Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER TWO

Inspector Lucas Rocco studied the dead man in the pool. His gaze lingered for a moment on the chain around the ankles, before following the wire upwards just as Claude Lamotte had done, running from the water to the overhead cable, then to each end of the pool house where the supporting cable was fastened to the walls by strong steel brackets.

‘One day I’ll get a dry one,’ he murmured, looking back at the body. ‘Someone who just curled up in a bed and died normally. No water, no canal, no ponds or lakes. Just a layer of dust and a spider or two for company.’ Water, it seemed to him, had been an overriding feature of sudden deaths around here ever since his posting from Clichy, in Paris, the year before, and he was wondering if the region possessed some kind of deathly affinity with the stuff.

‘What is this place?’ he asked Claude. He’d seen the building at a distance, but there was nothing at the front to inform outsiders, no signs advertising its services, no indication of a specific function, save for an air of tranquillity and quiet purpose. It was simply a large stone mansion with an outbuilding housing this pool, set inside high stone walls covered in ivy, located down a narrow lane in the Picardie countryside.

Claude moved closer. ‘They call it a sanitarium,’ he replied softly, as though wary of disturbing the dead man. ‘Used to be owned by a local landowner with fingers in shipping. He decided to make it into some kind of health retreat for his rich friends, but sold it before the war. Nobody knows who owns it now.’ He pulled a face. ‘They don’t answer questions, only employ outsiders and never get involved in the village save for the odd visit by one of the staff. Even the lane outside is marked private, although it’s not really; it’s to discourage visitors.’

‘How did you get here so quickly?’

‘Stroke of luck. I was on the trail of a poacher along the canal and came up here to get a better view. This is on high ground, and you can see down the slope all the way to the canal and the lake beyond if you stand in the right place. Anyway, as I came through the gate, I heard a scream and saw her running out of the house, yelling her head off at me. Bloody scary at the dead of night, I can tell you.’

‘You should try Clichy,’ said Rocco. ‘Happens all the time there.’ Clichy in north-west Paris had been his base until he was posted to this rural region. He still missed its vibrant air of activity and tension, although less and less the longer he was here. He sometimes wondered if he was being sucked into the atmosphere of country living, having his edge slowly rubbed away.

He gathered up the tails of his long, black coat and squatted by the edge of the pool. The water was a pleasant shade of light blue, destined, no doubt, to draw people in and make them feel relaxed. But the glow of the underwater lights caught a trace of pink hanging around the dead man’s hand like fine strands of hair. Bending closer, he saw traces of torn flesh on the fingers and palm. The dead man had been fighting frantically to pull himself out.

Difficult to do with two hands, he decided; impossible with the other hand tied by rope to the chain around his lower legs.

He’d never seen anything quite this inventive in Clichy.

‘I left word for Dr Rizzotti,’ he said softly. ‘Nobody comes in here until he’s had a look.’

Claude nodded. He was already carrying a coil of rough string to tie off an approach to the body. Rocco and the doctor had established a clear understanding between them that a crime scene should not be tainted by unnecessary traffic, and everyone was clear on the procedure.

Rocco looked up at the cable structure holding the dead man upright. ‘What the hell is that thing?’

‘I asked the nurse earlier. She said it was invented by the original owner to help his daughters to swim, but they learnt like most kids by jumping in the lake. Since then it’s been used for helping residents who don’t have the strength to keep themselves buoyant. Therapy, they call it. Didn’t help this poor soul much, did it? Can’t we use it to pull him out?’

‘Not with that milk churn tied to his feet.’ Rocco stood up. ‘And he wouldn’t notice the difference now, anyway. I need to speak to the nurse and whoever runs this place.’ He looked around, puzzled by the quiet. ‘Where is everybody?’

‘No idea. It was like this when I arrived. The nurse can probably tell you. She’s in the kitchen in the main building.’ Claude gave him directions. ‘Her name’s Dion. I didn’t ask her first name. She’s a bit fragile.’

Rocco smiled grimly. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t use a rubber hose on her unless she becomes difficult.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘Is Alix at home?’

‘Yes. You want me to call her?’ Alix was Claude’s daughter, and a recent addition to the local police as a gardienne. In a burst of policing initiatives across the country, one of which had led to Rocco being transferred here, she had been recruited to help with sensitive cases involving women and children. Rocco had a feeling her skills might be needed before the night was out.

‘Yes, please.’

He left Claude and walked out of the pool house across the yard to the main building. Through the entrance, which was open, he passed through an impressive foyer with marble columns and hung with elegant chandeliers. The walls were panelled with dark wood, no doubt courtesy of its original designer and unchanged by the current owners. The kitchen occupied a section of the lower floor at the rear of the mansion, and was furnished with a range of professional equipment in stainless steel. The room was cold and lacking in character, and he reflected that in his short time in Poissons, he’d seen milking parlours with more warmth.

A woman in nursing whites was sitting at a large wooden table, staring into a glass of amber liquid. She was attractive, with strong features and dark hair tied in a bun. No wedding ring.

‘Mademoiselle Dion?’ Rocco felt he was looming over her; it wasn’t difficult with his height and broad shoulders, so he sat down across from her. She didn’t stir or acknowledge his presence, and he guessed she was in shock. There was probably a professional as well as a normal humane cause for concern in what she had discovered, but he had to establish a connection with her before she shut down completely.

‘If you’ve got any coffee and another one of those,’ he said softly, nodding at the glass, ‘I’ve had a long night.’ It reminded him to check his watch. With the previous case he’d been to — a bizarre case of suicide, or so it seemed — he’d lost track of time. It was coming up to five in the morning and a spring light was already showing through the windows over the fields at the back.

The nurse seemed to shake herself. She stood up. ‘Of course. I’m sorry …’

‘Lucas Rocco,’ he said. ‘Inspector of police. I’m here to help.’

She nodded and turned away, picked up a percolator and poured him a cup of black coffee. Then she fetched a glass and poured a shot of cognac. She placed both on the table in front of him, gesturing at a box of sugar cubes and a small jug of milk.

Rocco picked up a newspaper from the table. Etienne Maintenant, the foreign minister, was shown boarding a flight to Peking and waving to the cameras like a film star. The headline was stark:

Minister Maintenant, Rocco thought dryly, looked a little uneasy at the top of the steps leading to the aircraft door, as if he thought he might be on a one-way trip and desperately wanted to change his mind at the last moment.

‘Quite a development,’ said the nurse, nodding at the newspaper and sitting back down.

‘We live in interesting times,’ Rocco agreed, scanning the faces but seeing nobody he recognised. Nurse Dion showed no sign of having recognised his paraphrasing of the alleged Chinese curse.

He picked up the glass. It was both too late and too early for it, but he showed willing by taking a sip. It was better quality than he’d expected; maybe they kept it for staff emergencies. He poured the rest into his coffee. His relaxed approach worked, and Dion took a sip from her own glass, wincing as she swallowed.

‘So tell me,’ he said, ‘who did you call?’

She frowned. ‘Call?’

‘Yes. You’re a professional, I can tell. In a place like this, there must be standing orders to call someone in case of emergencies. Who was that?’

‘Director Drucker. I called him. He should be here soon.’ She looked nervous and he wondered why. With help coming from various quarters, she should have been feeling reassured.

‘Where did you train?’ he asked. It was a distraction question only, but might prove useful. She looked about forty, at a guess, which meant she would have been old enough to be involved in the war, had she wanted to be. If so, she would be tougher than she seemed right now.

‘In Brest,’ she said vaguely. ‘Other places, too. Wherever I could get work.’

‘Places like this?’

‘Hospitals, mostly. Why are you so interested in me?’ She looked pale but somehow in control, as if a core of durability lay beneath, sustaining her. She was tough all right.

‘I’m interested in everybody and anybody,’ he replied, and sipped his coffee. ‘I’m also interested in why nobody else is around. As I understand from Officer Lamotte, you screamed loudly enough when you discovered the body to have attracted a lot of attention.’

‘Scream?’ She looked defensive. ‘I did not. I was calling out.’

‘Of course. Who for?’

She stared levelly at him. ‘For anyone … for help — I saw a man entering the driveway and didn’t know he was a policeman until he told me. I was probably panicking a little. Shouldn’t you be getting the man out of that pool?’ She brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, her starched uniform rustling crisply in the silence.

‘We will, soon enough.’ He changed tack. ‘What’s the dead man’s name?’

There was a lengthy silence, then she said, ‘I can’t talk about that.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. I have instructions. You’ll have to speak to Director Drucker.’

‘I will, of course. But let me tell you something, Mademoiselle: in the matter of a murder investigation, my instructions supersede any that you might have.’ He breathed easily. ‘Let me start again. Why is there nobody else here, and who is the dead man? Two very simple questions. Take them in any order you wish.’

Dion said nothing for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I am the only one on duty tonight. There was … there’s nobody else. A relief nurse when required, and two cleaners on rota — but that’s it.’

Rocco jumped on the hesitation. ‘You were going to say something else. What was it?’

‘Nothing.’ She twisted her fingers together, then appeared to relent. ‘We have a security man, but I don’t know where he is. He arrived for his shift yesterday evening, but I haven’t seen him since. I called, but he didn’t come.’

‘And his name? Or is that something else you can’t tell me?’

‘André Paulus.’

At last. ‘Good. Now, how many patients do you have here?’ Rocco was amazed at the lack of activity. Surely someone else had heard the commotion? And could a man have been overpowered and chained up like this, then manhandled into the harness and dropped into the water without arousing attention?

She shook her head. ‘I can’t discuss that, either.’

‘Are they sedated? Is that it?’

Her eyes flickered in alarm. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s a fair assumption, isn’t it? A sanitarium in the middle of the night, a murder and a scream — pardon me — a shout. And no reaction from the other residents. What other reason would there be? Unless they’re locked in their rooms.’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘Really?’

He let the silence build. Now he’d got her talking and knew she wasn’t going to fall apart in front of him, he could apply some pressure. Yet something told him it wasn’t going to be that easy. She acted as if she was scared of someone. But it clearly wasn’t him, or the police.

So who, then?