Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

When Rocco arrived at the office next morning, he found René Desmoulins waiting for him with a knowing grin.

‘Some snoot from the Ministry was asking after you,’ he said. ‘He called twice, demanding to know when you were in. Have you been annoying them again?’

‘Only a little. Did he leave a name?’

‘No. I asked, but he got shy. He said he’d call back.’

‘How do you know he was from the Ministry, then?’

‘Because he sounded like he’d got a stick up his arse and refused to leave his name.’ Desmoulins smiled. ‘As my old maths teacher used to say, “QED”.’

Rocco nodded his thanks and went to his desk. There was a note to call Michel Santer. He dialled the number at the Clichy commissariat, and got put through.

‘You move in mysterious ways, don’t you?’ said Santer. ‘The Renault came up blank. We all know what that means.’

‘Official,’ said Rocco. Or criminal, although he doubted that.

‘That’s my boy.’

‘And the woman?’

‘Now that’s where it gets interesting. According to the records, the driver’s name is Jacqueline Roget. She’s the daughter of a career diplomat who’s served most of his time overseas. She works for the Interior Ministry, although I haven’t found out which section. I floated the name around and it seems she has various friends at Place Beauvau, but nobody special.’

The Interior Ministry. Like a bad penny, forever in the background. He shouldn’t have been surprised, given the way they operated; any and all means were permissible in the interests of the state, even, it seemed, using the seductive offspring of one of their own to spring a trap. Only it hadn’t quite worked in his case. As before, proving it would be next to impossible. He was willing to bet that one of the young woman’s ‘friends’ was Marcel Levignier.

‘There’s something else,’ Santer continued. ‘I think your Mademoiselle Roget is playing two sides of the same street.’

‘How so?’

‘I had a rare moment of inspiration, and ran the car number past a friend of mine who works on buildings security in and around the Quai d’Orsay. Her car has been logged in five times over the past two months at an annexe to the Pensions Ministry. He didn’t say it directly, you understand, but he gave me that squinty look.’

‘What?’

‘The look that says they have nothing to do with pensions. He sort of hinted they might be part of the DST.’

The DST (Directorate of Territorial Surveillance) was the domestic intelligence agency responsible for, among other things, counter-espionage and the protection of national technology and industry. ‘Is he sure?’

‘Well, she’s quite nice to look at, and he remembers faces. I know Bobo well — he’s good at that kind of stuff.’

Rocco thought it over. He wasn’t sure what it told him other than that Jacqueline Roget, she of the fragrant perfume and the broken heel, mixed with some very devious people. It was not impossible for people to work for both agencies, either on loan or semi-permanently. But which one had set her on him last night? He couldn’t believe the DST would have an interest, although nothing was beyond them. The ISD, perhaps?

‘You’re getting in deep again, Lucas,’ Santer warned him. He only called him Lucas when he was worried. ‘If they’re going to these lengths to do whatever it is they’re trying to do, they must have their reasons.’

‘Or they have something to hide.’

‘I don’t even like to think about that. Hiding things is their job. Is whatever you’re working on worth it? Can’t you simply enjoy the benefits of a quiet, rural existence and homely country girls?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Rocco replied. ‘Thanks for the help.’

‘I’m serious. If you were an important figure in the government or, say, the military, I’d say you had just missed being drawn into a honeytrap last night. Think yourself lucky, my friend: had you not had the resistance of a monk, not to say the romantic soul of a peasant, you could now be compromised … or worse.’

Rocco put the phone down and thought over what Santer had said. He didn’t think the DST or Levignier’s group would sink to the outright murder of a cop; but they would almost certainly try to put him off an investigation if it suited them.

His phone rang.

‘Inspector Rocco?’ The voice wasn’t one he recognised, but it carried the authoritative ring of someone accustomed to being heard. The caller Desmoulins had mentioned?

‘Yes.’

‘Why are you making enquiries about the Devrye-Martin family?’

The question threw him for a moment. Not about last night, then. He said, ‘Who’s asking?’

The man batted the question aside. ‘Let’s just say that it’s enough for you to know that I represent the Ministry of the Interior. I say again, why the interest in this family?’

‘None of your business,’ Rocco replied easily. He put the phone down and waited. He had no doubts that the call was indeed from the Ministry, but he wanted to see how long it would take the man to call back.

Two minutes went by before it rang again.

‘Is my name good enough for you?’ It was Levignier of the ISD. He sounded tense. ‘Speak to my colleague, Inspector Rocco, or face sanctions.’

Rocco thought about it. Pursuing an investigation wasn’t an offence, but disobeying Ministry orders was. He said, ‘What kind of sanctions?’

‘Let me see. How about suspension for obstruction and lack of cooperation to start with, along with unprofessional conduct? Then, since you will subsequently become a civilian, criminal prosecution for interference in official matters that do not concern you. Does that sound enough?’ There was a thump as the handset hit a desk. Moments later another voice came on. It was the first man again.

‘Let me repeat my question, Inspector. Why the interest in this family?’

Rocco thought about it. If they were asking this, they knew he’d made enquiries about the family, and therefore Stefan specifically. So why were they being coy about mentioning his name? Still, it meant an alarm had been tripped somewhere along the line between him speaking to the policeman in Evreux, and the request being put to the local newspaper. Someone somewhere had been tipped off.

Captain Antain in Evreux hadn’t been exaggerating: the Devrye-Martin family had influence, and they had evidently used it.

‘The name appeared on some property recovered from the Clos du Lac,’ he answered neutrally. ‘I was following a lead in relation to the killing of André Paulus, the security guard at the sanitarium. Levignier knows about it. Ask him.’

‘One moment.’ There was a hollow sound as the phone was covered, during which Rocco could hear only a murmur in the background. Then the man came back. ‘There is no connection, Inspector Rocco. I think you are wasting your time.’

‘You can’t know that. Nobody can.’

The man ignored him. ‘The Paulus death must have been due to an unrelated matter, outside the sanitarium. I think we can all imagine what that might have been. You should concentrate your energies on pursuing that avenue. If you cannot find a solution, the case should be abandoned until more evidence is forthcoming. I’m sure you must have other important duties to attend to.’

The line went dead. Rocco put the phone down. The message was clear.

He’d been warned off.