Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Back in Amiens, Rocco rang Sous-Brigadier Godard and thanked him for the use of his men.

‘My pleasure,’ Godard assured him. ‘Always happy to have an excuse for a training exercise. And my men don’t much like Ministry gorillas so it made their day. Will there be any comeback?’

‘I doubt it. If there is, blame me.’

He put down the phone just as Rizzotti appeared at the door. The doctor looked tired, but pleased with himself.

‘Milk,’ he said without preamble, and handed Rocco a lab report. ‘Heavy on the cream, apparently. Dangerous, too much of it.’

Rocco stared at him, his thoughts clicking slowly into place. Lab reports? Then he had it: of course, Drucker’s house. The powerful smell of bleach.

‘So it wasn’t blood?’

‘Not a trace. The lab technician decided to check the empty bleach bottles first and noticed the smell of sour milk. He rang me before he started testing, just to show off. He was correct: cow’s milk, crusted around the base, probably where — Drucker, was it? — had placed one of the bottles on the floor while cleaning up.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d have used neat bleach, too, had it been me. The smell of stale milk never goes away — especially in summer.’

‘Thank you. That’s good work.’

Rizzotti fluttered his eyebrows. ‘Well, we try to please.’ He turned and walked away, whistling happily.

Rocco sat down and stared at the report. So Drucker was still alive.

It was early evening by the time Rocco left the station. He’d written up a report on what Stefan had told him and Desmoulins, and left it on Massin’s desk. Even he could see that much of it was supposition and would be open to demolition by those involved: a secretive government-backed safe house hiding two damaged embassy personnel, a faked dead man — no, two faked dead men, one of them a high-profile gangster, the other running from a sex scandal — and a Ministry spy who’d threatened to blow the lid off high-level official wrongdoings in international trade negotiations? It was surely the stuff of fiction, and he could already hear the arguments. He couldn’t see himself getting much headway out of the gangster’s presence at Clos du Lac, or even the injured and traumatised embassy personnel. Both would be dismissed as being there in the interests of the state and of justice. But Stefan’s presence and the death of Rotenbourg would certainly cause severe ripples in the Interior Ministry, especially if he could prove that ISD personnel were involved. And if Stefan was prepared to make a statement, it would add considerable weight to the argument.

He’d rung Michel Santer with the name Delombre, and asked if his security contact, Bobo, could find out anything about the man.

‘What am I?’ Santer had muttered, ‘your private investigator? This is going to cost me, you know.’ But he’d murmured the man’s name as he scribbled a note. ‘OK, Delombre. I’ll see what I can get.’

‘He’s probably ISD,’ said Rocco, ‘so be careful.’

‘Thanks, Rocco. Now you tell me. Anyway, I’m always careful; you’re the one with the death wish. I’ll call you as soon as I can.’

Rocco hoped he was quick. He’d managed to stay out of Massin’s way while compiling his report. But he knew it wouldn’t be long before the commissaire might bow to official pressure from on high and pull him off the investigation. The only way to prevent that was by presenting him with a solid collection of evidence that couldn’t be ignored or swept under the carpet by Levignier or whoever was controlling him.

Thoughts about the sanitarium made him decide to swing by the Clos du Lac. Seeing the place once more might prompt some useful ideas. As he’d found in the past, revisiting the scene of a crime, even long afterwards, sometimes acted as a kind of conduit to clarity of mind. And right now he needed all the clarity he could get.

There were three cars in the car park this time. A good sign. As Rocco climbed out of the Citroën, he noticed a figure standing in a covered gap between the main building and the pool house, watching him. It was a man, dressed in a dark suit.

Rocco nodded but got no response. The man turned and walked out of sight.

Rocco went into the lobby and tried the door. It was locked, but through the glass panel he saw an imposing figure approaching across the foyer.

‘Yes, sir?’ A man stood blocking the entrance. He was almost as tall as Rocco but wider, and dressed in a dark suit, with short-cropped hair and signs of a fading tan.

Rocco recognised professional security personnel when he saw them, and wondered if the man and his colleague were more of Levignier’s attack dogs.

He decided to keep his approach formal, and held out his card. If this was the way they wanted to play it, he’d go along with it. But only so far. ‘I’m looking for Miss Dion. Police Inspector Rocco.’

The man glanced at the card without much interest. ‘She’s busy.’

Rocco sighed. ‘I’m sure she is. But she will see me.’

The man was adamant. ‘She won’t. You’ll have to make an appointment.’

He began closing the door when footsteps sounded on the tiled floor behind him.

‘That’s all right, Jean-Pierre,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

It was Inès Dion.

Jean-Pierre stepped aside, but didn’t move far. He turned and glared at Rocco, his hands crossed in front of him. It was a stance meant to intimidate, showing off the width of his shoulders and the bulge of a weapon beneath his jacket. It wasn’t subtle or even professional, but to anyone other than Rocco, it would have been effective.

Rocco ignored him and looked at Inès. She looked surprisingly fresh, with a focused look about her that had been absent the last time he saw her. She wasn’t exactly smiling, however.

‘You’re looking well,’ he said.

‘I received new orders,’ she said without blinking. ‘Shape up or lose my job. I decided that falling apart wasn’t going to bring André back, as much as I would like it, so I decided I might as well carry on.’

‘So this place isn’t closing?’

‘Evidently not. In fact, we’re expecting two new arrivals today. Private paying customers.’ She stole a glance at her watch. ‘The first of a handful, I think.’ She gave a brittle smile. ‘The Clos du Lac is still open for business.’

‘Private or government?’ He nodded at Jean-Pierre. ‘Why the gorilla with the gun?’

She shrugged. ‘The rules are the same: we aren’t told who the patients are, and we don’t ask. There are private clinics in Switzerland operating in exactly the same way with expert security. Rich people demand the best.’

The response came across as practised, almost automatic, and he wondered if she wasn’t just using the rule book to hold herself together. Looking closely, he could see the strain in her eyes still, like a dark shadow lurking in the depths. He’d known plenty of cops who’d looked the same; on the brink of cracking up after a particularly stressful time, they’d sought safety in ritual, in the rules. It was easier that way. He’d probably done it himself, too, after Indochina, and must have been a pain in the neck to those who knew him. People like Emilie, his wife, for instance. Now ex-wife. She’d stuck it for as long as she could, even after he’d joined the police. Finally, with a comment about exchanging one set of dangers for another, she’d left. It happened.

‘What happened to Drucker?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard. I think he’s been moved on.’ The hum of a car engine approached along the road and her eyes flicked past him.

‘Because of what happened here? That’s harsh.’ But typical of some government departments, Rocco thought. Especially those with secrets to hide. Clear out the dead wood, paper over the cracks and start all over again.

Inès turned as the crunch of tyres on gravel heralded the arrival of a vehicle. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I think the first of our new patients is here. You’ll have to excuse me.’

Inspector, he noted. Not Lucas.

‘Late in the day, isn’t it, to move medical cases?’

‘I don’t dictate times or dates.’

He turned as a Citroën DS ambulance swept into the car park. It had a simple blue cross on the bonnet and ruched curtains along the side windows. Two men up front, no expressions. Businesslike.

‘I must ask you to stay back,’ Inès said, with no trace of apology. ‘We are expected to be discreet, I’m afraid. Part of the rules.’ Then she stepped past him and walked across to the ambulance as the attendant and driver climbed out and went to the rear door. Inès spoke to them briefly, indicating the front entrance.

Rocco watched as a stretcher was slid out from the back and the driver snapped the wheels into place. A blanket was covering a shapeless form, held secure on the stretcher by two straps. He couldn’t tell whether it was male or female. Just for good measure, the attendant had drawn a lightweight veil across the patient’s head.

Inès turned and stared at him. It seemed to be a signal for Jean-Pierre, who moved across and stood in front of Rocco, close enough to share his body odour and partially blocking Rocco’s view of the car and patient. Rocco resisted the temptation to drop the big man where he stood. It was time for him to leave. He walked to his car and got in. When he looked back, Inès and the two attendants had disappeared inside with the stretcher, leaving Jean-Pierre by the front door, watching him.

Rocco felt his hackles rising.

This wasn’t over.