland and indistinct. Two men. Big.

In the same instant the memory of where Rocco had come across the perfume before came flooding back.

It was inside the foyer of the apartment block where Pascal Rotenbourg lived. It had reminded him of Emilie.

‘Why would I want to do that?’ He gently released her hand from his arm and stepped back. The car passenger had one leg out of the car, his foot on the ground. Waiting.

‘Because you’re a policeman and a gentleman and I’m a lady?’ She gave a slight lift of her shoulders and tried to smile, but there was a sudden tone of doubt in her voice. She glanced fractionally sideways, a small reveal, and Rocco knew he’d been right.

‘I wish,’ Rocco murmured enigmatically. ‘But I’m afraid it’s only partly true.’ He wondered who this woman was working for. Whoever it was, if they were prepared to try entrapping a police inspector in a street set-up, they either had the weight to carry it through or were ready to take even more drastic measures if it failed. If so, he doubted that waving his police card would put them off.

He stepped back and walked unhurriedly to his car, slipping a hand into his pocket for the reassuring feel of his gun.

Rocco pulled in to the kerb at the first café he saw and went inside. Flashing his card, he walked through to the telephone in the rear and rang Santer’s home number.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Michel,’ he said, ‘but I just got accosted in the street in Montrouge by an attractive blonde. She broke her heel and I saved her from falling over.’

‘Typical,’ Santer muttered. ‘Bloody country hicks come into town and have all the fun. Why are you telling me this? Is it to make me feel inadequate?’

‘I think it was a set-up. It felt too contrived. And there were two men watching from a parked car.’ He gave Santer both the car numbers and a description of the woman. He hadn’t seen the men clearly enough for any useful details, but they would probably be leg-men, anyway, called in to do a job and forget it. He also doubted the numbers would lead anywhere, but it was worth a try.

‘All right. I’ll see what I can find out. It’ll have to be tomorrow, though, as I’ve got a date to go promenade with my dog. If I don’t go now he’ll explode with horrible consequences.’

Rocco disconnected and thought about warning Pascal Rotenbourg that he was probably under surveillance. There was a risk with it, in that Rotenbourg might easily take umbrage and go to the press with his story. If so, Rocco’s career goose would be well and truly cooked. But if his instincts about the woman’s perfume were correct, then Rotenbourg had a right to know.

He went back out to the car and drove back to the apartment. There were no signs of watchers, but he knew that was misleading: unlike the entrapment team he’d seen earlier, any surveillance professionals would be out of sight.

He pressed the buzzer to Rotenbourg’s apartment. It took a while for the man to answer. He sounded groggy with sleep.

‘You should watch your back,’ Rocco told him, and gave him a brief description of his encounter on the street.

Rotenbourg sounded surprisingly calm. ‘You lead an
exciting life, Inspector,’ he murmured, his voice steady, even over the tinny intercom. ‘But thank you for the warning. Would you like more coffee?’

Rocco declined and released the button. He’d had enough for one night. Time to get back home. As he drove, he flicked on the radio and caught a news broadcast. It confirmed in part what Santer had mentioned.

‘Police are still refusing to confirm that a kidnap victim taken off a street in the eighth arrondissement is the wife of a notable industrialist. A spokesman for the police has said that no details can be released yet, but they are expecting to make an announcement shortly. In other news, trade talks with the People’s Republic of China in Peking have been interrupted by objections from Chinese negotiators, who are unhappy with what they call “shadow discussions” with Taiwan. Members of the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs say they hope to resolve this shortly and resume talks—’

He switched it off again. Kidnaps and trade, it seemed, were a growth industry.

‘Not losing your touch, are you?’ Levignier addressed his remark to Jacqueline Roget as she stepped inside his apartment a stone’s throw from the Jardin du Luxembourg in central Paris. His tone was only mildly accusatory in spite of his frustration at the failure of his plan to hobble the inspector. It was a small setback, and one he had not anticipated. But he had no desire for a fight with this woman, who was not as fully trained in security-related duties as other more direct-action members of the department, but infinitely better connected. The truth was, although she fulfilled certain assignments for his department, and he had a clear and definite authority over her, she was no lackey. Yet that knowledge alone, quite apart from her attractiveness, filled him with excitement. ‘I thought this one would be easy for you.’

Her eyes flashed momentarily at the implied dig, but she shrugged fatalistically. ‘Maybe your Inspector Rocco doesn’t like women,’ she commented.

‘You think?’ The thought actually hadn’t occurred to him, and he made a mental note; it might be an angle worth investigation. People with what society regarded as peccadilloes were always more vulnerable to pressure than others. Maybe this would be Rocco’s.

His hope was short-lived.

‘Actually, I don’t. Quite the opposite, in fact.’ She was holding a broken shoe, the heel hanging off at an angle. She was now wearing a pair of flat pumps. ‘I broke my shoe. These were my favourites.’

‘That’s not a problem, my dear. Send the bill to me personally.’

She dropped her purse on a Louis Quatorze table in the hallway and lifted carefully tended eyebrows. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured coolly, ‘but I do this work because I want to – not for the money. I also enjoy what I do … but I would like to do more.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ Levignier interpreted that to mean much more than real work, and decided to call a truce. Now was not the time for business talk, anyway. He took her arm, leading her through into the front salon. Like the rest of the apartment, it was elegantly furnished with antiques and fine glassware, a legacy from an uncle in the Foreign Service who had loathed the countryside and preferred to stay in the city where he was assured of every luxury money could buy. Levignier didn’t have quite the same level of finances, but the apartment was his for free, which gained him certain advantages, such as the attentions of certain young women. Like Jacqueline, he hoped. He had never tried to push beyond their professional relationship before, but he was sure there would be little resistance from
her. As he knew well, power carries its own aphrodisiac.

He poured drinks and shrugged off his jacket. It had been a long day. He had been waiting for news of Rocco’s potential downfall. Accused of assaulting a distraught and very convincing Jacqueline Roget, daughter of a senior member of the French diplomatic corps and therefore above reproach, it should at least have put a dent in the inspector’s investigations long enough to have drawn attention away from anything to do with the Clos du Lac. He made a mental note to call off the men he’d instructed to deal with Rocco. They had missed their chance. He would have to think of another tactic for dealing with him. Especially now he had tracked down the dead Rotenbourg’s brother.

‘You sure you saw Rocco come out of the apartment block?’

‘Yes.’ Jacqueline took the glass he handed her. ‘As soon as I got the call from your men, I went round and checked upstairs. I could hear voices from inside. How did you know he was going to be there?’ She sipped her drink, eyeing Levignier carefully.

‘That should not concern you.’ Levignier tasted his own drink and reflected not for the first time that Jacqueline, considering her rather limited position in the security world, seemed to have an insatiable appetite for information. She appeared to have little hesitation in asking how things were done in a world where methods and explanations were rarely discussed unless among fellow professionals of a certain level. It made her dangerous, he decided, if she ever chose to switch allegiance. In fact, she probably already knew far too much than was good for her. Or himself, come to that.

The thought made an extra frisson run through him.

‘So what do you want me to do now?’ she asked, glancing around the room with a faint frown. ‘I thought you wanted to discuss the next approach.’

He smiled, a predator’s response. ‘We don’t have to discuss that now, do we?’ He stepped in close and touched his glass against hers, managing to brush her forearm with his other hand. He noticed it raised goosebumps on her soft skin. ‘Work can wait until tomorrow.’ His throat thickened at her nearness, and he felt a rush of heat pushing him on. It was the thrill of the chase. The last girl who’d come here had been less wary, but far more … accommodating. Yet somehow, less alluring. Less of a challenge.

Then she was moving away from him and placing her glass on a silver coaster.

‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t stay,’ she said, and moved towards the door. She paused long enough to pick up her purse.

‘Wait.’ Levignier was feeling an unaccustomed loss of control over the situation. This hadn’t happened to him before and he felt a ripple of irritation. She should have been willing to do anything, not be walking away from him.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said calmly. When she turned to look at him, there was no mistaking her air of quiet confidence. ‘I must go home. I promised to call my father. I haven’t talked to him in a while.’

Mention of her father the diplomat, a tough and powerful figure from the old school of French diplomatic circles, was enough to stop Levignier in his tracks, his ardour dented. He hadn’t reached his position without knowing who he
could tangle with and who he couldn’t. And Roget
père
would be the wrong person to cross.

‘Of course,’ he conceded smoothly. ‘I should have realised you’d be tired. It can wait.’

He watched her leave, then reached for his private telephone directory. There were always other young women eager to advance in official circles, keen to do whatever extra-curricular work was expected of them.

Perhaps Jacqueline Roget would take a little more time to come round to his way of thinking.