Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER THREE

‘I’m sorry. Really. But you have to understand—’

‘What’s going on here?’

Rocco turned. A short, stocky man had entered the kitchen and bustled up to the table with an air of fussy self-importance. ‘This is a private facility and you should not be talking to my staff without authorisation.’ He emphasised this by shooting a hard look at Dion, as if she were at fault, his gaze lingering on the drink glasses. ‘Gilles Drucker. Director of this establishment.’

Rocco said nothing. He sipped the last of his coffee and counted to five. Then he stood up.

In any room, standing at two metres tall and dressed all in black, Rocco looked down on most people. To this man he must have appeared like a giant. With his impressive width of shoulders and short scrub of black hair, Rocco knew he was no baby face.

‘That’s good, Mr Drucker,’ he said, and watched as the man swallowed hard and moved back a step. Drucker was a dandy, wearing a smart suit and highly polished shoes, and a handkerchief poking out of his right jacket sleeve. And where his imperious manner clearly worked here most of the time, it looked like suffering a sudden failure. ‘Have you seen the reason I’m here?’

‘I … no. Not yet.’ Drucker flapped a hand. ‘Inès — uh, Dion told me about it.’

‘Good. Follow me.’ Rocco turned and walked away, but not without making sure that Drucker didn’t say anything to the nurse. He led the man at a fast pace through the main building and across to the pool, where Claude was tying off a makeshift string barrier to prevent anyone walking inside. Just before they entered the pool house, a car’s headlights swept across the entrance and a vehicle stopped in the car park area.

‘That must be Alix,’ said Claude.

Rocco said to Drucker, ‘Wait here.’ Then walked over to meet Alix as she stepped from the car.

‘What can I do to help?’ she said. She was wearing a freshly pressed uniform and looked surprisingly alert for the time of morning.

Rocco gave her directions to the kitchen. ‘A nurse named Inès Dion found a body in the pool. Sit with her, draw out anything you can. She’s been told to button it by the short-arse in the suit behind me, but before I get heavy, see what you can find out. In particular, I’d like to know where the security guard, André Paulus, beds down when he’s not here. I want to talk to him, find out where he’s been.’

Alix raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘So I get to talk to the nurse. Women’s work, is it?’

‘Actually, yes. Didn’t you know some of the best interrogators throughout history have been women? You’re not going to let the side down, are you?’

He nearly laughed at the tightening of her lips. No doubt she would get her own back soon enough.

He walked back to the pool entrance and led Drucker inside.

‘Stay between the string lines,’ he instructed him, ‘and don’t go too close to the edge. Tell me what you see.’

Drucker cleared his throat and took out his handkerchief as a line of perspiration sprang up across his forehead. He mopped his brow, then stepped forward as if walking across a minefield, and moved closer to the pool’s edge.

While waiting for Drucker to react, Rocco looked at Claude. ‘You never trained as a diver, I suppose?’

‘Me? Hell, no. Dry land is hard enough. Why?’

‘Because sooner or later we’re going to have to get someone to go in there and cut the body free of those chains.’

Claude nodded. ‘Couldn’t we drain the pool?’

‘No.’ Drucker had heard them. ‘It takes approximately seven hours to drain completely. The pipes are a very small bore. Besides, we would get complaints from the locals because it drains into the canal.’ He shrugged. ‘Fishermen don’t like the chemicals in the water.’

‘I know a man who’d go in there,’ Claude suggested. ‘He’d do it easy.’ He knew all manner of strange people, some with slightly shady backgrounds.

‘Friend of yours?’

‘Well, not a friend, exactly. Local lad. Got lungs like a porpoise. He can stay underwater after most people have passed out.’ He sniffed. ‘He’s good with locks, too.’

‘Get him in here but don’t tell him why.’

Claude nodded and disappeared to make a phone call.

‘Well?’ Rocco looked at Drucker. The director was standing by the pool trying not to look sick. He was flapping his handkerchief around as if attempting to dispel the aura of death, but Rocco sensed it was something of an act.

‘He’s one of our residents. I can’t believe this. Why would he do it?’

‘You think it was suicide?’ Rocco stared at him. The man was in denial.

‘I don’t know. I thought maybe …’ He flapped his hand again towards the water and up at the pulley.

‘He was murdered,’ Rocco said bluntly. ‘Somebody put him in that contraption and dropped him in the water with the milk churn chained to his legs. As it filled with water it pulled him down. No way back up from that. Odd item to have handy, though — a milk churn.’

‘There are two or three about the place,’ Drucker murmured vaguely. ‘They’re purely ornamental, left by the previous owners.’

‘So who is the dead man?’

‘We don’t have many residents, you understand,’ Drucker continued as if he hadn’t heard the question. ‘That’s why we don’t need many staff, especially at night. It’s a small facility, but effective. Too big and we wouldn’t be able to give each one the care they need.’

‘How many exactly?’

‘Five at the moment. Never more than six.’

‘How do they get here?’

‘They’re referred.’

‘By whom?’

Drucker shrugged. ‘By a specialist … or a doctor, often working with a magistrate or judge. The usual thing.’

‘What kind of specialist?’

‘I can’t tell you that. It would violate the terms of privacy.’

Rocco kept his calm. Sooner or later this man would run out of rules to hide behind. ‘All right. What about this particular patient? Who referred him?’

‘I still can’t tell you.’

‘Why not? He’s dead.’

‘If I tell you what kind of specialist, it would indicate the nature of the patient’s problem.’ Drucker looked affronted at the very idea. ‘That would be unethical.’

‘So would me throwing you in the pool alongside him with weights tied to your ankles,’ Rocco growled. ‘So don’t tempt me.’ He leant towards Drucker, and the director nearly toppled back into the pool. ‘I’m investigating a murder, not discussing ethics or your patients’ medical ailments. Now. Give. Me. A. Name.’

‘All right. Wait. Wait.’ Drucker took a small card from his pocket and scrabbled for a pen. He wrote down a number and a name, and gave the card to Rocco. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but that’s all I can give you.’ He slid past Rocco and headed for the door at a near trot.

Rocco glanced at the card. Drucker had written down a Paris telephone number and a name. Marcel Levignier.

‘Wait.’ Rocco turned. ‘Is this the dead man?’

Drucker stopped immediately, skidding slightly on the tiles. ‘No. It’s a number we call if there are problems,’ he muttered. ‘But that’s all I’m allowed to tell you. In any case, you won’t have to call Levignier; he’s already on his way. He’ll be an hour — perhaps a little longer.’

‘You called this in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Before coming here?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes. It’s standard operational procedure.’ He turned and scurried away, his back rigid.

Rocco watched him go. The man was behaving like a frightened rabbit. But a rabbit with a big and scary older brother.

Standard operational procedure. The words had an unmistakably official air. He wondered why he found that so sinister.