Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER TEN

The grotto to St Paul lay at the top of a narrow track which wormed its way out of the square and up a hill overlooking the village of Poissons-les-Marais. Dominated by a statue of the Virgin and flanked by a trio of angels, the grotto — a man-made cave containing a stone bench, a plaque to the saint and two small apertures for votive candles — had once stood proud against the skyline. But over the years it had been allowed to merge into the trees and bushes surrounding it. Some villagers had suggested that to cut it back would transgress some unknown canonical law, no doubt punishable by a thunderbolt on the most important establishment in the village — the bar-tabac. Now, embraced by nature, it carried a presence more sinister than reverential, more covert than welcoming, and few people ever came here save a few kids from the village to smoke illicit cigarettes and indulge in inexpert fumblings which usually led nowhere interesting.

Rocco liked the spot, which he’d discovered on his first tour of the village after being posted here. He thought the angels looked like bodyguards, with their wings half-folded but ready for action, their eyes staring out all-seeing at the world around them as if ready to vet passers-by for any potential threat. He came up here on occasion when he needed some thinking time away from the telephone and the demands of duty. Not every case could be solved by action, nor could it be analysed by staring at sheets of paper or reading criminal profile studies by eminent and usually long-dead psychologists with Germanic names.

Like the case of the floater in the canal. Two days on and there had been no reports of anyone missing, no calls from factories in the area saying an employee had failed to report for work, and no hints from the local underworld of a ‘hit’. If anyone knew anything, they were keeping their heads down. It was now down to solid police work to see if they could find anyone with information that had not been disclosed to the authorities.

The area outside the grotto was flat, overlooking the village like a viewing platform. From here he could just see his house, and the rooftops of the farms along the street. To his left was the church and the square and, just visible, a corner of the co-op’s front window. Beyond the village stood a line of poplars, tall and pointed, a marker boundary for the marais — the marshland — with its collection of lakes and streams and patches of bog which were reputed to be capable of swallowing a man whole.

Rocco didn’t doubt it; he’d seen them at close quarters. Beyond the poplars, open countryside embraced the station and the local British military cemetery, before rolling away several kilometres into the distance, the early morning air crystal clear.

He stamped his feet and blew on his hands. As peaceful as this place was, it was cold and raw, exposed to the winds now that the foliage had gone. He wished he’d brought gloves and thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat, uttering a groan, part pleasure, part pain. He’d endure it for a few more minutes, then get off to Amiens. He was merely putting off the inevitable, trying to dredge for ideas which might save him the trip.

It took a few moments for him to realise that he was not alone.

He turned and saw a young woman sitting inside the grotto. She was watching him with her hands braced on the bench and her feet tucked under her as if ready for flight. He hadn’t even glanced in the cave, accustomed to it being empty. She looked to be in her late twenties, and was dressed in a dark-blue coat and black shoes, with a plain, dark scarf covering her head. A curl of glossy, raven-black hair peeped out from the scarf, matching her eyes which were dark and bright and carried a familiar expression. He’d seen it often enough in others to recognise it immediately: she was frightened of him.

He nodded, remaining where he was and wondering instinctively how she had got here. He hadn’t seen any strange vehicles on the road leading to the grotto. But then, he hadn’t been looking. She might have walked up or made her way here through the outskirts of the village. She certainly wasn’t from Poissons — he’d have remembered. And Mme Denis, the old romantic, would have mentioned her before now. Either that, or she would have conspired to make introductions if this woman was on the local ‘availables’ list.

‘Nice day,’ he said finally, and felt idiotic. Nice day? His voice seemed to break the spell. The woman relaxed slightly, lifting one slim hand to sweep back the curl of wayward hair. She wore rings, he noticed, and a thick bangle around her wrist. They looked expensive, as did the clothing. Definitely not from around here, then. Amiens, perhaps.

‘It’s beautiful here,’ she said. Her voice was soft, cultured. Yet he detected a nervousness in her throat as if she were unused to speaking.

He glanced around as if seeing the place for the first time. ‘It’s my favourite spot. I come here to think, away from the bustling metropolis you see below you.’

She smiled her appreciation of the humour. Her teeth were very white and even, and he realised for the first time that she had coffee-coloured skin. Whatever her initial fears had been, she seemed to be overcoming them. ‘Are they serious thoughts?’ she asked. ‘Is that why you come?’

He felt his ears go red. ‘Hell, no. I’m too shallow for serious. I leave that to others.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true. Do you work here?’

‘No. In Amiens — an even bigger bustling metropolis. Are you visiting or just passing through?’ She seemed too exotic for this place, he decided, as if she had dropped out of nowhere. ‘Lucas Rocco, by the way,’ he added, stepping closer and putting out his hand.

‘I’m passing through,’ she confirmed. There was a slight hesitation before she took his hand, but her grip was firm and cool. ‘My name’s Nicole. I saw the hill and decided to come up for a look — and to think, also. It’s peaceful up here. Out of the way. I can see why you like it.’

‘It’s a pity you chose a busy day to come, though. Usually, there’s nobody around.’ He almost asked what she had to think about, but decided not to. Instead, he turned and surveyed the village, not wanting to crowd her. She hadn’t given her surname, but that was sensible enough; you could meet all manner of freaks in dark clothing standing near a deserted and windswept grotto. Thinking of dark, he saw movement down in the square and recognised the village priest bustling along, his black soutane flapping around his legs like the drooping wings of a wounded crow. He’d still not had the dubious pleasure of making the man of God’s acquaintance, and the priest, thankfully, had not made any overtures his way in a bid to add a new member to his flock. Rocco was relieved: he didn’t do churches unless a crime had been committed in one. Indo-China had long ago caused him to lose faith in the power of God, but even so, rebuffing a priest was not something he would have enjoyed.

He sensed the woman moving to join him, her footsteps swishing in the grass. With her came a soft hint of perfume. Something lemony, delicate.

‘You come from around here?’ he asked.

‘No. I’ve lived away… overseas. My grandmother was born near here, though. I wanted to see the area where she lived.’

‘Ah.’ Rocco didn’t have any family to speak of. Tracing or wondering about his roots was not a feeling he could share.

Down in the village, a silver-grey car nosed into the square, the light glinting off the bonnet. Although distant, it looked big. He thought it might be a Mercedes. Couldn’t quite tell from here. Nice car if it was. Unusual in these parts; probably one of the bigger farmers passing through, or maybe a factory owner from near Amiens took a back road and lost his way.

The woman gave a faint intake of breath. Rocco looked round. She was staring down at the square, mouth open and one hand clutching the front of her coat. This close, he could see how smooth her skin was. But beneath her eyes were deep shadows covered by a thin layer of make-up, and a faint tic of nerves was pulsing in her throat. Whatever the reason for her earlier expression of fear, there was now another one, also familiar. It was one of trauma, of troubles buried deep for the sake of appearances. But the look was always there if you knew what to look for.

She caught him studying her and smiled brightly, reaching up to touch her jaw. ‘Sorry — it’s cold here. My teeth react badly.’

He turned back to watch the car, distracted by the unusual in this backwater village. It crawled in slow motion across the square, then went out of sight before reappearing by the co-op. It stopped, facing back the way it had come. A man climbed out and disappeared from view, walking towards the shop door.

‘What do you do here?’ she asked casually. Her voice moved away as she stepped back towards the cave and the pathway out of the grotto.

Rocco hesitated for a moment before replying, eyes still on the car. ‘I’m a cop,’ he said, and wondered if it might scare her off, knowing what he did. It was usually a conversation-stopper, anyway, but not one he deliberately avoided. ‘What’s your story?’

There was no answer.

When he looked round, the woman was gone.