Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘I’m overworked and underpaid as usual, since I’m sure you’ll get round to asking eventually.’ Captain Michel Santer picked up a portion of bread and tore off a length of crust. ‘But my wife quite likes me this week and my dog thinks I’m his real father, so what can I complain about?’

He and Rocco were in a small family-owned restaurant near the Guy Môquet métro. It was just far enough away from the Clichy Commissariat, and in an establishment guaranteed not to attract any of his police colleagues. Not that he or Rocco had anything to hide; but he knew enough about the way his friend worked to judge that discretion was often the safest bet.

‘Job-wise,’ he continued, chewing the bread, ‘things are going to hell, though. There’s not enough budget, courts are logjammed, which makes bringing cases take forever; we’re facing another influx of workers from the south, not all of them interested in real work; and we’ve had two kidnaps, three bank jobs and a number of gang-related killings all in the last ten days. I tell you, the world’s going insane. Why can’t people withdraw money from the banks in the usual way?’ He grinned at the old cop joke. ‘How about you — still enjoying lousy roads, empty fields and the smell of cows on heat?’

‘Compared with what you’ve just described, I’d rather have what I’ve got, thanks. And as far as I know, cows don’t go on heat. Who’s been kidnapped?’

‘Oh, some junior diplomat outside an apartment near Rue Legendre. Not his own place, incidentally, but belonging to a young woman who is most definitely not his wife but the niece of a senior army officer with strong Catholic morals. Daft bugger.’

Rocco grinned. ‘The officer or the diplomat?’

‘Both. The other kidnap was an industrialist’s wife taken along Avenue de Friedland. Both lifted off the street in broad daylight, no reliable witnesses, no descriptions, smooth as butter. The Ministry are pointing the finger at a gang of Sicilians with a known modus operandi: lift someone high-profile, send back a body part along with something the family will recognise to show it’s serious, then wait for offers.’

‘Sounds extreme. Does it work?’

‘Christ, yes. You’d be surprised how much is paid without argument on the strength of a gift-wrapped finger in a dinky little Galeries Lafayette box.’

Rocco had seen similar tactics before. In France, crimes with a sense of style somehow appealed to a certain section of the population. Outrageous bravado, a hint of carnival or théâtre, suitably laced with a snub to authority, usually did the trick and earned the criminals a degree of sympathy. But it only lasted so long before their excesses began to take over.

‘We had the first two a couple of months back,’ Santer continued. ‘They both turned up alive and kicking in a warehouse out near Roissy — minus a finger each. Of course, we get the blame for not catching the kidnappers or preventing it in the first place, but some people just set themselves up for it.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘The press, of course, have given the gang a name: Les Lafayettes — which is going to do nothing to stop or help catch them.’ He shook his head. ‘They’ll end up having songs sung about them, you watch. Are you going to tell me what you’re up to? Not planning on knocking off Monsieur le President, are you?’ He chuckled and reached for another piece of bread. He was referring to Rocco’s earlier investigation into an assassination attempt on President de Gaulle, which had come close to finding Rocco himself embroiled in the affair and accused of taking bribes.

Rocco poured them both some water. ‘I’m looking for information on a man named Ardois, possible first name Simon. He was between forty-five and fifty-five, probably worked for the government in some capacity.’

‘You make that sound like the past tense, as in deceased.’

‘He got himself killed.’ Rocco described the man’s death in the therapy pool, and the likelihood that the name Ardois might be false. ‘I’m stumbling in the dark on this and not likely to get any help from official sources.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because the place he was at is a government sanitarium. Very few patients, or whatever they call them, which is why I think he was a state employee.’

‘I’ve heard about those places. Not for us lowly drones, though, are they? I hear they’ve got a couple near Bordeaux. Think of all that peace and quiet … and St Emilion. God, it’s not fair.’ He shook his head sadly and sipped some water, then pulled a face and signalled for the waiter to bring the menu. ‘So, in short, you thought I might be able to use my many contacts to do your work for you, is that it?’ He gave Rocco an arch look. ‘You think I carry a crystal ball in my pocket?’

‘I figured that if anybody in the whole of Paris would know who to ask, it had to be you.’

‘Flattery is the subversive tool of the idle seducer.’

‘Very profound. Who said that?’

‘I did.’ Santer looked pleased with himself and mildly surprised. He scanned the menu briefly, then closed it with a snap and said, ‘I don’t know why I’m looking at this — I know what I want: ragoût de sanglier with spinach. And I’ll have some of that Merlot you keep at the back.’ At the waiter’s lift of an eyebrow, he added, ‘Yes, I know it’s a little light to go with the boar, but my friend is paying and I feel like being unconventional today.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Oh, and a slice of that Mimolette cheese. Haven’t had it in a while and since it hails from up north, not far from where my friend works, I might as well show support for the poor disadvantaged region. I’m also watching my weight.’

The waiter looked at Rocco, who signalled that he would have the same, and departed in a flourish.

‘Where do they get their balls, these people?’ Santer murmured, staring after him. ‘I swear, if de Gaulle himself walked in here and ordered the same, that idiot would show the same disdain.’ He shook his head. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes. How important is this man … Ardois, was it?’

‘Yes. There are two people dead already and another one’s missing, probably also dead. I’m trying to find out who killed them. Unfortunately, ISD have other ideas.’

‘That bunch of hooligans? Christ, stay away from them. They’re not nice.’

‘You know them?’

‘Only what I’ve heard, which isn’t good.’ Santer sat back. ‘I knew a couple of undercover cops once who stumbled on a case of corruption in the customs service. Stuff was coming into the country that should have been stopped, with big payments of cash changing hands in sports bags late at night making sure that certain officials would look the other way. They followed the trail and claimed it went all the way up to the headquarters building here in Montreuil. Then ISD horned in on the case and pulled rank. The two investigators objected to being frozen out just as they were zeroing in on their man, but it did no good.’

‘What happened?’

‘They got posted to some backwater patch — a bit like you only not so interesting. It turned out ISD were working on a connected case … or so they claimed, and theirs took precedence over the cops’. After that it went very hush-hush. Personally, I wouldn’t want to get on their bad side. They play rough and don’t much care who knows it. However, if they get away with it, it means the Minister must like their style and they get results which makes him look good.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ On impulse, he said, ‘There’s another name you could try: Rotenbourg. Same first name.’ He explained about Stefan’s slip of the tongue.

Santer scribbled both names on a piece of paper and stood up. ‘With names like this, he could have come from Alsace or somewhere along the borders. I don’t know anyone over that way, though. Give me two minutes and I’ll get someone on checking the files here in Paris. It might take a while.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s a start. He might have had some connection to Paris, even if only for work or residency purposes. But don’t spend too much time on it and tell your man not to stick his head above the ramparts.’

‘Never fear, he won’t.’ He looked across at a waiter hovering by the kitchen door. ‘Tell him to get that wine over here. I won’t be long.’

Rocco smiled and beckoned the waiter over. ‘Will do.’

They were just enjoying coffee when the waiter approached and said there was a telephone call for Santer. The captain jumped up and went to take it, and came back after two minutes with a folded paper napkin which he dropped alongside Rocco’s plate.

‘My man had to ring a couple of people, but he found no male with the name of Ardois fitting your description and age range. But he did find a Rotenbourg, first name Pascal. He lives down in the fourteenth arrondissement near Montrouge. Nothing special about him, though.’

‘How did he find the name?’

‘From the incident records. Rotenbourg’s car was broken into and vandalised seven months ago, and reported to the local station for insurance purposes. Nothing of note since.’

Montrouge. Rocco knew the area vaguely. He looked at the napkin on which Santer had scribbled the man’s name, followed by an address and telephone number. It was worth a visit, if only to discount the possibility that another family member might have been sequestered in a state-run institution guarded by a military guard.