Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  She frowned. ‘Use the cave – the cellar – of course.’ Then her face cleared. ‘Wait – you don’t know about the cellar?’

  ‘Didn’t know, never had cause to look,’ he replied honestly. It was the truth. He’d never been concerned with storing anything so hadn’t ventured to search.

  ‘Honestly, you men.’ She grabbed him by the wrist. ‘Come with me. I know there is one because the previous tenant used to complain about the steps being too steep.’

  She bustled off, and led him to his kitchen, where she pointed to a cupboard door beneath the stairs. ‘It’s under there – a trapdoor in the floor.’

  Rocco opened the door and sure enough saw a square cut-out in the floorboards. When he lifted it, he saw a flight of stone steps going down into the dark.

  ‘It’s not very deep so you’ll have to stoop,’ said Mme Denis. ‘It’s perfectly dry and there’s room for some bottles and vegetables and what-not and …’ She turned on him. ‘And I can’t believe you didn’t find this already!’ She slapped him on the arm. ‘How do you think we store food in the countryside without all the modern trucs you city folk use?’

  Rocco shrugged. ‘I don’t know … I assumed you just hung it from a tree wrapped in a dead animal skin.’

  This earned him another slap, this time accompanied by a smile. ‘Idiot. Eat your pie and put the rest down there.’

  When she had gone, he inspected the pie. It was quite heavy and looked substantial enough for at least two hearty meals. He cut a wedge out of it for his dinner and prepared some potatoes, then put them on to boil while he placed the rest of the pie on a ledge in the cellar, which was little more than a brick-lined two-metre square hole in the ground, and surprisingly cool after the heat of the day outside. Then he took a walk around his garden and thought about his future.

  Leaving this place would be getting back to what he knew best, which was the city and its fast-moving atmosphere, with little time to relax or wonder what was coming next. Crime in Paris was like nowhere else, fuelled by a cultural mix from all over France, North Africa and the rest of Europe. Given the correct documentation, people were now able to travel legally more easily than ever before in their search for work and a new life. And, for those who cared little for constraints or social conventions, there was ample opportunity to feed off the more law-abiding of its citizens and the increasing wealth around them.

  Thoughts of Paris reminded him of Vauquelin. The lawyer had behaved no differently from most of his kind when a client was confronted by the police. He’d been suspicious, coolly aggressive and defensive. But there had been something in the man’s demeanour and even his presence at the château that made Rocco wonder at his hostility.

  He went inside, picked up the telephone and called a Paris number. If anyone could find information about the lawyer it would be Captain Michel Santer, his old boss and mentor in the Clichy-Nanterre district. A fount of knowledge on all matters of justice in the Paris metropolis, what he didn’t know he could usually find out very quickly from his legion of contacts built up over many years. Overweight and tough as a Seine barge-master, he would no doubt make Rocco pay for the favour in some way – usually with food – but it would be worth every centime in the end.

  ‘Vauquelin?’ Santer echoed, once they had got past the customary exchange of friendly banter. ‘Maître Vauquelin?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Rocco. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Of him, yes – and not much of it pleasant. I’ve never crossed swords with him, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m far too low down the ladder for that. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He’s popped up in this area, representing a local artist who might be mixed up in a case I’ve been asked to look at.’

  ‘An artist, huh? They’re said to be a passionate lot. Probably all the paint fumes and lack of good food. Anything juicy?’

  ‘Bourdelet.’

  There was a pause, then Canter swore softly. ‘Mère de Dieu! You mean Secretary–’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘How the hell did you get lumbered with that? They might as well have given you a stick of dynamite and told you to shove it down your trousers!’

  ‘I think the Interior Ministry must like my sparkling wit and go-get-them attitude.’

  ‘I hope you don’t live to regret it. You know cases like that can be a killer, don’t you? Especially if you stumble on the kind of information the people at the top don’t want to hear. It’s called shooting the messenger.’

  ‘So I’ve been told. Anyway, this lawyer Vauquelin also calls himself an artist’s agent.’

  ‘Fancy that. Artists have agents, too, do they? Like film stars. They’ll be making records next. Listen, the short answer is, I don’t know anything definite, but I’ll ask around and get back to you.’

  ‘Thanks, Michel. I appreciate it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Here it comes, thought Rocco, and smiled to himself. He hadn’t seen Santer in a little while, so it would be good to get together again. But his captain was about to make him pay for the privilege.

  ‘You heard me.’ Santer laughed. ‘If you remember the last time we spoke, over that Vieira killing a little while back, I mentioned a new restaurant I’d heard was doing a nice line in seafood. I could do with trying it out – just for research, you understand.’

  Rocco laughed. ‘I remember. Langoustine in garlic butter followed by smoked salmon, I think you said.’

  ‘And a nice Chablis – premier cru, of course. That’s the one. Glad there’s nothing wrong with your memory, even if your choice of work is a bit suspect. The restaurant’s on the outskirts of Montigny, in an old mansion, so not far from your place. It’s called Le Vieux Poêle. I reckon I can spare some time to meet up with one of my star pupils.’

  ‘It’s a deal – but don’t blame me if your heart explodes one day.’

  ‘There are worse ways to go, my friend. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow. Luckily tomorrow’s a half-day off for me, so let’s meet up in Montigny for lunch, say twelve-thirty?’

  ‘You’ll have something that soon?’ He’d expected to wait forty-eight hours at least for Santer to tap into the grapevine of police contacts. Plainly he had underestimated the man.

  ‘I already know who to ask. I just need to pin him down – he’s a busy man. Don’t worry, Lucas, it’ll be worth it, I promise.’

  Rocco couldn’t argue with that. With his current workload, anything he could learn from Santer would be useful. It could well be that any snippets about Vauquelin were purely gossip and unhelpful, but that was police work: some you won, some you lost.

  Twenty-four

  Commissaire Francois Massin had never been one for mixing at the kind of social levels of Secretary Bourdelet, Judge Jules Petissier or even former Director General Gambon. He had never been much of a socialite and, after his fall from military grace in Indochina, any kind of interaction with such people had become too much of a potential ordeal. Many senior members of the establishment had served in the military and were likely to be amply acquainted with Massin’s past. The military world was small and tight-knit, and chatting to men whom he suspected would look at him with barely-concealed distaste was something Massin preferred not to do. He didn’t fail to see the irony in this additional lack of courage, but was prepared to live with it.

  Yet still there was buried away inside him a need to know what his contemporaries and those above them truly thought of him. Had his service in the police helped to gloss over the memories of the disgrace? Or was his reputation following him around still, like a noxious smell, to be revived and chewed over the moment he put in an appearance?

  The answer was, he didn’t know. And since nobody had come out and voiced an opinion over the years, about which he was both grateful and a little suspicious, he wondered if this exercise he had decided to undertake in place of Rocco might provide some answers, whether positive or negative.

  In any event, this e
vening would be the first test, prompted by an embossed invitation he’d found in his personal mail, and felt like jumping off a cliff. It was one of the regular gatherings of senior police personnel which he’d previously been happy to avoid, held at a plush venue outside Versailles. They were designed to instil a sense of comradeship among the officer corps while smoothing over any inter-regional problems that occasionally occurred. He knew that many of the officers attending, including some retired high-ranking members invited as a courtesy, had contacts high up in the establishment, and were not the kind to hide their lights under a bushel, especially when alcohol was flowing and everyone felt comfortable in the company of equals. If there was any gossip circulating, it would be a useful place to start.

  He handed the invitation card to a male receptionist at the front desk. The man took it with a faint frown, shrugged and placed it to one side without looking at it.

  Massin took a glass of champagne from a table and walked into the main hall, where he did a tour of the room. Nodding occasionally, exchanging a greeting here and there, gradually he felt himself settling in among them while resisting the urge to turn and flee for the obscurity of the darkness outside.

  ‘Ah, Massin.’ A voice sounded in his ear. He turned to find himself face to face with a man he hadn’t seen in a long while. Contrôleur Généralde Police Nationale Alexandre Ceyton had always been genial, especially when he was first assigned a position in the force. ‘It’s good to see you,’ Ceyton said, and shook his hand with no evident censure.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Massin noticed a few looks from officers around them. With the confident manner and good looks of a film star, Ceyton’s approach immediately placed Massin among the ranks of the accepted.

  ‘You’ve been absent too long from these gatherings. How is Amiens treating you?’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ said Massin. ‘It suits me very well.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad you decided to come this evening. It’s always useful to have a full house at these events.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I heard you’ve had some interesting occurrences up there, including the death of a gang leader and that planned attempt on de Gaulle last year. I always thought it would be too remote up in Picardie for there to be such problems, but apparently not. What was the name of your officer who dealt with those? I should know the name but it escapes me.’

  ‘Rocco, sir. Inspector Rocco.’ Massin hid his surprise that this senior officer had such instant recall of the events, among all the other crimes throughout the country. He felt rather than saw other men bending an ear nearby, no doubt wondering about his friendship with such a senior member of the hierarchy.

  ‘Rocco. Yes, I remember now. Isn’t he the one handling the Bourdelet thing?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Ceyton pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Rather him than me. Like being thrown into a bed of nettles in one’s underwear. Still, he sounds capable and you’ve clearly got a good hand on the tiller, so I’m sure he’ll survive.’ He leaned forward and said, ‘Good thing he weathered the de Gaulle thing, though. It would have been a real stinker for his promotional prospects if the big man had gone down, wouldn’t it?’ He gave a grim laugh and was joined by chuckles from two other men who had moved closer, attracted by the topic of conversation.

  ‘So, you’re Massin,’ said one, eyeing him appraisingly over his glass of champagne. ‘I’ve heard things about you.’ He murmured his own name and introduced the man next to him. Both names Massin instantly forgot. He shook their hands and wondered if what they had heard was good or bad.

  ‘I’m in Nantes district,’ the newcomer continued. ‘I’ve had a couple of men recently interested in moving somewhere else, and both enquired about transfers to your region. What do you do up there to arouse such interest? I know you don’t pay better than anywhere else, and the weather’s no better, so what’s the secret?’

  ‘No secret,’ said Massin. ‘We’re just doing our jobs. No different from yours, I suspect. And we got lucky a couple of times.’ He hoped that didn’t sound stuffy or self-deprecating. People at this level were suspicious of pomp or false modesty, and neither did he wish to downplay Rocco’s part in the investigations.

  The man nodded in acknowledgment. ‘Good point. Luck plays a big part. But you have to be able to capitalise on it when it comes along – as you and your team evidently did.’

  The third man joined in. ‘I’m in Touraine and our analysis is that the wider corridor between Paris and the ports of La Manche is going to see a surge of growth in the coming years. And you’re sitting bang in the middle, Massin. Of course, a lot depends on whether Britain is allowed to join the Common Market.’

  Ceyton gave a chuckle. ‘Somehow I can’t see that happening, although you’re right: if trade grows then so will a need for effective policing to cope with the increased infrastructure.’ He looked at Massin. ‘Do any of your men speak English, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘A couple,’ he replied easily. ‘I do, a little, as does my deputy, Perronnet. Rocco, too. In fact, he went over to Scotland Yard last year to discuss the English gang suspected of involvement in the de Gaulle issue you just mentioned.’

  ‘Damn,’ the second of the two officers muttered with a wry smile. ‘You’ve got the territory sewn up already, haven’t you?’ He laughed. ‘I’ll be contacting you for help if I need to send anyone to England, you can be sure of that.’

  Later, having circulated and noticed only one or two signs of recognition in men’s faces, Massin found himself back again with Ceyton, who was standing on the edge of the room studying the crowd and looking, thought Massin, faintly bored.

  ‘You look as impatient to be away as I am,’ Ceyton commented. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, I enjoy these functions as much as the next man, but they can be rather wearing. The Americans swear by it for sounding people out. They call it pressing the flesh.’ He gave Massin a sideways look. ‘Tell me, what’s your real reason for being here? Is it anything to do with Rocco’s potential move back to Paris?’

  The question caught Massin off guard. He had no idea that the subject of Rocco’s new job was common knowledge. His reaction must have been visible because Ceyton looked around and said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not public yet, which is why I didn’t mention it earlier.’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, it was tempting with those two so eager to listen in to our chat. That would have ruined their evening.’

  ‘I see.’ Massin didn’t, entirely, but didn’t know what else to say. This conversation was moving far above his head, perhaps a result of his not having been to these gatherings before.

  ‘You won’t be aware,’ Ceyton continued smoothly, ‘but I’ve been on the planning panel from the beginning in discussions about the proposed Brigade de Recherche et d’Intervention or BRI. It’s something of a touchy subject in some quarters. There’s the cost, of course, of setting up the force, and there are libertarians in the establishment who feel it’s merely a subversive way of expanding the powers of the police, a sort of addition to the CRS. It’s not, believe me.’

  Massin nodded. From what little he’d heard, the new BRI would be like a scalpel compared with the blunt hammer of the CRS. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I doubt Rocco would be interested otherwise.’

  Ceyton nodded, and looked at him as if searching his face for clues. ‘Why have you never been to one of these before?’

  ‘It’s never been my thing, to be honest.’

  ‘Nor mine. I’d get out of it, too, if I could, and my wife would certainly appreciate me spending more time at home.’ He had a sharp twinkle in his eyes and gave Massin a friendly smile. ‘Yet you suddenly turn up out of the blue and manage to look as if you’ve been a regular. What are you after? Come on, you can tell me. I came here deliberately to make contact with a couple of specific individuals, so you’re not alone in having an agenda.’

  Massin felt a drumming in his ears. He swallowed. He might as well be honest with this man. After all, what
was the worst that could happen? ‘It’s a work question,’ he replied. ‘I’m looking for inside information, I suppose you’d call it … of a sensitive nature.’

  ‘Sounds interesting,’ Ceyton said, and snatched up two fresh glasses from a passing tray. ‘A senior uniform doing some detecting. How unusual. Do tell, is it a current case?’

  Massin hesitated, but since Ceyton had already mentioned Bourdelet, it was pointless trying to avoid it. And refusing to answer questions from such a senior officer would look highly suspicious.

  ‘It’s partly the Bourdelet case,’ he said, ‘but Rocco’s been assigned to two more just like it. Judge Petissier and Director General Gambon were victims of the same blackmail letter.’ He gave a brief summary of the reactions to the letters and Rocco’s search for the blackmailer.

  Ceyton lifted both eyebrows. ‘I heard about that. What is it you’re after, specifically?’

  Massin told him. Links, he explained, between the three men. Someone had to have known the backgrounds of all three, specifically that they had purchased forged or copied paintings of old works of art. It wasn’t the kind of information one could stumble on by chance, since none of the men would have been keen to have their peccadilloes aired outside their close circle of friends. ‘Find the links, is Rocco’s belief,’ he finished, ‘and we could be a lot closer to finding out who knew all three men. Who could be responsible for sending the letters.’