Rocco and the Nightingale Read online

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think he died immediately, and he probably wouldn’t have been able to pull out the weapon by himself. He’d have been in shock and probably bled out into the throat and choked. Not a nice way to go.’

  ‘So the assailant must have pulled it out.’

  ‘They must have done. I’ll know more when I get him on my table for a closer look.’

  ‘Any identification on him?’

  ‘Not yet. I checked his pockets but found nothing. And I mean nothing.’ The look he gave Rocco carried a wealth of meaning. As they both knew, even in hard times most people had something of value on them, especially a form of identity. Those who didn’t had been carefully stripped to hide their origins for some purpose.

  ‘What about the bag?’

  ‘I haven’t checked it yet. It was already open but I didn’t want to risk losing anything of importance in the ditch.’

  Rocco nodded. An opened bag beside a dead body didn’t sound promising. If there had been anything of value to be had, it was already gone. He stifled his impatience and turned to survey the open countryside: the fields dotted with the white chalk scars of shell craters from the First World War, bordered by gullies and ditches like this one, and with an occasional clump of trees. Save for one old barn in danger of falling over in a strong wind, there were no houses or farms visible close by, so no obvious witnesses to whatever had happened here.

  Desmoulins came across and nodded a greeting. Stocky and muscular, the younger man was growing in confidence since Rocco had begun to push more responsibility his way. ‘Lucas, this is going to take a while. There’s no sign of a weapon. If the killer carried it off with him, he could have disposed of it anywhere.’

  ‘Any footprints?’ Rocco was looking at the soil on the far side of the ditch, which looked loamy and soft and liable to carry traces of anyone passing that way.

  ‘Not so far. I reckon whoever did this might have brought the victim here. There’s no way he could have got here otherwise without walking, and it’s a long way off the main roads.’

  He pointed at the grass verge, which showed the imprint of heavy tractor tyres. ‘The farmer who found him is at least eighty-five and built like a chicken, so I doubt it was him, and he stopped his tractor right here when he saw the body, so any traces that might have been useful have been obliterated.’

  Rocco gave a thin smile. It was often the way with crime scenes; people being helpful often wiped out any evidence without realising it. ‘You think eighty-five-year-old chickens can’t kill?’

  ‘Well, I suppose.’ Desmoulins grinned. ‘But not this one, as you’ll see. I asked him to come with me and show me what he’d found, but he wouldn’t budge. He was clearly in a state of shock. The café owner said he’s harmless and wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘Where you phoned from?’

  ‘Yes. He’s probably still there if you want to talk to him. His name’s Olivier Matthieu and the café’s opposite the farming co-operative depot in Faumont. You can’t miss it.’

  Rocco nodded. He didn’t doubt Desmoulins’ instincts for spotting guilty men for a second, but he’d known more than one old man who’d committed murder. As with ambition, greed, power or even sex, advanced age didn’t automatically mean everything ceased.

  He left Rizzotti and Desmoulins to their tasks and made his way to the hamlet of Faumont two kilometres away. No more than a fly-speck on the map, it comprised four small houses, a long, low industrial building with two large hoppers belonging to a farmers’ co-operative and a roadside café with an ancient Energic tractor parked outside, its trailer leaking strands of hay. Both tractor and trailer looked to have led a hard life, with soft, balding tyres and not much original body paint. Second- or third-hand, Rocco guessed, but better than some farmers locally who still used horses and their own muscle-power to do their work.

  Two young boys were sitting nearby, sharing a stubby bottle of lemonade. They watched as he climbed out of the Citroën, then moved away as soon as they heard a burst of chatter from his radio, and disappeared behind the café. Bunking off from school, he decided, but right now that wasn’t his problem.

  He pushed open the café door and walked into a murmur of voices and the chink of glasses. If there had been anybody working in the depot, they were now crammed inside the café, no doubt taking the opportunity for a quick drink while they heard the old man out and counting this as a welcome excitement in an otherwise uneventful day.

  Rocco eased through the crush. Most of the customers wore work clothes and heavy boots, the air around them thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and damp clothing. But it was easy to spot the centre of attention: he was near bald and nut-brown, with tufts of white hair sprouting from his ears, dressed in heavy rubber boots and the traditional bleus – the working jacket and trousers common to most men in the area. He was clearly enjoying his role as the spreader of shocking news.

  Three

  Less than half a kilometre away from the murder site, a man and woman sat side by side on a distant ridge, taking turns to watch events through a pair of high-powered binoculars.

  ‘They’re like a bunch of ants.’ The man was the first to speak, his voice tinged with contempt. ‘Helpless ants.’ He turned from watching the uniformed men scouring the area around the ditch, to follow the progress of the black Citroën Traction as it disappeared along the road. ‘And there goes the biggest ant of all.’ He held out the binoculars and gave his companion a lazy smile which emphasised his youthfulness and carried hints of Mediterranean origins.

  ‘Ants sting, did you know that?’ the woman replied, studying the scene. The Citroën had gone, leaving behind a couple of men in plain clothes directing the uniforms.

  ‘They can try, Lilou.’ Romain lay back and looked up at the sky. ‘They can try.’

  Lilou smile and leaned over to kiss his cheek. Her blonde hair was cropped short in the new gamine style, and she possessed a steady gaze that occasionally had a disconcerting habit of wondering off-course as if it had lost interest. ‘What shall we do now?’ she said. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could do with something to eat.’

  Romain nodded. ‘Good idea. Let’s go to Amiens. We’ll find somewhere decent to celebrate, with a glass of wine.’

  ‘One more down?’

  He nodded. ‘And one to go.’ He stood and led the way off the ridge, feet scuffing through long grass. They scrambled down a grassy slope and arrived at a grey van parked down a narrow track. As they climbed in, Lilou sniffed and looked over her shoulder into the back. ‘That thing stinks of cow muck and petrol. We should get rid of it the first chance we get.’

  ‘We can dump it in the pond we passed earlier. It looked deep enough.’ Romain chuckled. ‘It’s going to drive those idiots crazy not knowing how Vieira got there.’

  ‘Or where he came from.’ Lilou looked at him and touched his shoulder. ‘And I thought I was the one who liked playing with the cops’ heads. You’re getting worse than me.’

  ‘Well, credit where credit is due. I do my best.’ He started the engine and drove down the track until they arrived alongside a small pond set in a gulley below the road. He got out and opened the back of the van, then pulled out the moped, bumping it down onto the ground. With a quick glance round to see he wasn’t being observed, he wheeled the machine over to the edge of the track and heaved it down the slope. It bounced twice before hitting the scummy water with a splash and disappearing in an explosion of bubbles.

  He walked back to the driver’s side and climbed in, leaning across to take a kiss from Lilou.

  ‘My hero,’ she said, patting his chest. ‘I love it when you go all manly, and that blue shirt really suits you, did I tell you that?’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, and yes, you did. I never thought I’d say it, but I like the colour, too. Ironic, don’t you think?’

  Four

  Olivier Matthieu looked up at Rocco and blinked in surprise. He recovered q
uickly enough, though, and held up an empty glass, no doubt seeing a newcomer who might be persuaded to part with a few francs for a refill and a repeat of his story. The people around him weren’t so sure; they took one look at Rocco and dispersed like a tide washing away from the shore. Country people they may have been but, as Rocco had soon discovered, they possessed an uncanny knack for spotting a cop when they saw one.

  ‘I think you’ve had enough, pépère,’ he said gently, and waved his ID in front of the old man’s eyes. ‘We need to talk about what you found.’ He signalled to the café owner for two coffees, then drew up a chair and gave a couple of reluctant leavers a look which had them retreat to the bar out of earshot.

  ‘Of course,’ said Matthieu warily, his eyes struggling to focus. ‘You’re the fancy city flic from Poissons, looking for an easy suspect, am I right? I must say, it didn’t take you long to get here.’ He smiled and cocked his head at a song being played in the background. It was a woman’s voice singing about not knowing anymore. ‘Ah, the beautiful Dalida. Got a voice like warm chocolate, that one. Nice bodywork, too.’ He gave a slow wink and laughed, showing stumpy teeth and a lot of gum. ‘Found out who killed him yet?’

  Rocco shook his head. Up close the old man gave off a strong whiff of body odour and what city folk would have called ‘country’. And Desmoulins was probably right; he was too old to have killed someone and left them in a ditch… unless he’d run them down with his tractor, which wasn’t the case.

  ‘Not yet, M’sieur Matthieu. Even we fancy city cops like to ask a few questions before we accuse someone. It’s part of our training. Now, can you tell me what you saw?’

  He sat back as the owner brought two heavy brown cups and placed them on the table alongside a box of sugar cubes. The coffee was densely black and barely moved in the cup, like liquid tar in a barrel. Rocco reached automatically for the sugar, gathering several lumps and stirring them in. Strong coffee was fine, but this stuff looked as if it had been brewed from coal dust and molasses.

  Matthieu viewed the cups with horror, but when Rocco pushed one towards him, he gave a sigh and took a reluctant sip.

  ‘I was driving back after dropping off a load of hay for my animals,’ he began, ‘and saw a couple of crows hovering over a ditch. I slowed down, thought maybe a rabbit had died and needed a decent burial.’ He gave Rocco a knowing look. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of fresh meat for dinner if you know what I mean. Better than all that fancy stuff you’re used to in Paris, I bet.’

  ‘You’ve been to Paris, have you?’ The idea of Matthieu loose on the city streets seemed a stretch, but that was the thing about people: you never could tell. Maybe this crusty old man had history beyond being a farmer in Picardie.

  ‘I haven’t. No desire to go, either. But I can read, and you hear stuff.’

  ‘Fine. But let’s forget about Paris, shall we? What did you see when you stopped?’

  The old man looked offended. ‘All right, keep your hair on. Just having a bit of banter.’ He cleared his throat and drank more coffee. ‘When I got close I could see this shape in the bottom of the ditch. Wasn’t a rabbit, I could see that. Too big for a start, so I thought it might be a boar. Then I realised it was a man.’ He winced. ‘Gave me quite a shock, I can tell you. Not that I haven’t seen dead bodies before. Saw too many in the last conflict – and the one before that. But that was wartime. Not the same down a peaceful country lane, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not. Did you go down into the ditch for a look?’

  He gave a bark of a laugh. ‘Not with my knees; I’d still be down there, otherwise. I suppose I should have taken a closer look, but I didn’t need to. I could see he was dead, his body all twisted like it was.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘Because I knew.’ Matthieu blinked and rubbed his face, producing a sound like sandpaper on wood. ‘Like I said, I know a dead body when I see one.’

  ‘What about the bag alongside it? You weren’t tempted to take a look inside?’

  ‘I didn’t see no bag. But there was blood on his neck and I could see what looked like a hole just under the ear. I bet he was shot, wasn’t he?’

  ‘No. Have you ever seen the man before?’

  ‘Me? No. He wasn’t from around here.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He looked too pasty to be a local. Most people here work out in the open, like this lot.’ He jerked a calloused thumb at the few customers remaining at the bar, all of whom were worn and tanned by the elements. ‘His suit looked too fancy for locals, anyway.’ He looked Rocco up and down and gave a smirk. ‘Unless you’re a cop, of course. Nice coat you’ve got there. Pays good money being a cop, does it?’

  Rocco ignored the dig. ‘Did you see anything unusual lying around?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a weapon of some sort?’

  ‘No. I mean, there might have been, but once I spotted the body I didn’t notice much else.’

  ‘And nobody in the area, say, on your way here?’

  ‘Like I said–’ He stopped and thought. ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure.’

  Matthieu scowled as if he’d been caught out in a lie. ‘It was nothing. Just that I thought… I thought I saw a kid way off in the distance, on the brow of the hill. But I was most likely imagining things. I mean, kids are in school this time of day, aren’t they? And it’s too far out for them to play. I probably need my eyes testing.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Rocco wasn’t so sure. He thought about the two boys he’d seen outside. In his experience the local kids roamed as far and wide as they liked and took no account of distance or school times and regulations in their search for something to amuse themselves. ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I came straight here to call your lot.’ Matthieu smacked his lips and said, ‘Look, do you think I could get a drink before I head for home – a real one? This has been a bit of a shock and I’m not as young as I was. And this coffee’s rubbish.’ The last was said in a voice loud enough to carry over the other conversations in the room, earning a scathing look from the bar owner.

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘My farm’s just down the road. Why?’ He stirred. ‘Here, you don’t think I did it, do you?’

  Rocco ignored him and caught the owner’s eye, making a signal for a small drink. The man filled a brandy glass and brought it across, placing it down with a scowl at the insult to his coffee. Rocco had his doubts about putting more alcohol in the old man’s veins, but Matthieu probably had some sort of credit here, and if he wanted another drink he’d get one whether Rocco approved or not.

  He stood up and nodded at Matthieu. ‘Thanks for your help, M’sieur. I’ll be in touch if I need more information.’ He dropped some money on the table, making sure the owner noticed, then placed his card alongside it. ‘If you think of anything else, please call me.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Matthieu took a generous sip of his brandy and winked as he raised his glass. ‘You’re not as bad as they say you are. For a cop.’

  ‘You’d better be sure you’ve told me everything,’ Rocco warned him quietly, ‘or you’ll find out the opposite.’

  On the way out he impressed on the café owner not to let Matthieu drive, and asked him about the two boys he’d seen outside earlier. They’d looked about twelve years old and as fit as most country kids. He didn’t doubt they could have walked the couple of kilometres from the hill above the murder scene without much effort.

  The barman pushed out his lower lip, allowing himself to pluck free the remains of a soggy cigarette, and said, ‘They probably belong to one of the men from the depot, I should think. But don’t expect any of them to own up because they won’t. Sorry.’ He replaced the cigarette on his lip and moved away down the bar.

  Five

  Rocco drove home to Poissons. It was too late to go back to the office, where he’d quickly find himself wrapped up in fresh cases and old gossip to no good ef
fect. His mind was buzzing with questions about the as-yet unidentified dead man, and how he’d come to end his life in the ditch. How, for example, had he got to such an isolated spot? Maybe Desmoulins was right and whoever had killed him had brought him to the area. Had they argued and fought, and the killer used some kind of tool to stab him in a fit of anger, then panicked and pushed him into the ditch in an attempt to hide the body? If so, why strip the body of any possessions first, unless it was to confuse or delay identification?

  He wondered if that pointed to someone local, although the victim’s clothing suggested otherwise. There were several large towns in the region where a man in a suit might have come from: Amiens, Beauvais, Abbeville – even Arras. But short of stumbling on a missing person’s report, trawling those towns would require a lot of legwork.

  He arrived at his rented house and spotted Mme Denis, his next-door neighbour, kneeling in her garden. Of medium height and compact, she had white hair and thick glasses, and was dressed as always in a blue apron over a grey dress. A triangle headscarf was pinned neatly over her head. She looked up at the sound of his car and waved, then got to her feet with difficulty and walked slowly to meet him.

  ‘What’s this?’ she murmured, rubbing her back. ‘Back early? Have you solved all the crimes in the area this week?’ She took three large spring onions from the pocket of her apron and handed them over, brushing some dirt off them. ‘Here, make yourself a nice salad for a change; the freshness will do you good.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rocco said, and took the vegetables. As he’d learned long ago, a refusal would offend and offering food had been her way of welcoming him to the village. She had continued the habit ever since, mostly with eggs, often leaving them on his doorstep if he was out. In her own way this gentle old lady had been largely responsible for making him acceptable here, in spite of the local antipathy and suspicion towards all forms of authority. He looked at her carefully and thought she looked unusually pale. ‘Have you got a problem with your back?’