Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Rocco drove home to Poissons, thinking about this new development. Shootings like the one he’d just seen were rare among the middle classes. Occasional crimes of passion led to violence or even death, but never the death of both husband and wife. And somehow he had a feeling that the Farek thing was a separate issue. Close, perhaps, with Nicole having bought a car from the murdered men, but not connected.

No, somewhere along the road of his life, and Debussy the lawyer had implied volumes without putting anything into words, Michel Gondrand had cheated and lied and stolen… and someone had finally hit back.

But who?

Rocco stopped at the village co-op to collect a few groceries and a box of clean laundry. The new owner, Mme Drolet, turned as the bell sounded above the door. She fluttered her eyelashes at him and patted her hair, which was coiled and glistening like spun sugar.

‘Good thing you didn’t want any cakes, Inspector,’ she said, as if he was in the habit of eating a bucketful every day. ‘I just sold the last three.’ She smiled meaningfully, lifting one carefully drawn eyebrow. Rocco thought he recognised it as the look of a woman seeking to share in a secret without actually asking. But whatever it might have been was totally lost on him. He grunted and paid the bill. Maybe she was being flirtatious. Or maybe it was her way of trying to forge friendships among a clientele still suspicious after the previous owner, a young woman, had been imprisoned for murder, and the attempted murder of a local man — a scavenger of wartime ammunition and an exposed Resistance traitor. It was Rocco who’d been responsible for her arrest and the tracking down of the traitorous Marthe, so he knew a thing or two about being an outsider. The inhabitants of Poissons still hadn’t made up their minds about having a cop — a cop from Paris of all places — living in their midst, and apart from a few outward-looking souls, he was still treated with the caution of someone who might be carrying a nasty disease.

When he arrived home, he killed the engine and sat there for a few moments, enjoying the quiet. It was a welcome change after the day’s events, and he marvelled at how he had grown to relish life here out of the bustling city which he’d once thought was his life.

He got out of the car and picked up the laundry and box of provisions, and walked to the front door, juggling the packages to get his key.

The door was already open.

Rocco stepped to one side, dropping the bag of laundry and placing his provisions on the ground. He took out his MAB 38 and checked the safety.

The door shouldn’t be open. Mme Denis was the only person with a spare key, but she would never go inside without his permission. When she left eggs or vegetables, it was always on the front doorstep.

He listened for sounds of movement, but could hear nothing. He checked over his shoulder towards the lane. He would have noticed any strange cars parked out there, but it was possible anyone showing an undue interest in his home could have circumnavigated the village and approached over the fields.

He moved along the side of the house, stepping carefully on the soft ground rather than the stony path. An inviting front door was too easy a trap to walk into.

As he reached the rear corner of the house and peered round, he heard a click and a dark figure stepped out of the french windows into the back garden.

Rocco stepped wide of the corner, feet apart and holding his pistol in a two-handed grip. His heart was thumping and he automatically glanced to one side as another figure appeared, this time from behind a cherry tree in the middle of the lawn. This figure was very small.

A child?

‘What the hell-?’

The figure behind the house swung round with a shout of alarm, and the child called out and ran across the lawn, crying, ‘ Maman!’

With a supreme effort of will, Rocco relaxed his finger on the trigger and lowered his arm, recognition flooding in as he saw Nicole’s face turned towards him. She looked pale with shock, her mouth open as she reached out a protective arm towards her son.

‘It’s OK… it’s me,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s Lucas.’ He thrust the gun into his coat pocket, thanking the stars that he hadn’t decided to shoot first and worry about consequences later. But it didn’t lessen the anger in his voice when he said, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Nicole, stepping away towards the house. ‘I’m so sorry — I came to find you, and your neighbour let me in. She said you would not object.’ She gathered her son towards her and looked as if she were about to flee. Rocco realised that his reaction had frightened her. ‘No. Please… it’s OK, you can stay.’ He held up both hands. ‘You took me by surprise, that’s all.’ When she showed no signs of relaxing, he nodded towards the french window. ‘Let’s get inside. It’s too cold out here.’

He led them indoors, where the wood burner was pumping out heat and a pleasant smell of something spicy was filling the air. It was the most comfortable atmosphere he’d experienced since coming here.

‘You’ve been busy,’ he said. Plates had been set out on the table, with glasses of water and hunks of crusty bread. ‘I hope you don’t mind. It was the least I could do. I had to see you… and I couldn’t stay in Amiens.’ She made sure Massi wasn’t in earshot and added sombrely, ‘Farek is coming. Sooner or later he will find me.’

‘I know.’ Rocco looked around, wondering how to discuss the subject without alarming the boy. They were, after all, discussing his father. He noticed a neat cardboard box on the table tied with coloured string.

Nicole saw him looking and blushed. ‘Oh, that was a small gift for descending on you like this.’ She tugged the string and the box opened to reveal three fruit tartelettes nestling inside. ‘And I bought some chicken, too. Your village shop is marvellous.’ She nodded towards a casserole bubbling on the wood burner. ‘Your lovely neighbour let us in and gave me some vegetables. She seemed suspicious at first but I think she only has your welfare in mind.’

‘I think you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘And I appreciate your efforts. I’ve got some wine to go with that somewhere.’ He looked at Massi, who was eyeing the cakes with big, round eyes. ‘Maybe we can talk afterwards.’

‘Yes, of course. Would you like to eat now? I’m sure we’re all hungry.’

Rocco found a bottle of vin de pays and poured two glasses. They ate in awkward silence, Rocco acutely aware that the place was a bachelor’s mess and wondering where this was leading. He was also conscious that sitting here enjoying an excellent casserole and a glass of wine with an attractive woman was in danger of being overshadowed by events gathering like a dark cloud in the corner of the room. Samir Farek would not stop until he had found his wife, and it was only a matter of time before he picked up her trail. Criminals, even more than the police, were adept at building networks of informers and contacts. Sooner or later, one of them would come forward with the information the Algerian gang boss was looking for.

He wondered how Caspar was doing and thought it a bad sign that he hadn’t yet heard from the former undercover cop. Maybe he’d asked too much of him.