To Rocco it was a reasonable set of indicators. At some point a green moped had been ridden down this lane, wandering off the firm surface slightly at this point, which was probably easy to do, and onto softer ground. A few metres further on, it had fallen over and lost a chip of paint, also spilling a small quantity of fuel that had settled in a hole in the tarmac.
But where was the moped now?
His attention was drawn to a small tangle of hay rolling along the road in the breeze. Like tumbleweed in a Western, he thought; all it needs is the music and the sounds of jangling spurs. It brought to mind Rizzotti’s mention of the straw and hay attached to the dead man’s clothing.
‘There’s a barn or a cowshed around here somewhere,’ he said, voicing his thoughts aloud. ‘Rizzotti reckons the dead man must have spent the night sleeping out before he got this far.’
‘There’s one along there,’ said Desmoulins, pointing up the road. ‘I came down that way just now. It’s a ramshackle old place. Do you want to take a look?’
Rocco hesitated, ‘Might as well, seeing as I’m here. You never know.’
They walked to Desmoulins’ car and drove back up the lane, and soon came to a field with a barn close to the road. Desmoulins was right: it was certainly ramshackle, with gaping holes in the sides where some of the wooden slats had given up the fight and fallen away, and long weeds growing on all sides giving testimony to it having been deserted for a long time.
Rocco climbed out, hopped over the gate to the field, and walked round to the back of the barn and the main doorway. At least, it had been a doorway once; now it was just an opening with a pile of rotting planks where part of the structure had fallen down.
‘Have you seen this?’ Desmoulins had circled round the barn from the other side, and was squatting down and pointing at the ground, where a patch of mud showed beneath the grass. It was a clear tyre track and half a footprint. ‘A moped tyre; could be the same as the one we saw down the road.’
Rocco entered the barn, disturbing a couple of small birds in the roof, and looked around. Most of the space inside was taken up by an ancient two-wheeled trailer with shafts, the wood collapsing into the weeds and hard-packed soil beneath. But at the other end of the structure was a collapsed pile of straw covered in moss, and above it an old manger containing the remains of a hay bale hanging from the wall by a single bolt.
It didn’t look promising until he saw that a section of straw had been pulled out and turned over, and revealed a dent where someone had been sleeping.
‘Looks like we found his final room for the night,’ said Desmoulins. ‘But what does it tell us?’
‘Not much,’ Rocco replied. ‘It’s a link in the chain, no more than that. What puzzles me is whether the killer knew he’d stopped here, or happened along at the moment he was out on the road.’
‘Bit convenient.’
‘Or he waited for him to leave. Easier to strike out in the open.’
With no further clues, they got back in the car and Desmoulins drove back to the ditch and dropped Rocco off. Rocco handed him the envelope containing the paint fragment. ‘Give the filler cap and this fragment to Rizzotti and ask him to check the colour. It’s a long shot but worth a try.’
‘Will do.’ Desmoulins waved goodbye and Rocco walked back up the slope towards Les Sables, running various scenarios through his mind, discarding the most outlandish. By the time he reached the top, only two solid ones remained.
One: the victim had been on foot and somebody had happened along on a moped and knocked him over. As far as Rocco was aware, there were no sharp, spiked elements on a moped capable of causing such a fatal wound… unless the rider had been a farmworker carrying a fork. It might account for the paint fragment and the spilled fuel. In a panic, the accidental assailant might have rolled the body into the ditch and gone on his way. Result: an accident.
Two: Vieira – and he couldn’t now separate the name from the victim – had arrived here on a moped, evidenced perhaps by the tyre track in the barn and the hay and straw which Rizzotti said was on his suit, and somebody had stopped him and killed him. Result: murder.
He shook his head. It didn’t explain why or who. And until they found who might have benefitted from his death, that was how it might stay.
He walked back up the slope and climbed the fence into the property, head buzzing with possibilities and improbabilities alike. Everything looked so peaceful here, as it had no doubt for generations. A nice, pleasant spot if you liked a quiet life away from the rush. He caught a glimpse of Claude standing to one side of the house, his shotgun under his arm. Then he noticed his colleague had his free hand against his chest, and was making a covert signal. Moments later Rocco understood why.
Gerard Monteo had appeared at the corner of the building and was striding purposefully towards him.
‘Inspector,’ Monteo greeted him coolly. ‘I decided to come out here for a look at the house, and it’s a good thing that I did. Your man Lamotte tells me you were off making a survey of the fields around the house, checking… he said something about an outer perimeter. I don’t pretend to understand what that might be, but is it necessary? Under the circumstances I’d have thought you’d be better employed sticking close to Bouanga, don’t you?’
‘That’s one way of looking at it.’ Rocco stared down at the Ministry man with a feeling of irritation. Was this how it was going to be – watched, monitored and criticised every step of the way by this suit? If so he was going to have to nip it in the bud, otherwise he’d never have a moment’s peace to get on with his job. ‘Have you ever protected anybody?’
‘No, of course not. Why would I?’
‘No reason. It’s just that there’s not much point sticking close to a target if an attacker decides to stay back at a distance and use a rifle.’ He stepped past Monteo and walked towards the house. It wasn’t a wise move being so blunt with the man, but neither was taking instruction from a bureaucrat who didn’t know the first thing about policing.
He found Delicat in the kitchen talking softly with his wife, who was chopping vegetables. They stopped speaking when they saw Rocco, and turned to face him. The air smelled of a variety of spices and a pot was steaming on a large cooker nearby.
‘Monsieur Delicat,’ said Rocco, ‘did you happen to see any children anywhere near here yesterday morning?’
For a long moment he thought the man wasn’t going to reply. His face was a blank canvas and showed no signs of having understood what Rocco had said. Yet he was sure Delicat wasn’t quite as dumb as he might be pretending, or as Bouanga had intimated. There was something about the man that spoke of keen intelligence.
‘I did not,’ Delicat said at last, his voice a thin echo in the kitchen. ‘There has been nobody else here save you and your colleague. And now the other man.’
‘But you were out in the field yesterday, were you not, overlooking the lane?’ He was only guessing, but at a distance, with possibly poor eyesight, it would be understandable if Matthieu had mistaken the small figure of Delicat for that of a child. It would be equally understandable if the bodyguard had witnessed something down in the lane but had no desire to involve himself with a police enquiry in a foreign land.
Another delay in replying, and again Rocco thought the man hadn’t understood. But Delicat nodded. ‘That is so. I wanted to see what was out there.’
‘And did you?’
‘There was nothing. A tractor on the road, that was all.’
Rocco thanked him, and was about to leave when he spotted the bow and quiver of arrows through the doorway, now hanging on the wall in the hall. A disturbing thought popped into his head and he gestured towards them. ‘May I take one of your arrows to show a friend?’ He said it casually, but was watching Delicat to gauge his reaction.
The bodyguard shrugged without hesitation, his face a blank. ‘If you wish.’
Rocco thanked him and lifted out one of the arrows as he passed. It was as long as his forearm and
slimmer than his little finger. The notched end was fitted with a small feathered flight and the point was plain and, he assumed, fire-hardened, rather than being made of stone or metal. The wood was smooth and elaborately decorated, and he wondered at the hours that might have gone into making it.
He felt a fleeting moment of doubt. Maybe he was tilting at windmills, seeing solutions where there were none. He was also wondering what was really going on here. Bouanga had referred to Delicat as speaking ‘barely the basics’ in French. Yet from the careful way Delicat had spoken, while it was evident that his French might be limited, he clearly understood enough to engage in conversation. Was Bouanga playing games for reasons of his own, perhaps to keep his staff from being asked awkward questions? It made him realise that he and Claude would be better not talking too freely about what they were doing in front of the bodyguard, in case it was reported back and the ousted minister from Gabon was able to use the information in some way.
Claude was patrolling the stretch of ground behind the house. He turned when he saw Rocco approaching, eyes dropping to the arrow in Rocco’s hand. ‘Going hunting? You know using a bow makes that thing far more effective.’
‘I just had an irrational thought,’ said Rocco. ‘But I have to check it out. I gather Monteo spoke to you?’
‘The tick from the Ministry, you mean? Yes, I think he had a job acknowledging my presence, but he managed to keep a straight face. He seems to think we have glaring gaps in the protective wall of steel you and I have thrown around Bouanga. I said we could always find a gun for him to lend us a hand but he didn’t seem keen.’ He paused. ‘I hear you’re taking Mme Denis to the hospital this afternoon. That’s very neighbourly of you.’
Rocco looked at him. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how he knew that, but he stopped himself in time. The village gossip chain made sure that any news worth hearing, and a lot that wasn’t, hit the ground running. ‘When did you hear that?’
‘Last night in the café. It was quite the topic of conversation.’ The older man grinned and continued, ‘If you’re not careful you’re going to ruin your reputation as a hard-nosed city cop.’
‘I think I can live with that. Can you handle things here while I’m gone?’
‘No problem. Excelsiore’s been offering me coffee every hour on the hour. From the smells coming out of the kitchen I think she’s cooking up a stew for later. I reckon I can put up with that, too, if she’s got any to spare.’
Rocco nudged Claude’s stomach with the back of his hand. ‘As if you need it. And on first-name terms already? You want to be careful; if Delicat thinks you’re getting too friendly with his wife he might put that bow of his to good use.’
Leaving Claude with a thoughtful look on his face, and a promise that he’d be back later that night to take over guard duty, Rocco drove to Poissons to pick up Mme Denis as promised. She was waiting, although pretending studiously not to be by flicking imaginary bugs off a row of tomato plants.
‘All ready?’ he said, as he got out to open the passenger door. She stopped her pretence of gardening and climbed in, settling herself in the seat and clearly enjoying the feel of the leather beneath her. ‘I am,’ she replied, and placed a hand on his arm. ‘You’re already doing me a very kind favour, Lucas. Would it be very rude of me to ask if you could drive quite slowly, please?’
‘Of course I will.’ He wondered how many of her friends would be down near the village co-op, primed to watch as she was driven by. She was sure to have dropped more than a hint that she was getting a lift to the hospital from the neighbourhood flic. ‘And once we’re out of the village?’
‘You can put your foot down and drive like a cop in a hurry.’ She chuckled. ‘Did I tell you you’re a very perceptive young man?’
‘I’m a detective – it comes with the badge.’
Fourteen
After dropping Mme Denis at the hospital with a promise to collect her later, Rocco drove to the station and went straight to Dr Rizzotti’s office at the rear of the building.
‘Hello, what are you doing here?’ the doctor greeted him. ‘I thought you were playing bodyguard to some high-placed foreign dignitary.’
‘I am. But how did you know? It’s not supposed to be common knowledge.’
‘Well, that may have been the intention, but it’s all over the station, so I think you can forget about secrecy. Some VIP official from Gabon, I heard. On the run from angry fellow-countrymen and hoping to stay out of trouble with a big cop in a hidey-hole in the Picardie countryside. Good luck with that one.’
Rocco sighed and wondered how long it would take for the news to get out into the wider community and eventually, the press. The idea of a man like Bouanga being in the area and watched over by the police would attract reporters like flies to a jam pot, eager for a story. It wouldn’t last long, but the damage would be done.
‘I wanted to check something with you, so keep this visit to yourself, would you?’ He placed the arrow on the desk in front of Rizzotti. ‘What are the chances something like this made the hole in the dead man’s neck?’
Rizzotti picked it up with care and studied it in detail. ‘Interesting. Where did you find it?’ He sniffed at the shaft before replacing it on the desk.
‘The dignitary you mentioned has a bodyguard. The arrow belongs to him, along with a bow. Both men are staying in a farmhouse about half a kilometre from the murder site.’
He didn’t need to elaborate, Rizzotti was quick to follow his thinking. ‘Got you. Proximity and access. But not deliberate, surely? He’s only just got here.’
‘I agree, but it could have been an accident: out hunting and didn’t see the man in the lane. It happens.’ Even as he said it, Rocco realised it was a stretch. It wasn’t unusual for an accidental shooting to occur, but usually with locals using guns after too much alcohol to celebrate the hunting season. ‘Can you match it to the wound?’
‘I’ll make a comparison, certainly. Unusual item for a bodyguard, though. He’s also African, I take it, like the VIP?’
‘Correct.’
‘Thought so. And is he un petit – a small man?’
Rocco grunted. ‘He is.’
‘I was reading about them a while back. There are various tribes in Gabon and surrounding areas. The Babongo are one such, mostly hunters in the forests, although they’re being gradually forced out by the advance of modernisation and the search for a better standard of living. They used to be called pygmies. They still use these weapons to catch their meat. I hope you didn’t put this anywhere near your mouth, by the way.’
‘I don’t usually suck on crime scene evidence. Why?’
‘The tips are often poisoned. Stuns the target and kills quite quickly. Not sure what it would do to a big fellow like you, but I wouldn’t want to find out.’ He stood up. ‘It’s interesting, as I said, but I doubt this arrow would have killed our man.’ He picked it up again. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you why I say that.’
Rocco shouldn’t have been surprised by Rizzotti’s breadth of knowledge. He was a very well-read man and seemed to absorb information like a sponge. Now Rizzotti opened a door at the end of the room, and the smell of chemicals filled the air. The adjacent room was tiled, and held three metal tables, a large sink and an array of instruments, the use for which Rocco could only hazard a guess. He’d seen bigger and better-equipped rooms for this kind of work, but on a limited budget Rizzotti somehow managed to accomplish a great deal.
One of the tables held a form covered by a large grey cloth.
‘Come and take a look at our only current guest,’ said Rizzotti, and pointed at the sink. ‘You’d better wash your hands before you do anything else – I wouldn’t want to have to explain your sudden demise through handling that arrow to Massin.’ He turned and produced a paper bag. ‘You’d better put it in this bag just in case.’
Rocco did so, then washed his hands, scrubbing his fingers and nails thoroughly, and dried them before joining the doctor a
longside the covered body. Rizzotti flicked back the cloth. The dead man from the ditch was now stripped bare, with the lights turning his skin a sickly shade of grey. Rizzotti held the arrow close to the side of the dead man’s neck. The edges of the entry wound were darkened and puckered, and Rocco immediately saw that the size of the opening was considerably larger than the arrow shaft.
‘It’s an understandable theory, Lucas, and if the size of the wound matched, I’d say you’d hit it on the nail. But I think I might have a better alternative.’ He put the arrow down on an adjacent table and picked up an item lying close to the body. He held it up and Rocco immediately recognised it.
‘It’s a bayonet.’ It was little more than a spike with an attachment for joining to a rifle barrel.
‘Correct. To give it its full name, it’s a number four, mark two spike bayonet, made in Britain during the war. They weren’t used extensively here, but a few turn up now and then, popular among collectors. I found this one in the storeroom, confiscated during a bar fight here in town.’ He held it against the wound, which matched it for size. ‘See what I mean?’
‘I do,’ said Rocco. He took the bayonet and hefted it. Made for use with a rifle, he knew that commandos had been taught to use them as daggers. So was the person they were looking for a former military man? If so there was no shortage of them around here. ‘That’s good work.’
Rizzotti shrugged modestly. ‘I wouldn’t swear to it on oath, but in my opinion it’s the most probable instrument we’re likely to see. The point is very narrow, as you can see, but the shaft gets broader further up, which matches the size of the wound.’ He took the bayonet back and mimed a thrusting motion, then pulled his hand back and twisted. ‘The point would have gone in quite easily, and the assailant would have turned the weapon as he pulled it out to free it from the surrounding flesh.’ He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Now you’re supposed to ask me how I know that.’
Rocco decided to humour him. Rizzotti probably didn’t get much opportunity to show off, as most of his reports were couched in neat, unemotional language to be read by people detached from this room and its dark arts. ‘All right. How do you know that?’
Rocco and the Nightingale Page 7
