‘I understand.’ Her voice ended on a tone of uncertainty, but he ignored it. He knew why: a personal field report was a rarity, and lifted this task above the merely mundane.
He put down the phone, for a brief moment wondering if he hadn’t oversold the assignment or misjudged this person’s abilities. But the situation was too serious for hesitation; risks were necessary to achieve success, and he had to get Rocco out of the picture in a way that did not suggest Ministry interference in his police duties. Next he dialled another number and gave the man who answered the same address. He outlined what he wanted done.
‘How rough do you want it?’ the man asked.
‘As rough as you feel necessary,’ Levignier purred. ‘Rocco won’t be happy to see you, that’s for sure. But don’t let that sway you. Use your own judgement.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
There was no sign of the concierge when Rocco arrived back at the apartment block in southern Paris. It was eight in the evening and the streets of Montrouge were quiet. He buzzed to gain entry, and announced his name into a speaker box. When the door clicked, he made his way up to the fourth floor, his footsteps echoing on the tiled stairs. He kidded himself that he needed the exercise, but knew it wasn’t that. Something about the ancient lift raised the spectre of being caught in a confined space, with no way out … another reminder of his time in the suffocating jungles of Indonesia.
A neat, slim man in his sixties was standing at the top of the stairs on the fourth-floor landing. He was comfortably dressed in expensive slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, with leather slippers on his feet. He nodded and extended his hand.
‘Inspector. I would like to say welcome, but I have a distinct feeling this is not the right occasion. Please, come this way.’ He turned and led the way into an apartment overlooking the front of the building. It was neat – like the owner – and almost spartan in appearance, with no clutter, few ornaments and only a few shelves of books to relieve the cool colour of plain walls.
‘I break with common practice and have coffee at this time of the evening, Inspector,’ Rotenbourg announced. ‘I find it helps me sleep, although I’m always being advised otherwise. Will you join me or would you prefer something stronger?’
‘Coffee’s good, thank you.’ Rocco made a show of checking the books while Rotenbourg disappeared through a doorway into a small kitchen. He hadn’t got far before the man returned moments later with a tray piled with cups, saucers and a battered metal percolator with a glass top.
‘My mother’s,’ Rotenbourg explained easily. ‘Makes the best coffee this side of Morocco. You’ve given me a good excuse to use it for more than just myself.’ He indicated a chair. ‘Please, sit down and help yourself.’
While the ritual pouring and addition of cream and sugar went on, they were both silent, until Rotenbourg put his cup down and said, ‘So. This is not good news, I take it?’ His manner was wary, Rocco noted. But wary and composed. He hoped it was going to make things easier, although time would tell, depending if he had got the correct Rotenbourg or not.
He explained about the death of a man in the therapy pool of a sanitarium, glossing over the lack of his identity by saying that there was a question of confidentiality, but that he wanted to move things along a bit faster. He added that a member of staff had let slip the name, but that it had not been possible to confirm it through any official channels.
‘I’m sorry if it seems indelicate,’ he added, ‘but there are times when rules and regulations get in the way of resolving a case such as this.’
Rotenbourg nodded. ‘Bureaucrats love to surround themselves with words and safeguards,’ he acknowledged. ‘Pity the rest of us who have to live with the results. How did you find me?’
‘I used to work out of the Clichy commissariat. They helped.’ When Rotenbourg frowned, he went on to explain, ‘You had some damage done to your car, I believe.’
The other man’s face cleared. ‘Ah, that. I’d almost forgotten. Some street kids, I believe, although they never found out who did it.’ He examined his fingernails. ‘Tell me, did you get a look at this unfortunate person?’
Rocco nodded. ‘I did. But I’d be lying if I said I could describe him.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ He turned to a small side table and picked up a photograph in a frame, lying face down. He handed it across and said, ‘Is this him?’
Rocco stared at the photo. The man smiling out at him was in his fifties, slightly heavy around the jowls, with thinning hair and frameless glasses. The resemblance to Pascal Rotenbourg was clear in the eyes and around the mouth.
It was the man Rocco had seen in the pool at the Clos du Lac.
He handed the photo back. ‘I’m very sorry.’
Rotenbourg took the frame and studied it for a few seconds, then brushed his fingertips across the glass before putting it back on the table, this time face up. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. Outwardly he seemed unaffected by the news, but Rocco could see a pulse beating in his forehead.
‘How did he die?’
Rocco hesitated only for a second, then gave the details of the Clos du Lac and the swimming device that had caused his death. Although Pascal Rotenbourg would probably never find them out for himself, he felt he owed it to the man to be honest.
Pascal listened without expression all the way through. After a few moments silence, he said, ‘And the official conclusion is what?’
‘That I can’t tell you.’ Didn’t want to, was what he wanted to say. He was hoping this man could give him a lead, no matter how tenuous.
‘You’re thinking it was suicide? It sounds … complicated.’
‘Possibly. I’m afraid I’ve seen more complex methods, though. Any drugs he was on could have contributed, of course.’ He continued apologetically, ‘Is it possible your brother was suffering from depression?’
‘My brother Simon worked for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Inspector. To me, that kind of stifling environment would have certainly been depressing. But Simon was nothing like me. He loved his work. I’m not sure what he did exactly, but it was mainly in the area of overseas trade.’ He smiled thinly. ‘He wasn’t a spy, in case that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I wasn’t, but it’s good to know.’
‘But spying is what he finally did. What probably got him killed.’
The words dropped into the room like a thunderbolt, and Rocco, about to take a sip of his coffee, froze. ‘I’m sorry?’
Rotenbourg stirred in his chair, and for the first time allowed some emotion to cross his face. ‘I don’t mean he got caught digging his fingers into our defence files or taking photographs of documents and turning them into microdots, Inspector. Nothing quite so mundane. But he was threatening to reveal some information that he had stumbled upon. I believe that is why he was squirrelled away in some secret place such as the one you just described.’
‘Can you tell me what he found out?’
‘Certainly, although I doubt that you as a state employee will be able to do much with it. However, it might make me feel a lot better knowing that a man who relishes bending the rules to get to a solution also knows what Simon did.’ He dusted imaginary lint off his trousers and continued, ‘My brother and I were never very close; we had different paths, different aims. I ran my own business in the clothing industry for many years, while he preferred the safety of the government sector.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Much good it did him, from what you now tell me … although I can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, in spite of our differences we kept in touch. About six months ago, Simon came to see me. He was very … disturbed, I think the word is. He had discovered evidence of a conspiracy within the Foreign Affairs Ministry to direct trade negotiations away from certain countries in favour of others, drastically affecting certain industrial figures here in France and overseas. Now, you might say isn’t that what the Ministry is supposed to do?’ He shrugged. ‘To an e
xtent, yes. As long as France does not lose important trade deals which endanger jobs here, that is their primary concern.’
Rocco was already getting a sense of something nasty in the woodshed, but he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. ‘Which countries are we talking about?’
‘One being favoured was communist China versus Taiwan. The Taiwanese are already unhappy at the signals they are getting. According to Simon, the deals being discussed were mainly defence issues.’
‘Arms?’
‘Correct. Along with a few add-ons, like agricultural machinery and engines to please the doves on both sides. The other country favoured was Russia, although I don’t know who was disadvantaged. He never got round to telling me. His main concern was that important figures in what he called the “grey” government – the civil service, in the Quai d’Orsay and Place Beauvau – were working rather too closely with certain influential industry leaders to steer talks along, shall we say, chosen routes.’
‘Wouldn’t industry overall have been the winners?’
‘Some of them, absolutely. But where there are winners, Inspector, there are always losers. Take my own commercial sector, clothing. For every deal I won, one of my competitors would lose out – and vice versa.’ He gave a slow, emphatic shrug. ‘It’s the way of the world. Next time, one of us would have to sharpen our pencil accordingly and hope to redress the balance. But what if I had managed to gain an advantage over my competitors by enlisting the help of government figures who should have remained neutral in the matter?’
‘It would change things.’
‘Of course. And what Simon told me about wasn’t a deal for a few thousand shirts or dresses; he was talking major trade agreements, of the kind that companies live and die by and countries such as ours will do almost anything to secure.’
‘You’re talking about collusion at a high level … in return for what? I can see what it would be for the industries concerned, but why would the government employees seek to steer the negotiations?’
Pascal held out his hand and rubbed his fingers together. It produced a faint rasping sound in the silence of the room. ‘Money, what else? Money and influence – even the promise of jobs in the private sector, if that’s what they wanted. Help sign off a trade deal worth many millions of francs and you could expect substantial rewards for your efforts.’ His face twitched with bitterness. ‘I might not have been very close to my brother, Inspector, but the idea that he was silenced for profit makes my soul ache.’ He sighed. ‘Sadly, the people working for money or power are the easiest to understand. I’ve met plenty of them in my time, and business thrives for them and because of them. It’s the ones working for duty who frighten me most. The patriots.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re the most relentless in their aims, the most committed. And our country has more than its fair share of men who will do anything – anything – under the thin and misguided veneer of their patriotic duty. Even murder.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘All I can tell you is what Simon told me – and what subsequently happened to him. He took his concerns to his superiors, and laid out everything he knew. Names, dates, details. They did nothing, merely told him that they would investigate. Then he began to notice small things. Things that frightened him.’
‘Like what?’
‘He was being followed. Here in Paris, then when he travelled overseas. His mail was delayed, and he began to notice odd sounds on his telephone line. Friends found themselves being questioned about him, then rumours began to circulate about his reliability and suitability for the job. For a man who had reached a level of some responsibility it was akin to being attacked in public and having his sanity questioned. In the end he broke. Or, at least, that’s what they said. That’s when he came to see me. Shortly afterwards, he was suspended and confined to a secure hospital just outside Paris.’
‘Were you able to see him?’
‘Only under supervision, and never for long.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘I say this not to insult you, Inspector, but have you ever considered just how close we are to living in a police state?’
Rocco said nothing. He already knew there was no answer that would satisfy this man. And there were many like him who were level-headed and sane.
‘Everything hinges on control through power: the army, the paramilitary machine, the police – even the fire brigade. And worst of all, the invisible army of bureaucrats.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Do you ever come up against them – the men in suits? I would hazard a guess that you do.’
Rocco nodded, remembering the various grey men with whom he’d butted heads. He allowed a few moments to pass, but it was clear that Pascal was done.
‘You’re saying you think your brother was silenced by the state because he knew things that he shouldn’t.’
Another shrug. ‘Possibly. Probably. Actually, I’m saying he was silenced by certain elements working within the state because he was willing to question what was going on. And questions like that are not permitted.’
‘Do you have any proof of this? Anything at all?’
Rotenbourg sighed. ‘Simon didn’t leave me a dossier of facts and names, if that’s what you mean. But he did tell me something interesting. The last time I saw him before he was moved on – undoubtedly to this Clos du Lac place you mentioned – the escort who was with us all the time during my visits was called away for a telephone call. It wasn’t long, but it gave me a chance to ask Simon what was really going on. He was having trouble organising his thoughts by then – I’m pretty sure because of the drugs he was being given to calm his nerves. But he managed to tell me that there was a plan in place to force an important industry figure to abandon negotiations with the government of Taiwan and switch to China instead. This individual favoured Taiwan because he didn’t trust the Chinese – and he was digging in his heels on the matter and looked like taking senior government figures with him. It was threatening to destabilise the whole series of negotiations, so a plan was hatched to use “extreme methods” to change this man’s mind. It was Simon’s emphasis on those words, not mine. The economic figures, he said, easily justified the means to those involved, although the French government itself would not have been aware of anything underhand.’
‘Who was this man?’
‘I never found out. Our escort returned and I was asked to leave.’ He stared out of the window for a long moment, before turning back to Rocco. ‘That was the last time I spoke to my brother.’
‘Do you have anything to support your belief that he was killed? I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but it’s a question we have to address.’
Rotenbourg nodded emphatically. ‘Absolutely I have proof. The one single thing that tells me his death wasn’t an elaborate and sickly form of suicide, Inspector, is that Simon had a pathological fear of water. It had been with him since he was a child. He would no more have considered climbing into a harness such as you describe and drowning himself than he would have contemplated swimming La Manche.’
Rocco felt a wash of something approaching relief. The angry conviction in the man’s voice was unswerving. He had his lead after all. His problem, however, was proving anything.
‘If you can find the man,’ Rotenbourg continued, ‘this industrialist Simon spoke of, then I believe you will find the truth.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As Rocco walked back downstairs, thinking about what Pascal Rotenbourg had said, his nose picked up a subtle hint of perfume in the stairwell. Pleasant. Expensive. It was a subtle reminder of his wife, Emilie. He experienced a familiar moment of regret, then it was gone.
He stepped outside the front entrance of the apartment block and walked along the pavement towards where he’d parked his car. He was glad of the feel of fresh air on his face and the sense of space around him. He’d left Rotenbourg with a promise that he would do what he could to find his brother’s killer. But they both knew it was going to take phenomenal luck t
o turn up any firm information – and then to process it through the system.
‘I know what the machine of state is like, don’t worry,’ Pascal had said, escorting Rocco to the door of his apartment. ‘I have no illusions about that. Greater injustices than this have been covered up, I’m sure.’
There were few people about and then only some distance away at the far end of the street. Across the way, the park was in darkness. This place, Rocco thought, was like a small oasis in the world of noise and movement just a block or two away. It was probably the quiet that allowed a faint sound of music to drift through the air. Melancholy and slow, it added to the atmosphere that he had known so well before his posting to rural Poissons-les-Marais, and he wondered if he would ever entirely lose his feel for the streets of the city. Maybe after a few more years, he conceded, but not yet.
His thoughts were interrupted by movement as the slim figure of a woman stepped out of a car just ahead of him. The door closed and the woman turned, then stumbled, dropping something to the pavement. Without thinking, Rocco bent to retrieve it. At the same time, the woman did the same, and they bumped shoulders.
‘Oh, my God!’ The woman was startled and stepped back, her heel twisting beneath her on the paving stones. She would have fallen had Rocco not grabbed her arm.
‘It’s all right,’ he said quickly, reassuring. ‘No need to be alarmed.’ He handed her the small purse she had dropped. ‘I’m sorry to have frightened you.’
‘No – thank you,’ she said quickly, turning her head and flashing him a smile. In spite of her surprise, her voice was soft and melodic, and he saw in the half light of the street lamps that she was tall and slim and elegantly dressed, with short blonde hair. As she took the purse, her fingers brushed his, and she placed her other hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry, but I think I’ve broken the heel of my shoe.’
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