Death on the Marais

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Rocco cursed under his breath. They were too late. ‘Any idea who they were?’

‘Her father’s employees, I suppose. Polite but firm — you know the type. Not the kind to argue with. And they had a cop with them.’

Rocco and Claude exchanged a look. More official help. ‘What did they want?’

‘They took some stuff away. Not furniture — but boxes and bags. It looked like correspondence and things like that. I couldn’t stop them because Berbier pays the rent.’ She shrugged. ‘Half my tenants have their rent paid by parents… or others.’ She stood up and went to a flat wall cabinet behind the door. Opened it to reveal several hooks hung with keys and numbered cardboard tags. Taking one of the keys, she handed it to Rocco. ‘Is the girl all right?’

‘No. I’m afraid not.’ Rocco took the key. ‘How about friends, boyfriends, people she worked with?’

Viviane gave a huge shrug. ‘You think I can keep track of that kind of thing? She’s a young woman — she has more friends than I have ever known, probably more admirers than she can ever hope to enjoy. But she used to share meals with Sophie in number ten, across the hallway. I think they shared boyfriends, too, on occasion, but that’s the old woman in me talking.’ She gave a quick smile. ‘Lucky her, if you ask me.’

Rocco stood up. ‘It might be best if nobody knew we were here.’

‘Nobody?’

‘Not the local cops, not Bayer-Berbier or his polite but firm employees, and certainly nobody who knew Nathalie.’ He shrugged. ‘We’re working off our patch.’ He waggled his hand from side to side. ‘It’s a jurisdiction thing.’

‘Ah. Understood.’ Viviane would know all about jurisdictions, had probably played with them from time to time, too, to avoid too much interest from the law.

They left her alone and walked up three flights of tiled stairs. If there were any other tenants in the building, they were being very quiet. Flat 12 was at the end of a short corridor. A woman’s bicycle stood outside, with another door — No. 10 — directly across the hall. Rocco knocked on No. 10 first. Best to try and see the friend, if she was in. He watched the peephole in the middle for signs of movement, of the light changing. But there was nothing.

He turned to the door of No. 12 and inserted the key. Pushed the door open.

The air inside smelt of soap and polish, with a hint of perfume. The atmosphere was warm and pleasant, a place to call home. He led Claude inside, noting coats on a rack inside the door, a small table piled with newspapers and some circulars. No mail, though. A pair of walking shoes stood neatly against the skirting board, and alongside them, a furled umbrella, bright and fragile-looking, as if a faint breeze would turn it inside out.

‘What are we looking for?’ said Claude softly.

‘Anything,’ said Rocco, ‘that tells us where she was last week. A note, a letter, train ticket — anything.’ He didn’t expect to find much, after what Viviane had just told them. But all it needed was something the other men might have dismissed as inconsequential.

It took them ten minutes to search the three rooms and discover that the men had dismissed nothing. Most of that time was spent going through pockets, handbags and drawers, because there were no other obvious hiding places, nor, Rocco concluded, any reason for having one.

The flat was neat, plain, if expensively furnished, and spoke more of money wisely spent than a young woman splashing daddy’s wealth around. It was comfortable and light, with white walls, and to Rocco looked like something copied from American tastes, currently sweeping Europe in the wake of the Beach Boys and other left-coast music.

It took a further two minutes to establish that there was not a scrap of paperwork in the flat. No letters, receipts, bills, postcards; no jottings or scribbled memos, no REMEMBER board; no notebooks, pads or work notes, no portfolios.

‘They cleaned it out,’ said Claude, huffing at the lack of evidence. ‘Not even a single photo. Why?’

‘Because it was quicker than going through it here,’ said Rocco. Easier to just bundle it up in boxes or bags and look through it at their leisure. The last time he’d seen this level of cleansing was when he’d taken part in a raid on the house of a Turkish drug dealer. The man had got a tip-off just prior to the raid and had used his gang to clear the house of every scrap of paper, right down to his wife’s magazines and shopping lists, in case someone had made a careless note which could implicate him.

He walked through the flat, absorbing the atmosphere and wondering whether Nathalie had had anything worth hiding or whether her father was merely being ultra cautious in the wake of her death. Maybe she was simply a young woman, as Berbier and Viviane had variously described her, working in the fashion business and having a good time. If so, she wouldn’t have needed to hide anything.

Unless somebody else knew different.

He stepped into the living room. Looked at a telephone on a small side table near the front window. It was facing the window, as if someone had sat in the window seat to use it. There was a button on the base of the phone, the kind that releases the note tray in the base, like his own. He pressed it. The tray shot out, revealing a small notepad. On it was scribbled a name and a number in a neat hand.

Tomas Broute — frid even — 21 J? 482787

He tore off the top sheet and showed it to Claude. ‘Somebody’s name and a phone number at the very least.’

Claude looked sceptical. ‘You think? A bit too easy, isn’t it? It could be a date on a Friday evening or a reminder for a lottery ticket number.’

‘You think she would have played the lottery?’

‘Good point.’

‘And if it’s a date, why write down the full name?’

‘A poor memory… or lots of boyfriends.’

Rocco picked up the phone, listened for a tone, then dialled the number. ‘Only one way to find out.’ He waited.

No connection.

‘Not a Paris number, then,’ Claude concluded. ‘Without an exchange, that’s a lot of places left to cover. He picked up a directory from the floor and flicked through it. ‘No Broute in Paris, Tomas or otherwise.’

‘I’ll get a search done through the PTT.’

Claude looked doubtful. ‘Good luck with that. According to Dede they couldn’t find their arses in a thunderstorm.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, who knows? With the power of the police behind it, they might perform a miracle.’

From out in the street, a furious honking of a car horn drifted up, followed by shouting. More horns were followed by more shouting.

Rocco stepped over to the window and looked down.

Two cars had stopped outside. Both black, both gleaming. In front of the first car, a man in a delivery uniform was standing by his truck, gesticulating at his trolley piled high with boxes. In response, the car driver got out of his vehicle and walked towards him, flexing his shoulders.

It was the chauffeur from the Bayer-Berbier house.

‘Out,’ said Rocco. ‘We’ve got company.’

‘Can’t you pull rank?’

‘It’s not that kind of company. Besides, whoever they are, I’d rather they didn’t know we were here.’

They hurried downstairs, footsteps echoing off the walls. As they rounded the last bend, someone began pounding on the front door, and they saw Viviane coming out of her flat. She turned towards them and handed Rocco a key.

‘Out the back,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the same men who came last night. Post the key back to me when you can.’ She clutched his arm. ‘Did you find anything?’

He thought it better to lie, if only for her sake. She was a tough character, but she might find herself facing heavy opposition and he didn’t want her compromised if they leant on her.

‘Sadly, no. No answer from number 10, either. But thanks. Ring me if you think of anything that might help.’ He pressed his card into her hand, his new number scribbled on it. Ducked his head and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Give us two minutes.’

They were just clear of Paris when Claude slapped a hand on the steering wheel and swore. ‘How did they know we were there? Are you sure she-?’

‘I’m sure,’ Rocco interrupted him. It was natural that Claude might suspect Viviane of having made a sneak phone call, but he was certain that she hadn’t. ‘They must have been watching the place. I should have noticed.’

‘Maybe. OK, if you say so.’ Claude thought it over, then shrugged. Moments later, he looked sharply at Rocco. ‘What was that phone number again?’

Rocco took out the piece of paper from the telephone pad. ‘Forty-eight, twenty-seven, eighty-seven.’

‘Thought so.’ Claude looked confused. ‘But how-? My number starts with forty-eight. I bet yours does, too.’

Rocco pictured the number in the house in Poissons. He was right. ‘Forty-eight, twenty-seven, ninety-three.’ He turned and looked at Claude. ‘Who else in the village has a phone?’

‘His highness the mayor. Francine at the co-op. The cafe. Maybe a couple of others.’ Claude shrugged, making the wheel wobble. ‘I don’t know. Not many. But there’s nobody called Broute; I’d know, otherwise.’

‘Then he or she must be using another name.’ Rocco scowled darkly and wondered what other secrets the village of Poissons was hiding.