Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

‘Rocco. You were in Pontoise yesterday afternoon, were you not?’ It sounded like a question, but since Massin must have already read Rocco’s report, it clearly wasn’t.

Rocco sat up in his chair, clamping the phone to his ear. He’d had a sleepless night and insufficient coffee to snap him fully awake yet, and the dead atmosphere of the office wasn’t helping. ‘That’s correct. I went to interview Stefan Devrye-Martin.’

‘I see. And how was he when you left him?’

Rocco experienced a frisson of unease. It was the kind of circumlocutory question Massin liked to ask which, if he wasn’t careful, could land him in trouble. Yet what sort of trouble? Beyond the usual felon’s protests when suspected of almost any crime on the planet, Stefan hadn’t complained about his treatment yesterday. So what had changed the situation?

‘He was fine. We talked, he told me what he knew about the Clos du Lac, and I left. It’s all in my report. Why?’

‘Because Stefan Devrye-Martin, he of the faked death in Thailand, really is dead this time.’

‘What happened?’ Rocco felt the ground drop away beneath his feet.

‘A fire gutted most of the house, although a local doctor thinks Devrye-Martin might have had a heart attack. But there was a second deceased person present; this one with a gunshot wound to the head. His name was Alain Préault, a local thug and petty thief. The neighbours said he and Devrye-Martin — not the name they knew him as, of course — seemed to be friends. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light.’

‘No. I can’t.’ It was a set-up. He knew it, could feel it in his bones. People like Stefan and Préault didn’t fall out — or if they did, Stefan wasn’t the sort to win out over a streetwise thug. There was surely only one question to be answered. ‘What about a gun?’

‘Well, that’s where it gets interesting. Devrye-Martin was holding a small calibre handgun. A Unique, according to the local captain — a pocket gun. The barrel had been machined to take some kind of screw attachment.’

That could mean only one thing: a suppressor. A killer’s close-up weapon. But that didn’t make sense. Unless …

‘It wasn’t Stefan who shot him,’ said Rocco with certainty. ‘I doubt he’s ever held a gun in his life, much less had the balls to kill a street thug with one.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Someone else was there. Someone who went to clean up a mess.’

There was a brief silence, then Massin said, ‘I think I need an extra paragraph or two for your report, Inspector. You had better come up with something concrete — and quickly. This is beginning to look ugly.’

Rocco was surprised. ‘You’re going to send it in?’

‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?’

‘Because I thought you, along with ISD, wanted me off this case.’

‘I don’t control ISD, Inspector — and they do not control me. In fact I resent their interference. But they have influence in the Ministry and clearly have their reasons for shutting you out of the investigation into the death in the therapy pool.’

‘Reasons which need to come out.’

‘That may be true. But we’re running out of time with this and I’m not sure how much longer I can delay them. Sooner or later, they will get their way and the case will be closed … or you will be compromised.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’ve had calls suggesting that this Clos du Lac business has been blown out of proportion by an officer seeking to make a reputation for himself and get posted back to Paris where he really wants to be. Is that true?’

Rocco didn’t hesitate. A few months ago, he’d have said yes. Back then, anything was better than this rural backwater where a man could feel himself dying of inactivity, away from the hustle and sheer speed of events and the adrenalin rush of high-level crime. But now he felt differently. Occasional contact with Michel Santer was good for his spirits, but it wasn’t a precursor for going back. He liked it here.

‘No. It’s not. But it confirms what I suspect: there’s some kind of conspiracy here. How deep, I don’t know, but there’s a lot more to this than I’ve uncovered.’

‘I hope you’re right. If it’s a safe house — an elaborate one, I grant you — for people being held by the justice system, even if outside the normal rules, then we have no case.’

‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that. Bending a few rules doesn’t get people killed. If there was anyone who’d be a target for a professional killer, it would be the gangster, Betriano. There must be a long line of people on both sides of the fence who’d love to stop him getting to court and spilling his guts. But the dead man was a civil servant who’d threatened to expose a scandal about foreign trade deals.’

‘Maybe. Just remember this, Inspector, in case you ever feel like going back to Clichy: Paris has plenty of Inspector Roccos, whereas this region needs the one it’s got.’

The phone went dead, leaving Rocco certain that just before the connection was cut, he’d heard something like a smile in Massin’s voice.

The phone rang again. He snatched it up. ‘Rocco.’

It was Santer. He sounded serious. ‘Lucas, your information’s correct: there is a man named Delombre who works for ISD. Bobo says he’s a tough guy — un dur — and not one to mix with. He’s Levignier’s errand boy, but he seems to come and go as he pleases.’

‘So what is he — a mercenary?’

‘Could be. He’s been around a fair bit recently, according to Bobo, so something must be cooking. Watch your back, my friend.’

Rocco replaced the phone. It was no surprise that ISD were using outsiders — if that’s what this Delombre was. There were all manner of reasons to use part-timers, or ‘deniables’, with no links to officialdom. It just made Levignier’s scope of activities all the more interesting, especially if Delombre had some authority over people like Bezancourt and his men.

The phone again. It was proving to be a busy morning. ‘Rocco.’

There was a brief pause, then, ‘Inspector. It’s Jacqueline Roget.’

It took a moment or two for the name to click into place.

‘Have you had your shoe mended?’ He wondered for a split second how she had found him, then realised that with her connections, it couldn’t have been simpler.

‘I still owe you a coffee, Inspector. Remember?’ There was a hint of a smile in her voice. ‘But most of all an apology. I’m in the Augustine. I’m hoping you can spare me a few minutes.’

The Augustine. A nice restaurant here in the town centre. Five minutes away on foot. If he cared to go.

He started to tell her that he was too busy, but the phone was already dead.