Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Rocco picked up one of the photography magazines and leafed idly through the pages. Being reminded of Stefan had set him thinking about what the man might know … and where he might be now. In some state-sanctioned hideaway, no doubt, courtesy of his family’s influence. He tossed the magazine aside, frustrated by the tangle that was opening up before him. He had no illusions about the workings of government departments. To most of them, the furtherance and protection of the state underlined everything they did. But he also knew that every barrel held at least one rotten human apple who saw nothing wrong in misusing the power of the state machinery, whether in some perverse interpretation of their duty to the country or for their own criminal or career ends.

The magazine had landed on the edge of his out tray, and had balanced in such a way that the pages began to flick over in slow motion. He watched it, wondering where to direct his attentions next. Stefan or …

The pages stopped turning. Settled back and lay still. The uppermost photo was a startling picture of sand dunes in the early morning, the black and white showing the contrast been shadow and light, smooth sand and ragged peaks. A sidebar gave the technical details of the snapshot, from the camera and film used, down to the settings, lens size and the time of day taken.

And something written in hand along the inside margin.

He reached forward and tugged the magazine towards him. The writing was faint, in pencil, and hard up against the crease in the spine. Not so much hidden but tucked away where it would not be easily noticed. He turned the magazine sideways and worked his way through the scrawl, letter by letter.

He sat up. Glanced at the map on the wall. He knew Pontoise. It was a commune in the Val d’Oise, on the north-western outreaches of Paris. Small enough to be ignored and nudging close enough to its capital neighbour to hide within its shadow. He’d been there a few times following suspects on the run from Clichy. The town was a short car ride or train journey from the capital to make it a first stop for desperadoes who didn’t quite fancy their chances out in the countryside. Other than the criminals he’d chased down, he remembered the place for its contrasts of an elaborate and historic cathedral and the gloomy narrowness of some of the backstreets where he’d been forced to trawl for runaways.

But why would Stefan have written such an address in one of his magazines? He checked the front cover again. Recent enough to make his nerves tingle.

He pulled the phone towards him, intending to ask the front desk to get the number for the Pontoise police, then thought better of it. If the note in the magazine meant what he thought it did, talking to the local police could be a mistake. Not that he suspected them of anything underhand; but if any word that had been put out to watch out for anyone seeking information on the occupants of the house in Rue des Noces carried official clout, they would have no option but to report it.

The problem was, treading on a neighbouring district’s toes could provoke a lot of questions over jurisdictional discourtesies. And Massin would hate that.

Tough decision. He picked up his car keys and looked across the room to where Desmoulins was scratching out an arrest record. He looked bored and restless. Rocco waited until the detective’s sixth sense pricked him into looking up, then nodded towards the car park at the back and waved his keys.

Desmoulins dropped what he was doing and reached for his gun and jacket.

‘I need someone to watch my back,’ Rocco explained, when they met up outside. ‘But this is slightly outside our area,’ he warned him.

‘Slightly?’

‘Well, a lot.’

‘Fine by me,’ said Desmoulins happily. ‘That paperwork’s driving me insane. I’d much rather be out there doing something constructive. Who are we going to shoot?’

They climbed in Rocco’s car and he briefed the detective as he drove.

Number 12 bis had a ratty-looking door adjacent to a butcher’s shop not far from the town’s railway station. Rue des Noces was a misnomer, Rocco decided, looking at the depressed state of the buildings and the general air of gloom caused by the dark brickwork and lack of colour. If any weddings had taken place here recently, they had got off to a poor start.

He drove past the house and turned into a side street out of sight. Parking his car outside would have been like sending up a signal flare; if Stefan Devrye-Martin was inside, as he was hoping, he doubted the man would be keen on receiving visitors.

They climbed out and walked back to the corner. The street was quiet save for a couple of old ladies in traditional black, shuffling along clutching shopping bags.

‘There’s an alley two doors along,’ Rocco said quietly. ‘I’ll take the front door, you see if there’s an exit at the back. And watch yourself.’

‘Got you.’ Desmoulins sloped away, hugging the buildings on the same side of the street as number 12 bis, hands in his pockets and trying to look as if he belonged. Rocco gave him a few seconds start to get into place, then followed.

He arrived at the door. Close to it showed peeling paint and a filthy pane of frosted glass behind an ornate metal grill. Dark-blue metal shutters covered the downstairs and upstairs windows, and the brickwork was in need of some attention. He counted to ten, then knocked firmly and waited. Seconds later he heard the scuff of footsteps approaching.

‘Who is it?’ The voice was wary, but familiar. It was Stefan.

‘Simon,’ said Rocco. ‘Simon Ardois.’

‘What?’ The door flew open. Stefan stood there, mouth open, dressed in a sloppy jumper and stained slacks, with a pair of ancient leather slippers on his feet. A cigarette hung from his lower lip, held in place by a line of dry nicotine-stained saliva. The jumper was riding high on one side, revealing an expanse of belly covered in hairs and a red rash. Rocco didn’t like to think what the cause of that might be.

Stefan did a double take on seeing Rocco and tried to slam the door against him. He would have found it easier to stem an incoming tide. Rocco jammed one foot against the door and put his hand against the man’s chest, gently but firmly propelling him backwards into the hallway. It was like pushing a giant, sweaty marshmallow, and far less pleasant. He made a mental note to wash his hands afterwards.

Stefan’s legs pumped rapidly as he tried to keep his balance. He bounced off the wall behind him, his torso wobbling, and blinked in shock. The cigarette detached itself from his lip and dropped to the linoleum-covered floor. His mouth moved in protest but only a squeak came out. Rocco kept up the momentum, steering him past a flight of uncarpeted stairs piled with boxes, into a long, narrow front-to-back room untidy with clothing, dirty plates and mismatched furniture, all layered in dust. A small kitchen ran off to an extended part of the building. It was as squalid as the rest of the place, and the feel of grease hung heavy in the atmosphere.

He pushed Stefan towards a sofa strewn with an array of photographic equipment — lenses, tripod, bags and a camera — and forced him to sit. Then he went to the rear of the room and peered through the window. A tiny yard strewn with rubbish ended barely three metres away in a high wall and a gate, opening, he guessed, onto a passage for access.

‘You’re not an easy man to find,’ said Rocco. ‘Are you shy or just trying to hide something? Like the fact that you’re supposed to be dead.’ He returned and stood in front of the sofa, preventing Stefan from getting to his feet.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Stefan rubbed his chest where Rocco had pushed him. His mouth was slack with shock. ‘What are you talking about? You can’t do this to me — you’ve no right.’

‘Why not?’ Rocco walked round the room, studying the contents. The place was what some might charitably call minimalist, meaning sparsely furnished, with the sofa, a couple of chairs and a table bearing a battered typewriter and a box of envelopes. He flicked through them. They were blank. ‘Because your family says so?’

‘Huh?’

‘You heard.’ He turned and faced Stefan. ‘You think you’re untouchable because your family has influence, don’t you? You’d better get wise. You’re not untouchable and you’re not as invisible as you might think.’ He leant forward. ‘What, for example, would the good citizens of Evreux say if they knew you were not only alive and breathing, but back on French soil? You think they’d be understanding, just because your family has friends in high places? I wouldn’t bet too much money on family connections if I were you; I’ve got a feeling you might be on the verge of becoming an expendable commodity.’

‘You’re not making sense.’ Stefan struggled to get up but Rocco prodded him with a finger until he subsided again. ‘This is illegal, what you’re doing!’

‘You’re probably right. But not as illegal as what you’ve been up to.’ Rocco leant over and picked up the camera from the sofa. It was a Nikon, and looked very expensive. A long cardboard box lay alongside it. He opened the end flap. The box contained a telephoto lens of the kind he’d seen used by photojournalists in Indochina, and more often by horse racing enthusiasts. ‘Nice piece of equipment. Expensive. What do you use it for?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘You think?’ He dropped the lens back in the box, eliciting a squeak of protest from Stefan. ‘I’m not making judgements; I’d just like to know, that’s all. Why — what’s the secret? Or is there something you don’t want me to know?’ He tipped up a hard-backed chair to shake off a pile of magazines and sat down opposite Stefan. He looked at him with a faint smile and counted to twenty. Silence was always a great way to loosen tongues, he’d found, especially with the guilty. ‘Come on, Stefan. There’s no need for us not to be friends, is there? Help me out here.’

‘Why should I? We have nothing to talk about.’

‘Really? See, you haven’t even asked what I want. That’s a bit of a giveaway in my profession.’

Stefan merely looked sulky. He shrugged. ‘All right. So I like taking photos. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Photos?’

‘Landscapes. Pastoral stuff.’ His lower lip was trembling and he was breathing rapidly. Rocco wasn’t sure what the man’s normal colour might be, but he didn’t look healthy. He hoped he wasn’t about to have a heart attack on him.

‘Don’t get excited. I’m not really interested in your decadent little hobbies, Stefan. I’ll leave that to others.’ It was a lie, but he felt no guilt about it. If he could find anything on this man, he would. But for now Stefan appeared to be protected from any further action.

‘What do you want, then? Why are you here — and why pretend to be Simon Ardois?’

‘Because it was quieter than the alternative.’

‘Huh?’

‘Kicking down your front door. Now, let’s stop messing about. I want to hear everything you can tell me about the Clos du Lac and the people in it.’