Death on the Rive Nord (25 page)
He had completed one of the tasks that had brought him here: the takeover of the clans in Paris. Fortunately, it had been simple, accomplished without bloodshed. Well, almost. But what was one man’s life against the greater goal? It reminded him that he hadn’t dealt with the undercover cop, Casparon. That was a mistake; he should have allowed Bouhassa to do his thing. He called one of Lakhdar’s men over. ‘The policeman, Casparon. He must disappear. Tonight.’
The man nodded and went in search of a telephone.
So be it. Now that was taken care of, he had his other task almost within sight. He sipped the coffee, which was bitter, even with the sugar. It was how he liked it.
Married women, he reflected, do not become friendly with other men. It is not correct. And married women
never
become friendly with policemen.
Most especially this married woman.
‘As soon as we have the address of this man Rocco,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘I want a man to watch and see if the woman and child are by his side. Send a white face. Then we will plan our move.’
‘What if she’s not there?’ said Youcef, picking at his nails with the point of a flick knife.
Farek put down his cup, the rough glaze scraping in the saucer. ‘Then we will look until we are successful,’ he declared simply. ‘When we find him, we find her.’
Rocco called in to the office to see what had happened in the aftermath of the failed factory sweep and found Massin facing a mixed delegation from the mayor’s office, the local chamber of commerce and the unions, all for once united in their opposition to the raids and the effects on local industry and community relations. Even the local newspaper had got in on the act by sending a reporter to ferret around for details. Serge Houchin collared Rocco the moment he stepped into the building.
‘Inspector Rocco,’ the man said, breathing garlic in his face and waving a pen and notebook. Rocco had met the man once before, and he hadn’t liked him then. He had the sly manner of a rat without the personality.
‘What do you want?’ He wasn’t paid to be nice to the press and saw no reason to pretend otherwise. He’d seen colleagues burnt too many times by speaking carelessly to reporters after a scoop.
‘Can you comment on how it was the police have made utter clowns of themselves and wasted time and money on the ridiculous raid last night? And do you understand the mayor’s view that their heavy-handed approach has seriously damaged output in the town, with the factories closing down overnight and losing valuable production time, all for a few so-called illegal workers?’
Rocco wondered what would happen if he drop-kicked the man down the front steps into the street. No doubt there would be a rousing cheer from some quarters, but it would play too easily into Massin’s hands and get him suspended.
In the background, he could see Desmoulins grinning expectantly and Canet slowly shaking his head in warning.
‘Get out of my way,’ Rocco said softly, backing Houchin up against a wall, where the reporter stopped with a faint yelp and stared up at Rocco with wide eyes, ‘or I’ll tell your wife about the mistress you keep in Abbeville.’
It was a complete bluff, snatched out of nowhere; he couldn’t imagine any self-respecting woman getting close and naked with this little prick, let alone being any kind of mistress. But the world was a strange place. To his amazement, Houchin turned quite pale and slid away sideways.
‘I didn’t mean any offence,’ he said obsequiously, looking for a way out. ‘I wanted a comment from an experienced and highly regarded officer.’
‘Well, you’ve got one. Fuck off.’
Rocco walked away and joined Desmoulins, who was having trouble holding in his laughter at the reporter’s discomfort.
‘I need a witness,’ said Rocco. ‘I’m going to see Gondrand’s lawyer.’
‘Good idea. I hate lawyers. Are we going to bounce him around the office or do it the nice way?’
Rocco smiled at the idea. He had no love for lawyers, either, having been on the receiving end of their legal intricacies in the past and seeing clients he knew were as guilty as hell walk free on technicalities of law. But he didn’t know this one and wanted to play it by ear.
M. Bertrand Debussy was tall, patrician and elegantly dressed, and occupied the ground floor of a modern office just a few minutes from the police station. He welcomed the two policemen into his office with relaxed grace, even though they had no appointment.
‘May I offer a drink? Coffee? Tea? Mineral water?’
‘Thanks,’ said Rocco. ‘But we’re pressed for time – in the middle of an investigation.’
‘Very well.’ Debussy sat back and looked at Rocco, quickly noting the order of seniority between the two men. ‘How can I help?’
Rocco slid the deeds from Gondrand’s safe across Debussy’s desk. ‘I believe you acted on behalf of Michel Gondrand in these property matters. Could you tell us anything about them?’
Debussy frowned at the papers but didn’t touch them. ‘Only what I remember … although there is still a question of confidentiality, as you know.’
‘Still?’
‘Yes. I no longer represent Monsieur Gondrand – and haven’t for over a year. What is this about?’
Rocco felt an energy in the air, and pressed on. He’d come here expecting to be given the usual legal runaround
of confidentiality and client privilege, and to leave with no information whatsoever. But matters had already shifted unexpectedly.
‘The bodies of Michel Gondrand and his wife were found this morning at their home. They had been shot in the head. It wasn’t a robbery.’
Debussy’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth opened, showing a row of long, coffee-stained teeth. ‘Good God. I hadn’t heard. I did hear about Victor, though. That was appalling. Are they connected?’ The legal mind, making the same links which the police would do, but for different reasons.
‘That’s what we want to find out. Can you recall anything in Gondrand’s business or personal life that might have led to anyone wanting to kill him?’
Debussy took his time answering, scratching at the side of his chin with a long fingernail. Then he seemed to come to a decision and sat forward, leaning on his desk. He flicked at the deeds without opening them.
‘I represented both Gondrands, Victor and Michel, for several years. Mostly on family matters and the vehicle business – particularly Victor with the latter, until Michel joined him. They had one or two other investments which Victor had acquired. Nothing substantial or even complex, just land he’d bought a long time ago.’ He smiled flintily. ‘He believed in having a strong financial base, rather than simply relying on the car business to keep him going.’
‘And Michel?’ The implication from Debussy’s words was that the younger Gondrand had been different.
‘He did not come from the same background. Victor indulged him too much, and Michel took to making money
for money’s sake, as it were.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘Which is why I parted company with them both twelve months ago. I felt our interests were …’ he searched for a word ‘… incompatible.’
‘He was a crook, you mean,’ Desmoulins said, unafraid to speak the truth.
Surprisingly, Debussy gave a grunt of agreement. ‘He was, shall I say, open to ideas which were beyond what I would call acceptable practice.’
‘Such as?’ Rocco said.
Debussy nodded at the deeds. ‘Such as these matters. In plain terms, he bought cheap and by dubious means, and sold very expensively – or leased, when it suited him. I found these deals particularly difficult to accept, because I only discovered by chance that the land had once belonged to an old farming family. They seemed above board on paper when he first brought them to me, but I subsequently found out that they were anything but.’
‘Meaning?’
‘He’d cheated them. Persuaded them that they would become wealthy if they signed over the land to him, but subsequently told them it was unuseable due to subsidence and another problem with flooding. Paid them a pittance from what I can gather, and kicked them off their own property.’ He looked pained. ‘They both died shortly afterwards, brokenhearted. Sadly, there was nothing I could do, but I ceased representing both Gondrands not long after that.’
‘Why both?’ said Rocco. ‘I thought Victor was honest – for a car dealer.’
‘Victor was. But he defended his son against all the evidence. It was his one weak point, I’m afraid. Even when I
showed him what Michel had done – and it wasn’t an isolated case, I assure you – he insisted on supporting him.’ He shrugged. ‘The father-and-son bond can be very powerful.’
Rocco nodded. Indulging a son or daughter could last a lifetime in some families, leading to an unbelievable degree of tolerance, even overlooking huge questions of dishonesty. ‘Would any of these deals have caused someone to want both men dead, along with Michel’s wife?’
‘By themselves, I wouldn’t know. I doubt any of the ones I worked on would bring about such a disaster. But he had completed some deals before joining his father, so it’s possible something from back then might have turned sour.’
‘What did he do before the car business?’
‘Michel? He was a junior manager. He worked for the local town council, in their planning and land management department.’
Rocco drove home to Poissons, thinking about this new development. Shootings like the one he’d just seen were rare among the middle classes. Occasional crimes of passion led to violence or even death, but never the death of both husband and wife. And somehow he had a feeling that the Farek thing was a separate issue. Close, perhaps, with Nicole having bought a car from the murdered men, but not connected.
No, somewhere along the road of his life, and Debussy the lawyer had implied volumes without putting anything into words, Michel Gondrand had cheated and lied and stolen … and someone had finally hit back.
But who?
Rocco stopped at the village co-op to collect a few groceries and a box of clean laundry. The new owner, Mme Drolet, turned as the bell sounded above the door. She fluttered her eyelashes at him and patted her hair,
which was coiled and glistening like spun sugar.
‘Good thing you didn’t want any cakes, Inspector,’ she said, as if he was in the habit of eating a bucketful every day. ‘I just sold the last three.’ She smiled meaningfully, lifting one carefully drawn eyebrow. Rocco thought he recognised it as the look of a woman seeking to share in a secret without actually asking. But whatever it might have been was totally lost on him. He grunted and paid the bill. Maybe she was being flirtatious. Or maybe it was her way of trying to forge friendships among a clientele still suspicious after the previous owner, a young woman, had been imprisoned for murder, and the attempted murder of a local man – a scavenger of wartime ammunition and an exposed Resistance traitor. It was Rocco who’d been responsible for her arrest and the tracking down of the traitorous Marthe, so he knew a thing or two about being an outsider. The inhabitants of Poissons still hadn’t made up their minds about having a cop – a cop from Paris of all places – living in their midst, and apart from a few outward-looking souls, he was still treated with the caution of someone who might be carrying a nasty disease.
When he arrived home, he killed the engine and sat there for a few moments, enjoying the quiet. It was a welcome change after the day’s events, and he marvelled at how he had grown to relish life here out of the bustling city which he’d once thought
was
his life.
He got out of the car and picked up the laundry and box of provisions, and walked to the front door, juggling the packages to get his key.
The door was already open.
***
Rocco stepped to one side, dropping the bag of laundry and placing his provisions on the ground. He took out his MAB 38 and checked the safety.
The door shouldn’t be open. Mme Denis was the only person with a spare key, but she would never go inside without his permission. When she left eggs or vegetables, it was always on the front doorstep.
He listened for sounds of movement, but could hear nothing. He checked over his shoulder towards the lane. He would have noticed any strange cars parked out there, but it was possible anyone showing an undue interest in his home could have circumnavigated the village and approached over the fields.
He moved along the side of the house, stepping carefully on the soft ground rather than the stony path. An inviting front door was too easy a trap to walk into.
As he reached the rear corner of the house and peered round, he heard a click and a dark figure stepped out of the french windows into the back garden.
Rocco stepped wide of the corner, feet apart and holding his pistol in a two-handed grip. His heart was thumping and he automatically glanced to one side as another figure appeared, this time from behind a cherry tree in the middle of the lawn. This figure was very small.
A
child
?
‘What the hell—?’
The figure behind the house swung round with a shout of alarm, and the child called out and ran across the lawn, crying, ‘
Maman
!’
With a supreme effort of will, Rocco relaxed his finger on the trigger and lowered his arm, recognition flooding in as he
saw Nicole’s face turned towards him. She looked pale with shock, her mouth open as she reached out a protective arm towards her son.
‘It’s OK … it’s me,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s Lucas.’ He thrust the gun into his coat pocket, thanking the stars that he hadn’t decided to shoot first and worry about consequences later. But it didn’t lessen the anger in his voice when he said, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Nicole, stepping away towards the house. ‘I’m so sorry – I came to find you, and your neighbour let me in. She said you would not object.’ She gathered her son towards her and looked as if she were about to flee. Rocco realised that his reaction had frightened her. ‘No. Please … it’s OK, you can stay.’ He held up both hands. ‘You took me by surprise, that’s all.’ When she showed no signs of relaxing, he nodded towards the french window. ‘Let’s get inside. It’s too cold out here.’
