Rocco and the Nightingale

by Adrian Magson

  It was all he could think of to say and, just as it had in Indochina, it felt ridiculously insufficient.

  Twenty-five

  The ambulance crews were soon on the scene and moved with efficiency, determining that the wounded man was not in immediate danger but needed surgery as quickly as possible. They conveyed him gently away, the siren blasting out over the fields and sending up the crows in another flurry. The second ambulance, leaving the barn, was in less of a hurry, its siren unused.

  Rocco walked back to the house in its wake. He felt drained, angry and baffled in equal measure. Drained by the speed and change of events, and angry at the way the attackers had simply appeared to drive in and shoot two armed officers, then make off with Bouanga and his people. If they had been sent by Bouanga’s enemies, how had they found out so quickly where the ex-minister was staying? Even though his assignment to look after Bouanga was an open secret in the station, it still had to have got out into the wider world somehow. But how?

  He was met at the corner of the house by Claude. Alix joined them soon afterwards and said, ‘Commissaire Massin said a team is on the way and he’ll inform the Interior Ministry. He wanted more details but I said you’d report in when you’d finished attending to the wounded man. I hope that was right?’

  He nodded. ‘Perfect, thank you.’ So now Massin can spare a team, he thought, but didn’t say anything. He nodded towards the house and added, ‘You did good work in there. While we’re waiting, there’s a service weapon missing, and the wounded man’s cap. Find the cap and you’ll probably find the gun. He must have dropped them both trying to make his escape across the field. We need to find them.’ It was a time-filling distraction more than anything, but Rocco figured it was better than allowing Alix to stand around dwelling on what she had seen. There would be time for that later.

  She said, ‘I’ll search the grounds.’ Then she stopped. ‘By the way, I know it might not be the right time, but that business about Mme Duverre’s neighbour yesterday evening?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I spoke to Mme Drolet, who runs the local co-op, and she said a man she’d never seen before came in two days ago and bought bottles of water, some bread and a packet of cheese. Camembert. I checked her stock against the wrapping from the cottage. It was the same brand and production batch number.’

  ‘I’d say that ties it down. Did she give you a description?’

  ‘Young, she said. Quite good looking, nice. I asked her if there were any specific details that stood out, but she couldn’t think of any. Ordinary, she reckoned, wearing a blue shirt and dark trousers. In fact she thought he was a cop at first, but get this: he was driving a grey van. A Citroën ‘H’, she called it – the one with the corrugated panels. She knew what it was because her former husband used one for selling fish and vegetables around the villages.’

  Rocco was impressed. So Mme Drolet was a witness with a good eye for vehicles, even if not people. It was better than he’d hoped for. Unfortunately, it was a model of van in use all over France, with many thousands on the road. The chances of finding the right one would be low to nil.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She said if you were going to pop in to take a statement, she’d be at your disposal.’

  Not a chance, thought Rocco. ‘And you said?’

  ‘I told her not to hold her breath.’

  ‘Good answer.’ He’d had some experience of Mme Drolet’s particular charm, as Alix was probably aware, along with everybody in Poissons. She was a nice enough woman and attractive in a handsome way, but she had what Claude had once described as the aura of a black widow spider looking for a mate on which to feast. He wasn’t sure if black widows ate their mates, but he preferred not to be the one to find out.

  When Alix was out of earshot, Claude gave Rocco a look of gratitude. ‘Thanks for saying what you did earlier about her work,’ he said. ‘She’s holding up better than I thought.’

  ‘She’ll do fine. Keep an eye on her, though. It might hit her later.’

  ‘Will do.’ Claude motioned towards the barn where the policeman had been shot dead. ‘That fellow didn’t even have his gun out. Was he asleep, do you think?’

  Rocco was trying not to think about it, but it would need airing at some stage when the inquest was held into what had transpired here. ‘He was either taken by surprise,’ he conceded, ‘or he wasn’t concerned by whoever was coming towards him.’

  ‘But nobody was expected,’ Claude pointed out. ‘And he’d have heard a car coming up the drive, so he should have been primed and ready.’

  ‘Unless somebody else was already here, and had sneaked in, waiting for others to arrive?’

  Claude scowled. ‘You’re suggesting the cop knew the person who shot him?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t drawn his weapon.’

  ‘And the other guard?’

  ‘He was shot in the back. He might have been taken by surprise and shot as he tried to get away.’

  Claude shook his head. ‘Christ, that’s wicked. Who would do that?’ He stopped short, a shocked look on his face. ‘God, Lucas, I just realised something: those poor bastards could have been you, me and – and Alix!’

  Rocco said nothing. The same thought had already occurred to him as he was walking back across the field after the wounded guard was taken away. Whoever had done this had been ruthless – and prepared to take out anybody who got in their way.

  They heard vehicles approaching and saw clouds of dust billowing up along the track from the road. Rocco turned and saw two cars and a small police van coming through the open gates, no doubt the vehicle containing Rizzotti and his equipment. The cars were shiny and black, and he recognised the plates on one used by Massin. Behind the three vehicles, he saw other cars approaching from Amiens, one bearing the brightly-coloured banner of a regional radio station along the side.

  And so the circus begins, he thought.

  First out of the front car was Massin, striding across the gravel towards them, an immaculate figure bent on taking charge of a bad situation. Other men disgorged from all three vehicles and got ready to spread out across the grounds, Detective Desmoulins giving them instructions on where to look and assigning section leaders.

  Massin didn’t look happy and, in spite of himself and the sometimes fragile relationship shared by them, Rocco felt a measure of sympathy for the officer. As top dog here, this was all going to shower down on Massin like muddy rain – une tempête de merde, as he’d heard one young officer describing it when bad news was followed by the careful apportioning of blame from above.

  ‘This is a disaster,’ were Massin’s first words, as he came to a stop in front of the two men. He looked drawn and pale. ‘A complete disaster. I understand you arrived here to take over and discovered the two men, is that correct?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Rocco confirmed. ‘And no sign of Bouanga or his people.’

  ‘I’ve put out an alert to all stations to look out for them. Have you deduced anything from the site?’

  ‘Not much. Whoever did this arrived in a rush, probably taking them all by surprise. One guard was shot dead, the other was shot in the back but managed to get away across the field before collapsing. The house is a mess and they went for maximum impact in taking Bouanga.’ He stopped, an image flicking through his mind. Something about the house wasn’t right.

  ‘What?’ said Massin. ‘Rocco?’

  ‘Sorry – I’ll be right back.’ Rocco jogged across to the house and through the front door. He ran down the hall to where he’d last seen the bow and arrows hanging on the wall. They were gone.

  He checked the conservatory and the kitchen, but there was nothing there either. He didn’t have to search the rest of the house; he was certain he wouldn’t find them.

  He walked back to explain his thoughts to Massin. ‘Delicat’s bow and arrows are gone. I know he had a gun, but his first choice would have been the weapons most familiar
to him.’

  Massin looked doubtful. ‘So what are you thinking?’

  ‘If Delicat took them, it means he wasn’t kidnapped with Bouanga. Why would they shoot two cops and leave the bodyguard?’

  ‘Unless he was part of the kidnap plot,’ Massin suggested. ‘He was an insider. What better person to have on their side, able to tell them where Bouanga was hiding and the best time to come in and get him.’

  Rocco couldn’t fault his logic. In theory Massin was right, kidnappings were often carried out with the connivance of insiders close to the victim, either coerced or willing. And what did they know about Delicat’s background, other than the fact that he’d arrived with Bouanga as part of his small retinue? He could have been put in place a long time ago by the former minister’s enemies, to keep an eye on him and to provide information to bring the man down.

  Yet a part of him was doubtful. Was it really that simple?

  ‘Either way, he’s out there somewhere.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Either helping the kidnap or trying to get his boss back. And that raises another question: why kidnap a man they had threatened to kill? It would have been easier to dispose of him right here and be gone with nobody the wiser until morning.’

  ‘It’s madness,’ Massin said sourly. ‘I heard about the bow from Rizzotti. That’s all we need – a maniac firing poisoned arrows at anything that moves.’ He turned and bellowed to Desmoulins in an uncharacteristic manner, and everyone stopped what they were doing. Desmoulins jogged across to find out what he wanted, nodding a greeting to Rocco and Claude.

  ‘The bodyguard, Delicat,’ Massin told him shortly, ‘might still be on the premises. He’s likely to be armed so tell the men to proceed with caution but not to fire on him. We don’t yet know which side he’s on. Understood?’

  ‘Sir.’ Desmoulins wheeled away and began passing the message to the men, who dispersed towards their allotted search areas.

  ‘Any further thoughts, Rocco?’ said Massin.

  ‘Just one. The wounded man might have seen who shot him and his colleague. It might be a good idea to place a guard on him until he’s in a position to talk.’

  Massin nodded. ‘Good thinking.’

  ‘Where’s Monteo in all of this?’ asked Rocco. ‘I’d have thought he’d be here by now, Bouanga being his responsibility.’

  Massin said nothing for a moment, then stretched his chin up and pulled at his uniform as if preparing himself for inspection. ‘Gerard Monteo left his hotel in Amiens last night and hasn’t been seen since. I believe he’s returned to Paris.’

  ‘Odd timing. A family problem?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Massin. ‘He’s divorced and doesn’t have any other family as far as I know. I’ve spoken to his office but they’re proving most unhelpful.’

  Par for the course, thought Rocco. ‘What have they got to hide?’

  ‘I don’t know. What I did discover is that Monteo has had close relations with certain members of the Gabonese government over recent months, including three visits in the past twelve weeks. Unfortunately, the men he’s been meeting are the same ones who ousted Bouanga from power, and the ones who now hold the reins when it comes to awarding mineral mining rights contracts.’

  ‘Is that significant?’ asked Claude. ‘Sir?’

  Massin hesitated for a second, as though unsure about talking in front of a junior officer. Then he said, ‘It could be, Officer Lamotte. On the other hand, there are other factors involved, namely that Mr Monteo has been acting as a de facto liaison between the Gabonese government and foreign corporations bidding for mineral rights in the country. As my contact in the Ministry suggested, it’s complicated but not unusual.’

  Rocco shook his head. He shouldn’t have been surprised; as always with high-level officials, there were wheels within wheels, granting favours here for favours elsewhere, often with their own interests at heart. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing, at the moment. I’ve demanded answers from the Ministry about what, if any, Monteo’s position in this affair might have to do with the attack and specifically about the shooting of the two officers. All I can do now is wait.’ He turned and watched as more cars appeared along the road leading to the entrance. ‘One other thing: the Ministry has despatched an investigations team to take over here. It doesn’t reflect on you but is standard procedure for international… complexities. They will report back on their findings. In the meantime I suggest you, Lamotte and Poulon make yourselves scarce; there’s not much you can do here and I don’t need the press fastening on to one of you and creating a story. What I just told you goes no further, understood? And I want your reports on my desk before the end of the day.’

  Rocco and Claude went in search of Alix and found her with two officers marking out a patch of ground at the far side of the house. A gun and police cap lay at the centre of the area.

  ‘It looks like he must have been on patrol round here and happened on the attackers,’ said Alix. ‘There’s a small amount of blood on the grass which they’ve marked out for Doctor Rizzotti to examine later.’

  Rocco nodded. ‘Let’s leave them to get on with it. We need to get our heads clear and write our reports while the details are fresh. I’ll see you both at the office.’ He turned and walked back to his car.

  ‘Inspector Rocco,’ called a familiar voice, as he was about to get in. ‘Is it true the Interior Ministry is involved here?’

  ‘No comment,’ muttered Rocco, when he saw who it was. He’d tangled with Serge Houchin before and hadn’t taken to the man. A freelance stringer for several news organisations, Houchin always seemed to be on the periphery whenever something went wrong with local policing. Rocco had seen colleagues burned too many times by reporters looking for a scoop, and had learned not to trust them. Houchin was one of the more unappealing of the herd, with the manner and build of a weasel, a thin moustache and permanent smirk whenever he fastened on any story that might be to the detriment of the police.

  ‘Come on, Inspector, give us a break,’ the man insisted, his voice an unpleasant whine. ‘What about Gerard Monteo? He’s been pretty much camped out at the stationfor days, we know that much. And he’s from the Ministry of the Interior – he confirmed that much when I last spoke to him. But where is he now, huh?’ He reached out and grabbed Rocco’s arm.

  It was a big mistake. Rocco stopped and turned suddenly, which had the reporter bumping into him then jumping back with an expression of alarm.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Rocco growled.

  ‘Umm… my apologies, Inspector.’ Houchin struggled on finding Rocco at such close quarters and looking ready for a confrontation. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing and said, ‘Can you confirm that Monteo is running some sort of safe house operation here and who he’s protecting?’

  ‘That’s none of your business. Why are you interested in him?’

  Houchin’s eyes gleamed, regaining some of his pushy composure. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. I know he’s been around for days, arranging the protection of a foreign bigwig who was staying here, we know that much. Yet now we hear there’s been a shooting with two officers gunned down in cold blood and the mystery guest has disappeared. Surely Monteo would like to make a statement for the press, wouldn’t he?’

  Rocco wanted to shove the man’s notebook down his throat, but restrained himself. It would give the reporter another story to file about police brutality, and there were others crowding around, eager to hear whatever he had to say.

  ‘You’ll have to ask the man yourself, won’t you?’ he said bluntly. ‘Or speak to your contacts if they’re so good. Now, I’m a little busy at the moment, so you’ll have to excuse me.’

  He climbed into his car and slammed the door, nearly taking off Houchin’s fingers in the process.

  Twenty-six

  Romain was trying hard not to be sick. He’d never been shot before and the pain was excruciating. That infernal cop
at Les Sables had got off a lucky shot that had caught him in the fleshy part of his waist just above the hip. He’d hardly noticed it at the time, with the thrilling adrenalin rush following the shooting of the first cop in the barn, it had come as little more than a punch to the gut. But at least he’d paid back the one who’d shot him. He’d made the mistake of thinking Romain was down for the count, and had turned to check on his mate. More fool him; Romain had shot him in the back. He’d run off, dropping his gun as he went, and Romain had started to follow him but had figured he wouldn’t get far, so why bother?

  He’d waited for Lilou to go to sleep before lifting his shirt and removing the towel wadding he’d placed there to soak up the blood. He hadn’t told her about the wound yet, blaming the way he was holding himself on one of the cops having taken a swing at him with a shovel. Now he knew he couldn’t hide it any longer and would have to own up soon or she’d know something was wrong.

  At first the sensation had been little more than a dull throb, constant but not debilitating; no worse than the injury he’d suffered playing rugby at school once, when half the opposition pack had jumped on him for bringing down one of their teammates with a deliberately high tackle round the neck. They’d waited for the other kid to be stretchered off, then turned on him while the ref’s attention was elsewhere. It was brutal and had put him in bed for a week. But this was different; the wound was now beginning to ache with every movement of his body, as if someone was reaching inside him to grab a handful of his guts and giving them a vicious twist.

  He pulled out the first-aid box from under the front seat and found a tin of sulpha powder and some tablets in a bag. He wasn’t sure how effective either of them would be, but he had to do something quick about the damned pain or he’d go mad. He’d got hold of the sulpha from a guy who’d used it in the war, and said it was good for preventing infection in wounds. He had no idea about the tablets but they seemed to help Lilou’s headaches, so they were worth a try. Anything was better than the crippling agony that was threatening to tear him inside out.