Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Rocco walked back to the office, his mind in a whirl. At one point he stopped and turned. He’d got the odd feeling of something in the air, as if he were being watched. It gave him an itchy feeling in his shoulders. It wouldn’t be the first time in his career that he’d been under surveillance, nor the last. But there was nobody obvious in sight.

What had just happened? He was confused. Had he just been played by an expert, or had Jacqueline Roget genuinely wanted to apologise to a target she’d never met before the other evening? And had the reference to her aunt’s house been an invitation — or had he mistakenly taken it as such and blundered over the line of acceptable behaviour?

He was still trying to figure it out when he was met at the door by René Desmoulins waving a sheet of paper. It looked like one of the Urgent Response bulletins issued by the intelligence section of the Interior Ministry when they wished to poke the entire country’s police force into a buzz of activity. Behind Desmoulins the building was a rush of voices and hurrying feet.

‘There’s a flap on,’ said the detective. ‘All hands on deck. Godard’s been ordered to call in all his men.’

‘Not being invaded again, are we?’

‘Even worse. The Interior Minister has gone public about a recent kidnap victim. All regions are on full alert for signs of her, but we’re the hot spot.’

‘Do we have the victim’s name yet?’ News reports over the past couple of days had been long on drama but short on detail. No doubt the authorities had been anxious to keep the victim’s name out of the limelight for fear of a reprisal killing or instigating copycat crimes, but it probably wouldn’t have made much difference in the end. It rarely did.

‘Véronique Bessine, wife of the aircraft manufacturer, Robert Bessine.’ He read from the bulletin as they walked into the main office. ‘She was lifted after leaving a high-end beauty salon in Paris several days ago. Nothing’s been heard since, but they believe she’s been taken out of the city and they’ve got three addresses in our region where they think she might be being held.’

Rocco recalled two kidnaps being mentioned by Santer; a junior diplomat and an industrialist’s wife. It seemed a lifetime ago. Evidently Mme Bessine rated a higher degree of official concern than a junior diplomat playing footsie with an army officer’s niece.

‘The Minister and Bessine were at university together,’ said Desmoulins, interpreting his thoughts. ‘I read it somewhere. I suppose that would account for the response level.’

‘Why wait so long to tell us?’

‘It says the decision was made in the best interests of the victim and her family, but now they’ve decided they can’t wait any longer and all efforts must go to getting her back. Their words, not mine.’

‘If she’s still breathing.’ As Rocco was well aware, kidnap victims rarely lasted more than a couple of days before they became a liability, or the kidnappers panicked and decided to cut their losses. Anyone held this long and still alive would be very lucky indeed.

‘So who are we up against — Sicilians?’

‘They haven’t released that information.’

‘Probably means they don’t know.’ He reached into his desk drawer for a spare shoulder holster. He hated the things, but there were times when they were useful. He strapped it on beneath his coat and checked his MAB. Full magazine and spare. If they found the woman and he needed more ammunition than this, they’d be in the middle of a bloodbath.

He noticed Desmoulins was holding a slim, buff folder with an official stamp on the front. ‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, yes. Nearly forgot.’ Desmoulins flipped the folder open. Inside was a sheet of paper. ‘Brest sent this over. It’s a summary of André Paulus’s record — or at least the bits that aren’t a naval secret. He was a cop, like you said — actually a navy provost under the Gendarmerie Maritime. The file wasn’t much help so I wangled my way through to the operations office in Brest and spoke to a former colleague.’

‘Go on.’

‘Paulus was a career man. Single, confirmed bachelor, no ties or family — ideal for that life, by the sounds of it. Good at his job, according to his friend, but not a high-flyer. Liked to be mates too much, although not a party-goer. He served all over, liked to move around, volunteered for anything with some action, knew his way around the block. Then suddenly, he gave it all up.’

‘Why?’

‘For love, apparently. Met a woman and fell like a lovesick calf. She moved away from Brest and persuaded him to follow. His mates tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. He dropped out and the last they heard he’d got a job in security through the military employment office. They arrange jobs and training for ex-service personnel.’

‘And the woman’s name?’ Rocco knew already, but needed confirmation.

‘A navy nurse named Dion. When I say she moved, she was transferred onshore to what barrack-room gossip called “special duties”.’

‘The Clos du Lac.’

‘I’d say, yes.’

Damn, thought Rocco. Wheels within wheels.

He was interrupted from further thought by Sous-Brigadier Godard striding into the room, followed by two of his men, one of them the tall and dangerous-looking Patrice, who grinned in acknowledgement. All were dressed in black and fully armed. Godard held a slip of paper in his fist.

‘We’ve had a briefing from the Ministry via Commissaire Massin,’ he said, and waved the paper. ‘There are three places we’ve been told to hit, in the following order.’ He walked over to the wall map and studied it briefly, then took three coloured pins and stuck them in the fabric. Roye, 25 kilometres east of Amiens. Doullens, less than 20 kilometres to the north. And Neufchâtel-en-Bray, 30 kilometres to the south-west.

Rocco studied the pins and their locations. It was like a three-spoke wheel, with Amiens at the hub.

‘Where did these addresses come from?’

Godard shrugged. ‘The criminal intelligence section in the Interior Ministry. They’ve been keeping an eye on likely suspects and seen them move out here at various times. They believe things might have got a little too hot for them in Paris, so they’ve come out looking for somewhere quiet to hide.’

‘Here. Around Amiens?’

‘Yes. Why?’

He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to question the likelihood of kidnappers choosing the Somme and Pas de Calais region to hide their victims. But something about this didn’t ring true. Most kidnappers prepared their hideout well before the event and stayed put while they waited for the ransom to be dropped and collected. Moving a victim around too much was risky: there was always someone on the lookout, whether a nosy neighbour, a local cop on the alert or a kid with an active imagination and too much time on his hands. To ship a victim out of Paris this long after the kidnap meant they had been disturbed or the nature of the game had changed in some way.

‘Why can’t we hit them simultaneously?’

‘I suggested that, but they said it would be too noticeable all going off at once and might make the kidnappers jump the gun.’ Godard raised his shoulders. ‘I tried but they wouldn’t listen.’

‘Are they sending any men out to help?’

‘No. They said we should handle it ourselves. Same with other regions, apparently.’

In other words, Rocco thought cynically, let the regions take the flak if the victim ended up being killed in the process. The only credit to be gained would be if Mme Bessine was recovered alive and well, in which case it would reflect well on the Ministry’s ‘hand’s off’ approach and their confidence in the local police. Some things never changed.

‘Right, where’s the first one?’

‘The nearest is Doullens. The location is a small farm just outside the town. Been abandoned for two years, according to the locals, but rented recently by a transport business in Paris. No other details, though. Ideal for keeping someone quiet, I’d have thought. We can be there in twenty minutes. I’ve sent a couple of men out to take a quiet look. They won’t be seen. If that turns up blank, then I figured Roye, followed by Neufchâtel.’

‘You’ve got men out there, too?’

‘Yes. They’ll call in if they look good.’

‘Fine. Let’s get on with it.’

Rocco followed them out to the cars, making a mental note that he needed to speak once more to Inès Dion. He had a feeling that she might have an interesting story to tell.