Death on the Marais

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Back at the house, Rocco called Michel Santer to see if his former boss had any news of Pheron et Fils.

‘I’ve been trying to reach you,’ Santer muttered sourly. ‘Where the hell have you been? Dallying with some buxom farm girl, I bet.’

Rocco felt his cheeks heat up at the memory of a few minutes ago. ‘No such luck. What have you got?’ He could do with something to distract him from his clumsiness.

‘Your replacement finally came back with some information on that costume hire place. Christ, but he’s a plodder. As much wit as my big toe and half the personality. Anyway, he says they hire out costumes to theatre and film companies, and just occasionally, to a few private clients for parties and balls, that sort of thing. For private, read posh. All pretty much above board, by the look of it.’

‘Who hired the uniform?’

‘That’s where he came unstuck, although to be honest, he couldn’t really do much about it. They refused to tell him who hired the Gestapo uniform, said he’d have to get an order from a magistrate to make the records available. Told him to get lost.’

‘On what grounds?’ Rocco felt his blood pressure rise. He should have gone to see Pheron himself and wrung the details out of them.

‘They said their products were hired by people who would not approve of their names being released. He didn’t have the authority to push it, so I told him to leave it and get back here.’

‘Tell him thank you, anyway. Would it bother you if I spoke to them?’ In spite of the warning from the Ministry man, Rocco felt impatient to get on with it rather than put in an official request for a magistrate’s order and wait days for it to be granted.

There was a grim tone to Santer’s voice. ‘I wish I could say help yourself, my son, but I can’t. I just had a call from on high. Orders are to leave well alone. It seems Pheron et Fils weren’t just blowing hot air; they’ve got friends in high places and aren’t slow to call on them when they need to.’

Rocco swore silently, then thanked Santer for his help. Next he rang Massin. He was reluctant to involve the senior officer again, but he needed to call on a higher level of authority. Without it, he was stumped. He told Massin what Santer had found about the costumiers.

‘And you want me to intercede and unblock it?’ Massin sounded less than thrilled, and Rocco wondered if the commissaire was losing his taste for this investigation the closer it got to Paris and the seat of power. He wouldn’t be the first officer to baulk at stepping on the toes of the high and the mighty for fear of losing future promotion prospects.

‘It’s the only solid lead we have.’ Rocco decided to remind him of the facts. ‘Nathalie Berbier was wearing a costume hired from Pheron et Fils for a party I believe was held at a secluded lodge in Poissons. So far we haven’t come even close to finding out who organised it, who owns the lodge or who — apart from Berbier herself — was even present. It’s like wrestling smoke — and Bayer-Berbier didn’t make things any easier by claiming the body.’ Nor, he wanted to add, did the magistrate who signed the papers, nor the unknown senior official who just put the block on Pheron et Fils being approached again. He also wanted to relay to Massin what Rizzotti had said to him about the barbiturate levels being ill-founded, but decided to hold off on that for a while. If it became unavoidable, he’d let it out and Rizzotti would have to take his chances.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Massin said finally, adding carefully, ‘but you should be aware of how this might be viewed in official circles.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You are not, shall I say, unknown for clashing with authority.’

‘That’s diff-’

‘And, as investigating officer on this case, already dismayed at being transferred to an unknown rural patch from your post in Paris, you were further annoyed by the dead body being claimed before you could complete your findings. You skirted round formal channels and clashed with Berbier, suspecting — not unreasonably, perhaps — that there was something being concealed about this young woman’s unfortunate demise.’ Massin paused. ‘Am I wrong?’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘But you can see how it might look to other eyes.’

Rocco sighed. Massin was right. It would look like a pissed-off inspector throwing his dummy from the pram at being dumped out in the sticks and imagining all manner of conspiracies. End of career, probably, helped along by Berbier and his buddies from the Interior Ministry.

‘Does this mean you’re dropping it?’

‘Inspector Rocco.’ Massin sounded suddenly cool. ‘I would appreciate it if you did not insult my integrity.’ The connection went dead.

Rocco ate a solitary lunch of a cheese sandwich, wishing he was sharing it with Francine, and mulled over what Massin had said. He still wasn’t sure what game the senior officer was playing, and was half-expecting to find himself being pulled in by a squad from the Ministry and consigned to obscurity and a job counting kepis. Whatever was going on in the background, he still had a job to do and could not allow himself to be derailed from his investigation.

He finished his lunch and called Claude. He needed the man’s local knowledge.

‘Tree stumps,’ he said shortly. ‘How do they get rid of them round here?’

‘They dig them out, mostly,’ Claude replied. ‘The impatient ones dump petrol on them and let them burn out, but most just use muscle and do it the hard way, digging down through the roots or dragging them out with horses or a tractor. Why? You thinking of going into the land clearance business?’

‘Not me. How about the really impatient ones. What do they do?’

Claude hesitated. ‘You mean explosives, don’t you?’

‘Jesus.’ Rocco felt his spirits flag. Maybe Didier hadn’t been lying after all.

‘There’s the odd one uses dynamite,’ Claude confirmed with reluctance. ‘Put a stick under the root bowl and retire to a safe distance. Bam — problem solved.’

‘Where would they get it?’

‘There are one or two quarries in the region. Could be from them — I doubt their records are as reliable as they should be. Apart from that, I wouldn’t know. Who are you asking about?’

Rocco explained about his conversation with Didier. ‘If he did have plastic at his place, it does away with my theory that someone was trying to kill him.’

Claude made a soft noise over the line. ‘He’s lying. Think about it: that miserable cretin can lay his hand on more explosive material than the national armoury. Why would he need to risk buying dynamite from a dodgy source? Furthermore, he’s never blown any stumps out because he doesn’t need to clear the land. Only farmers do that.’

‘You sure?’

‘Positive. Any explosion on his land would be heard around the village — just like the one that blew off his hand. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you.’

Rocco had been suckered. Didier had taken advantage of him being new to the village to spin him a story, probably on the basis that, to a city cop, it sounded perfectly reasonable and not worth checking further.

‘What did he say about the photo?’ asked Claude.

‘That’s the odd thing. I don’t think he’d ever seen it before.’

‘Really? It was on the board in his house.’

‘I know. If he’s telling the truth, then someone else put it there — possibly the same person who tried to kill him. Unsettle him first by reminding him of the past… then bam.’

‘Christ, this is getting complicated. What next?’

‘We check and recheck our facts. Can you meet me down at the Blue Pool in twenty minutes? There’s something I want to look at.’

He went out to the car and saw Mme Denis on the other side of the hedge, hoeing her garden. She waved at him.

‘You seem very busy, Inspector,’ she said genially. ‘This place hasn’t seen such drama in years.’

‘Sorry about that,’ he replied. ‘I’ll try to get it under control as quickly as possible.’

She shrugged fatalistically. ‘Good luck with that. I’ve lived here long enough to know everyone and everything, and do you know what, Inspector? There are always surprises. Always.’

He nodded at this touch of philosophy and got in the car, then drove down to the marais. The village was quiet. He eyed the co-op as he passed through the square, but the windows reflected blankly back at him.

Parking on the turning circle near the big lodge, he put on his new boots. There was no sign of Claude yet, but that was fine: he wanted time by himself to think things through. As he made his way through the undergrowth to the Blue Pool, he felt clumsy in the unaccustomed footwear, but at least it kept out the water soaking the ground underfoot.

He circled the pool several paces back from the edge, studying the various directions of approach from the marais. It quickly became obvious that there were few options available, either because of impenetrable bushes or stretches of soft ground oozing with dangerous-looking mud. Even a heavy plank of wood, no doubt having once been used to negotiate a stretch of soft ground, was being absorbed gradually under its own weight.

He moved closer to the pool, narrowing down the most likely direction, then went round to the opposite side and knelt down, running his eye over the long grass on the far side to see if there were any telltale signs from this perspective. He could just about make out a dark, zigzag pattern showing through the undergrowth where someone had walked or run, but it was too close to where he and Claude had stood on their first visit to be certain.

A car engine disturbed the silence. He recognised the urgent whine of a 2CV, followed by the tinny slamming of a door. Moments later came the tramp of footsteps and Claude appeared.

Rocco bent back to his task. Then he felt a jolt. A clump of earth had been torn away from the edge of the pool on the far side, like a bite from a pie crust. It was too distinctive to be mistaken, but had he been on the other side, where Claude was now standing, it would have been hidden by the overhanging grass. He stood up and walked round until he reached the spot, beckoning Claude to come closer. He needed another set of eyes to witness this. The grass here was flattened, and when he bent over to examine the edge of the pool, he felt the familiar thrill of the hunter finding a clue.

‘See what you read from this.’ He stood aside to allow Claude to examine the spot, and ran his eyes over the surrounding area of undergrowth. He could almost picture the scene like a shot from a movie.

Nathalie Berbier must have run through the grass from the direction of the lodges, her path just about visible from the bent and broken stems. Too heavy and coarse to adjust themselves easily, they had browned and gone dry, leaving a faint but discernible trail. Unaware of the danger in her path, she had run straight towards the pool. Propelled by whatever forces were driving her, she had been unable to stop herself in time, and had plunged over the edge. The water soaking into her uniform and whatever drink or substances had been in her system would have done the rest.

‘Did she fall or was she pushed?’ murmured Claude, reading the situation.

‘I think she fell. If she was pushed, there would be signs of a struggle.’

He bent down alongside Claude and peered over the edge. As he had seen before, the sides were clear white with a blue tinge, curving gently like the inside of a giant cereal bowl, the surface smooth and unbroken all the way down to the dark funnel in the centre. He reached below the surface and dug his fingertips into the side, feeling a shiver worm its way down his back as they sank without resistance into the soft texture. There was no chance of anyone pulling themselves out with this stuff, especially a woman weighed down by wet clothing. He pulled out his hand and rubbed his fingers together.

Chalk. Soft and slimy. He wiped his hands on the grass and remembered the white substance on the dead woman’s shoes and what he’d taken as scuff marks on her uniform.

‘How did you arrive at this?’ Claude sounded faintly sceptical, but Rocco could tell he agreed with the scenario. ‘You had one quick look days ago.’

‘Random signs, that’s all.’ He explained about the fresh water in Nathalie Berbier’s lungs and stomach and the chalk marks on her shoes. ‘This is the only place where fresh water gathers. Anywhere else and her lungs and clothing would have been full of silt.’

‘Like the lakes.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I see. But how did the killer get her out without leaving more signs? She’d have been very heavy.’

Rocco led him to the other side of the pool to where he’d seen the discarded plank of wood. He had no proof of what he was thinking, but it seemed a logical explanation. ‘I once saw a river cop use a ladder to get a drunk out of the Seine. No way he could have lifted him, so he used leverage instead. The killer would have slid this under the body, then dragged her along the plank until he could lift her clear.’ He peered along the roughened wood and plucked a thread of dark cloth from the grain along one edge. ‘There. Minimal traces left behind and just possible for a strong man to do.’

‘Or two.’

Rocco shook his head. He’d discounted that possibility, although with no rational explanation other than simple gut feel. ‘Two men would have left more traces: heavier treads, more difficult to conceal. This was one man being very careful.’

‘So why take her to the cemetery? He could have dumped her in one of the lakes or buried her in the marsh. She’d have been gone for good.’

‘Because burying a body would have taken time. He might have been seen. And bodies have a nasty habit of reappearing. Dumping it elsewhere also took the connection away from the marais.’

‘And the lodges.’

‘And the lodges.’ He turned and looked in the direction of the big lodge, hidden by the trees.

‘Doesn’t seem right, does it?’ breathed Claude, as they walked back to their cars. ‘Not in this place.’

‘It never does,’ Rocco said calmly. It was always the seemingly innocuous which carried the greatest threat. He’d learnt that very quickly in Indochina, a country of beauty and innocence masking horrible dangers. Only this time it wasn’t some exotic and harmless-looking jungle clearing hiding unseen traps: sharpened stakes tipped with excreta to infect anyone who stepped on them. This was the equivalent to home territory, greenery just like that familiar from his boyhood. There were no poisonous dangers lurking here other than the occasional rabbit snare, no mines waiting for a careless footfall, no trained killers waiting in the greenery with AK47s set on rapid fire.

Just a clear, blue pond where nobody dared swim.