Body on the Rocks: Crime in the south of France (Madame Renard Investigates Book 1)

by Rachel Green

  The captain went a little bit red in the face. “The matter was in hand.”

  “Pah!”

  He leaned forward, spreading his hands. “You can’t take the law into your own hands just because you feel like it.”

  “I wouldn’t have needed to if you’d been doing your job properly.”

  “Enough!” The captain sprang from his seat and slammed the table with the base of his right fist. “We follow procedure for a reason. We can’t have people blundering into the affairs of criminals and then expecting the police to bail them out. This is not a game. We have enough crimes to deal with as it is.”

  Margot glared back at him. She was sorely tempted to accuse him of being too scared to go to the garage but she held her tongue, despite the anger raging inside.

  “This is a police matter and you will stay out of it. Do I make myself clear?”

  Margot had no intention of staying out of it and she would not be silenced. This man was an imbecile and needed taking down a peg or two, but she could not win this battle, not here. “Perfectly.”

  “Good.”

  The captain calmed down. He returned to his seat, smoothing down his hair with a flattened palm. He was clearly a man who did not like to be riled. Margot watched him with narrowed eyes. He may have won this battle but he would not be winning the war. The air cleared.

  “Now. Is there someone you can call? A friend or a relative?”

  She nodded. She would call Pierre.

  “I would like you to ask them to come and collect you. And until they do I would strongly advise you remain here, in the gendarmerie.”

  Margot frowned at him. “But my friend lives in Paris. It’ll take him hours to get here.”

  “It is for your own safety, Madame. These people have already made one attempt on your life. There’s no guarantee they won’t try again.”

  If she wasn’t mistaken there was genuine concern in his voice. And that had a greater impact on her than anything he’d said so far.

  Chapter 15

  It was like her parents had been hauled in by the head: Margot sat in the corridor outside Captain Bouchard’s office while inside the pompous oaf lectured Pierre on her errant behaviour. How galling to have her fate decided by that jumped-up clown. When she’d called Pierre after being hauled in this morning, Captain Bouchard had taken over the phone and emphasised the seriousness of the situation. Pierre had come straight down, but for eight hours Margot had had to sit on a wooden chair in the waiting room, slowly going out of her mind with boredom. The longer it had gone on the more ridiculous the whole situation had seemed.

  And even now, after all that time, the two of them had been in there for over twenty minutes, discussing it man to man, cop to cop. It was enough to make her head boil. Seething, she took a cigarette from her bag, and while the corridor was still empty, smoked a good quarter before crumpling it into her ashtray.

  Finally, the two men emerged. They parted company with a firm handshake and Pierre came over with a small nod. The matter of her irresponsible behaviour had been settled, it appeared, and she was free to go. Margot got to her feet with undisguised relief. Captain Bouchard paused to sniff the air as they turned to leave; Margot treated herself to a smile on their way out.

  “You’ll be pleased to know the Procureur has ordered a full post-mortem,” Pierre said as they crossed the road to the mini-roundabout and took the pedestrian exit onto Rue Voltaire. “The case has been passed to an examining magistrate.”

  Progress at last. It seemed her actions had served a purpose after all.

  “They’ve also tested the DNA,” Pierre went on, stepping up behind her on the narrow footpath as a car went by. “The deceased were father and son, just as you suspected.”

  It was six o’clock and the bars and restaurants were starting to get busy. Margot couldn’t face the prospect of going home just yet so she steered Pierre into Place Saint-Marc and under the canopy of Le Paname where the lights were on and soft music was playing. The smell of chips frying in duck fat wafted out from inside, making her stomach grumble. After being cooped up inside the gendarmerie for all that time Margot was glad of some fresh air so she remained outside while Pierre went in to get drinks.

  She’d only been sat down a minute when her eyes alighted upon a familiar figure. Salt and pepper hair, pink linen shirt. Margot straightened her spine. On the opposite side of the square, the skipper from Carpe Diem was standing under the awning of the little chocolate shop, studying something in the window. Margot knew the shop well; the owner made a mouth-watering range of caramels and she could rarely resist the temptation to go in whenever she was passing. After disappearing inside for a few minutes, he emerged with a small white box tied up with ribbon. Who was he buying chocolates for? Margot smiled as she imagined him strolling her way, passing her table, a look of surprise taking over his face when he realised she’d been sitting there watching him the whole time. She stubbed out her cigarette and started to prepare a suitably pithy comment, but he took the other route out of the square instead and didn’t even notice her.

  Pierre came back with the drinks. Margot produced a smile. “Are you going to tell me now what you know about Enzo Bellucci?”

  One by one, Pierre removed the coffee things from the tray and arranged them on the table between them. “We shouldn’t even be having this conversation. I promised Captain Bouchard you would stay out of it.”

  “I trust you had your fingers crossed.”

  Pierre rolled his eyes. He picked up his espresso and snatched a sip. “Officially, he owns a shipping company in Marseilles; unofficially he runs an organised crime group.”

  “Is Paolo part of the business?”

  “As far as we know he takes no active role. Their father died fifteen years ago and the two of them moved over from Italy. There was a rift of some kind.”

  “The impression I got was that Enzo knew nothing about the smuggling. He was offering to make it all go away.”

  “Given his connections I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Who’s he got in his pocket?”

  “No one we know of, but money talks. You know how it is.”

  Margot lit a fresh cigarette. “What’s his bag?”

  “Drugs. Extortion. The shipping company’s legitimate but who’s going to notice the odd container going astray?”

  “So why hasn’t he been arrested?”

  Pierre regarded her as if she were naïve. He took another sip of his coffee and put down his cup. “Come on, Margot, you know how these things work. Unless you’ve got cast iron evidence you can’t go around arresting people like that. His lawyers would make idiots of us.”

  Margot wearily shook her head and looked up at the darkening sky. A dot of white light blinked away as a helicopter headed out to sea. Anyone would think the police were afraid of him. Sometimes it seemed like they were all still stuck in the playground, with the bullies and the gangs trying to run people’s lives. But Margot wasn’t giving in to them. The more she learned about these people the more determined she was to do something. She tapped the ash from her cigarette.

  “Do any of the drugs end up in Paris?”

  Pierre looked at her with soulful eyes before laying a hand upon hers. “There’s no connection between Enzo’s group and the people who killed Hugo.”

  Margot withdrew her hand and moved her eyes elsewhere. She took a long draw on her cigarette. Maybe there was no direct connection, but they were all links in a chain, each one as guilty as the next. She turned back.

  “I heard him say he’s got a shipment coming in.”

  Pierre’s ears pricked up. “Did he say where or when?”

  Margot shook her head. She played with her thoughts for a while and then shared a small smile with herself. No, he hadn’t said where or when, but the idea of finding that out suddenly appealed to her.

  ***

  The crime-scene officers were just packing up when Margot and Pierre got back to the house. No fing
erprints had been found on any of the fragments of glass, and there was nothing amongst the debris that might shed light on the perpetrator’s identity. Hardly surprising. Professionals rarely left traces.

  Pierre was needed back in Paris but he seemed reluctant to leave. Every time Margot tried to bid him farewell he made an excuse not to go.

  “Have you got somewhere to stay tonight?”

  She couldn’t stay here, that was for sure. Everything was still soaking wet or reeked of smoke. “Madame Barbier offered me her spare room. And the insurance company said they would pay for a hotel.”

  “You must let Captain Bouchard know what you decide. But no one else.”

  Margot touched his arm reassuringly. It was seven p.m. and he really needed to be heading back. “Honestly, Pierre. I’ll be fine. Thank you for coming down.”

  Still, he remained to help clear up. They bagged up everything that was beyond repair and then Pierre carried the bags down to the bin store at the end of the lane. It was all such a horrible mess. Shortly after he’d gone out for the second time another figure appeared at her front door. Margot’s eyes widened when she turned to find Raul looking in from her doorstep.

  “Oh my God! Madame – this is your house?” His eyes travelled around the room in amazement.

  Margot paused, dustpan and brush in hand. “What remains of it, yes.”

  He stepped inside. “I heard the fire engine last night. Someone said the house belonged to the police inspector’s widow …” He seemed perplexed.

  “That would be me.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Really? I’m famous throughout the town.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No. It’s just me here and I’m fine.”

  Pierre came back just at that moment and halted on the threshold, giving Raul an up-and-down look. Margot could sense his policeman’s brain ticking over and quickly explained: “Pierre, this is Raul. A new acquaintance of mine.” And then to Raul: “Pierre’s a policeman. He used to work with my husband.”

  Raul stepped forward and the two men shook hands. “I’m very pleased to meet you, monsieur.”

  Pierre tipped his head.

  “And forgive me.” Raul turned back to Margot. “I only came round to be nosey. But now I’m here you must let me help.”

  He took the dustpan and brush from her and quickly set to work. He was down on his hands and knees before Margot could utter a word of protest. Not that she minded; an extra pair of hands would certainly help. She fetched another roll of bin liners from the kitchen.

  “What an awful thing to have happened,” Raul said. “How on earth did it start?”

  Margot was too tired to go through it all again. She squatted down next to him and tossed some more of her damaged books into a bin liner. “Oh, you know – a discarded cigarette, a fallen candle. It doesn’t take much.”

  “And you were at home at the time?”

  She nodded. “I managed to stop it spreading with my hosepipe.”

  “But your things …” Raul abruptly stopped what he was doing and cast his eyes over the debris in front of them as if horrified by the way he’d been treating her possessions. He looked like he wanted to drop the dustpan in disgust.

  “They’re just things,” Margot said. “They can all be replaced.”

  Though just at that moment she spotted a half-burnt photograph on the floor and recognised it immediately. It was one of their wedding photos, taken at the reception at the Pavillon Royal when Hugo had drunk too much and was sat slumped at the table, his cheek propped with a fist, while two of his nieces painted his face with comedy eyebrows. How they’d teased him.

  With a heavy heart she stretched to pick it up. The rest of the set were just as badly damaged. Raul moved to her side. “Your husband?”

  Margot nodded.

  He lightly touched her shoulder. “Perhaps not all things can be replaced so easily,” he said softly.

  And maybe it was the thoughtful way in which he said it that caused her resolve to break, or it could have been the accumulation of emotion building up inside her. Whatever the reason, Margot’s façade slipped and she let out a small, clenched sob.

  Pierre moved to come over but Raul got there first. He slid an arm across her back and tenderly squeezed her shoulder. Together they retrieved the remaining photos with the greatest of care.

  ***

  Pierre and Raul carried out the remains of the furniture and stacked it outside Monsieur Barbier’s house – he’d kindly offered to take it to the dump in his truck. By the time they’d finished clearing it was growing dark. All that remained of Margot’s sitting room was a foul-smelling blackened shell.

  A neighbour brought round a bottle of cold red wine so the three of them retired to the courtyard to drink it – the wrought-iron table and chairs were pretty much the only usable pieces of furniture Margot had left. The electricity company had advised her to keep the power switched off so they sat in the glow of a dozen tea-lights. The reality of losing her home had finally started to sink in. No comfy bed to retire to, no novel waiting on her bedside table. Houses were more than just bricks and mortar. At nine o’clock Pierre finally made the decision to go.

  “You will be all right tonight, won’t you?” he said, standing.

  “Of course.” Margot got up and kissed him on both cheeks. They held hands, and she smiled fondly. “There’s no need to worry.”

  “Will you be staying with Madame Barbier?”

  “Actually, I thought I’d try a hotel. I’d better make some calls.”

  She picked up a tea-light and went to retrieve her phone. She tried Le Méridien but they were full. The only other hotel she liked was Le Place Bleu but all they had available was an apartment on the roadside elevation and she could imagine how noisy it got. She put a brave face on as she wandered back to the courtyard.

  “Looks like I’ll be staying at Madame Barbier’s after all. Everywhere’s full.”

  “You don’t sound so keen,” Pierre said.

  “They’re very nice but they haven’t really got much space.” Plus, they were a couple of old fusspots.

  Raul got to his feet. “You’re welcome to stay on my yacht,” he said, and turned to Pierre as if to gain his approval. “It’s plenty big enough for two.”

  Margot blinked in surprise. “That’s a very kind offer but I couldn’t possibly.”

  “You would be doing me a favour. It would be nice to have company.”

  “But I hardly know you.”

  “Then you can get to know me.”

  Margot hesitated. Of the options available to her this was easily the most tempting. But she remained silent, leaving Raul to continue,

  “You’ll have your own cabin. Carpe Diem sleeps up to eight. And you can lock your door.”

  “In case you decide to murder me in my sleep, you mean?”

  “Do I look like a psychopath?”

  “Looks can be deceptive. Besides, how do you know you’ll be safe from me?”

  There was a pause while he gave that some thought, a smile not far from his lips. “It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  “Then perhaps we should both lock our doors,” Margot said, and was surprised when a spark passed between them.

  Pierre noisily cleared his throat, making Margot look round. For a moment she’d almost forgotten he was there.

  “Where is this yacht?” he asked.

  “It’s moored in the harbour,” Margot said. “It’s called Carpe Diem.”

  “I’ll need to let Captain Bouchard know. Just to be safe.”

  Raul puffed out his chest. “She will be perfectly safe with me, Monsieur. I give you my word.”

  Margot and Pierre shared a longer look. Raul still had no idea about the true cause of the fire and she felt guilty about involving him whilst keeping him in the dark. She wouldn’t want to put him in any danger. But then, it was only for one night. She retrieved her glass from the table and downed what remained o
f her wine.

  “Very well,” she smiled. “Thank you, Raul. I would love to spend the night on board your yacht.”

  Chapter 16

  Carpe Diem was much bigger on the inside than Margot had imagined. Four wide ladder steps led down from the cockpit to a large salon where a semi-circular sofa curved around a polished oak table. The seats were thickly padded and upholstered in soft cream leather. On the port side, a large galley came equipped with twin sinks, two large freezers, a microwave, a stove on a gimbal, all of which would have looked at home in a professional kitchen. Raul led her through the galley to a short corridor at the end of which was the guest cabin – Margot was amazed when he opened the door to reveal a room with a full-size double bed, a wardrobe, lamps on side tables and an adjoining room with a toilet, sink and sparkling white shower cubicle.

  “There are fresh towels in here.” He indicated one of the many cupboards. “And extra pillows in the drawer under the bed.”

  It was as luxurious as a high-end hotel. Everything Margot touched was made from either polished wood or thick quality leather. She couldn’t begin to imagine how much a boat like this had cost.

  “Shall I leave you to unpack while I start on dinner?” Raul said, depositing her overnight bag on the chest at the end of the bed. “I’m making steak au poivre. I hope that’s all right?”

  He seemed keen that she agree. Margot nodded eagerly; the only thing she’d eaten all day was a cheese and ham sandwich at the gendarmerie and that had tasted like Captain Bouchard had made it himself.

  “Is there somewhere I can put this?” She unzipped the side pocket of her bag and took out Hugo’s medal. “I didn’t like leaving it in an empty house.”

  Raul raised a hand to accept it and Margot placed it in his palm. He studied it, seemingly impressed. “Was this your husband’s?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s a police Honour medal. He must have been a very brave policeman.”

  “He was killed while on duty.”

  “How tragic.”