Death on the Marais ilr-1 Page 5

  ‘Shoulders back, stomachs in,’ said Canet, hitching up his trousers and stepping through the gate. ‘You ready for this?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Rocco had better things to do than tug his forelock for a bunch of self-important desk jockeys. He decided to take a tour of the outside perimeter of the cemetery instead. It might also offer a chance of getting upwind of the awful smell for a while. If standing on ceremony was important to the brass, they would wait. If not, they’d have to follow him and get their shoes dirty.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rocco? A nobody… a rebel… reckless. Lacks any respect for authority.

  Col Francois Massin — former brigade CO, Indochina campaign

  Rocco turned left out of the gate, then left again, following the wall across the width of the cemetery. The ground here was rough but easy to read, where neither weeds, grass nor farmers’ crops had taken root, leaving a half-metre perimeter of hard ground to follow like a path. There were no signs of disturbance, no footprints to help him except a few paw prints, and lots of rabbit droppings; a dead thrush, half-eaten by maggots and, a yard into the field, the carcass of a larger bird — a wood pigeon dead on the wing, no doubt the random target of a farmer’s rifle.

  He was pretty sure the narrow strip of ground here was much the same as the day the men who had built the wall had packed up and left. He walked on.

  He reached the next corner near the tool shed, where it looked as if access might be easy, and studied it carefully. Nothing. No marks on the wall to show anyone had climbed it, no traces of fabric caught on the rough brickwork. The ground below it was unmarked. Then, as he turned up the long stretch of wall abutting the wood at the top, he saw movement in the trees.

  Rocco stopped and crouched as if examining the ground, all the while checking the tree line. Something or someone was up there, but he couldn’t see any detail. A flick of a branch, a change in the pattern of shadows, then it was gone.

  He continued walking, head moving from side to side, and eventually reached the end of the wall where it butted up against the wood. The atmosphere here was still, densely packed with overgrowth, with not even the rustling of leaves on the branches to break the silence. He breathed deeply, sniffing the air, enjoying the raw smell.

  He turned and followed the top wall across the width of the cemetery, the wood on his right shoulder. But he was no longer interested in the ground: he was already certain that whoever had dumped the body in the cemetery had gained access through the gate, not over the wall. Instead, he concentrated on listening to the silent mass of greenery to his right. It was thinner here, he noted, where selective trees had been felled or had fallen to nature. It allowed the air and light to penetrate, and there was a breeze, too, like a whispered conversation, the leaves and branches setting up a chaffing, clicking sound as if discussing man’s intrusion on this quiet place.

  It reminded him of a jungle he’d once come to know, also a place of whispered noises and shadows. His head began to ache and he shivered, mentally pushing away the flickering images trying to intrude. No time for that; never time for that. He breathed deeply until his mind was quiet and his inner vision began to clear, the pounding in his head gradually subsiding. His hands, though, were clammy. He wiped them on his coat and forced himself to concentrate.

  One thing he’d learnt in Indochina was that among trees and vegetation, human smells stand out far more than they ever could in a city street. And if you had the nose and the patience, not to say the nerve, you could tell if a stranger was close by simply using your senses.

  Especially one who smoked Gitanes and had the body odour of a dead badger.

  He wondered what Didier Marthe had been doing among the trees, watching the cemetery. Was it coincidence? Was he scouring the wood for shells to break up and just happened to be here? Or did the scrap man have some other reason for skulking around?

  By the time Rocco got back to the cemetery gate, the two black cars were parked fifty metres down the track, the doors hanging open. Three men in smart uniform were walking towards him, one tall man in particular leading the way. The others — drivers and gofers — stayed smoking and chatting among themselves, no doubt glad to be rid of the brass for a few minutes.

  The tall man, bearing the badges of a divisional commissaire, spoke to Canet, who turned and pointed a thumb towards Rocco.

  The senior officer stood where he was, clearly waiting for Rocco to join them. Rocco held his ground. He was being stubborn and would probably regret it, but he was beyond jumping through hoops for uniforms with nothing better to do than step on other people’s feet. Instead, he turned away, running his eye over the cemetery boundaries, trying to read what had happened here. If the men — and he was only guessing it had to have been more than one — had brought the dead woman through the gate, any traces they had left, such as footprints, would be indistinguishable against the grass, especially now Cooke and everyone else had tramped back and forth.

  The one thing he didn’t know for certain was how the woman had died. Only that water had been involved in some way, either before, during or after death.

  A crunch of footsteps sounded on the track behind him. He turned to find the three newcomers metres away, with the tall officer in the lead. He looked less than happy, his body language stiff and foreboding.

  In the split second that he saw the man’s face, Rocco felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. The features, although older and more lined, were instantly, shockingly familiar. The expression was just as aloof, the bearing as pompous as he remembered and he was transported back to 1954. In that brief moment of realisation, of remembering, he saw that the officer remembered him, too.

  Rocco steeled himself and wondered what malevolent twist of fate had sent this man here, to the same patch of soil as himself. Because when he had last set eyes on Colonel Francois Massin, the officer had been cowering in a foxhole in Indochina, screaming like a frightened girl.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rocco? He shouldn’t be allowed out!

  I’m totally innocent, I tell you… he had no right…!

  Roni Ahkmoud — convicted serial killer and rapist — Clichy-Nanterre district

  ‘What are you doing here?’ There was no warmth in Massin’s greeting, no sign of even feigned familiarity, merely a frosty expression of disdain.

  And of hesitation. As well you bloody might, thought Rocco, you cowardly, high-born bastard. Partly due to this man and his colleagues in the high command, a lot of good men had died in those far-off jungles and rice fields, victims of bloody battles and lethal mantraps. Others had been taken prisoner, only to emerge months later from captivity, broken and sick, ghostly versions of their former selves in body and spirit.

  ‘My job,’ he replied. ‘Investigating a murder.’

  He wondered whether Massin remembered that Rocco had seen him in the foxhole, had witnessed his naked fear on display. Or had he managed to blank the entire incident from his mind?

  He was surprised that his former CO had managed to migrate across to the Surete Nationale. What strings had he pulled to do that? No doubt friends of friends pulling strings in the invisible network of former colleagues encountered and nurtured in the elite French military academy of St Cyr. After being evacuated out from the battlefield in a state of pure funk, Massin must have seemed ripe for a career no more stressful than counting beans, far away from the sight of his former comrades — at least, the few who had survived — and indeed anyone else who might know what had happened. Yet here he was, resplendent in the uniform of a senior police officer, a pillar of the establishment.

  ‘Your job? Who says it was murder?’ The senior officer’s nose quivered as if he had just caught the first smell from the body. He looked away, momentarily distracted.

  ‘You got that?’ said Rocco abruptly. ‘That stink in the air? It’s called putrefaction. Decomposing tissue. It happens when a body has been in a warm place, or under ground or in water. The bugs and larvae begin attacki
ng the tissue, laying eggs and eating their way inside. You might like to take a closer look… since you’re heading up the investigation.’

  If Massin recognised the challenge, he ignored it. But a flicker of revulsion crossed his face. Or guilt, thought Rocco. Maybe even lack of guts, given his track record. Give him five minutes near this place and he’d be away back down the road to his office like bald tyres on a skidpan.

  ‘I’m perfectly familiar with the aftermath of death,’ Massin replied stiffly. ‘What I want to know is, who ordered you here, to this region?’

  Rocco shrugged eloquently, a gesture calculated to annoy the man. ‘Me? I’m merely following orders. Part of the latest barmy “initiative” cooked up by someone with too much time on his hands, who thought investigators should be out in the country slopping through cow shit instead of in the cities, solving major crimes.’

  ‘Take yourself away. Now. You are dismissed.’ Massin was almost quivering with rage, his body stiff as a brush. Behind him, his two companions had stopped a few feet back, watching and listening.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Rocco gave the man his most insolent stare. He wasn’t sure whether a commissaire had the power to throw him off an investigation; it had never arisen before. Maybe this might be the moment he found out.

  ‘I said you are dismissed. I do not want you on this investigation!’ The words snapped out, surprising the other two men and causing the drivers and assistants to fall silent. Captain Canet and Claude watched from a distance.

  ‘Sir?’ One of the other officers, braver than the other, stepped forward. He looked at Rocco as if he had made an obscene suggestion, then introduced himself with a brief nod. ‘ Commissaire Perronnet.’ Then in a soft aside to Massin, ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

  ‘Yes. This man is not needed here. I want him elsewhere — anywhere. But not here!’

  Perronnet looked momentarily nonplussed. He touched Massin on the arm and murmured, ‘A word, sir?’

  They turned away and talked in undertones, leaving Rocco staring into the distance. But he caught fragments of conversation, most of it coming from the junior officer.

  ‘… lead investigator… has a very good record… sent here from Paris… nobody else available… could be political… the uniform… neo-Nazi movement.’

  When they turned back, it was as if a switch had been thrown. Massin’s face was more composed, and he was looking at Rocco with eyes that no longer held open dislike. He’s struggling, though, Rocco thought sourly. Like a cobra studying a particularly juicy-looking rodent.

  ‘Very well.’ Massin appeared to reconsider his decision. It took a few moments, during which the junior officer said nothing, but stared at Rocco with an intensity which conveyed a simple message: Don’t say a word or you’re on traffic.

  ‘It seems,’ murmured Massin finally, forcing out the words, ‘that you are necessary to this investigation after all.’ He lifted his chin, haughty and begrudging. ‘You have primary responsibility and I want regular reports on your progress, copied only to me. Nobody else. You understand?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said Rocco. In other words, so you can stitch this up any way you like, you dumb shit, he thought dourly. Kill it off if it looks like causing inconvenient embarrassment, dumb it down if it can be passed off as a minor crime. Claim the credit if it goes hot.

  Massin turned and strode across the lawn to the monument, accompanied by the second officer, leaving Perronnet studying Rocco with an open air of interest.

  ‘He doesn’t like you much, does he? Do you always affect people that way?’

  ‘It’s my friendly nature,’ said Rocco dryly. ‘Never mind, I’ll try to weather the disappointment.’

  A raised eyebrow. ‘Insolent, I see. Is there history between you?’

  Rocco thought about it for two seconds. He didn’t have to spell out his past to this man; if Perronnet were really that interested, he could delve into the personnel files. If he did, he’d no doubt be unable to resist taking a peek at Massin’s file, too, and something told him that would not be available for scrutiny. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  Perronnet looked sceptical. ‘Didn’t sound like it to me.’

  ‘If you don’t believe me, you could always ask him.’

  Perronnet looked surprised by the challenge. He seemed about to reprimand Rocco, but merely said, ‘Maybe I will.’ He looked across the cemetery as the two men returned, both looking pale, Massin with his jaw clenched tight. ‘But let’s get this cleared up first, shall we?’ he continued softly. ‘And maybe tomorrow, you might do the courtesy of presenting yourself to the station and making your acquaintance with your colleagues. Just a suggestion to the wise.’ With that, he turned and fell in with the others, accompanying them out of the gate and back down the track.

  ‘You should try pissing on electric cables,’ said Claude. ‘It’s a lot less dangerous.’ He joined Rocco to watch the cars reverse down the track. ‘I’ve never heard anyone talk to a commissaire like that before and survive.’

  ‘You heard?’ He’d thought Claude and the others were out of earshot.

  Claude smiled. ‘I might be getting on a bit, but my hearing’s still good. You know the top man — Massin, is it?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’ He turned and watched Canet and his men at work around the monument. He might as well leave them to it; for now, he had other things on his mind. ‘Tell me without looking in that direction, why would Didier Marthe be in the woods behind the cemetery?’

  ‘Didier?’ Claude visibly strained himself not to look towards the trees. ‘I don’t know. I mean, he might be looking for shells. But up there? It’s risky — even for him. You saw him?’

  ‘I could smell him. I’m just wondering if he was in the area when the body was dropped.’

  ‘We could ask him, but I doubt he’ll tell you.’

  ‘Maybe he won’t have to. Not directly, anyway.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rocco? Contrary… dogged… astute.

  Capt. Michel Santer — Clichy-Nanterre district

  Didier Marthe’s home was a large, ramshackle house at the end of a twisting, narrow lane near the centre of the village. Following Claude’s directions, Rocco steered over a series of potholes and deep ruts into a wide, sunken yard containing an ancient manure heap, dark and evil-smelling. Twenty metres away, across from the house, a fast-flowing stream cut between the yard and a belt of poplar trees and disappeared towards what Rocco judged to be the road leading towards the station, where he and Claude had just driven. He recalled a slight hump in the road near the village outskirts, just before the first scattered houses, and guessed it might be where the stream ran beneath the road.

  He stopped the Citroen and climbed out, and. was struck immediately by the silence hanging over the property. Everywhere else he had been, from the village centre to the cemetery, birdsong was evident and plentiful; here there was none, only the clack-clack of a loose shingle on the side of an outbuilding.

  ‘Does he have a vehicle?’ There were none in sight, although plenty of recent tracks were evident in the dried mud of the yard. They criss-crossed each other, showing where the wheels followed the same route around the yard in a circle, entering and leaving.

  Claude nodded. ‘A Renault van for carrying his scrap. He’s probably got it with him.’

  ‘Where does he keep it?’ Rocco counted two barns and three smaller outbuildings scattered around the place. Most were as shaky as the house, but the barns looked plenty big enough to house cars, vans or tractors. He walked over to the nearest barn and kicked back one of the twin doors.

  The grey nose of a battered Renault stood inside.

  He touched the bonnet. ‘Hasn’t been used recently.’

  Claude stared at the van as if it might disappear in a puff of smoke. ‘Damn. I was sure he’d be out in it.’ He looked at Rocco. ‘Maybe it wasn’t him you saw in the woods.’

  ‘It was him.’ Rocco walked up to the front door and pounded on it with
his fist. The sound reverberated through the house. No answer. He tried again, the wood quivering and, just in case Didier Marthe had gone deaf, finished with a kick.

  ‘You don’t hold back, do you?’ said Claude. ‘Is this how they do things in Paris?’

  ‘No point pissing about — not in a murder enquiry.’ He knocked again, but the sound reverberated through the building.

  The front door was bracketed by two massive artillery shells. Although the casings were pitted and dull, the noses were shiny at the tip, as if a hand had been laid on them in benediction each time someone passed. To one side stood a heavy wooden bench fitted with an enormous metalworker’s vice and covered with a variety of hammers, pliers and hacksaws, and odd scraps of lead, brass and other rusted metal. The tools and cast-asides of Didier’s unusual trade.

  ‘Let’s just say he was in the woods looking for shells. Wouldn’t he have taken his van to haul them back in? No point making two trips.’

  ‘Of course, normally. But…’ Claude looked unsure, and for the first time it occurred to Rocco that the two men might be friends. Yet here he was assuming otherwise and relying on this man to help him.

  ‘Are you with me on this?’ he asked casually. ‘Because now’s the time if you want to bow out and go tend your roses. Is Marthe a friend of yours?’ It was rough, bordering on offensive, but he needed to know where they stood. Having Claude Lamotte working half-heartedly would only undermine his task.

  Claude looked offended. ‘Me and him — friends? That stunted little bigot? Christ, no. What made you think that?’ The denial had a natural ring of authenticity and Rocco breathed more easily.

  ‘Sorry. Just making sure. What’s his story, then? Is he married?’

  Claude puffed out his cheeks and inspected a small cannon shell lying on the table. ‘Not married, no. What sane woman would have him, with this lot? He arrived here about five years back, from somewhere further south. He’s openly communist and proud of it, but he’s no political brain. The only factor preventing him being a Trotskyite is he probably can’t spell it. He hates fascists, priests, Americans, the British, industrialists and Parisians… but not necessarily in that order. If he’s got any real friends, I’ve never met one, although he got pally for a while with a neighbour along the street. All in all, he keeps to himself, even when he’s in the cafe.’