Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

‘Empty as in never used,’ Patrice told them as they approached the front door. He looked disappointed at the lack of action and nodded at Rocco, adding, ‘There’s some stuff in the back room, but it could have been left by a vagrant passing through.’

He led them through the front of the house, which was bare of furnishings, the ancient plaster walls showing the wooden lathes beneath in large patches where damp had wreaked its worst over the years, and into a rear space which had once doubled as a kitchen and workroom, with a shallow stone sink in one corner and an old knife grinder beneath a broken window.

‘Christ, I haven’t seen one of those in years,’ said Godard. He pushed the stone wheel, but it was jammed solid.

In the corner away from the sink lay an old army greatcoat and a filthy towel. Alongside was a battered spirit stove. A metal mug with chips out of the enamel had a layer of black covering the base and sides.

Rocco bent and sniffed at the spirit stove. He’d used one like it in the army for a while. The familiar tang of spirit made his nose twitch and brought back memories of long waits for anything to heat up, usually battered by wind and rain. The mug had a dark residue in the bottom which could have been coffee. The greatcoat was filthy. He checked the pockets. A crumpled cigarette packet. Empty.

He toured the room. Damp had penetrated the floorboards and eaten into the walls, and black spots of mould were scattered across the ceiling. There was no electric wiring, but a stub of a candle on the windowsill had grown a white fuzz, like a rabbit’s tail. The sink had harvested a layer of leaves and twigs, as had the floor, no doubt blown in through the window.

He turned back to study the greatcoat.

‘What’s up?’ asked Godard, reading his expression.

‘It’s too neat. The greatcoat hasn’t got any mould on it and the spirit hasn’t evaporated.’ He tried to think what it reminded him of and immediately got it: it was like a museum exhibit he’d seen in Paris once, dedicated to the war in the trenches in 1918. It was just stuff left lying around, genuine enough but not real. ‘No vagrant would leave the coat, even at this time of year. And the stove would bring a few francs if he was desperate.’

Godard nodded, pursing his lips. ‘But why — and how come there’s no signs of entry along the track?’

Rocco shrugged. ‘It was a distraction, to keep us occupied. Checking this place out thoroughly would take a couple of days if we got a full team in here. As to how, one man could have carried this stuff across the fields without leaving a trace. We’ll probably find the same set pieces in the other two locations.’

Godard nodded. ‘I’ll get in touch with my men. You want them to go straight in?’

‘Yes. But tell them to be careful. This could just be a feint.’

‘I’ll do that.’ He turned and left, ushering his other men with him, leaving Desmoulins with Rocco in the kitchen.

‘Are you sure about this?’ said Desmoulins. ‘I don’t mean you’re wrong, but why would anyone risk doing this? If it’s not the kidnappers being really clever, how did the intelligence section get the information in the first place?’

Rocco shook his head. He didn’t answer. But he didn’t much like the ideas that were forming in his mind.

By the time they returned to Amiens, calls had come in from Godard’s observers in the other two locations at Roye and Neufchâtel. Both were isolated properties outside the towns, and had been under surveillance without any sightings of vehicles or potential kidnappers. Both had offered good potential as hideouts for the kidnappers and their victim.

Both were empty save for some telltale items.

‘Same results,’ Godard reported. ‘A few bits and pieces to suggest a bolt-hole, but nothing elaborate. It’s the sort of crap you can pick up at any flea market for a few francs, mostly ex-military.’ He scratched his head. ‘Whoever did this didn’t have much imagination, though. I mean, why bother if it wasn’t going to fool us for longer than two minutes?’

Rocco had been going over the possibilities, and had come to one conclusion. ‘It was both a delaying tactic and a distraction. They knew we’d have to wait before going in, while keeping the houses under observation. They also figured we’d spend even more time going over the stuff we found with a magnifying glass looking for clues, because that’s what we do. Both options take men and time.’

‘Distracting us from what, though?’

‘From getting too close, maybe?’ Desmoulins threw in, but without looking convinced. ‘If so, I wish the kidnappers would let us know for sure how close. That poor woman must be going out of her mind.’

‘If she’s still alive,’ said Godard, with feeling. He, like all experienced cops, knew that after a certain amount of time, things did not look good for kidnap victims. He looked at Rocco. ‘I need to debrief the men. What do we do about a report?’

‘Leave it to me. I need to think about it. Are the three sites secure?’

‘Yes. All locked up tight. Give me a shout if you need us again.’

Rocco signalled for Desmoulins to follow him, and walked into the main office, which was temporarily empty as the search teams sorted themselves out, some signing off, others returning to their normal duties.

‘I think you were right both times,’ he told the detective quietly. ‘We are getting too close. But this stays between us until we figure it out.’

Desmoulins nodded. ‘Of course. But if that’s the case and we’re close to finding her, shouldn’t we call in the big guns, let the Ministry know?’

Rocco hesitated. He still wasn’t sure, but the thoughts he’d had earlier wouldn’t leave him alone. The main problem was, if his suspicions were correct, he’d have to prove it before speaking out. But to do that, he’d be taking one hell of a risk with somebody’s life.

‘Where’s that bulletin you had earlier? It might help if we knew who was behind the kidnapping.’

Desmoulins pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over, saying, ‘It was thought to be Sicilians at first. Then someone suggested it could be a group opposed to trade deals with the Chinese Republic — that’s the lot in Taiwan, not their bigger cousins. Bessine’s currently in talks with their government on the supply of fighter jets and other airplanes.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I’m no student of international politics, but it doesn’t sound much like any Sicilians I’ve ever met.’

China.

Rocco scanned the bulletin quickly. He couldn’t see any connection, either. He wondered if the suspected kidnap group was affiliated to either side, since each would have their own reasons for ensuring a disruption of talks over the supply of warplanes. He sat down, trying to organise his thoughts. Pascal Rotenbourg had mentioned the Chinese, based on his brother Simon’s fears of high-level collusion to influence trade talks; Stefan Devrye-Martin had mentioned them, too, also based on claims voiced by Simon. And Simon had claimed that ‘extreme methods’ were going to be exerted on a senior industry figure to force him to change the direction of his negotiations.

Could it be possible, he wondered, that ‘extreme methods’ could include kidnapping an industrialist’s wife?

‘There’s a big sticking point,’ he said finally. ‘What if telling the Ministry could be signing the victim’s death warrant?’

‘Eh?’ Desmoulins stared. ‘What — you mean … No!’

‘You asked the question yourself: how did the intelligence section come up with the information on these locations in the first place?’

‘Yes, I know, but I was just sounding off …’ He stopped. ‘Jesus, that’s crazy. But why would they do that? Surely they must have known somebody might figure it out.’

‘Human nature,’ he replied. ‘You give a bunch of cops the most obvious but most ludicrous suggestion for a guilty party, and they’ll spend days running round in circles trying to find an alternative, simply because they won’t want to contemplate the truth. None of us does.’

‘Fair enough. But that still doesn’t explain why.’

‘They knew we’d find nothing, but didn’t care. We weren’t meant to. It took us away from what we were doing, because that’s all somebody needed.’

‘Somebody?’

‘Somebody in the Ministry … or an outsider with contacts inside that they could use to disseminate the information.’ He was thinking about Levignier. He’d have the means. And he’d already displayed his contempt for the rule of law by spiriting away the dead body from inside the Clos du Lac. But would he conspire openly with a kidnap — and if so, to what end? If not, there was someone else who might be a prime mover: the shadowy figure behind him, with the power to command Bezancourt and his men to follow Rocco.

The man known as Delombre.

Desmoulins said, ‘The Ministry. Christ, you don’t exactly pick the easiest enemies, do you? What do we do now?’

Rocco picked up his telephone and dialled Massin’s internal number. He was going to make a report, and Massin would do the rest. ‘We let them think we’re going to investigate all three locations.’

Desmoulins smiled, recognising the tone in Rocco’s voice. ‘Then what?’

‘Then we’ll do the exact opposite.’