Death on the Marais

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Rocco skidded the Citroen into the marais at speed, the tyres throwing up dirt and gravel and sending up a mad scramble of birds from the trees as the engine blasted the silence apart. Alongside him, Claude closed his eyes and held on tight, muttering what might have been a prayer to the god of all travellers.

In spite of telling himself that Francine’s absence might be purely innocent, a part of Rocco’s brain was telling him that there was only one place where she might be — and not entirely of her own free will.

He felt the front wheels skating on soft earth as they approached the main lodge along the narrow track. With just a few centimetres of solid ground on either side, he had little room for error. But now was not the time for caution. If his fears were correct, everything depended on getting to the lodge as fast as possible. He felt the steering wheel twitch as the ground tried to suck in the front offside tyre, and a flurry of black mud sprayed into the air and plastered itself across the windscreen. He switched on the wipers but they merely smeared the mixture across the glass, rendering the ground ahead barely visible. Rocco thrust his head out of the window and watched the ground by the front wheel, conscious that at this speed, if he made a mistake and hit wet soil, they would plough right off the track and into the nearest stretch of unforgiving ooze.

Then they were into the turning circle in front of the lodge. Rocco stamped on the brakes, sending the heavy car into a sideways drift and spraying debris across the front of the building. They finally lurched to a stop within arm’s reach of the veranda.

He turned off the engine and leapt from the car. He was carrying the axe from Francine’s garage. The front door was locked and solid, as before, and he already knew by the feel that the axe would make little impression. He hurried round the side of the building, checking the shutters for weaknesses, signalling Claude to do the same the other way.

They met at the rear of the building.

A familiar blue crate of groceries lay spilt on the ground near the back door.

When Rocco last saw it in the co-op, it had been nearly full. But not now. A box of sugar lumps lay on the ground, with a line of ants helping themselves to the contents through a tear in the soft cardboard. Flies and wasps were feasting on a ripped bag of apples and a bunch of grapes, the fruit already turning soft and brown in the heat, and a carton of milk had ballooned and burst open. A furious army of smaller insects was taking full advantage of the bounty, a moving carpet of black dots in the spreading yellow film.

He prodded at the back door. It was shuttered, like the front, but seemed less solid. Taking a step back, he swung the axe, putting the full weight of his shoulders behind it, and felt the blade bite deep into the wood of the shutter. Glass burst and tinkled to the floor. He swung again immediately, aiming at where the lock should be, and felt the blade hit metal. Another swing and the shutter sagged in the middle. When he ripped the axe free again, one corner came away, bits of paint flaking off like confetti. A final blow and the shutter disintegrated, showering them both with wood splinters.

‘Shit,’ muttered Claude, impressed. ‘Next time I need some wood chopping, I’ll give you a call.’

Rocco kicked the door in and dropped the axe. He drew his pistol and cocked it.

‘You ready?’ he said. Claude nodded, eyes glittering with determination. He had produced his own automatic pistol and was holding it steady with both hands.

They stepped into a kitchen bright with daylight reflecting through the ruined door, off tiled walls above expensive work surfaces and a stainless steel sink. A large wood-burning cooker stood against one wall, with cupboards full of crockery, glasses and pans nearby. The floor was covered in heavy-duty matting of the kind Rocco had once seen in a private yacht club bar, and everything looked clean and untouched.

He stepped across the kitchen to a doorway leading to the main part of the lodge. A quick scan of the room and he went through, going down on one knee and sweeping the room with his pistol. Claude followed, moving to the other side of the doorway.

The room was a large single space, scattered with cane sofas and chairs, all liberally covered with soft cushions and throws. The polished hardwood floor was draped with expensive rugs, and a pair of large, elaborate oil lamps with fluted chimneys dominated the room. The walls below the windows were lined with cupboards.

‘Jesus,’ breathed Claude in admiration. ‘How the hell did they get all this stuff in without anyone seeing it?’

‘At night, probably,’ said Rocco. He pointed to an open stairway across the room. There was no light, and it looked dark. Too dark. He motioned Claude to stay where he was and moved back into the kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards. Seconds later he found a supply of candles and two torches that worked. He went back into the main room and tossed one to Claude.

‘I’ll go first,’ he said softly. ‘You stay down here in case anything happens.’

Claude’s eyes were huge in the reflected torchlight. ‘Like what?’

‘You’ll know, believe me. If anything does, get outside and wait — but make sure it’s not me before you start shooting.’

Claude nodded and moved across to the side of the stairway, where he merged into the gloom.

Rocco had done this before several times, moving into darkened rooms and up ill-lit stairways. The main threat was to the lead man. It never got any easier and nobody had ever been able to convince him that taking it slowly was any safer than going in at a mad rush with gritted teeth and a blood-curdling battle cry. He took a deep breath, checked that Claude was ready, then switched on the torch and charged ahead, legs propelling him up the open stairs.

He emerged into another large area like the one below, and swung the torch in an arc. There was absolute silence apart from his own breathing. His heart was thumping and he wondered what it would take to get him back to a peak of fitness. A short flight of stairs shouldn’t be this stressful. He breathed deeply and called down to Claude, who came up to join him, adding his light to the room.

At first glance, it resembled an open-plan office divided by low screens. The difference was, each space contained a low, single bed and cabinet, and a small oil lamp. Small rugs covered the wooden floor, and the beds were spread with thick duvets and heavy, plumped pillows. The air was scented with pine. Across the room, above the kitchen area, were two open doorways with reed curtains. Rocco checked and found they were toilets with showers and small hand basins. Bottles of liquid soap and hair products stood in steel racks, and at floor level, small cabinets opened to reveal thick bath towels and pre-packed slippers, toothbrushes, combs and toothpaste.

‘All mod cons,’ he said. Whoever had furnished this place had decided that the guests should not go without the basics.

‘You can say that again.’ Claude had opened one of the bedside cabinets. Inside was a selection of porn magazines, tubes of jelly and a basket of sex toys. The last time Rocco had seen such a display was when he helped bust a brothel masquerading as a private gaming club in Clichy.

Clearly, guests here did not mind sharing even their closest and most intimate leisure time with their colleagues. Maybe it was part of the attraction.

Back downstairs, they checked the cupboards built into the walls. One was a well-stocked drinks cabinet full of expensive spirits and liqueurs; another housed a top-of-the-range Danish Bang amp; Olufsen radio and sound system wired to speakers dotted strategically around the walls. Others held a large supply of books, records, board games and — to complete the collection — a film projector and an extensive library of pornographic movies.

Rocco tilted his head. ‘You hear that?’

‘Hear what?’

‘Precisely. You could slaughter a pig in here and nobody would hear a thing. The place is soundproofed. Just right for noisy parties. Doesn’t attract any attention if things get out of hand.’ As Rocco’s torch played across the cupboard, he caught a tiny glitter of colour at the base. An object was wedged in the gap between a rug on the floor and the framework. He bent down for a closer look.

It was a yellow-and-white earring in the shape of a marguerite.