Death at the Clos du Lac (16 page)

‘So what were they up to in that sanitarium?’ said Desmoulins, as they drove back towards Amiens. ‘Assuming it’s true about Betriano.’

Rocco shrugged. ‘There’s only one thing: it was a government safe house. Two embassy employees with no hands and severe traumatic problems; one pervert who faked his death with official knowledge and sold out his mates; a problem employee in the Foreign Affairs Ministry who knew too much … and a gangster who reportedly died in a fight, but didn’t. No wonder they’re all on drugs; if word got out who was in there, and that it was all with official collusion, it would be enough to bring down half the staff of the Interior Ministry.’ And if Levignier and his department had even an inkling of what Stefan knew, he didn’t rate the man’s chances of staying free for very long.

‘So what do we do?’

While he’d been talking, Rocco had been watching their
rear mirror. He’d now seen the same car pop up three times on their tail. It was a dark-blue Peugeot, ordinary-looking and unremarkable, with three men inside. But something about the way it sat squat and firm on the road was disturbingly familiar.

It was a pursuit vehicle and it was following them.

‘We’ve got company.’

Desmoulins checked the mirror and came to the same conclusion as Rocco. ‘It looks official. You think they’re after us?’

‘I’m certain of it.’ What he didn’t know, however, was what their intentions were. Right now, he decided, might be a good time to have the car radio Massin kept trying to have installed in his car.

He checked the road ahead. They were approaching a huddle of houses. It was hardly big enough to qualify as a village, but the end wall of the first building on the right was bare of windows, and held a giant handcrafted Ricard advert. It was a café, a whistle-stop for farmers and truck drivers.

He began to brake and said, ‘Go in and call Godard. Give him our location and ask if he’d like to send out a couple of men for a training exercise.’
Sous-Brigadier
Godard headed up the local unit of the
Gendarmerie Mobile
, the equivalent to the CRS – the riot police – who were responsible for, as he liked to put it, anything involving trouble.

Desmoulins smiled. ‘Christ, Lucas, they’ll post you to a mud hut in Gabon for this.’ But he jumped out of the car as soon as Rocco stopped and walked into the café.

The pursuit car had stopped, too, and was sitting three hundred metres back.

Minutes later, Desmoulins came back out, carrying two yellow bottles of
Pschitt
soft drink and a paper bag of brioches.

‘Late breakfast and a bit of cover,’ he explained. ‘We’re cops, after all; we eat on the move.’ He handed Rocco a brioche and said, ‘Godard said bless you. He’s sending three men to do an intercept. Give them time to get moving and they’ll wait for us the other side of Beauvais and do a stop-and-search on those clowns behind us.’ He unscrewed the
Pschitt
and took a drink. ‘Teach the buggers to follow us.’

‘Did you tell him they’re probably official?’

‘Yes. He said all the better and don’t worry about it.’ He grinned. ‘I think he gets easily bored when things are quiet.’

They finished their drink and brioche, allowing the minutes to drift by. If the car behind them gave up and left, they could call off Godard’s men. If not, the plan was still on.

Rocco dusted off his fingers and started the engine, and got back on the road. The pursuit car stayed where it was. But ten minutes later it was back, a recognisable dot in the distance, matching their speed.

‘They must know who we are, wouldn’t you think?’ said Desmoulins.

‘In this thing? Bound to.’ There was no mistaking Rocco’s car, which Levignier would have seen at the Clos du Lac. The Traction was big, black and impossible to hide. It made surveillance for the men in the Peugeot an easy job.

Through Beauvais and out the other side, all the time with the Peugeot just in sight, they reached a straight stretch of road with little traffic. A car coming the other way blew past. It was unmarked and unremarkable, but
Desmoulins raised a discreet hand and the driver flicked a finger to show he’d seen them. They were members of GM – Godard’s
Gendarmerie Mobile
.

‘The unit leader’s name is Patrice,’ Desmoulins commented. ‘They say he eats barbed wire for breakfast.’

Rocco let his speed drop gradually, allowing the Peugeot to draw closer. Behind it, the car containing the GM officers had turned and was coming up fast. The road in each direction was clear.

The men in the Peugeot didn’t know what hit them. The GM car drew level, then hit the siren and slammed on the brakes, slewing to a stop across their front and driving them into the side of the road. Before the men in the Peugeot could react, the doors of the GM vehicle sprang open and three men in black uniforms without insignia jumped out, guns drawn.

It was all over within seconds.

Rocco eased to a stop and reversed to within a hundred metres. Then he and Desmoulins got out and walked back down the centre of the road towards the Peugeot.

The men inside watched them come, their hands in plain sight.

The GM car engine was ticking quietly in the silence as it cooled. The Peugeot’s engine had cut out, its nose tilted over the edge of a drainage ditch where the driver had been forced to pull it round to avoid a collision. Two of Godard’s men had snapped open the doors and were standing with their weapons trained on the occupants, while the third, the one Desmoulins had called Patrice, was checking the boot. He was tall and heavy across the shoulders. He turned as Rocco arrived and gestured at the inside.

‘Take a look, Inspector. You think we can charge them with carrying dangerous items in public?’

Rocco looked. A special short-barrelled shotgun lay nestled in a metal box, with two boxes of spare cartridges and three tubular objects with ring-pulls. Smoke canisters. Behind the box lay a sledgehammer and a large tyre iron, and a box containing two gas masks with filter tubes on the front. Siege equipment.

‘It’ll do for a start,’ Rocco agreed. ‘Unusual equipment for changing tyres.’

Patrice nodded. ‘I’ve seen canisters like these before. They look new – experimental. Wish we had them.’

‘No doubt you will one day. Who are these three?’

‘They don’t want to say.’ Patrice smiled. He was as tall as Rocco, with a broken nose and some serious scar tissue around one eye. The smile gave his face a malicious twist. ‘Perhaps they’re shy.’

Rocco nodded. ‘Get them out and down on the ground.’

Patrice turned and ordered the three men out of the car. They hesitated for a moment, until one of his men grabbed the nearest – the driver – and yanked him out from behind the wheel like plucking a feather. The other two followed without argument and were quickly ordered face down on the road where they were patted down. The search produced three wallets, three automatic pistols and a large clasp knife. Patrice stripped out the magazines before throwing the guns onto the back seat of their car. He tossed the knife into the ditch and handed the wallets to Rocco.

Rocco told the driver to stand up. The man did so with a grunt. He was in his late forties, overweight and looked crumpled, as if he’d been up all night.

‘Who are you and what are you doing?’ Rocco asked.

‘We’re on official business,’ said the man. ‘And you’re in deep shit.’ He glared at the others. ‘Just like the rest of you. Bunch of fucking cowboys.’

‘Hey.’ Patrice gave him a gentle slap on the back of the head. ‘Easy on the insults, fella. We’re sensitive types. Have you filed a movement report for this area?’

The man scowled. ‘Have we what? What’s a movement report? We can go anywhere we please.’

‘Not according to bulletin GN 0345 issued last year. It states that all security personnel have to advise regional offices of their presence on-territory. Failure to do so renders the offender …’ he paused meaningfully and looked at the other two men on the ground ‘… and those under his command, immediate severance from the service and suspension of pension rights.’ He turned and looked at Rocco with a wink. ‘Isn’t that so, Inspector?’

‘So I gather.’ Rocco opened the man’s wallet. An official card inside named him as Daniel Bezancourt, team leader of a security detail in the ISD.

‘Hey – wait!’ It was one of the men on the ground, looking over his shoulder at Rocco. ‘What’s that shit about us losing our jobs? You can’t blame us for that – we were just following orders.’

Rocco squatted down beside the man. ‘Really? Whose orders would that be?’

‘Shut your mouth,
imbécile
!’ Bezancourt snapped. ‘Can’t you see they’re pulling your dick? There’s no such bulletin.’

‘Let’s talk.’ Rocco grabbed the man’s arms and yanked him to his feet, and marched him away several paces out of earshot. The man was short and squat, and his face didn’t
reach Rocco’s chin. He was forced to tilt his head back to look at him. Whatever he saw seemed to frighten him. He flinched. ‘Now then,’ Rocco said softly, ‘just between you and me, whose orders?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ the man muttered, eyes flicking back towards his colleagues, who were both watching intently.

‘Of course you can.’ Rocco let go of him and dusted down the man’s shoulders and straightened his jacket collar. He took out the two remaining wallets and checked the photo inside. ‘Gerard Gautery?’ The man nodded. ‘Good. Now look, Gerard, I mean, if it was Commander Levignier who gave you the order, what’s the secret? He’s your boss, isn’t he?’

Gautery stared up at him, eyes flicking between Rocco and his team leader, trying to figure out who represented the bigger danger. He evidently decided it was Rocco.

‘You know him?’

‘Of course. We spoke only the other day, as a matter of fact – at the Clos du Lac.’

The name was clearly familiar to Gautery and he relaxed. ‘Oh. Well, in that case it was Levignier, yes. Well, sort of.’

‘What do you mean, sort of?’

‘He’s got an assistant, named Delombre.’ He swallowed and threw another glance towards his colleagues. ‘He’s a creepy guy – only I never said that, right?’

‘Never heard of him. What does he look like?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him up close.’

‘But you know he’s creepy.’

‘Yes. But it’s not just me that says it. Some say he’s an ex-Legion battle freak who spent too long in the desert fighting the Arabs, and it went to his head. He doesn’t walk so much as float. Eyes like a dead fish.’

‘Sounds a charmer. And he works for Levignier.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Fine.’ Rocco patted him on the shoulder. ‘That’s very helpful. You can rejoin your colleagues.’

Gautery scurried away to stand alongside Bezancourt, who threw him a venomous look, while Rocco pointed to the third man still lying on the ground. Desmoulins hauled him to his feet and marched him across to Rocco, who repeated the same questions. This man was made of sterner stuff, however, and confirmed his own name but nothing else.

‘Tough nut, huh, Mr …’ he consulted the last wallet ‘… Mr Cropeq?’

‘Tough enough.’

‘So where does your name come from – eastern Europe?’

‘Hungary, if you must know.’

‘Nice country, I’m told. Cultured. You enjoy your work?’

‘When I’m allowed to do it.’ The message was clear, and Rocco smiled and patted the man on the shoulder so that the others could see. He’d got him talking long enough; Bezancourt wouldn’t know which one had said anything. An old cop interview trick. ‘Of course. My apologies. Thanks for your help. You can go now.’

Cropeq hesitated, as if unsure, then turned and walked away.

‘You mouthy pricks,’ Bezancourt muttered darkly, but clamped his lips shut when Patrice stepped up and gave him a warning look.

‘Let them go,’ said Rocco, handing the men their wallets. ‘Make sure they go back to the city.’ He gave Patrice a nod of thanks, adding, ‘Good work.’ This was to ensure that if
any flak should come their way, it was Rocco issuing the orders.

‘You going to tell me what that was all about?’ said Desmoulins, climbing back in the car.

‘I got a name,’ he replied. ‘And I fired a warning shot. Now I just need to wait for the reaction.’ He also needed to find out who this Delombre character was. From the way Gautery had described him, he wasn’t good news.

Delombre parked in a side street between two canvas-sided delivery trucks and switched off the engine. He knew where his man would have been stationed, watching the house where Devrye-Martin was hiding, and he was no longer there. Just as well; Delombre preferred to work unseen, even by his own contacts.

He checked his weapon, sliding it out of the holster with a faint rub of worn leather, then put it back. He shouldn’t need it, but you never could tell. Next he went to the boot and took out an overcoat and hat, both anonymously grey, which he put on, then lifted out a cardboard box advertising cooking oil. He made an adjustment to the box, then made his way through the streets to the Rue des Noces, walking past the house and limping noticeably. He caught his reflection in a glass-panelled door; saw the image of an ordinary man with a bad leg – an
ancien combattant
maybe – carrying home a few groceries. It would do.

He circled the block and approached the house along the rear alleyway, counting off the windows. He was mostly in shadow cast by the brick walls and outhouses at the rear of each property. He saw a single moth-eaten dog but no people.

The back gate to 12
bis
was ajar. He paused and listened, thought he heard a rumble of voices from inside. Problem one: Devrye-Martin had company. Problem two: he didn’t have time to hang around before someone noticed him. In a place like this, strangers stood out and were likely to be challenged.

He made a decision based on his training. Once on target, never go back. It was a simple maxim and had worked well enough for him in the past.

He pushed through the gate and walked up a cracked concrete path in a festering pit of a yard, and used his shoulder to nudge open the rear door. He was in a kitchen, the atmosphere rank with the smell of greasy food and cigarette smoke. A trace of gas lingered in the air, and he saw a blue canister beneath a cheap stove, with a rubber tube connected to two burners.

The voices were louder, coming from the next room. An older man was arguing about not having enough money, and another one – younger – was saying he wanted in on the business or he’d drop a few words to the police. Thieves falling out by the sounds of it, but Delombre didn’t care. It might even play into his hands.

He crossed the kitchen, the soles of his shoes making a sticky sound on the filthy linoleum floor, and stepped through the doorway. He was in a living room.

Two men. Stefan Devrye-Martin, fat and pallid as a large
boudin blanc
, rifling urgently through a box of photos on a table, and a younger man, leaning against a wall nearby, sucking on a cigarette. He was rail-thin and dressed in cheap trousers and a crumpled leather jacket. Probably a cheap street thug – or Devrye-Martin’s boyfriend.

The youth saw him first and nearly swallowed his cigarette. But he was quick to recover. He jumped forward, whipping out a cut-throat razor from his jacket pocket and pushing Stefan aside for a clear field of fight.

‘Oh, please,’ Delombre muttered tiredly. He pulled his hand out from the hole he’d made in the bottom of the cardboard box. He was holding a small pistol fitted with a home-made suppressor. The youth was barely three feet away from him when he pressed the trigger. The .22 calibre bullet made a spiteful snapping noise as it left the gun, like breaking a stick to feed a fire. It hit the youth low in the left eye, killing him instantly. Delombre stepped aside as the body’s momentum carried it forward, and watched as it slumped to the floor, a tremor going through the frame before going quite still.

‘Damn, that was neat,’ he said softly, and looked at Stefan, cowering against the table. ‘I constantly surprise myself, you know? But the kid was quick, I’ll give him that. Close friend of yours?’

‘Who the hell are you?’ Stefan whispered, eyes fastened on the gun. Then he looked at the dead youth. ‘Why did you have to do that?’

‘Sorry. Bit of a habit of mine. Something to do with a wretched childhood, I expect.’ Delombre blew away a wisp of smoke coming from the suppressor, like a modern-day cowboy, and smiled. ‘So what are we up to here, then,
Stefan?’ He moved closer to the table and picked up a handful of photos, flicking them to the floor one by one and humming tunelessly. ‘Not quite my thing, I have to say. Poor composition, lousy lighting and altogether a bit cheap. Your mummy must be very proud of you.’

‘What’s it to you?’ Stefan was breathing in short, forced bursts, his face beaded with sweat. He had dropped the photos he’d been sorting through and was now clutching his chest with a pudgy hand, screwing up his cheap, stained T-shirt.

‘Actually, it’s not. You and your sort can burn in hell for all I care. Which, by the way, is a fate you’ll be meeting sooner than you’d probably anticipated, although,’ he reached out to touch Stefan’s face with the tip of the suppressor, ‘you’ve been there already, haven’t you? On paper, at least. Neat, I have to say. I might have to try that myself one day.’

‘What?’ Stefan winced. He tried to back away from the gun but there was nowhere to go. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Blood poisoning in Thailand, wasn’t it? Usually, you get septicaemia out there and you’re dead meat. Must have been one of those miracles the Church likes to talk about. Never seen one myself, but there’s always hope. What did Rocco want?’

‘Huh?’

‘Rocco, the irritating country cop. What did he want?’

‘He—nothing. He was asking questions.’

‘About what?’ Delombre had gone very still. It made him look all the more dangerous.

‘Things.’

‘What sort of things? And just so you know, you take too long over this and I’ll start shooting holes in your fat bits. And let’s face it, I can hardly miss from here, even with my eyes closed, can I?’

Stefan swallowed hard. ‘He was … he wanted to know about the other people in the Clos du Lac. It’s a sanitarium.’

‘Thank you. I know what it is. What did you tell him?’

Stefan shrugged. ‘What could I tell him? I didn’t know who they were any more than they knew me. It was all kept confidential. Anyway, I was on drugs most of the time.’

‘Liar. Get your tongue cut out.’ Delombre chanted the words softly, slowly. Menacing.

‘I’m not, I’m—’

‘OK, now let’s backtrack. That’s polite talk for this is your final chance, you
pustule
.’ Delombre placed the tip of the suppressor against Stefan’s ample stomach and pushed. It went in quite a long way, and Stefan yelped but didn’t move. ‘Now, I know there’s a technical school of thought that says if one pulls the trigger of a gun with a fat pervert on the end, the gun will explode. It’s something to do with blowback or reverse concussion – I’m not really that interested. But it means I ruin a perfectly serviceable little gun – and my hand in the process, which would seriously annoy me. Or you go pop like a giant
crème caramel
.’ He gave a stab with the gun. ‘Are you a betting man?’

‘OK … OK.’ Stefan held up a hand. ‘Rocco wanted to know who the others were. He was threatening to expose me, so I told him what I knew.’

‘Which was?’

‘You know who they are.’ Stefan looked sick, his voice low.

‘I know, but I so love to hear your voice, daddy.’ Another prod of the gun. ‘Who?’

‘I told him … Betriano and Rotenbourg. But not the others—’ Stefan went very still, and his eyes opened wide, as if a switch had been flicked in his head. ‘It’s you!’ he whispered, going paler than ever.

‘Uh-oh,’ Delombre murmured. ‘The fat man knows something.’

‘It’s you!’ Stefan repeated, looking horrified.

Delombre blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You. The therapy pool … your voice … I recognise –
it was you who killed Simon
.’

‘Ah.
That
.’ Delombre understood. ‘So I did. But how did you know? Weren’t you all comatose on drugs?’

‘No. I was outside … your voices carried.’ Stefan coughed heavily, his breathing suddenly louder, and slid sideways to sit on a chair. ‘You forced him into that harness and lowered him. I heard him choking.’

‘Yes, so did I – and I probably had a much better view than you, too. Did you like my handiwork?’ He took the gun out of Stefan’s stomach and peered along the barrel, one eye shut, swivelling to aim at the central light bulb. ‘I like to be inventive, you see. It’s my small attempt to elevate a fairly mundane action to the level of art.’ He smiled coldly. ‘With you, sadly, I have neither the time nor the inclination. Still, one does what one can.’ He bent and peered in mock concern at Stefan’s face. ‘You really don’t look good, do you know that? Heart trouble, I suspect. Ah, well, we all have to go sometime.’

With that he stepped back alongside the cardboard box and pushed his free hand into the top. He produced a litre bottle of liquid and flipped open the lid.

The smell of gasoline permeated the room.

‘What are you doing with that?’ Stefan’s mouth went slack and he glanced towards the kitchen door in desperation.

In response, Delombre flicked the bottle and a tiny drop of gasoline hit the centre of Stefan’s chest, spreading out through the material.

‘God, I’m getting better at this. Did you know,’ he said conversationally, ‘that this is the easiest way to get bits of cork out of the neck of a bottle? None of that gross sticking in a finger, or fiddling with a corkscrew. Just flick it.’ He went to do it again.

‘Stop.
Wait!
’

‘No, really. A wine waiter in London showed me how. Amazing. I mean, what do they know about wine, huh? Bunch of cretins.’ He flicked again, and another wet blob hit Stefan’s body. ‘You should have stayed where we put you after you left the Clos du Lac. You’d be OK now. But you had to go off and do your own thing, didn’t you? Back to the business you know so well.’ Then, as he stepped forward to repeat the process, Stefan gave a loud gasp and sank back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

Delombre stopped. He hadn’t been so far off the truth. The fat man was having a massive heart attack.

‘Oops,’ he said. ‘Silly me. Bit too much pressure there, I think. Never mind.’ He recapped the bottle and replaced it in the box, then checked the fat man’s throat for a pulse.

Nothing. Damn, that was quick.

He immediately became all business. Leaving everything in the room as it was, he unscrewed the suppressor and wiped the gun clean. Then he placed the gun in Stefan’s hand and adjusted the fat man’s chair to align it slightly
with the dead youth’s body. He was reluctant to lose the gun, which was a handy little hideaway weapon, but it had served its purpose. He could always get another easily enough.

‘Such a shame,’ he breathed, studying the layout of the bodies, ‘when friends fall out.’

Next he carried the box through to the kitchen and placed a saucepan on one of the burners. He poured a measure of gasoline into the saucepan, taking care not to spill any, then turned on the gas and carefully lit a match, touching the flame to the burner. He stepped back to review his handiwork one last time, then turned on the second burner, but without lighting it.

Then he picked up the box and the bottle of gasoline, and quietly let himself out.