Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

A light mist was hovering around the lake like a shroud as Rocco and Desmoulins made their way around its perimeter, keeping the water to their right. Claude had assured them that the ground here was solid enough, as long as they didn’t stray too close to the reeds.

It was two-thirty in the morning, and the air was still, carrying the metallic aroma of water and rotting vegetation. A cloudy sky ensured no moonlight, and there was a promise of rain in the air. Poor visibility wasn’t ideal, but it favoured them rather more than the guards on watch.

They were both dressed in dark clothing, with smears of mud on their cheeks and foreheads, and even from a couple of metres away, Desmoulins merged like a wraith into the gloom.

The hours had ground past with agonising slowness following his talk with Massin, expecting to hear at any moment that the kidnappers had been caught somewhere else with their victim, or that the raid was off. But first Godard had sought him out to discuss plans and personnel, then Canet and even Perronnet had appeared to give him a subtle nod of support.

Now he was here, Rocco felt calm and ready for what lay ahead. His nerves were on edge, but that was a necessary part of any armed operation. He paused every few metres to scan the ground ahead. He had a clear image of the area in mind from a previous sighting: the grassy area ran flat for about fifty metres, before reaching a line of trees standing like sentinels in the dark, their tips just visible against the slightly lighter sky. They were poplars, lining the canal and planted by the same man who had designed the Clos du Lac, no doubt to add order to the view on offer.

He had no reason to suspect that the new security arrangements had placed a scout out here this far from the buildings, but he wasn’t about to take chances. Jean-Pierre looked the sort to shoot first without asking questions, and he didn’t want to increase the risk to Desmoulins or Claude, who was approaching on the far side of the sanitarium, by exposing them to a trigger-happy thug with an attitude problem.

He looked to his right, across the lake. Two of Godard’s men were over there somewhere, approaching on a similar course, while Godard and two more men had control of the road running past the Clos in case anyone tried to leave. All had military experience and were skilled at moving around in difficult terrain.

A burst of activity betrayed a waterfowl skittering away through the reeds, and Rocco sank down instinctively, Desmoulins doing the same. They waited until the bird had splash-landed out in the centre of the lake before continuing.

As they neared the trees, Rocco looked for a flash of white in the gloom. It would be a marker post put in place by Claude earlier, to show the location of a footbridge across the canal. From the other side it was only a short walk to the lane running past the Clos. He was counting on the guards keeping a close eye on the lane itself, running from the road out of Poissons, rather than expecting any approach across the rougher ground around the lake and the canal. If they got that far without being spotted, they were in business.

The ghostly shape of an owl drifted by overhead, and other noises in the dark showed how easily disturbed were the creatures of the night. Rocco slowed his pace, feeling his shoulders beginning to tense. It brought back memories of other times and places when he’d sought to become part of the world around him when all his nerves were screaming to be somewhere else. Then it had been jungle, vivid and claustrophobic, deadly in every sense; not the benign French countryside of the Somme valley. Yet with what he sensed might be waiting in the form of Jean-Pierre and his colleagues, the danger was no less real, no less final.

He reached beneath his coat and checked the comforting feel of the MAB semi-automatic. It was no guarantee or protection but going in without it would have been suicidal.

Claude had instructions to wait when he got into position, having first scouted the general area around the sanitarium. They would meet up near the back door to the pool house, which was a blind spot for the guards, and decide on a point of entry once they knew what they were up against.

‘What exactly are we looking for?’ Claude had asked over the phone.

‘The guards,’ Rocco had replied. ‘Where they are, how far they move.’ He told him of the new arrival on the stretcher, and that gaining fast access to the inside was their first priority.

‘Who do you think it is? Another dodgy criminal hiding from justice?’

‘Bigger than that.’ He’d paused before saying it, the words suddenly seeming ludicrous. But it was too late now. ‘I think they’re holding Véronique Bessine, to put pressure on her husband and derail his trade talks.’

There had been a stunned silence from Claude, which Rocco had made no effort to fill. There had been plenty in the news already about the kidnap; Claude was a cop and would see the problems they were facing.

‘You better not get yourself shot, Lucas,’ Claude breathed, ‘that’s all I can say. Otherwise Mme Denis will cut my balls off.’

‘You’d be the lucky one. Think what she’ll do to me.’

Desmoulins stepped up alongside him, and Rocco sensed him pointing in the dark. ‘Over to the right,’ he whispered. ‘Is that your marker?’

Rocco saw a faint glimmer several paces away. They were on target.

‘That’s it.’ He led the way and found a short post embedded in the soil, with a splash of white paint on the side facing the lake. Beyond it lay the footbridge over the canal.

They moved apart and approached the bridge on a parallel path. Rocco paused and listened. If a guard had been posted anywhere out here, this would be a logical spot. But he couldn’t hear anything.

The footbridge was made of wood, narrow enough to allow two people side by side across, or a farm animal, but nothing bigger, and rising in a curve to allow canal barges underneath. Rocco felt the first rise of the ground beneath his feet, followed by the dull, hollow scuff of the wooden ramp. He trod carefully, one hand on the balustrade to steady himself as he crossed, then down the other side, stepping off quickly to one side to wait for Desmoulins.

He heard a clicking noise from behind, and the soft scrape of a footfall. Godard’s men, also approaching the bridge.

Five minutes later, they were crossing the field below the Clos, heading for the doorway to the pool house.