Death on the Marais (33 page)

He spoke quickly. ‘I know Philippe Bayer-Berbier passed through the Poitiers area during the war sometime in 1944. He was on a re-supply trip, delivering essential funds and other material to Resistance groups in the region. He figures in the photo I mentioned – the one with the APP logo on the back.’

‘But not recognisably.’

‘Not in that one, no. But there is another, full face, taken at the same time. It’s definitely him.’

‘Go on.’

‘According to the photographer, Poudric, shortly after the photos were taken, the entire group was caught while holding a meeting one night. The meeting had been called by the SOE agent.’

‘The one you say was Berbier.’

‘Yes. The entire group was shipped to Natzweiler-Struthof. They never came out.’ He paused, then added, ‘Except for Didier Marthe and Philippe Berbier.’

Massin looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘If I read you right, that’s quite an allegation. You’re saying … what, exactly?’

‘Either Berbier and Marthe must have known what was going to happen and stayed away, or they managed to talk their way out. Since neither of them was ever seen in the area again, and I’ve never heard of the Germans doing deals, I’m leaning towards the former. They simply stayed away and moved on. It’s the only explanation.’

‘But why?’ Massin looked perplexed. ‘What would bring two men like this together? They had nothing in common except for the fight against the Germans. That
alone might bring them into contact on the battlefield, but nothing more. Do you have an ounce of proof to back this up, such as a meeting or an exchange of correspondence?’

Rocco took a deep breath. The only proof he had was currently on the run, wounded, resentful and unlikely to give him the spit off his tongue, let alone information. He had a theory, but he was still working on it. Neither would be enough for Massin to take this any further forward.

Massin read his face. ‘I see. So what do you have?’

‘I’m waiting for a piece of information which I think will tie it all together.’ A domino effect, he wanted to add, but wasn’t sure Massin would believe him. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

Massin opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. He stood up and opened it to find Desmoulins standing there holding a piece of paper and trying to hold back a grin.

‘Note for Inspector Rocco, sir.’

Massin took the paper, closed the door again and handed it to Rocco without looking at it.

‘You must try not to use members of staff here as your own private detection unit,’ he said dryly. ‘Is that by any chance the information you’ve been waiting for?’

Rocco looked down at the piece of paper and saw two names. One dead, the other alive. He felt a kick of something low down in his stomach, but wasn’t sure whether it was elation or something less welcome.

‘It is. May I go?’

Massin nodded and waved a hand. ‘Do. But if this falls flat, I suggest you enlist in the Foreign Legion. They’re always looking for men with self-destructive tendencies.’

Back at the hospital, this time with Claude alongside him, Rocco stepped into Francine’s room and waited for her to sense his presence, as he knew she would. She turned her head, and he watched with a feeling of disappointment as the uncertainty grew on her face.

He motioned Claude to sit by the window. He’d already warned him to listen and remember, but to show no surprise, make no comment.

‘You again.’ Francine rolled carefully to face him, her face pale.

‘Me again.’ He drew up a chair and sat facing her. He took out the group photo that Poudric had taken and showed it to her. Allowed her to take it from his hand. To study it.

She said nothing as her eyes slid across the faces. There was no reaction, no sign of recognition.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t understand.’ She handed it back to him. Her voice was flat, unemotional, but a pulse was beating in her throat.

‘Really?’ Rocco crossed his legs and tapped the photo on his knee. ‘I think maybe you do. That you understand very well.’ She said nothing, so he continued. ‘The woman in this photo was called Elise. She was born in Poitiers in 1910, and lived in the Rue Colonel Magnon, at number 25. Her parents were André, a baker’s assistant, and Claudine, a laundry
worker. Elise married once, but her husband was killed in an agricultural accident just before the outbreak of war. She reverted to using her maiden name.’

Still nothing.

‘She was helped by the local union of farm workers – an unofficial group who cared for their own. It was almost unknown here at the time, this kind of little collective. They were probably more politically and socially aware than most, although certainly with no pretensions of moving higher, but happy to be doing what they could. They looked after her, gave her work whenever they could and helped her find a home. Some called them communists.’ Rocco brushed some lint from his knee, keeping his voice level, almost casual. He wanted to see some reaction. ‘Then, when the war came, a few locals joined the Resistance movement: those with certain skills or equipment, who knew how to disrupt, to destroy. Not all with military training, not experts, but passionate enough to feel they had to do something. The people who had helped Elise did the same. But true to form, they had different objectives and formed their own group … an offshoot of what became known as the FTP – the
Francs-Tireurs et Partisans.
’

Claude shifted in his chair but said nothing, leaning forward with interest.

‘For Elise, it must have been like repaying a debt, to join their ranks. To even be asked, that was something. What she didn’t know was that the group realised that a woman could, in many ways, be more useful in some situations than a man. A single woman was less
suspect, could move more freely; they were less likely to be stopped by patrols, and if they were, could – especially a good-looking woman like Elise – talk their way through.’

Rocco stood up and walked across to the window. He felt her eyes on him all the way. Claude looked as if he was about to speak but Rocco gave a minute shake of his head. ‘One of her colleagues in this fledgling underground group was a man named Tomas Brouté. Tomas took a shine to Elise … well, who can blame him? He wasn’t much of a catch: he was born a bastard, had nothing to offer and was quick-tempered and aggressive. Dangerous, even. It didn’t put him off, though. He used to hover around her all the time, hoping to catch her favours. He even began to treat her like his own … no doubt quick to warn others away, even placing a proprietary hand on her whenever the situation presented itself.’ He turned and flicked the photo onto the bed, just like he had done with Didier.

‘As he did there.’

She didn’t look down. Stared right back at him, her expression blank.

‘In summer 1944, the group was betrayed. The details are a little sketchy, but it seems they were picked up by the Germans one night during a meeting. They were sent to a place no sane person ever wanted to see: a concentration camp called Natzweiler-Struthof. The men, the woman – all of them.’ The clank of a trolley sounded from out in the corridor, and a door thumped, followed by the squeak of soles on tiles. ‘None was ever seen again. Until recently.’

Francine’s eyes had closed. And suddenly Rocco felt sorry for her; for the memories he was releasing, for the realisation that more was known than she could possibly have imagined ever would be. But he forged on. He had to.

‘The man named Tomas had a second name: Didier. His surname was Brouté, after his mother. He probably didn’t care much for it – couldn’t do, anyway, because people would have remembered it too easily. You’re probably ahead of me here.’

No reaction.

‘It doesn’t matter. Unknown to anyone at the time – especially the other members of the group – Tomas had allowed his desire for Elise to get the better of him. Or maybe he’d just grown sick of the other members of the group because they wouldn’t allow him to do whatever he wanted – I’m sure he had the skills if not the lust to want to go out killing Germans whenever he could, but uncontrolled, that would have had serious consequences for the local community. Whatever his reasons, he decided to betray the others to the Germans. Only, in his twisted mind, he hadn’t quite allowed for the fact that the Germans would take everyone in the group, no matter who they were. The result was, Elise disappeared into the camp with everyone else. All except Tomas, who slipped away. And survived. He couldn’t risk keeping his surname of Brouté, after his mother, because that would have been too easily recognised locally and someone might have put two and two together. He’d have been strung up as a collaborator. So he took his second
name and the surname of the registrar on his birth certificate, and moved away from the Poitiers area and became someone else. He became Didier Marthe. And eventually, years later, he arrived in Poissons-les-Marais, where nobody knew him. Where he could start a new life.’

He leant forward and picked up the photo, tapping Francine on the shoulder with it until she opened her eyes and looked at him. He held it up for her to see, one finger on the thin man near the end of the group.

‘That’s Tomas Brouté, as he was known then. Now miraculously alive and calling himself Didier Marthe.’ He moved his finger. ‘And that’s Elise, isn’t it?’

Francine stared up at him, a glint of something in her eye. Was it resentment? Anger? Or something like a muted appeal for help? He couldn’t tell.

‘I don’t know anyone called Elise,’ she said finally, her words a whisper.

‘Really?’ Rocco felt a flutter of irritation. Maybe she was tougher than he’d thought. ‘You should do. You shared the same surname.’

Her eyes flickered. ‘What?’

‘You’ve never forgiven the man who betrayed her, have you? Elise Thorin was your big sister.’

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Claude’s chair creaked dangerously as the
garde champêtre
shot to his feet with surprise.

‘Lucas, are you crazy?’ He sounded shocked and angry, puffing out a blast of air in disbelief.

Rocco ignored him. He had his eyes firmly on Francine’s face, watching for a sign – a hint – that she was about to fold. This couldn’t go on for much longer.

‘You don’t know anything.’ The response was sudden, so faint he almost missed it. She hadn’t moved her head, but her shoulders had gone limp.

It was the beginning. Time to push it as far as he could. He held the photo alongside her face, then beckoned Claude over and made him look. Made him compare.

‘Tell me what you see. Don’t think about it – use your instincts.’

Claude resisted at first, his face red and his eyes hating Rocco for what he was suggesting. Then finally he looked. And started.

‘
Jesus!
’ He crossed himself, then looked again. Rocco knew Claude didn’t need to look at Francine to check the similarities – they were there, now plain to see. They had missed the resemblance before because the very idea wouldn’t have even entered their thinking. In terms of time, then was then and now was now – a whole world and too many years apart. Elise then was a similar age to Francine now. Seen side by side, the characteristics were too close to ignore.

‘Elise and Francine Thorin,’ said Rocco. He didn’t need to look at the paper in his pocket, which Desmoulins had handed to Massin. ‘Born to André and Claudine. There never was a marriage, was there? No husband killed in a factory accident. That was merely a fact you borrowed from your sister’s life and adapted to suit your needs.’

He sat down again.

‘Please tell me,’ he said softly.

‘Elise was sixteen years older than me,’ she began, and reached out to take the photo from Rocco’s hand. She smoothed her fingers across it, brushing away imaginary dust. ‘I was twelve. She used to talk about the men in the group, but not the things they did against the Germans. It was too dangerous even between families … in case someone talked. She said
Tomas was insanely jealous of the other men, who were all so confident and brave and … could talk to a woman like her. He was always trying to start an affair with her, but she wasn’t interested. He was dangerous. She thought he was unstable. They used to argue, and she had to pretend to be friendly with him because he was always trying to start fights when one of the others so much as looked at her. Especially the newcomer.’ She stopped and a tear dropped onto the photo. She didn’t seem to notice.

‘The SOE agent?’

She nodded. ‘I didn’t know what he was – just that a man had arrived from somewhere to help the group. I knew Elise meant England because I heard the plane go over the night he arrived. She was out with the others, so I knew something was happening. The planes only came from England; small square ones with enough room for a couple of people and the supplies they dropped. She came back smelling of kerosene, for the signal flares.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, the new man was tall and handsome and sophisticated – an officer, Elise said. Charismatic. Somebody who had seen places. I think she was attracted to him, but he hardly noticed.’

‘You met him?’

‘No. I saw him in Poitiers once. Elise pointed him out to me. Even being undercover, he had a way of holding himself.’

‘Did she know his name?’

‘No. Nobody did. He had a code name: Cormorant. A silly name for a man like that, don’t you think?’ She shrugged, not expecting an answer. ‘He brought
supplies for the group, and money to pay people.’

‘Bribes?’

‘Yes. Officials in the town hall and the railway, others who needed money to do things for the group. A lot of money, Elise said. He was also calling on other groups in the region.’

‘What happened?’

‘She overheard Tomas – Didier – talking with this new man a few days after he landed. He was French, so she understood. They were arguing about the money. The agent was telling him that it had got lost in the drop; that it must have fallen into a lake and sank because the coordinates had brought them too close to water that night and the parachute had drifted too far on the wind. The argument got quite violent. Didier said the man was lying, that there was no wind that night. Elise told me the same thing. Too much wind would have blown the parachutes off course.’