Death on the Marais Read online

  He shrugged, wondering what made them think he was an expert on bomb disposal. Then it hit him: if anything went wrong, blame the flic. It was probably an English bomb, made in Coventry or some such hellhole, and since the English were probably no more popular in these parts than the police, what could be more fitting? Barely twenty years since the end of the last global conflict centred on France, the debris of two wars was just as fresh in people’s minds as it was in the ground beneath their feet.

  He was about to suggest evacuating the immediate area and calling in the gendarmes, as Monsieur Thierry had suggested, when a man pushed through the crowd. He was dressed in filthy overalls and carried a canvas tool bag.

  ‘Philippe Delsaire,’ Claude informed Rocco helpfully. ‘He’s what passes as a plumber in these parts. Also farms a small plot outside the village. Gambler, too.’ He rubbed his fingertips together. ‘Not a bad plumber or farmer, but lousy at cards.’ He grinned knowingly.

  Everyone watched as Delsaire stared hard at the object. Then he stepped forward with a large wrench, and without warning, gave the hexagon nut a resounding thwack.

  In spite of his doubts about the object being a bomb, Rocco felt his testicles shrink and witnessed fleeting images of his past life go by at speed. A collective groan testified to others sharing this same life-death experience. Even the mad bomb-basher, Didier, looked fleetingly alarmed, while Thierry crossed himself and muttered something obscene.

  The newcomer struck the object again. But instead of the expected flash and monumental explosion that should have sent Poissons-les-Marais into orbit like a space rocket, the nut simply fell off, and out onto the grass glugged a stream of rust-coloured water.

  Delsaire smiled and tossed the wrench into his tool bag.

  ‘Water container,’ he said simply. ‘A prototype. Only seen a couple of them in my time. The design never caught on.’ He pointed to where the water was bubbling out. ‘With only one hole you can’t get a steady flow, see? Probably fell off a lorry and got buried.’

  As Delsaire walked away, whistling, Didier glared around, daring anyone to say a word. Then he calmly scuttled forward and claimed the container as his property.

  The crowd left him to it, some looking almost disappointed that a discarded water tank wasn’t about to reduce them and their village to microscopic dust particles.

  Rocco was about to return to his car when Claude stopped him.

  ‘So what’s a city detective doing out here?’ he asked. ‘We’re just a pimple on a cow’s arse. It’s not like there’s any real crime – nobody’s got anything worth stealing. And certainly nothing to trouble an inspecteur.’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Rocco truthfully. ‘They haven’t told me.’ Captain Santer, his boss, had merely presented him with his new orders, an accommodation warrant and directions, and told him to go and investigate cowpats until further notice. All part of a new nationwide initiative, he had explained vaguely, a small grinding of a very large wheel in the Fifth Republic’s efforts to modernise its police force. So far, Rocco judged, going by what he’d seen, as initiatives went, it was a case of wait and see.

  ‘There must be a reason, though.’ Claude was gently insistent, like a friendly dog with a bone, teasing out the goodness.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s a reason for everything.’

  ‘Ah. You’re a philosopher as well as a psychic.’

  ‘No. Just that I know how the official mind works.’

  ‘Lucky you. When you’ve got a minute, perhaps you can fill me in.’ He nodded. ‘Thanks for the tip about the house.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rouen, Haute-Normandie

  Ishmael Poudric rubbed his eyes and glanced along the hallway towards the front of his house. Someone was at the door. Lowering the large pendulum eyeglass which old age and too many hours spent poring over photographs had rendered necessary, he checked the clock on the wall of his study. Nine o’clock. Who could be calling at this hour? Time was no longer a medium he allowed to control his life the way it once had, but at his age it was a commodity too valuable to waste. A glance at the window confirmed that darkness had fallen without him noticing.

  The knock was repeated. It sounded urgent. Maybe his son, Etienne … a problem with the business. No. He would have called first.

  He stood up with a grimace, bones protesting, and eased away from a desk cluttered with the results of years of his work: the negatives, slippery and undisciplined, like small children; the cardboard mounts for slides; the photo prints in black and white, some aged and fading, others bright and new.

  He opened the front door and was surprised to find a woman smiling at him. She was dressed smartly and conventionally enough, even if, to Poudric, she looked a little plainer than any woman should do. Pallid, almost, as if illness or circumstance had drained all the colour from her skin. She appeared to be in her middle years, although he had long ceased to be any kind of judge when it came to the ages of women.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he queried politely. After a lifetime of service behind a camera and a shop counter, it was a difficult habit to break.

  The woman held out a cutting from a magazine. He recognised it immediately. It was from a history journal about the building of an archive for a university library, by one Ishmael Poudric, photographer, once of Poitiers in Aquitaine, now retired to Saint-Martin just outside Rouen.

  ‘I read about you,’ the woman said. ‘You’re building a photo library about the Resistance movement.’

  ‘That’s correct, madam – but it’s very late …’

  ‘I know – and I apologise for the discourtesy,’ the woman said hurriedly. ‘My name is Agnès. Agnès Carre. I’m a student of Modern History, and was wondering if you could help me?’ She delved into a pocket and produced a slim envelope. ‘I will pay you for your time.’

  ‘To do what?’ Poudric was surprised. There were not many offers of money these days, now he had given up his photography business – well, other than favours for a few friends now and then. And this project he was working on was out of love, not financial gain. With younger photographers out there, armed with the latest technology and new ideas, his skills as a snapper were fast becoming outmoded.

  ‘I’m looking for some photos for a thesis I’m writing.’ Agnès smiled tiredly and brushed back a stray hair. ‘Can I come in and explain?’

  Ten minutes later, his curiosity satisfied and the envelope containing the money lying invitingly on his desk, Poudric was delving through a long photo file box, flicking aside index cards and humming, a habit he had never quite managed to lose. His visitor was sitting quietly, nursing a cup of tea he had prepared for her.

  ‘Ah.’ He stopped and lifted out a print and its negative, both encased in a thin protective sleeve. ‘I think this is the one.’ He turned from his desk and showed her the print.

  She took it carefully, holding it between her fingers, the way he had, and tilted it to the light. The snap showed a group of people, all dressed in rough, working-style clothing. Six men and one woman. They were huddled around a fire in the open, expressions sombre, most of them facing the camera. The men were armed with rifles, some with bandoliers of ammunition across their chests. The woman sat at one end of the group, a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. The man next to her had a hand on her knee. With its dark tones and grim connotations, the scene pulsed with atmosphere.

  ‘I took that,’ Poudric explained, remembering the occasion with unusual clarity, ‘one evening near Poitiers. I had worked hard to gain the confidence of this group and persuaded them to sit for posterity.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘This particular group was communist in its affiliations, but they were brave people, all fighting for what they thought was right. To be frank, it was risky having this done – for them far more than me – but when one is faced with history in the making, you take whatever opportunity comes along. And there were damn few weddings or celebrations requiring my expertise at the time.’ He chuckled
dryly at the memory.

  Agnès nodded, not taking her eyes off the photo, as if mesmerised. ‘Do you have others of this group?’

  ‘There are some, but I would need time to find them. The collection is not in order yet.’

  ‘In that case, this one will do.’

  ‘I will have to copy it – it’s the only one I have. I’ll need an address to send it to.’

  ‘I would rather take it now.’

  ‘Now? But it’s late … I can send it first thing tom—’

  ‘That won’t be possible.’ Agnès seemed suddenly agitated. She leant over and picked up the envelope. ‘I’m travelling tomorrow and need it immediately.’ She opened the envelope and counted out some notes. ‘I’m sure you still have your equipment?’

  Poudric hesitated for a moment. Then need overcame tiredness. He had a powerful sense that this woman, whatever her claims, was no student of History, and had an ulterior motive for acquiring this photo. The energy coming from her was almost palpable. But who was he to judge? He folded the notes into his shirt pocket and stood up. ‘You will have to give me time to set it up and for the print to dry. Would you care for more tea while you wait?’

  The woman sat back, her face calm again. ‘No. Thank you. I’ve been waiting long enough. A few more minutes won’t matter.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rocco? An uncultured ruffian. He needs locking up.

  J de Montrichy – deputy mayor’s office, Clichy-Nanterre district

  Rocco knocked on the rear door of the cottage Claude had directed him to the previous day. It was on the outskirts of the village, along a narrow lane leading out into an open expanse of rolling pastureland. A sign pointed to the next village, Danvillers, five kilometres away, along a surface which looked little used and was dotted with cowpats drying in the early morning sun.

  The house was small and sturdy, surrounded by flower and vegetable beds with barely a spare centimetre of unused space. The earth had been tilled to a fine grain, the borders straight as a city block and without a weed in sight. A large chicken run stood at the end of a long garden, but the inhabitants appeared to have free roam of the place, with one old hen nestled contentedly by the back door in a small dust bowl of her own making.

  The air smelt gamey, buzzing with a swirl of fat, lazy flies. Rocco had passed two farms on his way down here, both with large manure heaps inside enclosed yards and crawling with chickens, so he was hardly surprised by the insect life. It wasn’t unpleasant, though, and certainly better than the noxious air in the café where he’d forced down the half-baguette and bowl of hot chocolate which passed for breakfast, topped off with toxic tobacco fumes from the patrons at the bar.

  The cottage door opened to reveal an elderly woman with white hair and thick glasses. She was of medium height and compact, dressed in a blue apron over a grey dress, with a triangle headscarf pinned carefully in place.

  ‘You’re the inspecteur?’ she said, and motioned him inside.

  ‘That’s me.’ He was no longer surprised at the way information was circulating in this place. There was no telephone wire to the cottage, so he put it down to some secret sort of underground network known only to the locals. Or maybe they had a team of fleet-footed kids doing the rounds, letting everyone in on the latest news as it happened.

  The cottage kitchen was clean, simply furnished and like walking into a museum. But it was homely and neat, a small oasis of tranquillity hung with the smells of cooking and soap. Fading photos of a large man in cavalry uniform sitting astride a huge white charger were dotted around the room, and Rocco recognised the atmosphere of widowhood.

  Mme Denis went to a sideboard and pulled open a drawer, extracting a small bundle of keys. She dropped them on the heavy table, then went to a stove and picked up a coffee percolator.

  ‘I brewed this fresh for you,’ she said. ‘Big man like you needs a stimulant to keep going. My husband was a big man.’

  Rocco didn’t really want more coffee. But he sensed a ritual about to unfold and that he was a central part of it. A refusal might offend.

  She produced two heavy, brown cups and filled them with coffee, then took an aluminium jug of milk and a cardboard box of sugar cubes, and slid them across the table, motioning him to sit. She had strong hands, Rocco noted. It explained the orderly garden.

  ‘The house next door,’ she said, sitting down with a sigh, ‘is available. It’s clean and dry, although you’ll have to put up with the fouines in the attic.’ Lucas must have looked blank, because she said, ‘Fruit rats. They’re everywhere in these parts. You don’t get them where you come from?’

  He shook his head. Paris had plenty of rats, both two- and four-legged. But not the fruit variety.

  ‘They’re harmless,’ Mme Denis assured him. ‘They make a bit of noise in the attic at night, scrabbling around up there, but as long as you don’t leave food out, you should be fine.’

  He drank his coffee, which was as strong as boat varnish, but good. He added sugar cubes and milk. Then he began the negotiation for the rent. If he stayed at the local bar-tabac, where the regional HQ in Amiens could get hold of him easily by telephone, they would pay his board. Opting to get his own place meant he would have to pick up the bill himself.

  He decided that if all he had to worry about was a few fruit rats, he could put up with the expense. A telephone, though, was a must. He mentioned it to Madame Denis.

  She pursed her lips. ‘There aren’t many in the village, although they put up the wires. The mayor, of course – he’s got one. And the garde champêtre.’ She smiled. ‘Be warned, though: you’ll get a lot of visitors if you have one of those put in.’

  ‘But I’m a policeman – a flic.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. When people want to call friends and family, you’d be amazed how forgiving they can be. What about your laundry?’

  ‘No problem. I used to be in the army. I’ll manage.’ It wasn’t something he had given much thought to.

  She cast a critical eye over his clothes, which consisted of a long, dark coat, dark cotton shirt and charcoal trousers – the latter Swedish imports and expensive – and his shoes, which were from London. Good-quality clothing was one of Rocco’s few luxuries. ‘Those fine fabrics won’t last long out here, not if you pound them to death in a sink. There’s a laundry service calls by twice a week. Leave it in a bag with Francine at the co-op and they’ll pick it up and return it in two days, sometimes three. You’ll need to plan what you wear.’

  When he had finished his coffee, she led him out of the house and along the lane to the house next door. Rocco was pleasantly surprised: it was a large, villa-style property set back off the road behind a railed, overgrown garden. Outhouses and a garage stood off to one side, and the rear plot disappeared into the distance, sprouting a vast wilderness of unknown species.

  ‘Are you a gardener?’ she asked him, handing him the keys.

  ‘No idea,’ he said frankly, staring at the expanse of rampant territory waiting to be tamed. ‘I had some tulips in a window box once.’

  She looked unimpressed. ‘Flowers. What happened?’

  ‘They died.’

  She made a phuitt sound. ‘In that case, you’ll need the services of Arnaud.’

  ‘Is he a landscape gardener?’

  She smiled indulgently at the term. ‘You’re a city boy, aren’t you? Arnaud pretty much lives at the café. He’ll do whatever needs doing. Just make sure he completes the work before you pay him, otherwise he’ll be drunk as a skunk for a month.’

  She watched as he unlocked the door. It opened onto a large kitchen-cum-general room, with a small electric cooker and a separate wood fire and range with a water tank attached. There was a plain sink and drainer. The air smelt musty and dry from a lack of circulation. Another room lay at the back, leading, Mme Denis informed him, to the bedroom.

  ‘No running water?’ he said.

  ‘No. Along the main road, where they laid the pipes, but not down here. The
toilet’s outside by the outhouse.’ She gave him a sideways glance. ‘There’s a pump, though. I presume you’re more familiar with pumps than flowers?’

  ‘Of course. Most good bars have them.’

  She snorted. ‘Glad you have a sense of humour, Inspector. When it drops below freezing and you have to melt the ice first, you’ll need it. Come.’ She led him out to the side of the house, where a pump stood in the lee of a large wooden outbuilding. It had an elaborate, cast-iron handle and spout, with a metal cap on the top. A tall plastic jug stood beneath the spout. She lifted the hat. ‘You prime it with water, then jiggle the handle until it starts to pull.’

  ‘And when it freezes?’

  ‘Stack straw around the base and set fire to it. Works every time. Won’t boil the water, though.’ She lifted the corner of her mouth and chuckled at her own wit.

  Rocco smiled and followed her to the front door. He remembered what Claude had said. ‘Has anyone died here recently?’

  ‘Not that I recall. Why – do you intend holding séances?’

  He watched her as she pottered away, shaking her head. Then he stepped inside and inspected his new home. He found a scattering of dust-layered furniture, all plain and sturdy, but useable. Solid. Rodent droppings were scattered across the floor, and a bat was hanging in one corner, small and sinister. Something furry and dead lay beneath the kitchen table. The back rooms were large and airy, and apart from an ill-fitting French window in the back living room, it was pleasant and comfortable.

  He went back outside and primed the pump with a slosh of rainwater from the jug; jiggled the handle which groaned like a donkey, then felt the pump stall before water began gushing out. It looked crystal clear. He tasted it. Not exactly Pouilly-Fumé, but it would do.

  Still better than the café, anyway.

  After a brief tidy-up, which lifted more dust than it laid, Rocco walked back to the café to collect his car. The bar was empty, so he took advantage of the quiet to check in with his former office in Clichy-Nanterre.