Death on the Marais (18 page)
‘You’ll be charged with possession of prohibited materials,’ Rocco warned Didier. ‘That carries a prison term. Unless …’ He waited, sure that the wounded man would look for a deal if he could get one. A born survivor, he’d be quick to look for a way out of the dilemma. It had undoubtedly stood him in good stead in the Resistance, where quick thinking was a survival skill, and he would have lost none of that ability over the years.
‘Unless what?’ Didier looked sullen and defeated, but his eyes were sharp with cunning.
‘Unless you stop being an obstructive pain in the arse and help me.’ Rocco nodded at the photo. He had to get Didier focused on it: a trade of information in exchange for the illegal explosives charges being dropped. ‘Who are the others in that group?’
‘Christ, you expect me to remember that? It was twenty years ago in another life; they’re probably all dead by now!’
‘You aren’t.’
‘Might as well be, with this.’ He waved the stump of his arm, then slid down in his bed with a heavy sigh and turned to face the wall. ‘I need some rest. Close the door on the way out.’
Rocco realised that he had lost the initiative – for now, at least. Didier was tough all right. But for how long? ‘Fair enough. Just one more question: who owns the big lodge in the
marais
?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘Because you damn near live in the
marais
, that’s why.’
‘So?’
‘And it’s just across the stream from your place. You trying to tell me you’ve never seen or spoken to anyone down there?’
‘Of course I have. But they don’t tell me their business – why should they? They’re just lousy Parisians with too much money and no respect for the common man.’ His shoulder moved under the covers. ‘Show them the guillotine, I say. That’ll thin out their filthy capitalist ranks.’
Rocco gave up. This kind of pseudo-political nonsense could go round in circles. But he was convinced Didier knew far more than he was letting on.
‘I will find out what’s going on,’ he said, walking to the door, ‘one way or another. But you’d better hope none of your neighbours get hurt in the meantime. Otherwise, it’ll be
you
seeing the guillotine, not a bunch of posh partygoers from Paris.’
He made his way back out to the car, reflecting on what had just happened. As a first interview with a significant person in a case presented with a piece of evidence, it had been no different to most of the others he had conducted. Witnesses and suspects alike were often adept at expressing denial, then anger in equal measure. Mostly, it was just a matter of wearing them down.
As he climbed in the car, his thoughts returned to
the photograph. The one impression uppermost in his mind was that Didier Marthe had never set eyes on it in his life before.
From the hospital, Rocco drove to the office where he found a detective making a pot of coffee. He introduced himself and they shook hands.
‘René Desmoulins,’ the man said. ‘I heard about you.’ He was in his forties, genial, with a thin moustache and a weightlifter’s chest and legs. ‘You want coffee?’
‘Is it strong?’ Rocco peered at the mixture; it looked like treacle.
‘It’ll float a brick if you want it to. Help yourself.’
Cups full, Desmoulins led the way to an empty office and closed the door. ‘I’m supposed to be working on a petrol scam on the outskirts of the town,’ he explained, sitting down. ‘It’s a crap job which nobody else wanted, and I drew the short straw. If you’ve got something more interesting, for God’s sake let me in on it. I’m dying of boredom.’
Rocco smiled. At last, a potential accomplice.
‘Who do I clear it with?’
Desmoulins grabbed a phone and pushed it across the desk in front of Rocco. ‘You know Eric Canet?’ Rocco nodded. ‘Dial two hundred and forty-one; to you he’ll say yes.’
Rocco dialled the number and Canet answered. He quickly outlined what he needed and saw Desmoulins making notes on a pad. ‘It’s not much,’ he said, ‘but I need someone to trawl through the records. This could go all the way back to the war.’
‘Tell Desmoulins to get on with it,’ said Canet with a smile in his voice. ‘He’ll much prefer that to the smell of petrol.’ He cut the connection.
Rocco relayed Canet’s agreement. ‘You’ll also have Massin’s blessing if you need it.’
‘Yeah?’ Desmoulins looked impressed. ‘That’ll do me – I need all the blessings I can get. What have you got so far?’
Rocco showed him the photo of Didier and his fellow
Maquisards
. ‘Not much, I’m afraid. This man’s a local in Poissons, although he doesn’t originate from there. He just blew himself up with a grenade – don’t ask, it’s complicated.’
Desmoulins laughed. ‘Christ, we heard about him. Take one idiot with a hammer and a death wish – and boom. Why the interest?’
‘Because I don’t think the boom was an accident. Somebody’s trying to kill him. He calls himself Didier Marthe, but that might not be his real name. Run it past anyone you can think of: police, military, medical … I can’t narrow the photo down to a specific location, but it would have to be somewhere with Resistance groups operating during the war.’
‘Tall order. It could be anywhere.’
‘Not really. There were large parts of the country without any organised resistance. I’ve a feeling he’d have been part of a known group, most likely communist in leanings.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘He’s got a line in angry left-wing rhetoric that’s too practised to be put on. If you can find any historians
or archivists working in the field of Resistance groups and their affiliations, they might be able to help you. Massin is chasing up the source of the photo, so that might narrow it down, too. Liaise with him via Canet if you need to.’ He handed the detective his card. ‘Call me when you get something.’
‘Will do.’ Desmoulins made more notes, then stood up. ‘Sounds a lot more fun than chasing down petrol crooks. Anything else I can do?’
Rocco suddenly remembered the telephone number he and Claude had found in Nathalie Berbier’s flat. He read it out and Desmoulins scribbled it down. ‘Get the PTT to run it through their records. I need an address for the subscriber. It could be a Tomas Brouté but I’ll take whatever they’ve got. And I need it fast.’
Rocco left Desmoulins and drove back towards Poissons, stopping at an agricultural supplies depot on the way for some rubber boots. He had no intention of making them a regular part of his wardrobe, but neither did he imagine that his ventures so far into the great muddy outdoors would be his last.
Continuing his journey, he wondered if his burgeoning network of worker bees, which now included Massin, a turn of events which still struck him as deeply bizarre, would accomplish anything. Maybe he was chasing shadows over Didier Marthe, but he couldn’t sit back and do nothing; he had too deep-seated a feeling that there was something there worth following up. All he had to do was tease it out into the sunlight.
He turned his thoughts to Nathalie Berbier. It seemed unreal that her death could be so blatantly denied by her father, with what amounted to the collusion of the Interior Ministry. It was almost an insult to the poor woman’s name, no matter what her lifestyle. Whether she had died by her own hand, by accident or at the hand of another, the least he could do for her was get to the truth.
He stopped off at the
marais
on his way into the village, and parked in the turning circle near the first lodge. He climbed out and did a tour of the building, testing the doors and shutters for weakness. But it was locked tight, with none of the play usually found in wooden structures. Whoever had built this place had paid particular attention to security. Perhaps it was natural, being so isolated and open to random burglars when nobody was about. Or maybe, he reflected cynically, the owners had something worth hiding.
He debated going to take another look at the Blue Pool, but decided to come back later. Whatever was there could wait. Instead, he drove to the house, surprising himself by experiencing a feeling of homecoming. Over the years his lodgings had been merely another temporary home in a long list of places to lay his head. Some had been better than others, most were unmemorable. Yet this place was different. Or was it he who was changing?
As he climbed out of the car, he saw Mme Denis standing by the fence between the two properties. She was prodding at the ground with a stick, unaware of his presence. He waved to her but she seemed too intent
on her garden. He shrugged. Maybe she’d discovered Colorado beetle in her potatoes.
His pleasure at coming home was soured slightly by finding a journalist’s business card tucked into the metal grill over the glass panel of the front door. It bore the logo of a regional newspaper. He tossed it aside, not surprised that they’d managed to find him. In a village this small, it would have taken just a few minutes to discover that a cop was living in their midst. And the presence of a former Paris investigator would have been a clarion call for a story.
Inside, he bagged up his laundry ready to take to the co-op, then made coffee. While it brewed, he rang Claude and asked him for the mayor’s phone number.
‘Is this about the ownership of the lodges?’ Claude queried.
‘That’s right. What’s his worship like?’
‘He’s a pompous arse, but good on paperwork. Used to be a teacher in Amiens before retiring out here. His name’s Poitrel.’
The mayor answered on the second ring and Claude’s summary was spot on. Poitrel’s tone and words would have been more suited to a university lecture hall than a tiny village, but Rocco had come across his sort before. He remained businesslike and explained what he wanted.
‘I wish I could help, Inspector,’ the mayor replied loftily. ‘But that property is leased through a commercial agency in Lille. If they wish to give you the information, that’s up to them. If you hold on one
second, I can give you their name.’ A clunk as the phone was put down, and he was back within seconds. He read out the details.
‘Thank you,’ said Rocco. The mayor probably knew more than he was saying, but was happy to pass the buck.
‘No problem, I assure you. I’ve tried to ascertain the ownership before – for our administrative records, you understand – but to no avail. However, the owners pay – via the agency – all the taxes and fishing licences, and even paid for laying the track into the
marais
for the benefit of other visitors and locals. So I could hardly criticise them too strongly for wanting to retain their privacy.’ His tone suggested he would like nothing better if he could get away with it, preferably with a crack team of riot police to break down the doors of the lodge.
A bureaucrat through and through, thought Rocco. But at least he now had another name to follow up, an additional link in the chain. He thanked the mayor again and rang the letting agency.
‘I’m sorry, but that’s impossible,’ said the manager. ‘We receive our instructions via a private holding company and have no means of checking ownership. In any case, we have no reason to do so. If, however, you’re suggesting there’s a criminal connection—’
‘I’m not,’ said Rocco, frustrated by yet more officious smoke being blown in his face. ‘Not yet, anyway. If I need to, I’ll be in touch.’
He dropped the phone on its rest. Evidently Berbier wasn’t the only person with something to hide. It was
possible the owner of the lodge was shielding himself for tax reasons – something of a field sport in France – or to avoid the property falling into the clutches of a disenchanted marital partner. Either way, it wasn’t helping his investigation.
He grabbed his coat and decided to go for a walk. He hadn’t yet had an opportunity to explore the village, but now seemed a good time to do so. It might blow some fresh air through his brain as well as acquainting him with his new surroundings. On the way, he’d drop off his laundry at the co-op. Before leaving, he took out the photo of Didier and the Resistance group and placed it on the table, slipping one corner under the directory. He hadn’t yet figured out its place in the scheme of things, or even if it was simply a distraction. But as the only copy, it wasn’t something he wanted to misplace or get damaged. Looking at it later with a fresh eye might unlock an idea or two.
The lane into the village was deserted, as was the square. A flash of black swirled in the doorway to the church. A priest, short and well fed, scowling at Rocco as if he represented a challenge to his authority. Then he was gone, the heavy door slamming behind him with ominous finality.
No sign of Thierry, the gardener, Rocco noted, but perhaps the shock of finding what he thought was a bomb had been too much for him. He saw the odd curtain twitching as he walked along the main street, but ignored them. He was still an outsider and a cop, a double jeopardy in this environment. It was no surprise if people were reluctant to speak to him. But
he did spot the plumber, Delsaire, coming out of the co-op and climbing into a battered Renault. He waved him to a stop.
‘Inspector,’ said Delsaire, ‘found out who owns that old water tank yet?’ He chuckled wryly at his own humour.
‘Working on it, but nothing yet,’ Rocco replied, falling in with the joke. ‘I might have to call in help from HQ.’ Then, before Delsaire could trump him with another one, he added, ‘Do you know who owns the big lodge down on the
marais
?’
Delsaire shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. I did some emergency work there once, but that was arranged via some property company. Lille, I think it was. Why?’
‘What sort of work?’
‘A blockage in the bath. The floor got flooded when a guest turned the tap on and went for a walk. Probably pissed if you ask me. The place had that kind of feel to it, know what I mean?’
‘Not really.’ At Delsaire’s quizzical look, he added, ‘In Paris, I’d know what you meant. But not out here.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, you know … secluded location, comfortable furniture, lots of alcohol about the place. Expensive stuff, too: whisky, vodka, rum, old Armagnac … all way above my budget. Looks a bit of a dump on the outside, but much nicer inside. Whoever owns the place spent money on it. None of it local, though. I never got a look in, apart from that one job. Everything done there comes in from outside.’ He pulled a face. ‘Maybe they think we
country turnips can’t tell a copper pipe from a cow’s arse.’
