Death on the Marais ilr-1 Read online

  He exchanged a look with Claude, then walked up the stairs, making no effort to hide his progress, but treading warily. By now, anyone here would know of their presence. If a startled owner was about to erupt out of a cupboard brandishing a lump of firewood, he wanted them to know he was coming.

  Like the downstairs, the upper level was one large area, with two single beds and two bunks. Two wardrobes and a mirror completed the furnishings. There was a bit more light here from a round porthole window at one end, just enough to see that there were no hiding places and everywhere looked clean.

  ‘Someone’s been here in the last half-hour,’ said Claude, as Rocco walked back downstairs. The footprints near the back door were still glistening, and it was clear that whoever had been here had progressed no further before turning and going back out.

  Rocco bent and checked the lock, a simple tumbler mechanism. There was no sign of the door having been forced, and the tongue was shiny and well oiled.

  ‘Whoever it was had a key.’ He pulled the door shut behind them and said, ‘Could be a cleaner.’

  Claude shrugged. ‘Not a local. I’d know otherwise. And why leave the place unlocked?’

  ‘Maybe we scared them off. Anywhere else we should look?’

  ‘Right here? Only one other place, smaller than this, at the back of the marais — but I just came by there on my way in. It’s a ruin… unused and wide open.’ He smiled. ‘A weekend visitor got drunk and hung himself from the ceiling a few years ago; the local kids believe it’s been haunted ever since and give it a wide berth.’ He gestured back at the lodge. ‘I was about to check this one when I heard your car. Some sounds carry through these trees.’

  Rocco led the way back towards his car. It all seemed perfectly normal. A small village, miles off the beaten track; a couple of lodges used for weekend parties of hunters and fishers. No rush, no fuss, no noise. What could be more innocent? It seemed odd that the owner or owners didn’t use someone from the village to clean for them, but it was hardly illegal.

  He noticed a small wooden jetty that he’d missed on his way to the second house. It jutted out onto the larger lake, sandwiched and almost hidden from view by the reeds. He veered off and stepped onto the planks, testing his weight first. He had no wish to go for an unscheduled swim, and no desire to drive back to the house in waterlogged clothing. But water had always held a strange fascination for him.

  ‘Watch yourself,’ called Claude. ‘You step off there, you’ll go straight down.’

  Rocco peered down into a murky brown sludge dotted with lily pads. The atmosphere here was heavy with the smell of rotting vegetation, and out on the water the air was thick with the swirl of flies and midges. Moorhens and coots, startled by his appearance, scuttled away protesting into cover, while a kingfisher flicked past and disappeared into the trees.

  ‘A few years ago,’ said Claude, joining him with care, the jetty quivering under their combined weight, ‘a kid on holiday jumped off one of the jetties here. Not this one, though. Nice day, warm weather, must have been the most natural thing in the world to go for a swim.’

  Rocco waited for the punch line.

  ‘His body came up three weeks later. It’s like soft toffee down there, waiting to grab you.’ Claude shivered and walked back. ‘Still gives me the creeps when I think about it — and I have to come out here regularly.’

  ‘Not nice.’

  ‘No. You ever used that in anger?’ Claude was looking down at Rocco’s gun. He’d forgotten he was still holding it.

  ‘A couple of times.’ He checked the safety and sighted on a log thirty metres away in the middle of the lake. He hadn’t been to the police range for a few weeks, although regulations required all officers to put in regular practice and submit score cards. Somehow he never found the time. He assumed the position and breathed in. ‘Firing.’

  The first shot smacked out and lifted a splash of water two metres beyond the log. It caused pandemonium in the trees, as a score of birds lifted in panic and streaked away into the sky, protesting loudly. The echoes of the gunshot followed them through the marais, followed by another two as Rocco pulled the trigger in quick succession. Another splash with the second shot, then the log exploded as the third one took the damp wood in the centre.

  He waved away a veil of gun smoke and looked at Claude. The garde champetre was staring at him, mouth open.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rocco said. ‘Looks like I need the practice.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Claude shook his head and stepped off the jetty. ‘Didn’t look that way to me.’

  They returned to the Citroen and Claude bummed a lift back to the village. Just before they reached the end of the track, he tapped Rocco’s arm and pointed off to one side. ‘Stop here a moment. There’s something I want to show you.’

  Rocco stopped the car and they climbed out. He followed Claude for fifty metres into the trees, where they emerged into a small clearing, the middle of which was taken up by a circular stretch of water approximately ten metres across.

  ‘It’s called the Blue Pool.’ Claude pointed into the water. ‘Take a look.’

  Rocco stepped up to the edge of the water and felt the hairs on his neck stand up.

  The water was crystal clear all the way to the bottom, and about the same depth as the deep end in a public swimming pool. It was also the same colour blue, and the sides were uniformly curved, like a giant soup bowl.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Rocco. He’d never seen anything like it. And after the impenetrable murk of the lake just a short distance away, it was a distinctly odd contrast.

  ‘Creepy, isn’t it?’ said Claude. He bent down and dug his fingers into the side of the pool just below the waterline. When he brought his hand back up, his fingers were covered in soft chalk, like cream cheese. ‘It’s something to do with the chalk and the chemicals in the soil. It never gets dirty except after a storm, when mud gets washed in, and always stays the same depth. And nobody ever goes swimming in here.’

  ‘Not even kids?’

  ‘Especially not kids.’ He pointed to the bottom. ‘See that small dark area right in the middle?’ He stood up and cast around until he found a short branch, heavy with mud. He dropped it into the water and hunkered down to watch. Within seconds, the branch, too heavy to float, began to slide down the curved side of the pool until it reached the centre.

  Then it was gone.

  Rocco couldn’t help it; he stepped back from the water’s edge with a start. ‘What the hell happened?’

  Claude shrugged. ‘I think it’s a freshwater spring, like a fumarole. Anything near the neck of the inlet gets sucked down by some kind of back pressure.’ He stood up and pulled a face. ‘Actually, I don’t have a clue how it works, but that’s what a water authority inspector told me a while back.’ He bent and scooped up a handful of water and tasted it. ‘Try it. It’s as good as Evian.’

  Rocco shook his head. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He tried not to think about what else might have got dragged down there over the years and left its traces behind. No wonder nobody swam in there: the very idea would give even strong men the jitters.

  As they walked back to the car, he looked back at the first lodge, silent and anonymous, shuttered against prying eyes.

  ‘I’d like to take a look inside,’ he said quietly. ‘What are the chances?’

  Claude stopped and pursed his lips. ‘I’ll see if anyone knows who owns it.’ He dipped a hand in his pocket and took out a slip of paper. ‘Damn — I forgot. I had a phone call this morning. Wouldn’t give me his name, said you wanted this urgently but he wants to be left out of it. He sounded a bit shifty.’

  Rizzotti. Rocco studied the names Claude had transcribed onto the back of an old fishing permit. The first was the senior magistrate who had signed the release papers for the dead woman. The second was the name of the dead woman herself, followed by an address. He felt his gut tighten. It was near the Bois de Boulogne, an area he knew well. Big houses, expensive c
ars, entryphones on the gates and armed guards for those who found that kind of accessory a necessary part of life. Not the kind of place you went calling unless you had a solid reason for being there.

  ‘She’s not just anyone,’ said Claude. It wasn’t a question — he’d written down the name and evidently recognised it.

  Rocco nodded. He didn’t really care about the magistrate who had signed the release; he would keep for later. But if Nathalie Bayer-Berbier was who he thought she was, then she certainly wasn’t just anyone.

  ‘I need to go to Paris,’ he said. He climbed in the car and motioned to Claude to get in. It was time to trust this man. ‘But not in this.’

  ‘You could go by train from Amiens. Hey — you’ve got a radio! I didn’t notice before.’ Claude began spinning the dials like a kid in a toy shop. ‘Is this police issue?’

  ‘No. I had to buy it. The Bayer-Berbier place is close to my old stamping grounds; there’s too much of a chance someone will recognise my car.’

  ‘Ah.’ Claude nodded in approval as the soft tones of Francoise Hardy filled the car, interspersed with a hiss of static. ‘Beautiful girl, lovely voice. I take it you’re not going to ask anyone’s permission, is that it?’

  ‘Yes. I wouldn’t want to disturb them.’ It might be awkward if one of his former colleagues spotted him and word got out. Quite apart from treading on toes — maybe even those of his old department — he’d probably find his way blocked by politics, the shutters brought down tight. A favour called in, like the early release papers signed so efficiently by a senior magistrate, and the entire story would disappear under the rug. At least going in fast now, he might get some information before that could happen. He considered calling Massin, then dismissed the idea. It would be seen as calling in a favour from a big gun, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  He drove back to Claude’s house while Claude continued playing with the radio, sweeping the airwaves in search of some music, muttering at the stations playing rock by British and American imports. He was relieved when they arrived back at the house. Parked outside was a grey 2CV Fourgonnette, like the baker’s car and a million others on the roads of France.

  ‘Yours?’ said Rocco.

  ‘Of course. The best transport for my job — when I’m not using my bike, anyway. Of course, it would be even better with one of these radios.’

  ‘Is that how you got to the marais — by bike?’

  ‘Don’t worry — I’ll pick it up some other time.’ He jutted his chin at the 2CV. ‘How about it? Take us no time at all to Paris.’

  ‘In that? I’d break something… or suffocate.’ Rocco tried to imagine himself squeezing into the driving seat, and couldn’t. It was built for midgets, not men of his build — and it had as much speed as a donkey.

  ‘Why not?’ Claude shrugged. He got out and jerked a thumb at a rack on the roof. ‘There are thousands of them in Paris. Put a ladder on top and nobody will look twice.’ He grinned. ‘Especially if I drive. She’s a bit temperamental, you see.’

  It had its merits, Rocco had to admit. But there was a major drawback. ‘Have you ever driven in Paris? It’s not like the roads here.’

  Claude’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I had a life, too, you know, before coming here. I was a cab driver for a while… in Paris and other places.’ He looked triumphant at Rocco’s surprised reaction. ‘I had my share of big-name clients. In fact,’ he tapped Rocco on the chest, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I knew the street where that poor woman lived better than you do.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Rocco? A safe pair of hands. Hard but safe. Is he coming back?

  Sous-Brigadier Etienne Stauff — Anti-drugs Initiative — Nice district

  The street was silent apart from the chirruping of house martins, with that deserted ambiance found only in exclusive neighbourhoods in the middle of a working afternoon. The kerbs either side were peppered with a democratic selection of dog turds and expensive cars, the former awaiting the unwary, the bumpers of the latter kissing gently in true Parisian fashion.

  ‘You sure this is a wise move?’ said Claude, not for the first time. ‘Berbier’s a powerful man. You could end up with your balls in a vice at the drop of a phone call.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Go through channels. Amiens. Massin. I know you don’t like him, but he could clear the way for you — maybe get the locals in Paris to approach Berbier instead. That would take the heat off you.’

  ‘It would also take days while they’re all bending over touching their toes. Whoever killed Nathalie Berbier is getting further away. The more time we lose, the harder it will be to nail them.’

  Claude was right, though: he was taking a risk coming here. Not checking in with the local prefecture first was a no-no, a breach of rules and etiquette. Even approaching the Bayer-Berbier family direct could have all manner of repercussions. But he figured he had the element of surprise on his side and that would be to his advantage, where going through channels would not. If he left it to the locals, they wouldn’t even get this far: the Bayer-Berbier name alone would be sufficient to put the block on any questions, the matter consigned for ever upstairs amid a welter of obstructive paperwork.

  He climbed out and walked along the street. He wasn’t expecting any obstacles, but his dark coat and air of confidence would help him pass muster from anyone watching the area. If that failed, he might have to use more direct means. He scanned the house numbers set in blue plaques on the gateposts as he went, eyeing the interior of the courtyards where gleaming limousines stood waiting to whisk their owners on the next journey into the capital. The traffic noise from a nearby intersection was a muted buzz over the rooftops, a comforting reminder of activity after the rural quiet of Poissons-les-Marais.

  He glanced back at the end of the street. He’d told Claude to stay on the move. Any longer than ten minutes in the same spot and a local patrol would be along to give the driver the once-over. With no rational explanation for being in the area, it would be inconvenient for both of them if they were pulled in.

  He found the number and a bell push alongside an entryphone. There were no identifying marks but he would soon find out if he’d got the right place.

  ‘Yes?’ an elderly woman’s voice squawked from the speaker grill.

  ‘Monsieur Berbier, please.’ A phone call twenty minutes ago had elicited the fact that Philippe Bayer-Berbier, industrialist, war hero, diplomat and friend of politicians throughout the land, was at home. The small lie about who the call was from had been easy, made simpler by cutting it short mid-sentence. Phone lines were occasionally unreliable in Paris, even in these exclusive quarters, and nobody gave an interrupted call much thought.

  ‘Who wants him?’

  The sharp response wasn’t quite what Rocco had expected, but he guessed it might have something to do with the death of a daughter of the house. Some normally mild-mannered people dropped completely out of character when faced with the death of a loved one.

  ‘Police.’

  The entryphone beeped once and there was a click as the gate locks disengaged.

  He stepped into a courtyard paved with cobbles. In the centre stood a dried-up fountain with a bronze cherub pointing a chubby finger towards the sky. A thin veil of green mould covered everything as if the sun rarely shone here, and the overall effect was sombre and melancholy. The only relief was a gleaming Citroen DS sitting low at rest on the far side of the fountain. A stocky young man in a dark suit was rubbing the rear window with a duster, his other hand hovering by the front of his jacket. He watched Rocco cross the yard but made no move to intercept him.

  Rocco spotted a recess leading into the building. Nothing so common as a front door, he thought, and wondered what had led to this architectural oddity. As he walked towards it, an elderly woman emerged. She was grey and stick-thin and looked as if a light breeze would pick her up and send her spinning away over the rooftops like a discarded paper tissue. Her skin was s
ickly white and mottled with age spots, her hair done in an elaborate perm which he was ready to bet was done once a week in an expensive salon off Boulevard Haussmann.

  ‘What do you want with my son?’ she demanded, gaze fixed on him like a bird of prey spotting a particularly juicy target. There was nothing frail or sickly about her eyes, he noted. Like twin coals in the dark.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he said politely, ‘that I can only discuss that with him.’

  ‘What is your authority?’ Her cheeks flushed red at his response, her annoyance clearly lurking just beneath the surface.

  ‘That, too, is something I need only reveal to Monsieur Berbier.’ He deliberately left off the Bayer part of the name to annoy her further. He had little time for the grandes dames of the city, who thought themselves above the law and able to parry questions from simple plodders like him by sheer force of personality or, when that failed, a bit of judicious name-dropping.

  She blew out her cheeks in frustration, then shrugged and beckoned him to follow. Rocco trailed her slowly up a flight of tiled stairs, her hand grasping an elaborate handrail and her asthmatic breathing loud and wheezing in the confined space. She was wearing a pair of faded and threadbare slippers, with baggy stockings bunched around spindly ankles. He caught a distinct tang of expensive perfume. Not that he was any expert; he used to buy perfume for Emilie, back in the days when it was still an acceptable negotiating tactic for the hours spent at work instead of home, but the numerous scents seemed to him to be simply a variation on a theme.

  When she arrived on the first landing, the old woman turned and put her face close to his.

  ‘My son is under a great deal of stress at the moment,’ she muttered savagely, her breath as sour as old milk. ‘Matters of state, of course. Important matters. I don’t want him upset further.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try, of course.’ He wondered if ‘matters of state’ was the new expression among the elite to cover a sudden death in the family. If so, they probably had an expression for the deceased being found wearing a Gestapo uniform and pumped full of drugs and alcohol, too.