Death on the Marais (19 page)
‘True. One other thing: do you know of anyone locally named Brouté?’
‘Brouté?’ Delsaire frowned. ‘Unusual name. Certainly not one I’ve come across. Sorry.’ He paused and gave Rocco a sideways look. ‘As to anyone knowing about the lodges, you should try Didier Marthe. He spends enough time wandering around down there.’
Rocco thanked him for his time and watched him drive away. Delsaire had been too relaxed to be telling anything but the truth, and there could hardly be a man who knew more about the village and its inhabitants than the local plumber. That left out most other people around here. Except maybe Didier, who wasn’t being any help at all.
He walked across to the co-op and went inside. Francine was assembling a large blue plastic crate of groceries, packing them carefully and ticking off each item against a list. She smiled in greeting and stopped what she was doing.
‘Hello again, Inspector. Settling in all right?’ She stepped through a gap in the glass-topped counter and shook his hand. ‘And eating well, I hope?’
‘Getting there with both,’ he replied. ‘It’s Lucas.’
She lifted her eyebrows. ‘Is that Lucas Rocco or Rocco Lucas?’ Her smile was impish and Rocco felt himself flush. He had a feeling she knew perfectly well the order of his name, and was teasing.
‘Lucas is my first name,’ he confirmed gruffly, and
looked around to cover his confusion. What the hell was a pretty woman like her doing in a place like this anyway? ‘Um … I gather I should leave my laundry here.’
She nodded and took the bag from him; picked up a ticket and pen from the counter, quickly scribbled down his name and pinned the ticket to the bag. ‘There. In the system. They collect tomorrow and bring it back in two or three days, depending on the workload. Capes and masks are extra, though.’ She giggled and blushed self-consciously. ‘Sorry – couldn’t resist it. We’re a long way from civilisation here. Simple minds and all that. You must find it unsophisticated … after Paris.’
‘Well, it has its attractions.’ He coughed, aware that it had sounded like the lamest of chat-up lines. ‘Sorry … that didn’t quite come out …’ He stopped. She was grinning at him, her eyes dancing, and he wondered if she was like this with everyone who came calling.
‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked. ‘I was just going to stop for lunch.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He nodded, unable to think of a reason to say no. ‘Tea would be nice. Thanks.’
She nodded towards the rear of the shop. ‘Come through. Don’t worry, I won’t kidnap you and subject you to some fiendishly barbaric sacrificial ceremony in the backyard.’
‘I’m sure you won’t,’ he replied, and thought maybe he wouldn’t object too much if she did.
She invited him to take a chair in the kitchen at the
back and made tea, then sat down across from him with a packet of biscuits.
‘I should be a better hostess,’ she said, ‘and offer you sandwiches, but my mother always said that was going too far on a first meeting.’ She held out the packet and Rocco took one.
‘Your mother was a wise woman. What if I come back this time tomorrow?’
She lifted an eyebrow. ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’
He smiled at this and sipped his tea. It was Earl Grey, which had always seemed too fragrant for his tastes. Refreshing, though, after all the coffee he’d been drinking. He wondered what to talk about. ‘You run this place by yourself?’
‘Yes. Business is too slow to allow me to take on any help. With the young people moving towards the cities, the population’s not exactly thriving.’ She shrugged. ‘It wasn’t my chosen line of employment, but my husband died in a factory accident eighteen months ago and I had to do something. I heard about this place closing, so I decided to give it a go. I get by.’
‘I’m sorry. About your husband, I mean.’
‘Thank you. It was a shock, but I’m learning to cope.’ She looked at him directly. ‘How about you? Can we expect to see a Rocco family moving in down the road? I can offer good rates for regular customers.’
‘No. No family.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t …’ This time it was her turn to look embarrassed.
The silence lengthened until he grasped another topic of conversation. ‘I see you deliver groceries, too.’ He was referring to the crate she had been preparing in the shop, and wondered whether Mme Denis would be put out if he got his deliveries directly from the source. He suspected she’d take out a hex on him.
‘A few,’ Francine replied, then saw what he meant. ‘Oh, that’s a one-off. There’s a party at one of the lodges this weekend. I got a phone call saying they couldn’t get the usual delivery in time, so could I help?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Could I? I’ve been wondering how to get on their list of suppliers: I need all the customers I can get, especially the bigger spenders.’
Rocco’s ears pricked up. ‘Which lodge is that?’
‘The main one. It’s got a name but I don’t recall what it is. They said to deliver the supplies and leave them at the back. A cheque is on the way.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a gamble, but I could always burn the place down if they don’t pay.’ Her expression said she was joking, but her tone sounded oddly serious.
He smiled. ‘If it comes to that, let me know and I’ll show you how.’
‘That’s very gallant of you.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘Are policemen allowed to do that?’
‘It’s a little-known service we can perform for special members of the community. Don’t tell anyone or they’ll all want it done.’
‘Special already, am I? I can see I’m going to have to upgrade to sandwiches after all.’
Rocco felt the heat building around his collar as the jousting progressed, and wondered where it was
coming from. He was never usually this open in a woman’s company until he’d got to know her better. He hid behind another question. ‘Do you have the name of the person who rang you?’
Francine frowned slightly. ‘Actually, I don’t. Why would you be interested? It’s just a delivery.’
He realised he’d jumped in with both feet and tried to pull back. ‘I was just interested. I need to speak to the owners about security. But nobody seems to know who they are.’ He ducked his head and drank more tea, wondering why he felt so inept in front of her. Maybe it was lack of practice.
‘Is this really why you came here?’ Francine put down her cup, her smile fading. ‘It is, isn’t it? That’s why you stopped Monsieur Delsaire outside, too.’
‘No, of course not—’
‘So this is how big-city police work – getting people to inform on their neighbours?’ Twin red marks had appeared on Francine’s cheeks, and her eyes had gone dark, as if a small storm was brewing in their depths.
Rocco wondered how to rescue the situation but realised that he’d already pressed her too far. With a man, he’d have been able to batter his way past it, but with a woman – this woman …
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and stood up. ‘Thank you for the tea and chat.’ He gestured towards the shop. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
He stood up and left the room, feeling her eyes on him all the way. Outside, the muted voices of children playing seemed to mock him all the way back down the lane.
Back at the house, Rocco called Michel Santer to see if his former boss had any news of Pheron et Fils.
‘I’ve been trying to reach you,’ Santer muttered sourly. ‘Where the hell have you been? Dallying with some buxom farm girl, I bet.’
Rocco felt his cheeks heat up at the memory of a few minutes ago. ‘No such luck. What have you got?’ He could do with something to distract him from his clumsiness.
‘Your replacement finally came back with some information on that costume hire place. Christ, but he’s a plodder. As much wit as my big toe and half the personality. Anyway, he says they hire out costumes to theatre and film companies, and just occasionally, to a few private clients for parties and balls, that sort of
thing. For private, read posh. All pretty much above board, by the look of it.’
‘Who hired the uniform?’
‘That’s where he came unstuck, although to be honest, he couldn’t really do much about it. They refused to tell him who hired the Gestapo uniform, said he’d have to get an order from a magistrate to make the records available. Told him to get lost.’
‘On what grounds?’ Rocco felt his blood pressure rise. He should have gone to see Pheron himself and wrung the details out of them.
‘They said their products were hired by people who would not approve of their names being released. He didn’t have the authority to push it, so I told him to leave it and get back here.’
‘Tell him thank you, anyway. Would it bother you if I spoke to them?’ In spite of the warning from the Ministry man, Rocco felt impatient to get on with it rather than put in an official request for a magistrate’s order and wait days for it to be granted.
There was a grim tone to Santer’s voice. ‘I wish I could say help yourself, my son, but I can’t. I just had a call from on high. Orders are to leave well alone. It seems Pheron et Fils weren’t just blowing hot air; they’ve got friends in high places and aren’t slow to call on them when they need to.’
Rocco swore silently, then thanked Santer for his help. Next he rang Massin. He was reluctant to involve the senior officer again, but he needed to call on a higher level of authority. Without it, he was stumped.
He told Massin what Santer had found about the costumiers.
‘And you want me to intercede and unblock it?’ Massin sounded less than thrilled, and Rocco wondered if the
commissaire
was losing his taste for this investigation the closer it got to Paris and the seat of power. He wouldn’t be the first officer to baulk at stepping on the toes of the high and the mighty for fear of losing future promotion prospects.
‘It’s the only solid lead we have.’ Rocco decided to remind him of the facts. ‘Nathalie Berbier was wearing a costume hired from Pheron et Fils for a party I believe was held at a secluded lodge in Poissons. So far we haven’t come even close to finding out who organised it, who owns the lodge or who – apart from Berbier herself – was even present. It’s like wrestling smoke – and Bayer-Berbier didn’t make things any easier by claiming the body.’ Nor, he wanted to add, did the magistrate who signed the papers, nor the unknown senior official who just put the block on Pheron et Fils being approached again. He also wanted to relay to Massin what Rizzotti had said to him about the barbiturate levels being ill-founded, but decided to hold off on that for a while. If it became unavoidable, he’d let it out and Rizzotti would have to take his chances.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Massin said finally, adding carefully, ‘but you should be aware of how this might be viewed in official circles.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You are not, shall I say, unknown for clashing with authority.’
‘That’s diff—’
‘And, as investigating officer on this case, already dismayed at being transferred to an unknown rural patch from your post in Paris, you were further annoyed by the dead body being claimed before you could complete your findings. You skirted round formal channels and clashed with Berbier, suspecting – not unreasonably, perhaps – that there was something being concealed about this young woman’s unfortunate demise.’ Massin paused. ‘Am I wrong?’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘But you can see how it might look to other eyes.’
Rocco sighed. Massin was right. It would look like a pissed-off inspector throwing his dummy from the pram at being dumped out in the sticks and imagining all manner of conspiracies. End of career, probably, helped along by Berbier and his buddies from the Interior Ministry.
‘Does this mean you’re dropping it?’
‘Inspector Rocco.’ Massin sounded suddenly cool. ‘I would appreciate it if you did not insult my integrity.’ The connection went dead.
Rocco ate a solitary lunch of a cheese sandwich, wishing he was sharing it with Francine, and mulled over what Massin had said. He still wasn’t sure what game the senior officer was playing, and was half-expecting to find himself being pulled in by a squad from the Ministry and consigned to obscurity and
a job counting
képis
. Whatever was going on in the background, he still had a job to do and could not allow himself to be derailed from his investigation.
He finished his lunch and called Claude. He needed the man’s local knowledge.
‘Tree stumps,’ he said shortly. ‘How do they get rid of them round here?’
‘They dig them out, mostly,’ Claude replied. ‘The impatient ones dump petrol on them and let them burn out, but most just use muscle and do it the hard way, digging down through the roots or dragging them out with horses or a tractor. Why? You thinking of going into the land clearance business?’
‘Not me. How about the really impatient ones. What do they do?’
Claude hesitated. ‘You mean explosives, don’t you?’
‘Jesus.’ Rocco felt his spirits flag. Maybe Didier hadn’t been lying after all.
‘There’s the odd one uses dynamite,’ Claude confirmed with reluctance. ‘Put a stick under the root bowl and retire to a safe distance. Bam – problem solved.’
‘Where would they get it?’
‘There are one or two quarries in the region. Could be from them – I doubt their records are as reliable as they should be. Apart from that, I wouldn’t know. Who are you asking about?’
Rocco explained about his conversation with Didier. ‘If he did have plastic at his place, it does away with my theory that someone was trying to kill him.’
Claude made a soft noise over the line. ‘He’s lying. Think about it: that miserable cretin can lay his hand on more explosive material than the national armoury. Why would he need to risk buying dynamite from a dodgy source? Furthermore, he’s never blown any stumps out because he doesn’t need to clear the land. Only farmers do that.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive. Any explosion on his land would be heard around the village – just like the one that blew off his hand. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you.’
Rocco had been suckered. Didier had taken advantage of him being new to the village to spin him a story, probably on the basis that, to a city cop, it sounded perfectly reasonable and not worth checking further.
