Death on the Marais

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘I need to go back to Paris.’

‘What — now?’ Claude opened the door in his pyjama bottoms and an old vest, eyes heavy and ringed with sleep. ‘It’s five-thirty in the morning!’

‘Blame the cockerel.’ Rocco thrust a flask at Claude and stepped past him. ‘Coffee. You drink, I’ll drive.’

‘OK. But why so early?’

‘You know Paris. It’s the best time to go. Chop-chop.’

Claude stumbled away to get dressed, leaving Rocco to wait and consider what he was doing. He wasn’t looking for further confrontation with the Interior Ministry goons, but something had been nagging him all the way back from Paris and into the night: Berbier had mentioned his daughter’s flat. He’d been cursing himself ever since for not going to see it. True, it might reveal nothing useful. But in his experience, the homes of murder victims always showed something, even if merely a side of their character that had been hidden from others.

‘Is this a good idea?’ said Claude, returning and tucking his shirt into his trousers. ‘Those CRS morons don’t play games, you know.’

‘They won’t stop us. They were there for show. You ready?’

Ninety minutes later, having almost tamed the wobbly gear shift on Claude’s 2CV, Rocco drove through the outer suburbs of the city, keeping one eye out for a cafe with a line of taxis nearby. When he saw one, he pulled up outside and explained to Claude what he needed.

Claude disappeared inside, and returned five minutes later, smelling of wine. He shrugged at Rocco’s look.

‘Hey, I had to buy a drink — it’s only polite. Anyway, I got what we need. I didn’t think a Berbier would be in the directory, but Nathalie Berbier is — or was.’

Rocco nodded. ‘According to her father, she’s in the fashion business. People like that don’t hide; they’re like moths to a flame — they want everyone to know who and where they are.’

‘Well, we know where she used to be. The cabbies in there told me the exact building.’

Claude took the wheel and pointed the nose of the car towards the south-western corner of the city. ‘Fashion? Huh. They’re as tight as a hedgehog’s arse, I know that. Lousy tippers. I remember the street from my taxi days: full of students, hippies and rich kids pretending they were working class.’

Twenty minutes later they crossed the Seine over the Pont de Grenelle, and Claude eventually steered into a narrow street and pulled up outside an apartment block over a row of shops. The area was quiet, with just a handful of people — mostly young — going about their business. Denim jeans were in evidence, as were lurid sunglasses and colourful hats and bags; exotic butterflies on display even at the break of day. It looked to Rocco like a place trying hard to be something it wasn’t.

‘Hasn’t changed much,’ said Claude, ‘apart from the colours.’ He nodded at the apartment block. ‘Up there on the third floor. Number twelve. If you can get past the concierge. There’s usually one — but you’d know that, anyway.’

Rocco nodded and checked his watch. Nearly eight. Just the right time for a raid. Motioning Claude to follow, he crossed the pavement and pressed the bottom button outside the building. The door buzzed and clicked open, and he found himself in a neat foyer facing an elderly woman with a ginger rinse and a face like a chow. A door with a curtain across the glass panes stood open behind her, the sound of Piaf drifting faintly from inside.

‘Christ. What has the wind blown in?’ The woman stared at Rocco, her face unfolding in recognition. She was small and neatly dressed in a blue skirt and cream jumper, and could have been anyone’s maiden aunt.

Only Rocco knew better. He chuckled in disbelief. He doubted that Viviane Bernard was her real name, but it was the only one he’d ever known her by.

‘You look well,’ he said, and held out his hand.

She took it in both of hers and squeezed firmly, smiling coyly the way he remembered. But then, coy had once been Viviane’s stock-in-trade, back when she ran a string of ‘escort’ girls operating out of a large apartment near the Arc de Triomphe. He knew because he’d had the dubious pleasure of pumping her for information whenever one of her girls took a beating from a drunken client.

‘Lucas Rocco?’ she breathed. ‘It’s been a while.’ She glanced at Claude, who was eyeing them both in surprise.

‘Sorry,’ Rocco muttered, and made introductions. They shook hands. ‘I thought you’d retired to the country.’

‘I did. It was boring and far too quiet. I couldn’t sleep so I came back here.’

‘And became a concierge? You?’ He allowed her to lead him inside her flat, which was surprisingly big and comfortably furnished. Or maybe not so surprisingly, he decided. Viviane had been a very successful madame for a lot of years, and it was rumoured that she had salted away a decent amount of money in the process. The bit she wasn’t allegedly paying as protection money to senior policemen in the area, anyway.

‘Not the concierge,’ Viviane replied. ‘I own the building and I didn’t want to have someone else running it.’ She shrugged. ‘It seemed the best arrangement.’

Rocco revised his opinion of her financial acumen. She had evidently made more than he’d guessed.

‘A drink or coffee?’ said Viviane.

‘Coffee would be nice,’ agreed Rocco.

She smiled knowingly. ‘I know how you like yours, but what about you?’ She looked at Claude. ‘You look like a man with hair on his chest, too.’

Rocco was surprised to see Claude blushing, before he replied, ‘As it comes.’

‘Give me a second or two.’ Viviane shuffled away through a glass door and they heard cups rattling.

Rocco briefly filled Claude in on Viviane’s history. He knew she wouldn’t mind; she’d always been honest about her trade, with no concessions or apologies to anyone. Claude looked surprised but said nothing, merely lowering his bottom lip and eyeing Rocco with renewed interest.

‘So, what can I help you with?’ Viviane entered bearing a tray with three cups, cream and sugar. She served the two men before sitting down, then glanced at Claude. ‘This man is a gentleman,’ she said disarmingly, ‘for a Paris cop, anyway. Always treated us like ladies and never expected or took a freebie. Not once.’ She sipped her coffee, then seemed to realise what impression she might have conveyed and added, ‘Actually, he wasn’t a client, either. Strictly professional.’ She beamed at Rocco then said softly, ‘I heard about Emilie. A great pity; you two seemed set for the long one.’

Rocco shrugged. ‘It happens.’

Viviane nodded and changed the subject. ‘So, are you on a case? I heard you had left the city.’

‘I am and I have,’ confirmed Rocco, adding, ‘in fact, I have an interest in one of your tenants.’

Viviane put her cup down. ‘Who?’

‘Nathalie Bayer-Berbier.’

The name dropped into the room and left a lengthy silence. A car hooted outside and a woman’s laughter echoed along the street, followed by a truck engine and a scooter puttering past like an angry wasp. Normal noises off, lives being lived.

Rocco waited patiently for Viviane to say something.

‘She’s up on three. Number twelve. What has she done?’

‘We know the number,’ Rocco told her. ‘I’d like to see inside her flat.’

Viviane eyed him carefully, then Claude. ‘She hasn’t been in for over a week. I heard she was going to a friend for the weekend, possibly longer. She’s a good tenant.’

‘I’m sure she is. Can we see inside? It’s important.’

Viviane nodded but didn’t move, her whole manner wary. ‘It’s bad? You’re looking for something?’

‘Yes to both. Not sure what, though.’

‘It won’t do you any good, Lucas.’

Rocco felt his gut tighten. ‘Why do you say that?’

The old woman shifted in her chair. ‘Because some men came here late last night and took her stuff away.’