At Joncquet’s bidding the technician stopped what he was doing and turned off the hose. He went to a heavy door set in one wall and pulled it open. Seconds later he wheeled out a gurney bearing a form covered in a white cloth.
‘We have a visiting pathologist who comes up from Rouen,’ Joncquet explained. ‘Unlike Amiens, I expect, we don’t run to our own.’
Rocco didn’t bother responding to the dig. Instead he signalled to the technician to lift the cloth. The man did so and stepped back, allowing Rocco to move in and inspect the body.
Former Detective Raballe had been heavily built, with skin mottled by a series of moles across his arms and shoulders. He had a faint and not very well executed tattoo of a dagger on one forearm, which Rocco guessed had been done in the army, and another smaller one on the opposite bicep. But it was the side of his throat which he was interested in. A dark wound had been punched through the skin close to the carotid artery, with the edges showing ragged and bruised.
Just like Vieira.
Rocco looked at the technician. ‘Seriously, a gunshot wound?’
The man nodded, but appeared unsure, and glanced at Joncquet for support. ‘That’s right. The pathologist said it was consistent with a two-two round. There’s no exit wound and he says the deceased probably choked on his own blood.’
Rocco went round the other side of the table and checked the dead man’s neck. No exit wound and no sign of bruising. ‘Did he determine the direction of the entry wound?’
‘Straight through the side at right-angles. The bullet must still be in there.’
‘Why hasn’t he dug it out to make sure, then? I’m sure Raballe wouldn’t object. It’s been a week or more – it should have been done by now.’
‘He couldn’t.’ The technician shuffled his feet. ‘He’s in hospital, collapsed with a heart problem. We’ve asked for a stand-in but they couldn’t find one available until tomorrow.’
‘May I check the wound?’
The man shrugged. ‘I guess so, although I can’t let you cut into the body.’ He turned to a jar containing swab sticks on a side table, and picked one out. ‘Help yourself.’
Rocco took the stick and inserted it into the wound. It went in with little difficulty, and showed the wound going through the throat at right angles as the technician had said.
‘Joncquet? What do you think? A bullet to the side of the throat, with no exit wound? Why – there’s nothing to stop it, even a two-two calibre.’
Joncquet was looking queasy, although Rocco doubted it was at seeing the body at close quarters; a man of his experience would have seen plenty in his career. He could probably see what Rocco was driving at and couldn’t find an argument.
‘I see what you mean. A bullet would have gone straight through,’ he conceded. ‘Unless it was deflected, of course.’ But he didn’t look convinced. ‘So what was it made the hole, then, if not a bullet?’
Rocco pointed at the ragged edges to the wound. ‘That tearing of the skin is caused by a weapon being pulled out. I suggest you get somebody in authority to phone Dr Rizzotti in Amiens. He’ll verify what I’m saying.’
‘Damn,’ Joncquet breathed, and looked at the technician. ‘You’d better get someone in here as soon as possible.’ He turned to Rocco. ‘What else do you want to see?’
‘The scene of the killing.’
Ten minutes later Joncquet stopped his Renault at the side of a narrow road bordered on one side by fields, and on the other by a thick stretch of conifers. Rocco pulled in behind him and climbed out, and walked to meet the detective, who was standing next to a metal police tripod on the grass verge.
‘The body was found here,’ said Joncquet, ‘by another dog walker. It’s always quiet along here, especially early in the morning, apart from people with dogs and a few tourists who like trees. Most of them prefer the sea.’
For a split second Rocco saw a flash of the similarity between here and the lane where Vieira had died. The scenery around them couldn’t have been more different, with trees rather than open fields, but there was the same sense of isolation and the stillness was the same: a quiet spot, with nobody around and the victim taken by surprise.
‘Is the witness credible?’
‘Very. He’s a retired chemist, name of Palmet. He started training as a doctor, then switched courses. He’s been here all his life and is well-respected. Ex-council member, too. He said he checked the body but there was no sign of life, although it was still warm to the touch. He reckoned it couldn’t have happened very long before he arrived because the air was cool. There’s a breeze off the sea sweeps right through here. Another half hour and it might have read very different.’
‘And the body was right here? There was no sign of movement, or having been dumped?’
‘That’s correct. He reckoned Raballe had bled out right here.’ Joncquet demonstrated by moving the tripod sign to reveal a dark patch in the sandy soil beneath the grass. Rocco didn’t need to dig down to know that the chemist had read it perfectly. Serious blood loss.
‘Did he report hearing a shot?’
Joncquet looked nonplussed. ‘No. He didn’t. I think that was a wrong assumption on our part.’ He had difficulty meeting Rocco’s gaze, and the admission had no doubt been difficult to make. ‘If it wasn’t a gun, what was it?’
‘Our pathologist’s best bet is a spike bayonet. If you’ve got a war museum here in town, you’ll probably find one in their collection. You should borrow one and check it out.’
Joncquet’s eyes flickered. ‘I know the type you mean: they were used by commandos.’ He was referring to local history. Dieppe had been the target for a spectacular raid during the war, when British commandos had found themselves thrown up against superior forces in what some had seen as an impossible obstacle. It had not been their finest hour and they had lost many men. ‘I don’t understand, though, who would use such a thing, and why?’
‘I don’t think the why matters that much,’ said Rocco. ‘It’s probably just a killer’s sick quirk. It’s the who I’m interested in.’ As he’d discovered early in his career, some killers chose an unusual weapon for no other reason than to be different, to build a reputation and stand out, as if the tool of their trade would grant them a special cachet among their peers. The reality was, more often than not, that their vanity in selecting something so specific and identifiable eventually led to their downfall, a signature they could not, in the end, shake off.
Rocco looked around. To his right the road ran inland through the trees on the edge of the forest; to his left was the road back towards the town.
‘Are there any houses further along here?’
Joncquet nodded and pointed away from the town. ‘There are a couple of workers’ cottages round the bend, about three hundred metres away, but they would have been out of sight of what happened here.’
‘Is that what they said?’
‘Not exactly, but that’s how it looks.’ He flushed red as he said it, a sure giveaway to Rocco that Joncquet hadn’t bothered to check.
‘What about Raballe’s place? Is that out of sight, too?’
‘Same side of the road about half a kilometre further on. It was his brother’s, but he died over a year ago. Raballe took it over and has lived there by himself ever since. As far as I could make out, other than walking his dog he’s been pretty much a recluse.’
‘Wouldn’t you be,’ said Rocco coolly, ‘if a major criminal took out a contract on your life?’
He walked away towards his car, signalling the detective to follow. He didn’t really care whether the man followed him or not, but it would reinforce the fact that he should have already tried what Rocco was about to do, instead of cutting corners.
Twenty-nine
He pulled up outside two small cottages, stone built with rough tiled roofs and heavy wooden shutters, with Joncquet close behind. Stacks of logs stood outside, drying ready for winter, and both properties had the same air of rural utility and a lack
of sophistication that was common around Poissons.
He knocked on the door of the first cottage. It was opened by a tiny lady in a dark floral dress and a white apron, drying her hands on a small towel. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Sorry to disturb you, Madame,’ said Rocco, and showed her his card. ‘Could you tell me your name, please?’
She squinted at the card and said, ‘Whatever that says, you’ll have to read it to me, young man – I don’t have my glasses with me. And my name is Huguette, thank you for asking. Are you from the town hall, only I’ve been expecting someone from the council about the state of my roof.’
Rocco explained who he was and his reason for calling. She listened carefully, eyeing Joncquet in the background, then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t recall seeing anybody. There’s Palmet the chemist, of course, who walks down here every day – I see him fairly regularly, just in passing. I say chemist, but he hasn’t been one for some time; it’s more of an honorary title now although I’m not sure who decided that.’ She squinted up at him and said, ‘It’s like military people, isn’t it, who keep their titles even after they’ve retired? Why do they do that?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Was there anybody else? It doesn’t matter how insignificant it might seem to you, it might be important.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m usually in the kitchen at the back, so I don’t always see anyone unless they knock, like you just did. I heard about the dead man, though. Isn’t it awful? And right on our doorstep. He hadn’t been here long but it’s still a tragedy.’
‘Did you know him at all?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think anybody did really. He kept to himself and only spoke to be polite. His dog seemed to be his only companion. What happened to it, do you know?’
‘It was found wandering along the road,’ Joncquet put in, ‘and taken to a rescue centre in town.’
‘Poor thing. It’s not as if you can explain to an animal what’s happened to its owner, can you? They’re the innocents in this kind of thing.’
‘Is there anybody else here who might have seen something – your husband, perhaps?’ Rocco asked her.
‘My husband died six months ago, bless him.’ She took a deep breath, the memory obviously vivid, then said, ‘Try next door. Her name’s Edith. Edith Capelle. She’s always got her eyes on the road – and doesn’t miss much, either.’ Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘She’s always been a bit of a busybody ever since school. She was class monitor, too, and nosey even then.’
‘Do you mind if I do this one?’ Joncquet murmured, as they walked back out into the road. ‘I haven’t done much else of any good on this case, have I?’
Rocco nodded, happy to let him regain some lost ground. ‘Go ahead.’
They walked to the next cottage and Rocco waited while Joncquet went through the ritual, this time with another elderly lady. She scowled at both men and shook her head. ‘Not me, sorry. You’re talking about the man Raballe, aren’t you? Is it true he was a policeman? Everybody in town is talking about it.’
Joncquet responded with a question. ‘You didn’t know him, then?’
‘Only to nod to, you know, like you do. He didn’t always speak, though. To be honest he always looked as if he had all the world’s problems and none of the pleasures. But there are people like that, aren’t there? It’s sad, really.’
‘Did you see anyone else in the road that morning?’
‘The usual ones, people walking their dogs at that time of day, but that’s about it. Not that I spend all my time looking – I have things to do. The tourists come a bit later in the day… walking or on bicycles, enjoying the forest. But apart from that, no. If that’s all, gentlemen?’ She began to close the door.
‘How about vehicles?’ Rocco asked quickly, before she could retreat.
‘Well, there’s never much traffic down here, certainly not early in the morning. When was this, last week? Dreadful business. Makes you frightened to go out.’ She shivered at the idea. ‘I didn’t see any cars, anyway. A lorry from the co-operative down the road – I remember that because the driver, Emmanuel, is the son of a good friend of mine. There was a van, as I recall. But no cars.’
‘A van?’
‘That’s right. Like the market people use. Only it wasn’t one of them because there was no trade name that I could see and the local traders wouldn’t stop there, anyway.’
Rocco stepped forward. ‘Pardon me, Madame Capelle. My apologies, I didn’t introduce myself before. Inspector Lucas Rocco, Amiens commissariat. I wonder if you could cast your mind back and describe exactly what you saw or remember about the van? It would be a great help in our investigation.’
The old lady looked him up and down, and half smiled at his courteous approach. ‘Well, of course. Let me see… yes, I’d come out here to clean my front step, as I do a couple of times a week. We don’t get too much dust and dirt from traffic, but I like to keep it looking nice, unlike some around here.’ Her eyes flicked sideways towards the house next door. ‘Anyway, as I was sweeping it, I heard the noise of a car door slamming. I looked up and saw a man just along the road there.’ She pointed towards the bend in the road. ‘He was standing by a van.’
‘Was he doing anything?’
‘No. Just standing there and smoking. I could see the smoke in the air above his head. But he kept looking the other way towards the town as if he was waiting for somebody. I thought perhaps he’d stopped to let somebody use the bushes, you know, like they do – and I was right.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, a woman appeared from in the trees further down. They must have been in a hurry to be somewhere because she was almost running. As soon as he saw her the man threw his cigarette down, which is a stupid thing to do around here with all the pine needles and the ground so dry. Anyway, they both climbed in and away they went towards town.’
Rocco already had a picture building in his head. If they had been waiting for Raballe to appear on his morning walk, it would have made sense; choose a quiet spot out of sight of any of the houses, then post a watcher and wait further along the road with the van out of sight of their target. To a walker, especially one with a good reason to be watching his back, a van being driven along the road looks a lot less threatening than a car waiting on the verge. The moment they saw him coming, they were on the move with the execution spot already picked out.
‘Can you describe the two people or their van?’ said Joncquet.
‘Well, like I said, it was like the market traders use. But they weren’t traders, I could see that from the way they were dressed. She was wearing smart clothes, a jacket and trousers, which you don’t see every day around here, and he was dressed in a blue shirt and dark trousers. In fact,’ she raised a finger, ‘I thought he was a policeman at first. But of course a policeman wouldn’t be driving around in a van with a young lady, would he? It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Could you see what they looked like, these two people?’
‘Not really. A man and a woman, both reasonably young, I’d say – although everybody looks young to me. But I couldn’t see their faces, not at this distance. Sorry.’
‘Caspar? Wake up, man – it’s Jean-Luc!’
Caspar rolled out of bed and trailed the phone line through to the kitchen where he wouldn’t disturb Lucille. He’d had a late night reviewing security during a night shift at Orly, and with nothing specific on today, he and Lucille had decided to sleep in. It was now gone midday and his head felt stuffed with cotton wool. But he recognised Madou’s voice immediately and that was enough to get him up.
‘Go ahead.’ He poured a slug of cold coffee from a battered aluminium cafetière to shake loose the remaining cobwebs and hoped the bar owner had something useful for him.
‘What you were asking,’ Madou said, his voice low, ‘about who Farek’s brought in to do his heavy work? You were ahead of the rush. It’s not solid, you understand, but I’ve heard things from
more than one source since you came in. In fact there’s talk going round the bars like it’s the biggest thing since Le Havre AC won the Coupe de France in ’fifty-nine.’
‘Let me have it.’ Caspar wasn’t surprised by the rumour mill. In the minds of the kind of people frequenting Madou’s dive of a bar, talk about a professional assassin on the loose would be too good to pass up. You could always catch up on the latest football news in the papers, and it wouldn’t vary much week to week, but the idea of a professional killer being brought into the city to make a hit was rare enough to be exciting. You had to filter out the wild speculation from what was real, which was par for the course in the underworld, but that was why people like Madou were useful: they knew who had the inside tracks and were astute at sifting through to the gold dust.
‘First, I was wrong about it being one person; it’s two – a team. One’s a spotter, the other is the trigger man. Word is, the spotter is a woman, but that’s all I know.’
‘Names?’ He drank more cold coffee, the liquid gritty and bitter, and began to feel more awake.
‘That’s the problem – there are none. Farek must be playing this one really close to his chest.’
‘Not surprising, is it? If he broadcasts who they are, they could end up coming after him instead.’
‘Sure. These two come from down south, apparently. There’s a story going round that the trigger is ruthless, and moves around a lot. He’s even operated in Milan and Geneva and some are saying he goes under the label of Nightingale.’
‘Seriously? Nightingale?’
‘Hey, don’t blame me for the silly name. The guys on the street love all that code stuff. Makes them go all gooey – and they’re going stupid over this one, I can tell you.’
‘How long have they been in town?’
‘Well, that’s the strange thing. I thought they must have only recently rolled in because there’s been no solid mention before apart from the odd snippet, which frankly wasn’t worth listening to. But now everybody’s talking about it and saying they’ve been in the area for several days. And guess what?’
Rocco and the Nightingale Page 16
