Death on the Marais

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Philippe Bayer-Berbier put down the telephone in his study and went to stand at the window, his brow creased in worry. He had just received a call from his contact in the Interior Ministry, informing him that Inspector Rocco had been signed in at a crime scene in Rouen the previous day. A retired war photographer had been murdered and Rocco’s card had been found on his desk, left from an earlier visit. Word had only just filtered through from the Rouen criminal investigations office that Rocco had returned at the request of a local detective, and had provided some background information on the dead man. So far, there was no information about why Rocco was interested in anyone in the Rouen district.

Berbier chewed his lip. The bloody man was what the English so eloquently called a bad penny, he reflected sourly: always turning up when and where he was least required. He tried to relax; the muscles in his shoulders were bunching with tension, something he had experienced more often just recently than he was accustomed to. Following his daughter’s untimely and messy death, which had been bad enough, and the investigation unrolled by Rocco, he had also learnt of the sudden disappearance to America of his daughter’s neighbour and friend. While that by itself might have been an entirely innocent coincidence, he had since ordered Nathalie’s flat to be cleared and cleansed as a precaution. He had no reason to think anything remained there which might be found by the police or — God forbid — the press, but it was a possible loose end. And loose ends were what had got him to this situation.

He breathed deeply, feeling his heartbeat gradually settle. Even if the young neighbour knew anything, had picked up some idle chatter from his daughter, it was unlikely she would be a problem all the way across the Atlantic. But he would still have rested easier being reassured that Rocco would not be able to get to her.

He wondered about the dead photographer. Ishmael Poudric, his contact had said. The name meant nothing to Berbier; names from that period were fading with the years, along with the faces. But the man’s former address during the war — Poitiers — had touched something deep inside him, awakening unwelcome echoes of the past and bringing back memories of dark nights, cold, wet weather and the ever present danger of discovery or betrayal. The more he thought about it the more he recalled seeing a man with a camera with one particular group of Resistance fighters. He himself had always instinctively avoided having his picture taken. But the others had been arrogant and stupid, encouraging the man to follow them. In the end it had made no difference: they had paid for their carelessness with their lives.

All except one.

Berbier winced at that, wondering how he could have been so utterly foolish, so naive as to have trusted his future to one man. Better he should have taken out his knife and dealt with the little ditch rat there and then. Instead, he’d tied himself to the treacherous cretin for life, an unholy alliance forged by his own greed.

He turned to his desk and looked at a sheet of paper containing a list of the police personnel in the Amiens prefecture. He’d had it sent over by his man in the Interior Ministry. It was a chance request prompted by an instinctive desire to know more about what and who he was dealing with.

Right at the top was a familiar name.

Francois Massin, district commissaire.

He picked up the telephone on his desk and toyed with the wire, studying the name and wondering. He and Massin had met once at the military academy, when Berbier was a visiting lecturer on intelligence and guerrilla tactics. He barely remembered the man, only that he had been thin, ascetic and lacking any sense of brotherhood, to most members an essential part of the officer corps. To Berbier’s mind, not having it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing: too much military thinking was tied up in mindless tradition, anyway. But what he did recall about Massin was first, his observance of the rule book, and second, that he had since received a stain on his record from his time in Indochina. More than anything, for someone who doubtless wanted to reach the top of his profession before it was too late, that made Massin malleable. And taking advantage of a man’s weaknesses was something Berbier understood only too well.

He read the prefecture telephone number off the sheet and was about to dial when there was a knock at the door. It was his driver.

‘What is it?’

‘An update from the Ministry, sir. The duty operator in Amiens says a woman has disappeared in Poissons-les-Marais. A local shopkeeper.’

‘So?’ Berbier’s mind was still on Massin, deciding what approach to take. Senior policemen could be arrogant and unpredictable, especially those with something to prove. He had little regard for the man, but he would still have to be careful not to overplay his hand.

His driver shuffled his feet and continued, ‘The investigator Rocco was present when the call came in and left the office the moment he heard. He seemed unusually concerned, they said.’

Berbier put down the phone, a ripple of tension fluttering through him. He would call Massin later. For now, this took precedence. He had arranged for an intercept of information passing through the Amiens office for this very possibility. If Rocco was on the move, he wanted to know about it. Why the inspector should be unduly concerned about a shopkeeper disappearing he couldn’t fathom, and nor should it matter. But anything related to Poissons-les-Marais or his daughter’s death had been flagged for his attention. And Rocco was undeniably part of that.

He made a quick decision. Things were coming to a head; he could feel it in his bones. ‘Get some men over there and find out what’s going on. You know who to look for.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The man nodded and left.

Berbier sat down behind his desk and steepled his hands in thought. There was still time, if he played it right, to derail Rocco’s further interference. He set about mentally composing his phone call to Massin.