Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When Rocco got to the office, he looked up the number of the Evreux police and asked to speak to the captain of the uniformed branch. In his experience, the uniforms had a more detailed knowledge of their towns than investigators, who usually went where they were pointed and did not have the same depth of local network.

‘Captain Franck Antain. May I help you?’ The voice sounded brisk and efficient.

Rocco introduced himself, and said, ‘I’m looking into some papers believed stolen from a resident of Evreux.’ He gave the captain the address. ‘Would you have any way of checking whether a Mr Devrye-Martin at that address goes under the name Stefan?’

‘It’s a local family, I know that much, Inspector,’ Antain replied. ‘I don’t know all their names, but I can find out. What’s the interest?’

Rocco decided to be cautious. ‘Some personal belongings were handed in yesterday, and the name was on a magazine.’

‘I’ll have to get back to you. I know of the family, enough to know they are somewhat reclusive, to be honest, and don’t encourage questions.’

‘What’s their background?’

‘Land, mostly, which is a lot, around here and further south, and several houses here in town that I know of. I’m not familiar with all their business, but they used to have connections in various manufacturing areas, although I think that’s all gone now. But they’re not exactly short of cash or properties, you know? It’s old money and they know how to keep it.’ He said the last with a light chuckle.

‘That’s fine, Captain. Whatever you can find out, I’d be grateful.’ He rang off before the captain could press him further, and went in search of Dr Rizzotti. He was in his office across the yard, as usual, immersed in a large medical treatise. He dropped the volume readily enough, and his verbal report on Drucker’s place was brief, as Rocco had feared.

‘Clean. Very clean. I’d hire him to do my place.’

‘But?’ Rocco felt slightly deflated. He’d been expecting something interesting, something he could get his teeth into.

‘I’ve taken samples from the bathroom and sent them with the empty cleaning fluid bottles to the laboratory in Lille.’

‘Samples?’

‘Scrapings from between the tiles and around the skirting board.’

Rocco felt his ears prickle. ‘Now why would you bother to do that?’

‘Because only my mother-in-law uses cleaner on that scale. But she’s a mental case, not a murderer. I can’t be certain, but you’re right in being suspicious about the bathroom. I’ve seen isolation rooms in clinics with more bacteria. If a special clean-up job was done, it can only have been for one reason.’

‘Blood?’

‘Most likely. Hopefully, if there is any in the samples, the laboratory will find it. Nobody’s that good at eradicating all traces entirely. Well, except my mother-in-law.’ He hesitated. ‘I took a look at that moped found on the Portier farm. Nothing to help, I’m afraid. The machine was old, no identifying marks, and the panniers and fishing equipment were standard, store-bought items. I could ask for a fingerprint search, but after being outside in a ditch, it’s likely there’s nothing left.’

Rocco thanked him and went back to the main office. He handed the slip of paper with the car registration number that Mme Denis had given him to a sergeant in the records office and asked him to check it out. Then he walked along to the café on the corner, a favoured spot where the local cops went to drink, gossip, complain and try to act normal. Mostly they didn’t quite pull it off.

There were several officers present, blue uniforms half camouflaged by a heavy fog of cigarette smoke. He nodded greetings and placed his order with the barman before finding a table in one corner where he could sit and think things over without being disturbed. The waiter placed a heavy cup and saucer of black coffee in front of him, then left him alone.

Rocco felt uneasy. He recognised the signs of a chase building, and wondered where it would lead. He usually found his tolerance for caffeine growing when he got into a case, and this was one of those times.

Running through what he had so far, he realised ruefully that it amounted to not very much. Someone, identity unknown, had gained access to the Clos du Lac and murdered an inmate, identity also unknown. A security guard, a serving naval cop assigned to the same establishment, had also been murdered at an unknown location, either to get him out of the way while the first murder took place, or because he’d been involved in setting it up and had been silenced because his services were no longer required. Gilles Drucker, the Clos du Lac’s director, a man apparently obsessive about his duties, had since disappeared, along with the office records and complement of patients, numbering five, identities also unknown. And now a trio of men from an obscure security department within the Interior Ministry had been through the place and closed it down.

Rocco felt he was lagging behind the race. Along with the unknowns, he so far hadn’t got a clue as to the who or why. With most murders, there was a selection of motives, and a few names of who would benefit from the killing. But all he’d got here was a vague suspicion or two. The most worrying part was that something about the events after the killings had been organised in a way that only someone with considerable clout could manage. Levignier and his men had been unexpectedly quick to arrive on the scene, and only a government department could have arranged for such an equally rapid and efficient removal of a body and the remaining patients. But proving it was another matter, especially when that government department had the means to remain well beyond the reach of anything Rocco could throw at them.

His immediate problem was how to prove or disprove ISD’s involvement. He could hardly ring Levignier and ask him; the man would simply put down the phone and make a complaint to someone high up in the Interior Ministry. The next question was what precisely was the purpose behind the whole Clos du Lac set-up? Something had to make it worthwhile, even if only to one person. Yet nothing was springing to mind from the paltry evidence he had so far.

He finished the coffee. With such limited amounts of information, Massin would stand firmly in his way if he suggested approaching the Ministry. The Clos du Lac was clearly an official facility, and any cooperation from that end would be unforthcoming. But he was damned if he was going to let go of it yet.

Drucker. The man was at the centre of all this, if only because he probably knew more than anyone else. He’d had the paperwork, he knew the details, he’d seen the people. And the letter confirming his salary increase wasn’t just because he dressed nicely.

He’d also called Levignier before attending the scene. A reflex action for a man with connections.

Back in the office, he found the sergeant waiting for him.

‘That registration number’s assigned to a fleet car in the Ministry,’ the sergeant told him. He didn’t need to say which ministry: in police parlance, there was only the one. ‘I asked who would have been driving it, but they as good as told me to get lost. The usual thing, I’m afraid. You want me to try again?’

Rocco shook his head. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. That’s good work.’ It would be a waste of time pursuing the matter. A large number of cars were used by various departments in the Interior Ministry, many of them on confidential business. Rocco had come up against their intransigence before when working in Clichy, after a vehicle had been towed away, leaving a hapless official or undercover officer stranded. The matter rarely got reported and never went anywhere.

He sat down at his desk, wondering how much of an interest Levignier and his men were going to take in his life. It was probably second nature to them, scooping up whatever information they could find. Without thinking, he dialled Drucker’s number. He realised his mistake and was about to drop the phone back on its hook when he noticed something odd.

Silence. No ring tone. Nothing.

He got onto the PTT, the Post and Telecommunications service, and asked them to check the number.

‘It’s been disconnected,’ the female operator told him.

‘But I was there yesterday,’ he told her. ‘I used the phone myself.’

‘Sorry, Inspector, that’s all I can tell you.’

Rocco asked to be put through to a supervisor, who told him the same thing.

‘I’m an inspector of police,’ Rocco told him calmly, ‘and I’m investigating a murder, and now,’ he added, ‘the sudden disappearance of this subscriber. Who authorised the disconnection?’

The supervisor sounded unimpressed, but agreed to check. He came back a few minutes later. ‘I’ve got the job card here, but it doesn’t tell me much. Just says to disconnect the line and withdraw the number.’ He sounded faintly puzzled, and Rocco could hear the rustling of paper in the background. Then, ‘That’s pretty unusual, though. Can you hold on a minute?’

Rocco waited, the line crackling with static, until the supervisor came back and said, ‘The order to withdraw the number originated from our Central Services Department in Neuilly. Beyond that, I can’t help you.’

‘Then give me the number in Neuilly.’ He knew the area slightly, a mix of residential and commercial buildings in north-west Paris, with a growing influx of new businesses and government offices. It wasn’t too far from his old base in Clichy.

The man gave him the number, but added, ‘It won’t do you any good, Inspector. I can tell you from experience that all instructions originating from Neuilly come under a government ordinance. Any details about the number are automatically marked as a closed file.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘The Neuilly office has a special function. It deals with all state subscribers and services, from the Élysée Palace on down. They even have their own team of engineers, all security checked and monitored. This disconnection order came from a government department, which means you’ll need an act of legislation or a senior judge to unlock it. Sorry.’

He put the phone down. Another dead end. That left Inès Dion. Without Drucker, she was the one remaining constant in all this. She had been in a relationship with Paulus, the dead security guard, and she was still a serving member of the naval establishment. Did she know more than she was letting on? Or did she know more than she realised, some snippet that might unlock what was going on here?

He checked his notebook and found where he’d made a note of the number of the Clos du Lac. She might still be there. He dialled and waited. And waited.

No reply.

He put down the phone and went in search of Alix. She was back at her desk in the basement, processing paper. He asked her if she had got Inès Dion’s address.

Without looking up, she said, ‘Setting up a date, Inspector?’ Then she glanced up and saw his expression. She apologised, flushing red. ‘Sorry. Yes, it’s here.’ She checked her notebook and read out the details. It was a street in Amiens.

‘Why do I recognise that?’

‘It’s a block of apartments and rooms attached to the military barracks, used by visiting personnel,’ she replied. ‘Inès told me she was allocated a room there while she was working at the sanitarium. Is there a problem?’

‘If there is, I’m already too late.’