‘Explain.’
‘Berbier must have learnt about his daughter’s death within hours of her body turning up at Poissons military cemetery; otherwise, how could he have known to claim it? He might be an important figure, but it still takes time to get a senior magistrate to sign release papers for a possible murder victim.’
‘I see. Were there documents on the body?’
‘Not according to Rizzotti. She was simply a dead woman of indeterminate age. Someone must have told Berbier; someone who knew she was in the area. I intend to find out who that person is.’
‘Very well. I accept your explanation and expect to hear no further complaints.’
The phone clicked off and Rocco stood there, trying to figure out what was going on. The call had filled him with unease, but not for having been caught out trampling across regional boundaries or bracing an important figure in Parisian society about the death of his daughter. Either Massin had somehow put aside who Rocco was, along with their history, or he was setting him up for a fall. And that could only be to get rid of him. Except that it would be a messy way of stitching up a subordinate. He must know that Rocco wouldn’t simply curl up and go without making a fuss. So what was he up to?
He poured his coffee and took it through to get changed into fresh clothing. Whatever was going on, he still had a job to do. And worrying about the machinations of senior officers wasn’t going to help with his investigation. All the same, he was going to have to watch his back a lot more carefully than he had done so far.
The one thing he was now certain of more than anything was that Nathalie Bayer-Berbier’s death had not been an accident. There was too much of an undercurrent for that. And although he had no reason for suspecting her father’s involvement, other than being a grieving parent with the ability to pull strings, he knew he hadn’t even begun to unravel that knot in the proceedings.
He remembered that he hadn’t yet tried the number from Nathalie Berbier’s flat. There was no time like the present. He picked up the phone and dialled.
No reply.
He let it ring a dozen times, then replaced the receiver. Somewhere in the village of Poissons-les-Marais — or close to it — a phone with a direct connection to the dead woman had just been ringing.
All he had to do was find it.
He was just pulling on a clean shirt when the phone rang. It was Claude.
‘Lucas? I’m at Didier’s place. You’d better get down here.’
‘What’s up?’
‘He’s blown himself up.’
‘I’ll be right there.’ Rocco snatched his coat off the chair where he’d dropped it last night and ran out to the car. Minutes later, he pulled up fifty metres short of the yard where Didier lived and parked his car facing back the way he had come. If the bang that had hurt Didier looked like spreading, he might need to get away fast.
Claude must have heard the Citroen. He met Rocco at the corner of the house. He looked flustered and was shaking his head.
‘What happened?’ Rocco queried. He didn’t want to think about what Didier might have been tinkering with, or how close he might have been standing to the two enormous shells either side of his front door.
‘Not sure,’ replied Claude. ‘When I got here he was muttering about something being covered with mud. Maybe it was a grenade.’
‘He’s alive, then?’
‘Yes. He’s a tough bastard, but we’d better get him to hospital quick. Delsaire was here first and bandaged his arm, but he’s losing a lot of blood. I figured you’d be a faster driver than anyone else.’
A few villagers stood in a cluster near the front door, and moved aside as Rocco approached. Beyond them, the house appeared to be without windows, grubby curtains flapping through the holes where the glass had been, the worn shutters hanging drunkenly from the brickwork and adding to the building’s sorry look of neglect.
He pushed between the onlookers and looked down at a body lying on the ground. Didier was dressed in dirty blue overalls several sizes too big, making him look even smaller and wirier than ever. To Rocco’s amazement, he was calmly smoking a yellowed Gitanes and smiling at the crowd as if he was sunbathing. His right hand had gone, along with a good portion of his forearm, and the rest was wrapped in a bloody rag. An empty brandy bottle lay nearby, which accounted for his apparent air of calm.
Near the front door was a small heap of wet sandbags. The fabric was shredded and scorched on one side, with sand spilling onto soil coloured a vivid red. It was clear that Didier had used them as an emergency blast wall. Unfortunately, he hadn’t let go of the grenade quickly enough.
Not surprisingly, there was no sign of the hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rocco checked the bandage on the remains of Didier’s arm. It was rough and ready but doing the job. Didier was still bleeding heavily, but with gentle pressure he knew it could be contained. All they had to do now was get the scrap man to a hospital before he died of shock.
‘Bring your 2CV,’ he told Claude. ‘We can lay him in the back.’ He looked at Delsaire, the plumber. ‘Get something for him to lie on. Some old sacks from the barn.’
Delsaire nodded and hurried away, while Claude manoeuvred his 2CV into position. Once the sacks were in place, several men gathered round and lifted Didier into the rear of the car. It was far from ideal, but the patient was in no condition to voice an opinion.
Rocco drove as fast as he dared, with Claude keeping gentle pressure on the bandage. Nearly unconscious by now through shock and the effects of the brandy, Didier was rolling around in the back. Rocco figured it was a trade-off between some mild discomfort for Didier now, against the chance that he could die if they didn’t get him treated as quickly as possible.
It took twenty minutes to get to the hospital in Amiens, with Rocco urging the underpowered car along every bit of the way and barging through whatever traffic they encountered. Fortunately, nobody tried to argue, no doubt seeing the 2CV with its lights on and clearly being driven by a reckless madman as something to be avoided.
As Rocco hurtled round the final bend in the hospital grounds and slid to a stop before the emergency entrance, Claude grasped his elbow.
‘Best not say it was a grenade blew his arm off,’ he advised. ‘I’ll tell them it was a tractor.’
‘A tractor?’ Rocco stared at him. ‘Are you serious? What do you reckon they’ll think you run tractors on in Poissons — dynamite?’
‘It’s just that… hell, the paperwork. We’ll be tied up for hours.’ Claude looked embarrassed at the proposed lie. ‘Just a thought.’
He was right. Rocco weighed up the rights and wrongs. If the hospital called the police, as they were bound to do in cases involving explosives, there would be a full investigation, with the might of the authorities descending on them here and in Poissons. If that happened, he could say goodbye to his investigation.
He was saved from saying anything by the appearance of two hospital attendants rushing towards them with a wheeled stretcher. Claude heaved himself out of the car, before hurrying to the back to oversee the lifting of Didier from his resting place.
By the time Rocco parked the car and made his way inside, Claude was calmly drinking coffee and chatting away to a nurse on reception. There was no sign of Didier, although a number of other patients were waiting to be seen, sitting in a line of chairs against one wall. He assumed Didier’s injury was probably novel enough to have gained priority.
‘What did the doctors say?’ he asked Claude.
‘It’s not good,’ Claude murmured, frowning into his cup.
‘I’m sorry.’ Rocco was surprised they had been able to comment on the outcome so quickly. Didier wouldn’t have the use of his arm again, but he’d seen men with far worse injuries pull through. Shock, maybe, always a difficult matter to foresee, had probably taken its toll, along with the ride here and a gutful of brandy hammering through his system.
‘Oh, I don’t mean that,’ said Claude quickly. ‘The duty doct
or has seen, you know, grenade injuries before. He served in Indochina. He’s already called the cops. I tried to get Didier to keep his mouth shut, but the imbecile was away with the birds and wouldn’t listen.’
Rocco swore silently. He’d been half-ready to back up Claude’s madcap story about a tractor, but with an experienced doctor able to tell explosive trauma from a tractor losing its big end, there was no way the story would float. If they knew anything about the locals, they would be aware that some occasionally did stupid things like attempting to dismantle the deadly remnants of two world wars.
He felt a measure of sympathy for Claude. As the local representative of the law, he might pick up some criticism for allowing such things to go on. But without patrolling every yard and garden in Poissons, he was powerless to stop it.
Approaching footsteps prevented further discussion. A tall man in a white coat appeared from a corridor. He was holding a small plastic bag in one hand and looked far from happy. He glanced at the receptionist, who pointed at Rocco and Claude.
‘You are friends of the grenade injury?’
‘Not friends,’ Claude said defensively. ‘Same village, though.’
‘I see.’ He eyed Claude’s uniform shirt, then glanced at Rocco with the hint of a sneer. ‘Doing your civic duty, I suppose. How noble. Are there many madmen like him where you come from?’
Rocco gave him a heavy look. He could do without this kind of annoyance. ‘Cut the attitude, Doc,’ he growled. ‘We brought him in, that’s all you need to know.’
The doctor looked wary and stepped back a pace. ‘My apologies. Only, is the man insane or what?’
‘He picked up a grenade,’ Claude huffed. ‘It happens.’
‘Quite often, according to what he told me. He dismantles explosive devices for a living — usually much bigger ordnance than grenades. He said this one went off before he could unscrew the fuse.’
Claude leant forward. ‘The stuff is unstable. He probably hit it too hard.’
‘Undoubtedly. But doesn’t he know he’s supposed to report finding things like that?’
‘How’s he doing?’ Rocco cut in. ‘Will he live?’
‘Yes. But he won’t be playing cards for a while. And if he gets anywhere near another bomb with a hammer, I’d leave the immediate vicinity, if I were you, because he’s not going to be doing it with any precision.’ He started to walk away, then paused and glanced at Claude. ‘You’ll have to wait, incidentally — your colleagues are on their way here. They’ll want a statement. But I guess you’d know that, wouldn’t you?’
‘We’re well aware of the procedure,’ said Rocco. ‘What’ve you got there?’
The doctor didn’t even look at what he was holding. ‘It’s for the police.’ He gave Claude another look. ‘The proper ones. No need for you to concern yourself.’
Rocco sighed and held up his badge. ‘I am the police, so enough with the crap. What is it?’
‘Oh. You should have said.’ The doctor held up the bag. ‘This item was embedded in his forearm; probably blown there by the force of the explosion. Do you know what it is?’ It was clear by his expression that he did.
Rocco studied the object inside the bag. It was the thickness of a pencil and made of pale metal, like aluminium. It had a ragged end, as if it had been broken from a longer piece, and was blackened by scorch marks.
He nodded. ‘I know. What was Marthe’s explanation?’
‘He didn’t have one. He lost consciousness before I could ask him. If he’s using this technique for taking ordnance apart, Inspector, he needs locking up, for everyone else’s protection if not his own.’
The doctor walked away, calling for the next patient.
Moments later, they heard a car squeal to a stop outside and a police sous-brigadier marched into the foyer, young, fresh-faced, self-important and austerely immaculate, his kepi under one arm. He was followed by another uniform who stationed himself by the door. The first man glanced briefly at Claude before disappearing down the corridor after the doctor, clearly familiar with the layout. When he emerged a few minutes later, his face was pale and unfriendly. He strode up to them, eyes inspecting Claude with an expression of distaste.
‘You’re Lamotte.’ he said accusingly. ‘We’ve seen this kind of lunacy before. What’s it this time — another idiot with a death wish looking for scrap?’
‘A grenade,’ Claude explained, stiffening under the man’s eye. ‘He picked up a grenade. I explained to the doctor.’
‘So he said.’ He turned to Rocco. ‘You’re the new inspector, aren’t you? Odd you should be involving yourself with these people.’
‘People?’ Rocco felt his temper rising. ‘What I do and who I get involved with is none of your business. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation and we brought in a man who’d had an accident.’
‘That’s as may be.’ The young man lifted his chin and Rocco guessed he didn’t need to shave often. By his badge of rank, he’d probably put in about a dozen years, but that still put him at not much more than thirty, possibly less. ‘But I have to report the facts of any explosions and related injuries. Further action may need to be considered.’
Rocco reached out and clamped a hand around the pompous officer’s neck in a pseudo-avuncular manner, but with just enough grip to stop him talking. ‘Great. That’s good. Glad to hear you’re so keen on the rule book. But listen to me, sonny. We don’t have time to get caught up in any of your official rubbish. If you think otherwise, why don’t you have a word with Commissaire Perronnet or Divisional Commissaire Massin. They’ll set you straight. Now, if you’ll excuse us.’ He patted the man on the shoulder and walked away before he could argue, leaving Claude to throw up a vague salute and follow.
‘What was that about?’ said Claude, as they got back in his car. ‘And what was in the bag?’
Rocco sat there, mind racing. What the doctor had found was something that no scrap man, no matter how unconventional, idiotic or desperate he might be, should have had access to. It was inconceivable that Didier Marthe was using it to break down grenades or shells. The idea was ludicrous, although he hadn’t said as much to the doctor.
‘What did Didier say when you first got to him?’
‘I couldn’t be sure. He was rambling on about something being covered with mud. Why?’
‘Because whatever took his hand off wasn’t just a dodgy grenade. It was part of a detonator. The kind used with plastic explosives.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Claude stared at him. ‘He was using plastique? That’s madness.’
‘Didier wasn’t. But somebody was. It wasn’t mud he saw on the grenade, either; it was explosive moulded and coloured to look like it. The question is, why would someone with access to that kind of equipment want to kill Didier Marthe?’
He told Claude to return to Poissons, and more specifically, Didier Marthe’s house. Although unnerving to experience the other man’s driving — and him a former taxi driver — it allowed him time to mull over what they had just learnt.
Plastic explosive, otherwise known as C3 or C4, was the current tool of choice for demolition work, bomb disposal… and guerrilla warfare. It was easy to hide, mould and place, and could be disguised to blend into almost any background. It had the added benefit that, with the right timers or detonators, it could be set off remotely.
Rocco had never used the stuff, but he’d seen it in action, employed by engineers to destroy traps in the jungle and bridges used by the Viet Minh. It was very effective in the right hands but, as he knew all too well, the right hands weren’t the only ones capable of getting hold of it.
What he couldn’t get his head round was the idea that someone had laid a booby trap for Didier Marthe. Whoever it was must have been watching him, and was aware of his movements and the methods he used in his insanely dangerous line of work. The only question was, what had Marthe done to warrant such an attack? From the little he had seen of him so far, he was quick-tempered an
d unpleasant, and could undoubtedly do with a bath or two, but that was insufficient reason to try blowing him to bits.
By the time Claude pulled into the yard of Didier’s house, Rocco had worked his way through various possible scenarios, but without reaching one specific conclusion.
He got out of the car and walked over to the bloodstained sandbags. The area of the blast was easy to identify, with the focal point between the two arms of the ‘V’ formed by the bags. At the sharp end of the ‘V’ was a gap, big enough for a hand and arm to fit through. Although he had no way of verifying it until Didier himself came back, he guessed that the scrap man had somehow realised what he was holding and had thrust his hand between the sandbags to shield himself from the blast. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been quick enough.
But where had he got the grenade from? Picking it up in the fields or woods would have been too random: there was no way the person who’d planned this could have known what he would do. That meant it had to have been left here for him to find — or handed to him by the intended killer.
He turned and surveyed the area for clues, but quickly dismissed it as a waste of time. The ground was a mishmash of footprints where everyone had gathered around Didier, and any trace left by whoever had been here before the explosion had long been obliterated.
He walked around the yard, trying to think it through. Didier’s work was well known around the village. It presupposed that anyone watching him for any length of time would soon come to know his routine. And if Claude was correct about the kind of ordnance lying around in the countryside, he had an almost inexhaustible supply from which to choose. That meant he would spend relatively little time out searching, but a lot more here in his yard.
‘The door’s open.’ Claude nodded at the house. The front door was sagging on its hinges.
It was too inviting to ignore. Rocco pushed the door back and stepped inside, ducking his head beneath the low frame.
The smell was the first thing to hit him. Sour with sweat, unwashed clothes and burnt cooking oil, the choking atmosphere was enough to make his stomach revolt. The light was poor, with heavy net curtains over the windows, now free of glass. The furniture was ancient, darkened by smoke and grease, with any visible surfaces covered in dust and mouse droppings, the remainder laden with dirty crockery, filled ashtrays and cooking utensils. Old newspapers and magazines spilt over from chairs onto the floor, most of them trodden flat and shredded beyond recognition.
Death on the Marais ilr-1 Page 12
