Rocco looked down. The heel was bent at a critical angle, leaving the woman teetering on one foot. He knelt and checked, but the damage was beyond anything he could do to fix.
‘Is it ruined?’ She leant over to see, a hand resting on his shoulder to steady herself. A couple of dress rings, he noticed automatically. No wedding ring. Her skin smelt of soap and another, faintly familiar fragrance he couldn’t quite place.
‘Sorry. It’s beyond salvage. If it was a horse, I’d have to shoot it.’ He stood up, glad she couldn’t see his face in detail. He felt like an idiot. Her hand stayed where it was on his shoulder, so that they both ended up standing close together. Rocco felt a momentary confusion. ‘Umm … Can I help you back into your car, or do you live somewhere close by?’
‘Actually, just two streets away,’ she said. ‘I had to park here because I was late back.’ She looked coy and added, ‘but I shouldn’t really tell a complete stranger that, should I? My father would be so angry with me, even though I’m not exactly a little girl.’ She gave a light laugh, showing small, perfect white teeth. ‘Although I suppose we’re hardly strangers, are we? You did, after all, save me from falling, so that puts you in the realm of a knight errant, don’t you think?’
Rocco reached for his card and showed it to her, to allay her fears. Some instinct, however, made him doubt this woman was the kind to be alarmed too easily.
She stared at the card, tilting it to read it under the weak light. ‘You’re a policeman?’ Her eyes widened. Then she appeared to recover and leant back to survey his dark clothes and shoes with an expression of obvious approval. ‘But you’re not in uniform.’
‘No. I’m an inspector.’
‘A detective? I’ve always wanted to meet a real detective! It’s my lucky day, after all … well, other than for my shoe, I suppose.’ She flicked back a stray lock of hair, uniquely feminine and natural. ‘Still, there’s no serious harm done, is there? Typical of the streets of Paris, waiting to trip the unwary … or bring salvation to the fallen.’
Rocco felt a small dig of unease. He had the feeling she was trying too hard. But why?
‘So, would you like me to help you further, or …?’ He left the rest unsaid. The soft smell of her was beginning to tickle his senses.
‘Well.’ She looked along the pavement in the direction he had been walking, to where a wash of light was flowing across the street from a bar beyond a large patch of shadow formed by a broken street light. ‘Perhaps you would let me buy you a drink, Inspector, as a thank you for your gallantry? Or maybe a coffee – unless, of course, you’re on duty?’
‘Actually, I’m not, but—’
‘Very well. It’s the least I could do.’
‘I don’t think so.’ His attention had been caught by a curl of cigarette smoke issuing from the window of a dark Renault near the patch of shadow.
‘How about dinner, then? We could get to know each other.’ Her voice was soft, gently insistent. ‘You could tell me about some of your more interesting cases.’ She leant in closer, her grip firm on his arm. He thought the look in her eye suggested that dinner was not what she was talking about.
The driver’s door of the Renault clicked open, and two figures inside began to move. The pale oval of their faces were bland and indistinct. Two men. Big.
In the same instant the memory of where Rocco had come across the perfume before came flooding back.
It was inside the foyer of the apartment block where Pascal Rotenbourg lived. It had reminded him of Emilie.
‘Why would I want to do that?’ He gently released her hand from his arm and stepped back. The car passenger had one leg out of the car, his foot on the ground. Waiting.
‘Because you’re a policeman and a gentleman and I’m a lady?’ She gave a slight lift of her shoulders and tried to smile, but there was a sudden tone of doubt in her voice. She glanced fractionally sideways, a small reveal, and Rocco knew he’d been right.
‘I wish,’ Rocco murmured enigmatically. ‘But I’m afraid it’s only partly true.’ He wondered who this woman was working for. Whoever it was, if they were prepared to try entrapping a police inspector in a street set-up, they either had the weight to carry it through or were ready to take even more drastic measures if it failed. If so, he doubted that waving his police card would put them off.
He stepped back and walked unhurriedly to his car, slipping a hand into his pocket for the reassuring feel of his gun.
Rocco pulled in to the kerb at the first café he saw and went inside. Flashing his card, he walked through to the telephone in the rear and rang Santer’s home number.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Michel,’ he said, ‘but I just got accosted in the street in Montrouge by an attractive blonde. She broke her heel and I saved her from falling over.’
‘Typical,’ Santer muttered. ‘Bloody country hicks come into town and have all the fun. Why are you telling me this? Is it to make me feel inadequate?’
‘I think it was a set-up. It felt too contrived. And there were two men watching from a parked car.’ He gave Santer both the car numbers and a description of the woman. He hadn’t seen the men clearly enough for any useful details, but they would probably be leg-men, anyway, called in to do a job and forget it. He also doubted the numbers would lead anywhere, but it was worth a try.
‘All right. I’ll see what I can find out. It’ll have to be tomorrow, though, as I’ve got a date to go promenade with my dog. If I don’t go now he’ll explode with horrible consequences.’
Rocco disconnected and thought about warning Pascal Rotenbourg that he was probably under surveillance. There was a risk with it, in that Rotenbourg might easily take umbrage and go to the press with his story. If so, Rocco’s career goose would be well and truly cooked. But if his instincts about the woman’s perfume were correct, then Rotenbourg had a right to know.
He went back out to the car and drove back to the apartment. There were no signs of watchers, but he knew that was misleading: unlike the entrapment team he’d seen earlier, any surveillance professionals would be out of sight.
He pressed the buzzer to Rotenbourg’s apartment. It took a while for the man to answer. He sounded groggy with sleep.
‘You should watch your back,’ Rocco told him, and gave him a brief description of his encounter on the street.
Rotenbourg sounded surprisingly calm. ‘You lead an exciting life, Inspector,’ he murmured, his voice steady, even over the tinny intercom. ‘But thank you for the warning. Would you like more coffee?’
Rocco declined and released the button. He’d had enough for one night. Time to get back home. As he drove, he flicked on the radio and caught a news broadcast. It confirmed in part what Santer had mentioned.
‘Police are still refusing to confirm that a kidnap victim taken off a street in the eighth arrondissement is the wife of a notable industrialist. A spokesman for the police has said that no details can be released yet, but they are expecting to make an announcement shortly. In other news, trade talks with the People’s Republic of China in Peking have been interrupted by objections from Chinese negotiators, who are unhappy with what they call “shadow discussions” with Taiwan. Members of the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs say they hope to resolve this shortly and resume talks—’
He switched it off again. Kidnaps and trade, it seemed, were a growth industry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘Not losing your touch, are you?’ Levignier addressed his remark to Jacqueline Roget as she stepped inside his apartment a stone’s throw from the Jardin du Luxembourg in central Paris. His tone was only mildly accusatory in spite of his frustration at the failure of his plan to hobble the inspector. It was a small setback, and one he had not anticipated. But he had no desire for a fight with this woman, who was not as fully trained in security-related duties as other more direct-action members of the department, but infinitely better connected. The truth was, although she fulfilled certain assignments for his department, and he had a
clear and definite authority over her, she was no lackey. Yet that knowledge alone, quite apart from her attractiveness, filled him with excitement. ‘I thought this one would be easy for you.’
Her eyes flashed momentarily at the implied dig, but she shrugged fatalistically. ‘Maybe your Inspector Rocco doesn’t like women,’ she commented.
‘You think?’ The thought actually hadn’t occurred to him, and he made a mental note; it might be an angle worth investigation. People with what society regarded as peccadilloes were always more vulnerable to pressure than others. Maybe this would be Rocco’s.
His hope was short-lived.
‘Actually, I don’t. Quite the opposite, in fact.’ She was holding a broken shoe, the heel hanging off at an angle. She was now wearing a pair of flat pumps. ‘I broke my shoe. These were my favourites.’
‘That’s not a problem, my dear. Send the bill to me personally.’
She dropped her purse on a Louis Quatorze table in the hallway and lifted carefully tended eyebrows. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured coolly, ‘but I do this work because I want to – not for the money. I also enjoy what I do … but I would like to do more.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ Levignier interpreted that to mean much more than real work, and decided to call a truce. Now was not the time for business talk, anyway. He took her arm, leading her through into the front salon. Like the rest of the apartment, it was elegantly furnished with antiques and fine glassware, a legacy from an uncle in the Foreign Service who had loathed the countryside and preferred to stay in the city where he was assured of every luxury money could buy. Levignier didn’t have quite the same level of finances, but the apartment was his for free, which gained him certain advantages, such as the attentions of certain young women. Like Jacqueline, he hoped. He had never tried to push beyond their professional relationship before, but he was sure there would be little resistance from her. As he knew well, power carries its own aphrodisiac.
He poured drinks and shrugged off his jacket. It had been a long day. He had been waiting for news of Rocco’s potential downfall. Accused of assaulting a distraught and very convincing Jacqueline Roget, daughter of a senior member of the French diplomatic corps and therefore above reproach, it should at least have put a dent in the inspector’s investigations long enough to have drawn attention away from anything to do with the Clos du Lac. He made a mental note to call off the men he’d instructed to deal with Rocco. They had missed their chance. He would have to think of another tactic for dealing with him. Especially now he had tracked down the dead Rotenbourg’s brother.
‘You sure you saw Rocco come out of the apartment block?’
‘Yes.’ Jacqueline took the glass he handed her. ‘As soon as I got the call from your men, I went round and checked upstairs. I could hear voices from inside. How did you know he was going to be there?’ She sipped her drink, eyeing Levignier carefully.
‘That should not concern you.’ Levignier tasted his own drink and reflected not for the first time that Jacqueline, considering her rather limited position in the security world, seemed to have an insatiable appetite for information. She appeared to have little hesitation in asking how things were done in a world where methods and explanations were rarely discussed unless among fellow professionals of a certain level. It made her dangerous, he decided, if she ever chose to switch allegiance. In fact, she probably already knew far too much than was good for her. Or himself, come to that.
The thought made an extra frisson run through him.
‘So what do you want me to do now?’ she asked, glancing around the room with a faint frown. ‘I thought you wanted to discuss the next approach.’
He smiled, a predator’s response. ‘We don’t have to discuss that now, do we?’ He stepped in close and touched his glass against hers, managing to brush her forearm with his other hand. He noticed it raised goosebumps on her soft skin. ‘Work can wait until tomorrow.’ His throat thickened at her nearness, and he felt a rush of heat pushing him on. It was the thrill of the chase. The last girl who’d come here had been less wary, but far more … accommodating. Yet somehow, less alluring. Less of a challenge.
Then she was moving away from him and placing her glass on a silver coaster.
‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t stay,’ she said, and moved towards the door. She paused long enough to pick up her purse.
‘Wait.’ Levignier was feeling an unaccustomed loss of control over the situation. This hadn’t happened to him before and he felt a ripple of irritation. She should have been willing to do anything, not be walking away from him.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said calmly. When she turned to look at him, there was no mistaking her air of quiet confidence. ‘I must go home. I promised to call my father. I haven’t talked to him in a while.’
Mention of her father the diplomat, a tough and powerful figure from the old school of French diplomatic circles, was enough to stop Levignier in his tracks, his ardour dented. He hadn’t reached his position without knowing who he could tangle with and who he couldn’t. And Roget père would be the wrong person to cross.
‘Of course,’ he conceded smoothly. ‘I should have realised you’d be tired. It can wait.’
He watched her leave, then reached for his private telephone directory. There were always other young women eager to advance in official circles, keen to do whatever extra-curricular work was expected of them.
Perhaps Jacqueline Roget would take a little more time to come round to his way of thinking.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Her mobile prison had moved again.
After an interminable period of inactivity, with no sounds to connect to the outside world, Leather Jacket had opened the door and told her to lie down. Moments later, the engine had started and they had rumbled over what seemed like a patch of rough ground, before picking up speed. She had lost track of time, slipping between wakefulness and fractured sleep, her head spinning as if she were drunk. Then the van had slowed and stopped, and the engine had been turned off.
Silence.
She had waited a long time before hearing footsteps. The door had opened and Leather Jacket had placed a cardboard box on the floor by her side. She had leant over and felt the contents. It held fruit, bread and a plastic bowl of what smelt like rice and vegetables. She was becoming quite adept at telling what she had by smell and touch, she thought. Much more of this and she’d know what was coming before it reached her.
‘What time is it?’ The question came without thought, a touch of normality, as if she had woken alongside her husband on a normal day and all was well with the world. She went hot, oddly embarrassed at sharing such an intimate moment, although she doubted Leather Jacket would have made the connection. She had the distinct impression, although she could have been wrong, that there was no Mrs Leather Jacket waiting at home for him.
‘Early,’ he said shortly. ‘Or late. What’s the difference?’
She nodded, and felt for the bottle of water in the box. What difference indeed? Late or early, she was always thirsty in this bloody cell. As her fingers found the smooth shape of the bottle, she paused. Her stomach jumped.
Toothpaste. She could smell fresh toothpaste on his breath. And the air coming in from the outside was cool and moist.
Signs of morning.
She smiled inside her hood. It was only a small victory – a tiny one in the grand scheme of things. But to her, right here and now, an important one.
‘What’s up – not hungry?’ the man demanded, misinterpreting her hesitation. ‘I can take it away if you like, throw it in the hedge. It’s all the same to me.’
Hedge. Was that another clue? Were they near a park?
‘No. Leave it, please. I’m stiff, that’s all. I need time to loosen up.’
There was a familiar clank as he placed an empty bedpan on the floor, and she heard him grunt as he lifted the one she had used, then backed out of the van, closing the door behind him.
She no lo
nger felt any embarrassment at the deeply personal nature of the exchanges. Since he had chosen to put her through this, he could put up with the indignity of handling her soils twice a day. She had even developed, after the initial desire to scream with frustration, an ability to deal with her panties and stockings as efficiently as her constraints allowed, while blind and bound and trying not to spill the bedpan as it filled. At least the man had finally agreed to untie her legs, which had helped. And at least, she decided, if his mind had ever veered in that direction even for a moment, he surely couldn’t feel anything like a physical interest in her. Not now.
She ate an apple and nibbled at the rice and vegetables, sipping water to help it down. Her throat was still raw, but not as bad as after the first day. She was adjusting. She wondered if she was becoming institutionalised. And what her husband was doing. He must be going out of his head.
As usual, the man had given no explanation as to why they had moved again earlier, merely saying that she should lie down and be ready. She had done so at once; small rebellions or demands were sensible in her view, to at least demonstrate in a small way that she was no weeping wallflower. But allowing herself to become injured through her own stupidity was ridiculous. Besides, she was still waiting for that slight chink in his armour, that little gap that might allow him to say something that would tell her where they were and what they were going to do with her.
But there had been one development: she had heard a conversation between the two men, this time from the other side of the bulkhead panel between the back of the van and the driver’s cab. It had been brief but revelatory.
‘… had orders to move … a nosy cop coming to see why we’re … here.’ It had sounded like Leather Jacket, although she couldn’t be certain.
Death at the Clos du Lac (2013) Page 15
