Death on the Marais

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Rocco checked the bandage on the remains of Didier’s arm. It was rough and ready but doing the job. Didier was still bleeding heavily, but with gentle pressure he knew it could be contained. All they had to do now was get the scrap man to a hospital before he died of shock.

‘Bring your 2CV,’ he told Claude. ‘We can lay him in the back.’ He looked at Delsaire, the plumber. ‘Get something for him to lie on. Some old sacks from the barn.’

Delsaire nodded and hurried away, while Claude manoeuvred his 2CV into position. Once the sacks were in place, several men gathered round and lifted Didier into the rear of the car. It was far from ideal, but the patient was in no condition to voice an opinion.

Rocco drove as fast as he dared, with Claude keeping gentle pressure on the bandage. Nearly unconscious by now through shock and the effects of the brandy, Didier was rolling around in the back. Rocco figured it was a trade-off between some mild discomfort for Didier now, against the chance that he could die if they didn’t get him treated as quickly as possible.

It took twenty minutes to get to the hospital in Amiens, with Rocco urging the underpowered car along every bit of the way and barging through whatever traffic they encountered. Fortunately, nobody tried to argue, no doubt seeing the 2CV with its lights on and clearly being driven by a reckless madman as something to be avoided.

As Rocco hurtled round the final bend in the hospital grounds and slid to a stop before the emergency entrance, Claude grasped his elbow.

‘Best not say it was a grenade blew his arm off,’ he advised. ‘I’ll tell them it was a tractor.’

‘A tractor?’ Rocco stared at him. ‘Are you serious? What do you reckon they’ll think you run tractors on in Poissons — dynamite?’

‘It’s just that… hell, the paperwork. We’ll be tied up for hours.’ Claude looked embarrassed at the proposed lie. ‘Just a thought.’

He was right. Rocco weighed up the rights and wrongs. If the hospital called the police, as they were bound to do in cases involving explosives, there would be a full investigation, with the might of the authorities descending on them here and in Poissons. If that happened, he could say goodbye to his investigation.

He was saved from saying anything by the appearance of two hospital attendants rushing towards them with a wheeled stretcher. Claude heaved himself out of the car, before hurrying to the back to oversee the lifting of Didier from his resting place.

By the time Rocco parked the car and made his way inside, Claude was calmly drinking coffee and chatting away to a nurse on reception. There was no sign of Didier, although a number of other patients were waiting to be seen, sitting in a line of chairs against one wall. He assumed Didier’s injury was probably novel enough to have gained priority.

‘What did the doctors say?’ he asked Claude.

‘It’s not good,’ Claude murmured, frowning into his cup.

‘I’m sorry.’ Rocco was surprised they had been able to comment on the outcome so quickly. Didier wouldn’t have the use of his arm again, but he’d seen men with far worse injuries pull through. Shock, maybe, always a difficult matter to foresee, had probably taken its toll, along with the ride here and a gutful of brandy hammering through his system.

‘Oh, I don’t mean that,’ said Claude quickly. ‘The duty doctor has seen, you know, grenade injuries before. He served in Indochina. He’s already called the cops. I tried to get Didier to keep his mouth shut, but the imbecile was away with the birds and wouldn’t listen.’

Rocco swore silently. He’d been half-ready to back up Claude’s madcap story about a tractor, but with an experienced doctor able to tell explosive trauma from a tractor losing its big end, there was no way the story would float. If they knew anything about the locals, they would be aware that some occasionally did stupid things like attempting to dismantle the deadly remnants of two world wars.

He felt a measure of sympathy for Claude. As the local representative of the law, he might pick up some criticism for allowing such things to go on. But without patrolling every yard and garden in Poissons, he was powerless to stop it.

Approaching footsteps prevented further discussion. A tall man in a white coat appeared from a corridor. He was holding a small plastic bag in one hand and looked far from happy. He glanced at the receptionist, who pointed at Rocco and Claude.

‘You are friends of the grenade injury?’

‘Not friends,’ Claude said defensively. ‘Same village, though.’

‘I see.’ He eyed Claude’s uniform shirt, then glanced at Rocco with the hint of a sneer. ‘Doing your civic duty, I suppose. How noble. Are there many madmen like him where you come from?’

Rocco gave him a heavy look. He could do without this kind of annoyance. ‘Cut the attitude, Doc,’ he growled. ‘We brought him in, that’s all you need to know.’

The doctor looked wary and stepped back a pace. ‘My apologies. Only, is the man insane or what?’

‘He picked up a grenade,’ Claude huffed. ‘It happens.’

‘Quite often, according to what he told me. He dismantles explosive devices for a living — usually much bigger ordnance than grenades. He said this one went off before he could unscrew the fuse.’

Claude leant forward. ‘The stuff is unstable. He probably hit it too hard.’

‘Undoubtedly. But doesn’t he know he’s supposed to report finding things like that?’

‘How’s he doing?’ Rocco cut in. ‘Will he live?’

‘Yes. But he won’t be playing cards for a while. And if he gets anywhere near another bomb with a hammer, I’d leave the immediate vicinity, if I were you, because he’s not going to be doing it with any precision.’ He started to walk away, then paused and glanced at Claude. ‘You’ll have to wait, incidentally — your colleagues are on their way here. They’ll want a statement. But I guess you’d know that, wouldn’t you?’

‘We’re well aware of the procedure,’ said Rocco. ‘What’ve you got there?’

The doctor didn’t even look at what he was holding. ‘It’s for the police.’ He gave Claude another look. ‘The proper ones. No need for you to concern yourself.’

Rocco sighed and held up his badge. ‘I am the police, so enough with the crap. What is it?’

‘Oh. You should have said.’ The doctor held up the bag. ‘This item was embedded in his forearm; probably blown there by the force of the explosion. Do you know what it is?’ It was clear by his expression that he did.

Rocco studied the object inside the bag. It was the thickness of a pencil and made of pale metal, like aluminium. It had a ragged end, as if it had been broken from a longer piece, and was blackened by scorch marks.

He nodded. ‘I know. What was Marthe’s explanation?’

‘He didn’t have one. He lost consciousness before I could ask him. If he’s using this technique for taking ordnance apart, Inspector, he needs locking up, for everyone else’s protection if not his own.’

The doctor walked away, calling for the next patient.

Moments later, they heard a car squeal to a stop outside and a police sous-brigadier marched into the foyer, young, fresh-faced, self-important and austerely immaculate, his kepi under one arm. He was followed by another uniform who stationed himself by the door. The first man glanced briefly at Claude before disappearing down the corridor after the doctor, clearly familiar with the layout. When he emerged a few minutes later, his face was pale and unfriendly. He strode up to them, eyes inspecting Claude with an expression of distaste.

‘You’re Lamotte.’ he said accusingly. ‘We’ve seen this kind of lunacy before. What’s it this time — another idiot with a death wish looking for scrap?’

‘A grenade,’ Claude explained, stiffening under the man’s eye. ‘He picked up a grenade. I explained to the doctor.’

‘So he said.’ He turned to Rocco. ‘You’re the new inspector, aren’t you? Odd you should be involving yourself with these people.’

‘People?’ Rocco felt his temper rising. ‘What I do and who I get involved with is none of your business. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation and we brought in a man who’d had an accident.’

‘That’s as may be.’ The young man lifted his chin and Rocco guessed he didn’t need to shave often. By his badge of rank, he’d probably put in about a dozen years, but that still put him at not much more than thirty, possibly less. ‘But I have to report the facts of any explosions and related injuries. Further action may need to be considered.’

Rocco reached out and clamped a hand around the pompous officer’s neck in a pseudo-avuncular manner, but with just enough grip to stop him talking. ‘Great. That’s good. Glad to hear you’re so keen on the rule book. But listen to me, sonny. We don’t have time to get caught up in any of your official rubbish. If you think otherwise, why don’t you have a word with Commissaire Perronnet or Divisional Commissaire Massin. They’ll set you straight. Now, if you’ll excuse us.’ He patted the man on the shoulder and walked away before he could argue, leaving Claude to throw up a vague salute and follow.

‘What was that about?’ said Claude, as they got back in his car. ‘And what was in the bag?’

Rocco sat there, mind racing. What the doctor had found was something that no scrap man, no matter how unconventional, idiotic or desperate he might be, should have had access to. It was inconceivable that Didier Marthe was using it to break down grenades or shells. The idea was ludicrous, although he hadn’t said as much to the doctor.

‘What did Didier say when you first got to him?’

‘I couldn’t be sure. He was rambling on about something being covered with mud. Why?’

‘Because whatever took his hand off wasn’t just a dodgy grenade. It was part of a detonator. The kind used with plastic explosives.’