Death on the Marais (12 page)

As they walked back to the car, he looked back at the first lodge, silent and anonymous, shuttered against prying eyes.

‘I’d like to take a look inside,’ he said quietly. ‘What are the chances?’

Claude stopped and pursed his lips. ‘I’ll see if anyone knows who owns it.’ He dipped a hand in his pocket and took out a slip of paper. ‘Damn – I forgot. I had a phone call this morning. Wouldn’t give me his name, said you wanted this urgently but he wants to be left out of it. He sounded a bit shifty.’

Rizzotti
. Rocco studied the names Claude had transcribed onto the back of an old fishing permit. The first was the senior magistrate who had signed the release papers for the dead woman. The second was the name of the dead woman herself, followed by an address. He felt his gut tighten. It was near the Bois de Boulogne, an area he knew well. Big houses, expensive cars, entryphones on the gates and armed guards for those who found that kind of accessory a necessary part of life. Not the kind of place you went
calling unless you had a solid reason for being there.

‘She’s not just anyone,’ said Claude. It wasn’t a question – he’d written down the name and evidently recognised it.

Rocco nodded. He didn’t really care about the magistrate who had signed the release; he would keep for later. But if Nathalie Bayer-Berbier was who he thought she was, then she certainly wasn’t just anyone.

‘I need to go to Paris,’ he said. He climbed in the car and motioned to Claude to get in. It was time to trust this man. ‘But not in this.’

‘You could go by train from Amiens. Hey – you’ve got a radio! I didn’t notice before.’ Claude began spinning the dials like a kid in a toy shop. ‘Is this police issue?’

‘No. I had to buy it. The Bayer-Berbier place is close to my old stamping grounds; there’s too much of a chance someone will recognise my car.’

‘Ah.’ Claude nodded in approval as the soft tones of Françoise Hardy filled the car, interspersed with a hiss of static. ‘Beautiful girl, lovely voice. I take it you’re not going to ask anyone’s permission, is that it?’

‘Yes. I wouldn’t want to disturb them.’ It might be awkward if one of his former colleagues spotted him and word got out. Quite apart from treading on toes – maybe even those of his old department – he’d probably find his way blocked by politics, the shutters brought down tight. A favour called in, like the early release papers signed so efficiently by a senior magistrate, and the entire story would disappear under
the rug. At least going in fast now, he might get some information before that could happen. He considered calling Massin, then dismissed the idea. It would be seen as calling in a favour from a big gun, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

He drove back to Claude’s house while Claude continued playing with the radio, sweeping the airwaves in search of some music, muttering at the stations playing rock by British and American imports. He was relieved when they arrived back at the house. Parked outside was a grey 2CV Fourgonnette, like the baker’s car and a million others on the roads of France.

‘Yours?’ said Rocco.

‘Of course. The best transport for my job – when I’m not using my bike, anyway. Of course, it would be even better with one of these radios.’

‘Is that how you got to the
marais
– by bike?’

‘Don’t worry – I’ll pick it up some other time.’ He jutted his chin at the 2CV. ‘How about it? Take us no time at all to Paris.’

‘In that? I’d break something … or suffocate.’ Rocco tried to imagine himself squeezing into the driving seat, and couldn’t. It was built for midgets, not men of his build – and it had as much speed as a donkey.

‘Why not?’ Claude shrugged. He got out and jerked a thumb at a rack on the roof. ‘There are thousands of them in Paris. Put a ladder on top and nobody will look twice.’ He grinned. ‘Especially if I drive. She’s a bit temperamental, you see.’

It had its merits, Rocco had to admit. But there was a major drawback. ‘Have you ever driven in Paris? It’s not like the roads here.’

Claude’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I had a life, too, you know, before coming here. I was a cab driver for a while … in Paris and other places.’ He looked triumphant at Rocco’s surprised reaction. ‘I had my share of big-name clients. In fact,’ he tapped Rocco on the chest, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I knew the street where that poor woman lived better than you do.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rocco? A safe pair of hands. Hard but safe. Is he coming back?

Sous-Brigadier Etienne Stauff – Anti-drugs Initiative – Nice district

The street was silent apart from the chirruping of house martins, with that deserted ambiance found only in exclusive neighbourhoods in the middle of a working afternoon. The kerbs either side were peppered with a democratic selection of dog turds and expensive cars, the former awaiting the unwary, the bumpers of the latter kissing gently in true Parisian fashion.

‘You sure this is a wise move?’ said Claude, not for the first time. ‘Berbier’s a powerful man. You could end up with your balls in a vice at the drop of a phone call.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘Go through channels. Amiens. Massin. I know you don’t like him, but he could clear the way for you – maybe get the locals in Paris to approach
Berbier instead. That would take the heat off you.’

‘It would also take days while they’re all bending over touching their toes. Whoever killed Nathalie Berbier is getting further away. The more time we lose, the harder it will be to nail them.’

Claude was right, though: he was taking a risk coming here. Not checking in with the local
préfecture
first was a no-no, a breach of rules and etiquette. Even approaching the Bayer-Berbier family direct could have all manner of repercussions. But he figured he had the element of surprise on his side and that would be to his advantage, where going through channels would not. If he left it to the locals, they wouldn’t even get this far: the Bayer-Berbier name alone would be sufficient to put the block on any questions, the matter consigned for ever upstairs amid a welter of obstructive paperwork.

He climbed out and walked along the street. He wasn’t expecting any obstacles, but his dark coat and air of confidence would help him pass muster from anyone watching the area. If that failed, he might have to use more direct means. He scanned the house numbers set in blue plaques on the gateposts as he went, eyeing the interior of the courtyards where gleaming limousines stood waiting to whisk their owners on the next journey into the capital. The traffic noise from a nearby intersection was a muted buzz over the rooftops, a comforting reminder of activity after the rural quiet of Poissons-les-Marais.

He glanced back at the end of the street. He’d told Claude to stay on the move. Any longer than ten
minutes in the same spot and a local patrol would be along to give the driver the once-over. With no rational explanation for being in the area, it would be inconvenient for both of them if they were pulled in.

He found the number and a bell push alongside an entryphone. There were no identifying marks but he would soon find out if he’d got the right place.

‘Yes?’ an elderly woman’s voice squawked from the speaker grill.

‘Monsieur Berbier, please.’ A phone call twenty minutes ago had elicited the fact that Philippe Bayer-Berbier, industrialist, war hero, diplomat and friend of politicians throughout the land, was at home. The small lie about who the call was from had been easy, made simpler by cutting it short mid-sentence. Phone lines were occasionally unreliable in Paris, even in these exclusive quarters, and nobody gave an interrupted call much thought.

‘Who wants him?’

The sharp response wasn’t quite what Rocco had expected, but he guessed it might have something to do with the death of a daughter of the house. Some normally mild-mannered people dropped completely out of character when faced with the death of a loved one.

‘Police.’

The entryphone beeped once and there was a click as the gate locks disengaged.

He stepped into a courtyard paved with cobbles. In the centre stood a dried-up fountain with a bronze cherub pointing a chubby finger towards the sky. A thin
veil of green mould covered everything as if the sun rarely shone here, and the overall effect was sombre and melancholy. The only relief was a gleaming Citroën DS sitting low at rest on the far side of the fountain. A stocky young man in a dark suit was rubbing the rear window with a duster, his other hand hovering by the front of his jacket. He watched Rocco cross the yard but made no move to intercept him.

Rocco spotted a recess leading into the building. Nothing so common as a front door, he thought, and wondered what had led to this architectural oddity. As he walked towards it, an elderly woman emerged. She was grey and stick-thin and looked as if a light breeze would pick her up and send her spinning away over the rooftops like a discarded paper tissue. Her skin was sickly white and mottled with age spots, her hair done in an elaborate perm which he was ready to bet was done once a week in an expensive salon off Boulevard Haussmann.

‘What do you want with my son?’ she demanded, gaze fixed on him like a bird of prey spotting a particularly juicy target. There was nothing frail or sickly about her eyes, he noted. Like twin coals in the dark.

‘I’m afraid,’ he said politely, ‘that I can only discuss that with him.’

‘What is your authority?’ Her cheeks flushed red at his response, her annoyance clearly lurking just beneath the surface.

‘That, too, is something I need only reveal to Monsieur Berbier.’ He deliberately left off the Bayer
part of the name to annoy her further. He had little time for the
grandes dames
of the city, who thought themselves above the law and able to parry questions from simple plodders like him by sheer force of personality or, when that failed, a bit of judicious name-dropping.

She blew out her cheeks in frustration, then shrugged and beckoned him to follow. Rocco trailed her slowly up a flight of tiled stairs, her hand grasping an elaborate handrail and her asthmatic breathing loud and wheezing in the confined space. She was wearing a pair of faded and threadbare slippers, with baggy stockings bunched around spindly ankles. He caught a distinct tang of expensive perfume. Not that he was any expert; he used to buy perfume for Emilie, back in the days when it was still an acceptable negotiating tactic for the hours spent at work instead of home, but the numerous scents seemed to him to be simply a variation on a theme.

When she arrived on the first landing, the old woman turned and put her face close to his.

‘My son is under a great deal of stress at the moment,’ she muttered savagely, her breath as sour as old milk. ‘Matters of state, of course. Important matters. I don’t want him upset further.’

‘Well, I’ll try, of course.’ He wondered if ‘matters of state’ was the new expression among the elite to cover a sudden death in the family. If so, they probably had an expression for the deceased being found wearing a Gestapo uniform and pumped full of drugs and alcohol, too.

‘See to it, otherwise I will speak to my friend, the
député
, and have you removed. He can do it, too. Like that!’ She clicked her fingers with a sharp snap.

Rocco was debating whether to use a hip throw on the old woman or simply kick her down the stairs, when they were interrupted by a deep voice echoing down the stairwell.

‘Maman!’

He looked up and saw a man standing on the bend of the stairs, peering down at them. The face was familiar: it was Bayer-Berbier. He was tall and elegant in a pear-shaped way, dressed in an immaculate grey suit and a white shirt. Rocco guessed him to be in his sixties. He had the short, stiff
brosse
style of hair affected by Frenchmen of an ex-military background, and the steel-grey eyes behind frameless glasses were cold and unemotional.

The old woman made a huffing noise and beat a retreat through a doorway, muttering something uncomplimentary as she went and hawking deep in her throat.

‘My apologies,’ said the man, coming down to meet Rocco. He held out his hand. ‘My mother believes it is her duty to intercept all callers – my mail, too. She is concerned about my safety. Last week she placed some documents from my office into the fire because she thought the paper might be contaminated with germs.’

‘I hope they weren’t valuable.’

‘They weren’t, fortunately. But it took me three hours and a lot of telephone calls to make sure of
that. How may I assist you?’ His gaze was intense and Rocco had the feeling the comments about the man’s mother were merely a smokescreen to break the ice and lower barriers. It was executed smoothly, man to man, equals for the moment in spite of their undoubtedly different stations in life.

‘I have to talk to you about your daughter, Nathalie,’ he said carefully, reminding himself that this man was so high up the food chain, he was probably accustomed to dealing with officials via his lawyer. Not that he could have faced the kind of discussion Rocco was going to have with him too often.

‘Do you have some identification?’ Berbier held out a hand.

No questioning of the subject matter, thought Rocco. No frown, no doubt in the voice, the way most normal people would react when a policeman came calling. Iced water in his veins. He wondered at the ‘war hero’ tag which had followed Berbier around. A glorious but secret period operating with the SOE, he recalled reading somewhere; keen to fight the Germans, Berbier – a captain at the time – had found his way to London and joined the Special Operations Executive, parachuting back into France to help the underground fight. The detail remained clouded but the myth grew stronger as his prominence increased.

He produced his card and handed it over.

Berbier studied it, rubbing a thumb across the printed surface. It was a gesture Rocco had seen before: a tactile check among those who cared about
such things, feeling for embossed letters. A faint lift of the Berbier eyebrows might have been a show of approval.