Death on the Marais

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Rocco got Claude to drop him at the office, then went in search of Massin.

Word had gone ahead and the senior officer was waiting for him in the corridor. He waved Rocco to a room just down from his office and spun the blinds to blank out passing foot traffic.

‘You did good work,’ Massin began, taking a tour of the room. It was an impersonal space with a long table and a few chairs. A police radio loudspeaker extension was located at the end of the room. Massin walked over and switched it on, and a flow of voices interspersed with static filled the air. He returned to face Rocco and sat down at the table. ‘Nearly got yourself killed in the process, though. You enjoy living on the edge like that?’

‘No. It was the way it worked out.’

‘Pity you didn’t bring back any live ones.’ Massin tapped the table with a bony fingertip. ‘It would have been useful finding out who employed those men.’

Rocco wondered if Massin was playing at being obtuse or merely cautious. ‘Did you trace the car registration?’

‘Of course. That was easy. It was one of several stolen in the Paris region over the past five or six months. All Citroen DS, all official in appearance. It was probably kept in a lock-up until it was needed.’ He snapped his fingers, struggling for a phrase. ‘What’s the underworld description for such vehicles?’

‘Use, abuse and lose.’ It was also the term employed by crime squad members in Paris for cars used in armed robberies and bullion heists. The driver would be in a police uniform and the car plus the cap would be enough to fool the target long enough to gain access and carry out the job. After the job, the cars were dumped or torched, often both. He wasn’t surprised by the revelation, merely disappointed. It would have been useful to have a line going back to the owner.

‘Appropriate. You’ve spoken to the kidnap victim?’

Rocco nodded. ‘She didn’t see a face, though.’ He went quickly through his chat with Francine, but he could see that Massin wasn’t really listening. He wondered what was on the officer’s mind. He soon found out.

‘I tried to find out some of the information you requested,’ Massin said, and waved a finger pointedly at the ceiling and walls. ‘I got nowhere. In fact,’ he straightened his tie, ‘I was told in no uncertain terms to leave it alone. I may not care to be told that, as a professional policeman, but I have to recognise that there are certain… lines of questioning that it would be foolish for anyone to pursue without a clear and solid reason.’

‘But what if those lines are connected to a murder investigation and another one of attempted murder?’

‘You don’t know that for sure. Thinking it does not prove it. Surmising something is not enough — you know that.’

Rocco reined himself in. He’d virtually resigned himself to thinking that Massin would not have tried too hard to find out about Berbier’s past, not if it meant pushing his nose into official files. Yet by Massin’s elaborate finger signals just now, was he actually suggesting the room might be bugged? If so, this put things on an entirely different level. He answered equally enigmatically. ‘I understand. At the moment, I have lines of enquiry to follow, but nothing concrete.’

‘Pity.’ Massin looked disappointed, even pained. ‘Exactly what information do you have on the… subject in question?’

The radio had fallen silent while they were talking, and was now emitting a faint hiss of static. Rocco walked over to it and moved the dial until a renewed welter of chatter came back. He turned up the volume, then returned to sit next to Massin. It was time to put what information he had down on the table.

He spoke quickly. ‘I know Philippe Bayer-Berbier passed through the Poitiers area during the war sometime in 1944. He was on a re-supply trip, delivering essential funds and other material to Resistance groups in the region. He figures in the photo I mentioned — the one with the APP logo on the back.’

‘But not recognisably.’

‘Not in that one, no. But there is another, full face, taken at the same time. It’s definitely him.’

‘Go on.’

‘According to the photographer, Poudric, shortly after the photos were taken, the entire group was caught while holding a meeting one night. The meeting had been called by the SOE agent.’

‘The one you say was Berbier.’

‘Yes. The entire group was shipped to Natzweiler-Struthof. They never came out.’ He paused, then added, ‘Except for Didier Marthe and Philippe Berbier.’

Massin looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘If I read you right, that’s quite an allegation. You’re saying… what, exactly?’

‘Either Berbier and Marthe must have known what was going to happen and stayed away, or they managed to talk their way out. Since neither of them was ever seen in the area again, and I’ve never heard of the Germans doing deals, I’m leaning towards the former. They simply stayed away and moved on. It’s the only explanation.’

‘But why?’ Massin looked perplexed. ‘What would bring two men like this together? They had nothing in common except for the fight against the Germans. That alone might bring them into contact on the battlefield, but nothing more. Do you have an ounce of proof to back this up, such as a meeting or an exchange of correspondence?’

Rocco took a deep breath. The only proof he had was currently on the run, wounded, resentful and unlikely to give him the spit off his tongue, let alone information. He had a theory, but he was still working on it. Neither would be enough for Massin to take this any further forward.

Massin read his face. ‘I see. So what do you have?’

‘I’m waiting for a piece of information which I think will tie it all together.’ A domino effect, he wanted to add, but wasn’t sure Massin would believe him. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

Massin opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. He stood up and opened it to find Desmoulins standing there holding a piece of paper and trying to hold back a grin.

‘Note for Inspector Rocco, sir.’

Massin took the paper, closed the door again and handed it to Rocco without looking at it.

‘You must try not to use members of staff here as your own private detection unit,’ he said dryly. ‘Is that by any chance the information you’ve been waiting for?’

Rocco looked down at the piece of paper and saw two names. One dead, the other alive. He felt a kick of something low down in his stomach, but wasn’t sure whether it was elation or something less welcome.

‘It is. May I go?’

Massin nodded and waved a hand. ‘Do. But if this falls flat, I suggest you enlist in the Foreign Legion. They’re always looking for men with self-destructive tendencies.’

Back at the hospital, this time with Claude alongside him, Rocco stepped into Francine’s room and waited for her to sense his presence, as he knew she would. She turned her head, and he watched with a feeling of disappointment as the uncertainty grew on her face.

He motioned Claude to sit by the window. He’d already warned him to listen and remember, but to show no surprise, make no comment.

‘You again.’ Francine rolled carefully to face him, her face pale.

‘Me again.’ He drew up a chair and sat facing her. He took out the group photo that Poudric had taken and showed it to her. Allowed her to take it from his hand. To study it.

She said nothing as her eyes slid across the faces. There was no reaction, no sign of recognition.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t understand.’ She handed it back to him. Her voice was flat, unemotional, but a pulse was beating in her throat.

‘Really?’ Rocco crossed his legs and tapped the photo on his knee. ‘I think maybe you do. That you understand very well.’ She said nothing, so he continued. ‘The woman in this photo was called Elise. She was born in Poitiers in 1910, and lived in the Rue Colonel Magnon, at number 25. Her parents were Andre, a baker’s assistant, and Claudine, a laundry worker. Elise married once, but her husband was killed in an agricultural accident just before the outbreak of war. She reverted to using her maiden name.’

Still nothing.

‘She was helped by the local union of farm workers — an unofficial group who cared for their own. It was almost unknown here at the time, this kind of little collective. They were probably more politically and socially aware than most, although certainly with no pretensions of moving higher, but happy to be doing what they could. They looked after her, gave her work whenever they could and helped her find a home. Some called them communists.’ Rocco brushed some lint from his knee, keeping his voice level, almost casual. He wanted to see some reaction. ‘Then, when the war came, a few locals joined the Resistance movement: those with certain skills or equipment, who knew how to disrupt, to destroy. Not all with military training, not experts, but passionate enough to feel they had to do something. The people who had helped Elise did the same. But true to form, they had different objectives and formed their own group… an offshoot of what became known as the FTP — the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans. ’

Claude shifted in his chair but said nothing, leaning forward with interest.

‘For Elise, it must have been like repaying a debt, to join their ranks. To even be asked, that was something. What she didn’t know was that the group realised that a woman could, in many ways, be more useful in some situations than a man. A single woman was less suspect, could move more freely; they were less likely to be stopped by patrols, and if they were, could — especially a good-looking woman like Elise — talk their way through.’

Rocco stood up and walked across to the window. He felt her eyes on him all the way. Claude looked as if he was about to speak but Rocco gave a minute shake of his head. ‘One of her colleagues in this fledgling underground group was a man named Tomas Broute. Tomas took a shine to Elise… well, who can blame him? He wasn’t much of a catch: he was born a bastard, had nothing to offer and was quick-tempered and aggressive. Dangerous, even. It didn’t put him off, though. He used to hover around her all the time, hoping to catch her favours. He even began to treat her like his own… no doubt quick to warn others away, even placing a proprietary hand on her whenever the situation presented itself.’ He turned and flicked the photo onto the bed, just like he had done with Didier.

‘As he did there.’

She didn’t look down. Stared right back at him, her expression blank.

‘In summer 1944, the group was betrayed. The details are a little sketchy, but it seems they were picked up by the Germans one night during a meeting. They were sent to a place no sane person ever wanted to see: a concentration camp called Natzweiler-Struthof. The men, the woman — all of them.’ The clank of a trolley sounded from out in the corridor, and a door thumped, followed by the squeak of soles on tiles. ‘None was ever seen again. Until recently.’

Francine’s eyes had closed. And suddenly Rocco felt sorry for her; for the memories he was releasing, for the realisation that more was known than she could possibly have imagined ever would be. But he forged on. He had to.

‘The man named Tomas had a second name: Didier. His surname was Broute, after his mother. He probably didn’t care much for it — couldn’t do, anyway, because people would have remembered it too easily. You’re probably ahead of me here.’

No reaction.

‘It doesn’t matter. Unknown to anyone at the time — especially the other members of the group — Tomas had allowed his desire for Elise to get the better of him. Or maybe he’d just grown sick of the other members of the group because they wouldn’t allow him to do whatever he wanted — I’m sure he had the skills if not the lust to want to go out killing Germans whenever he could, but uncontrolled, that would have had serious consequences for the local community. Whatever his reasons, he decided to betray the others to the Germans. Only, in his twisted mind, he hadn’t quite allowed for the fact that the Germans would take everyone in the group, no matter who they were. The result was, Elise disappeared into the camp with everyone else. All except Tomas, who slipped away. And survived. He couldn’t risk keeping his surname of Broute, after his mother, because that would have been too easily recognised locally and someone might have put two and two together. He’d have been strung up as a collaborator. So he took his second name and the surname of the registrar on his birth certificate, and moved away from the Poitiers area and became someone else. He became Didier Marthe. And eventually, years later, he arrived in Poissons-les-Marais, where nobody knew him. Where he could start a new life.’

He leant forward and picked up the photo, tapping Francine on the shoulder with it until she opened her eyes and looked at him. He held it up for her to see, one finger on the thin man near the end of the group.

‘That’s Tomas Broute, as he was known then. Now miraculously alive and calling himself Didier Marthe.’ He moved his finger. ‘And that’s Elise, isn’t it?’

Francine stared up at him, a glint of something in her eye. Was it resentment? Anger? Or something like a muted appeal for help? He couldn’t tell.

‘I don’t know anyone called Elise,’ she said finally, her words a whisper.

‘Really?’ Rocco felt a flutter of irritation. Maybe she was tougher than he’d thought. ‘You should do. You shared the same surname.’

Her eyes flickered. ‘What?’

‘You’ve never forgiven the man who betrayed her, have you? Elise Thorin was your big sister.’