Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

‘You’ve never once asked after Mr Drucker,’ said Rocco, taking a seat across from Inès Dion. Alix was standing off to one side, seemingly not part of the conversation, and from where she could watch Dion’s face for reaction. They were in the library, surrounded by an expanse of bookshelves, the atmosphere sombre yet restful. Rocco could have spent some time in a room like this. He had never been an avid reader, but with all this room had to offer, he’d have been ready to give it a try.

For a second Dion didn’t reply, a faint crease touching her forehead. Then she said, ‘I didn’t ask you, perhaps. Should I have done?’

‘Didn’t you wonder what had happened to him?’ His gaze was on the small pulse beating at the side of her throat.

‘Not really. I was too … upset with everything else that had happened.’ She brushed a hand across her lap, a vague gesture that to Rocco resembled dismissal. ‘He must have decided to move on. He could hardly have counted on this as having been his finest hour, could he?’

‘Of course. I should have thought. Stroke of luck for you, though. Right place, right time, I suppose.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that. I feel fortunate, if that’s what you’re suggesting. But there’s nothing wrong with taking advantage of circumstance, is there?’

‘Of course not. Is that what André Paulus did?’

‘I’m sorry?’ The question appeared to throw her and she glanced at Alix, then away.

‘Well, I gather he threw up everything to come here and be with you. Was that following circumstance? If so, it didn’t do him much good, did it?’

‘I–I’m sorry — I don’t understand.’ She looked stricken, her face flushed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘According to his navy colleagues — former colleagues — he fell for you in a big way. From being a career navy man, he changed to a man in love and left the job he truly enjoyed. And then he was murdered. Shot twice with bullets, here,’ Rocco stabbed twice at the base of his throat, ‘and here. Apparently without any obvious attempt to defend himself. Odd, for an experienced navy cop like him. He must have been in the thick of his share of bad situations over the years, yet he never saw real trouble coming when it finally hit him. Why is that, do you think?’

‘I don’t know — how could I? What happened to André was tragic … horrible!’ Her throat caught on the last word, and he saw a glimmer of moisture appear at the corner of one eye. She brushed angrily at her face and looked up at the ceiling for a long second, then back at Rocco. As she did so, a single tear rolled slowly down her cheek. She did nothing to stop it.

‘Yes. It was,’ he agreed.

‘Is that what you’ve come to tell me, Inspector — that you’re no further forward with finding out who killed André? For God’s sake, how difficult is it? There must be somebody who knows … somebody local he may have run into … an argument, perhaps.’ She looked beseechingly at Alix. ‘You live locally, you told me. Don’t rumours circulate easily in a rural place like this? Somebody boasting, perhaps, spending more money than they would normally?’

‘No,’ said Alix. ‘Nothing like that.’ And when Dion turned away, she looked at Rocco and nodded.

Dion was good, Rocco conceded. Exceptionally good. Unless he was making the biggest character assessment error of his life. But one thing he was certain about was her self-control and cool ability to put on a convincing act. Because he’d seen all this before: the grief, the angry flushes and the tears … then the switch to being composed and businesslike. And the red eyes on his previous visit were most likely less to do with grief at the death of Paulus than the result of some frantic rubbing as she’d climbed from her car to meet him.

He hadn’t been entirely convinced then; he was even less so now.

Because he hadn’t mentioned to anyone that André Paulus’s wallet had been missing. So why did she mention money being spent?

‘I’d agree with you, Miss Dion, but there aren’t many people around here who carry nine-millimetre pistols, and fewer still who know how to use them with such precision.’ He slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. ‘How are the patients settling in, by the way?’

‘Pardon?’ Dion frowned and dabbed at her cheek.

‘Your new arrivals — or, at least the one that I saw. How is he doing?’

She stood too, and nodded. ‘Oh, that. Yes — he’s fine, thank you.’

‘Good. Well, sorry to have upset you. I hope not to disturb you again.’ He turned and led Alix out and across the foyer, where Jean-Pierre was waiting by the door to let them out.

‘That was pretty brutal,’ Alix commented as they got back in the car.

‘Maybe.’ He started the engine and backed out of the space. ‘What did you think?’

‘About her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’m no expert, but purely from a woman’s perspective, I’d say she was lying through her teeth. She was playing us.’

‘Thank God for that,’ he breathed. ‘I thought it was just me.’ ‘Playing’ was a good word to use, he thought. She had been playing them from the very start, through the aftermath of Simon Rotenbourg’s murder, the discovery of Paulus’s body, the search of the building. By staying to ‘help’ them with the search, she was able to steer them wherever she wanted … and away from anything incriminating.

But she must have played Paulus on an even bigger scale: persuading him to leave the navy and join her because she knew she could control him; luring him away from his post so the killer could enter the building … maybe even pulling the trigger herself. After all, who else could have got closer to him than the woman he loved and trusted?

‘So what now?’

He was thinking about the guards around the place, the way they controlled every inch with such care and expertise, and the way Dion had reacted to his question about the new arrival. The ‘he’ that she had fastened on so easily, when every instinct told him that the only person in the place was a woman.

He saw Claude step out from the edge of the road a hundred metres ahead, and stopped to let him climb aboard.

Alix was surprised to see her father. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Watching over you,’ he said, brushing a stray leaf from his hair. ‘I lost sight of you once you entered the building, but I had at least two of the guards in my sights all the time.’ He patted the shotgun across his knees.

‘How many did you see?’ said Rocco.

‘Three, unless they have others sleeping. They’re good, too. Former military, from the way they move.’

‘They would be.’

‘So was the visitor.’

Rocco caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Say again?’

‘The visitor in the Peugeot. He arrived not long before you, walked in like he owned the place.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Tall, thin, walked like he was on a long, slow route march.’

In other words, like an ex-Legionnaire, Rocco thought. He remembered Jacqueline’s description of the man. Delombre. It had to be.

He drove on. The momentum was gathering. Whatever was going to happen, it had to be today.