Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER SIX

‘Should we be here?’ Claude eyed the surrounding countryside as they pulled to a stop. They had driven in Rocco’s car to a tiny village a few kilometres north of Poissons, leaving Alix on duty at the sanitarium as the local police presence.

Berlay hardly merited the title of village, consisting of a clutch of houses and two smallholdings strung out along a narrow dead-end road leading into open fields. No church, no shop, no bar. Lots of perfectly formed cowpats in the road, though, Rocco noted, so not much motorised traffic passed this way.

‘Better than hanging around near Levignier,’ Rocco replied.

It struck him that if a man wished to hide himself away, this was as good a place to do it as any. Like dropping off the end of the world. Yet he wondered why Paulus would live here when there was so much more choice in Amiens or even Poissons. Maybe Alix had been right about him having a relationship with Ms Dion; they certainly couldn’t ask for more privacy than this.

The cottage rented by Paulus was a single-storey plaster-and-lathe building with a corrugated metal roof and a rusted chimney stack. The structure looked lopsided, as if it was trying to melt into the landscape. And if Paulus was any kind of gardener, he’d put his talents on hold for a while: the grass was long, a once cultivated area with sticks for vegetables was overgrown, and the path leading to the front door was a barely visible trail of flattened stems.

Claude checked the chimney. ‘No smoke. Could be out.’

Rocco got out of the car and led the way up the path. ‘Check the back,’ he said.

He knocked on the door. It rattled, the sounds echoing back with the uniquely hollow aura of a deserted building. Above the keyhole was a handle with a simple thumb latch arrangement. He pressed it down.

The door swung open and he stepped inside.

They were too late.

Whatever Paulus had or had not done at the Clos du Lac, his part in the proceedings was now over. He was lying slumped in an armchair, head thrown back, a mass of dark blood across his chest, soaked into his shirt. None on the floor, though, or the chair, Rocco noted.

Paulus was a big man, somewhere in his forties, with a no-nonsense brush-cut and the beginnings of a day-old growth of beard. He had probably been good-looking in life, but he now looked softened and somehow twisted in death, his mouth open and wrenched to one side. He was dressed in dark trousers and shoes and a dark-blue shirt, but no tie. Almost a uniform. The watch on his wrist was a utilitarian model, probably steel, of the kind favoured by military men for simplicity and robustness.

Rocco bent close to examine the chest area. Paulus had been shot twice at close range at the base of the throat. He went behind the chair and gently eased the body forward. It felt cold and the stiffness of rigor mortis was on its way. No exit wounds and no blood. Low charge rounds.

The work of a professional.

Claude came through the front door and joined him. ‘Nothing to see round there — Mother of God!’ He crossed himself.

Rocco checked the room carefully. It didn’t take long; it was a living room-cum-kitchen combined and held a table, two chairs, the armchair, a heavy metal range and a rustic oak dresser with a collection of household bits and pieces on the shelves instead of crockery. He saw nothing that would be of any help: a couple of paperback novels, scattered newspapers, magazines, pens, a large flashlight battery, some keys, a few coins and some new socks still clipped together. The twin cupboards underneath held a selection of saucepans and heavy plates, cups and bowls, with an assortment of tinned goods, two bottles of wine and half a stale baguette. Not unlike his own collection, he reflected; just enough to get by, a single man’s idea of the basics in life.

He walked through the only door into a small bedroom. The air smelt stuffy. There was a double bed with rumpled bedclothes and a single, ancient wardrobe. A few clothes hung from a rail inside: shirts, trousers and a couple of jackets. And a woman’s blouse, plain white.

The single shelf held a pair of women’s panties, folded and resting on brown paper alongside a small, floral washbag. The bag held a small bar of soap, a tin of tooth powder and a toothbrush and a small jar of face cream.

A woman’s overnight kit. Alix had been right.

‘Do you think he could have done it — the murder back at the Clos?’ Claude had followed him in and was standing by the door looking back at the body.

‘Possibly. As a night security guard he’d have had access to all areas of the building. He would have had plenty of opportunity to get into the patient files, too, if he needed.’

‘And he might have known how to operate that pulley thing.’

Rocco nodded. ‘That, too.’ And from what Stefan had said, if the patient was drugged to the eyeballs, as most of them were, he wouldn’t have had any trouble fitting him into the harness.

But why end up dead afterwards? A killer killed? It didn’t make sense.

He checked through the jacket pockets in the wardrobe. Nothing there. He went through the rest of the room, then walked through and checked Paulus’s trouser pockets, careful not to disturb the body. Nothing there, either. No cash, no wallet. Then he had a thought. He checked the belt. It looked like service issue, the leather in good condition apart from a two-centimetre stretch just above the left hip, where it was slightly distorted and shiny.

Paulus had been wearing a hip holster. So where was it now?

He stood back, puzzled. The place was clean. Too clean.

‘We need to call this in,’ he said, and led the way out of the house.

‘There’s no car,’ Claude observed, stubbing his toe on a well-worn rut at the edge of the lane where a vehicle had been parked. ‘So how did he get around?’

‘He was killed somewhere else,’ Rocco said. ‘No blood spillage and no signs of a struggle. The car will have been dumped.’

He drove fast past the collection of houses, and saw no sign of the inhabitants. They were probably out in the fields by now, working. He’d send someone back later to see if anyone had heard or seen anything.

As they hit a straight stretch, another car approaching from the opposite direction sped by, kicking up a column of dust. It was a dark Renault saloon with two men inside.

‘Cops,’ Claude said, turning to look back. ‘Somebody beat us to it. Shouldn’t we go back?’

Rocco shook his head. ‘No. Not cops.’ More of Levignier’s men, he was certain of it.

The vultures were gathering.

They were halfway back to Poissons when Claude suddenly slapped his knee in frustration. ‘Hell, I must be getting old. What an idiot!’

‘What?’

‘The nurse — Dion. I thought she was screaming for the police when I first heard her.’

‘Yes. So?’

‘I just realised — she wasn’t calling the police. She was calling him — the dead man: Paulus.’