Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

When Delombre arrived at the unoriginally named Café Sportif in the centre of Amiens, his contact, named Ferrand, was sitting behind a cold beer with a wary expression, eyes on the door. The only thing sporting about the place, Delombre noted, was a large colour poster of French cyclist Jacques Anquetil, mounted in a glass frame on the rear wall. It looked more like a shrine than a celebration, and he reminded himself to figure out one day what it was about the Tour de France that aroused such passions in the nation.

‘Someone killed your dog?’ he muttered, and ordered coffee. Something about Ferrand’s expression told him they weren’t going anywhere soon.

‘He’s gone,’ Ferrand muttered.

‘Gone where? Why didn’t you follow and leave a note?’

‘Because the place was in an uproar. Every cop in the town must have been there, Gendarmerie Mobile, plain clothes, auxiliaries, the lot. It was like somebody jabbed a stick into a hornets’ nest and they all woke up with a screaming headache. Before I could do anything, they were all up and gone. I didn’t see Rocco, but I think he was among them.’

Delombre had a good idea what the fuss was about. Levignier’s intelligence bulletin must have stirred them into action. Well, that was something, at least.

‘Is it worth going after them? Somebody must know where they’ve gone.’

‘I doubt it. We’d probably get jumped on. You’ve got the official muscle — can’t you ask at the station?’

‘I could, but I don’t want to.’ Walking into the police station meant he’d leave a trace and he didn’t want Rocco picking up on his presence. The man seemed to have a sixth sense for trouble and Delombre didn’t need the problem right now. ‘What does he look like?’

‘Rocco? He’s big, tall — taller than you, has dark hair cut short and usually dresses smart, like an undertaker. Long black coat and trousers, shiny shoes, looks expensive.’

‘So he’s a fashion model.’

‘Yes, but they say don’t let his looks fool you. He’s got a pair of shoulders on him and can handle the rough stuff.’ Ferrand toyed with his beer. ‘I hear he used to work with the anti-gang units before transferring out here, and he’s been involved in a few incidents since he arrived.’

‘What kind of incidents?’ Delombre didn’t plug into the office chatter much; he did his work and left the gossip alone. Any stories circulating about cops were usually blown out of proportion by the cops themselves, eager to gain some good publicity as hard men and a chance of promotion on the back of it along the way.

‘He stopped an assassination attempt on de Gaulle not long ago. A bunch of English gangsters were involved and he put them down. End of story.’

Delombre lifted an eyebrow. Perhaps he should start taking more notice of gossip. He’d clearly missed something here. ‘You’re saying he’s a hotshot?’

Ferrand hesitated, as if wary of singing Rocco’s praises too much. ‘He’s a hunter. I’ve seen him at work, the way he checks out the scene when he’s out and about. He doesn’t miss much.’

Delombre smiled and pushed his coffee away untouched. ‘But he missed you.’

‘Yes. He missed me.’

This Rocco sounded like a challenge. But not right now. If he was pumped up by the thought of taking down a kidnap gang, he’d be even more on the alert than usual. ‘Very well. We’ll give this one a miss. Stay on him for another twenty-four hours, but well back, you understand? I don’t want him picking up a sniff that he’s being watched.’

‘He won’t.’ Ferrand said it without boasting; he knew how good he was.

‘Let me know anything you hear, then stand down.’ He stood up and walked out, leaving Ferrand sitting at the table.

The farm looked deserted. It was situated at the end of a long track meandering through flat fields some two kilometres outside the town of Doullens, the house and buildings nestling against a backdrop of trees. From a distance the place looked forgotten in time, abandoned to nature, with long, flowing grass on the track in, and tendrils of ivy crawling across the front porch and through a broken pane of glass in the door.

Rocco studied the place through binoculars, paying particular attention to the windows at the front and the outbuildings at the rear. Wooden shutters hung at the window on the left, secured by what looked like a heavy chain. But the door and right-hand window were uncovered, suggesting that somebody had been inside recently. A tramp, maybe?

He checked the chimney, but saw no sign of smoke. Didn’t mean a thing.

‘My men reckon it’s empty,’ said Sous-Brigadier Godard, sliding up alongside him. ‘They’ve been watching for a couple of hours and haven’t seen a thing.’

‘What are your instructions?’

‘To report back and wait. No movement until we get word to go from Massin.’

And until Massin gets word from the Ministry, thought Rocco sourly. Everybody wants their say in what happens now.

‘Is there a back way out?’

‘Only on foot. We checked that first.’

The place reminded him of the farm owned by Thomas Portier, yet in an even worse state of disrepair. He could see why someone seeking isolation might choose it as a hideaway, but only if they were a painter or writer — or seriously antisocial. For anybody dragging a kidnap victim along with them, especially a high-profile one like Véronique Bessine, there had to be plenty of places far more convenient they could have found. Out here was putting a stretch on the term remote, and its very location, with no secondary way out, also made it vulnerable as a trap. What he couldn’t understand was how the intelligence unit had heard about the place being used.

‘Have your men spoken to any locals?’

‘Only some old guy in a field down the road. He says nobody’s been here for a long while. The land is poor and the house would be easier to knock down than restore. Mind you, he said a few uncomplimentary things about morons from Paris throwing their cash around to get in touch with the land, but I don’t think he was talking about anyone coming here.’

‘But he wouldn’t know if someone had turned up while he was away.’

‘True. But my men took a close look at the track. There’s been nothing on wheels down there for months. It rained less than a week ago, and the ground here is soft; even a nun on a bike would have left some kind of sign. There’s nothing.’

Rocco studied the line of the track leading up to the front door. It was straight and narrow, bordered by a ditch and a wire fence each side, both overgrown. The track surface itself was lost in a sea of moving grass, mesmerising and lush. Anyone inside the house would have a devastatingly clear shot all the way down, with nowhere for an approach vehicle to go but back. And going back would mean ending up in the ditch.

Or dead.

‘Seems a shame not to try something,’ said Godard. ‘We’ve trained hard for this stuff; just never got to use it yet.’

Rocco looked up at the sky. The afternoon was rolling on, bringing a grey sky studded with heavy cloud. If they left it too long, anybody in the house might decide to cut their losses and try to get past them once the light fell.

He looked behind their position. They were on the edge of a bank bordering the track, where a bend offered them a slightly elevated spot from which to see the house. The rest of Godard’s men, the uniforms and other police units were all out of sight at the top of the track where it met the road to Doullens.

He studied the chimney on the house. It had a tin pot protruding from the stack, battered by the elements and blackened around the upper rim. It would make a hell of a noise if it took a bullet. But any action like that was Godard’s call.

‘That chimney,’ he said casually, ‘is a heck of a target.’

‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Godard agreed. ‘And the noise would scare the shit out of anybody inside.’

‘Long shot, though. It would have to be a good man to hit it from here.’

Godard took a look through the glasses. ‘Are you kidding? I could hit that myself — and I’m not the best. Still, if there is someone in there — and with Bessine?’

‘I’d lay good money that there isn’t. Send two of your best men down the track as close as they can get to the front door. As soon as they’re in place, get your sniper to take a shot, and the other two go in hard.’

Godard nodded slowly and pursed his lips. ‘I can do that.’ He added, ‘See the last fence post on the right, just before the track opens out into the front of the house?’

‘Yes.’

Godard gave a short whistle. Immediately, a man’s hand slid up the fence post, then disappeared again.

‘Patrice. There’s another man on the left.’

Rocco smiled. ‘You had this planned.’

Godard returned the smile. ‘What — you think we sit round all day polishing our boots? Give me three minutes and the chimney’s gone. Wait for my whistle but don’t stand up until the shot’s been made.’ With that, he slid back down the bank and disappeared back along the track at a jog, using the lay of the land.

Rocco waited, hoping he was right. If Mme Bessine was being held in there, he was making a serious mistake. Yet every fibre of his body told him this place was empty. Somehow the intelligence unit had been handed false information. It happened.

He heard Godard’s warning whistle and focused the glasses on the chimney pot. The shot when it happened took him by surprise, and came from no more than twenty metres behind him.

The pot exploded in a cloud of thick soot and a shower of twigs, probably an old bird’s nest, and tumbled down out of sight on the far side of the roof.

Instantly he saw the tall figure of Patrice leap up out of the grass and sprint across the front yard, closely paralleled by another man in the same black uniform. Both carried handguns. Patrice made it to the porch and ran straight through the front door, taking it off its hinges. The other man dodged round the side, both of them calling out their positions to each other.

Moments later, they reappeared through the front door. They looked relaxed.

Patrice signalled with a shake of his head.

Empty.