Death at the Clos du Lac

by Adrian Magson

  ‘If you’ve got any coffee and another one of those,’ he said softly, nodding at the glass, ‘I’ve had a long night.’ It reminded him to check his watch. With the previous case he’d been to – a bizarre case of suicide, or so it seemed – he’d lost track of time. It was coming up to five in the morning and a spring light was already showing through the windows over the fields at the back.

  The nurse seemed to shake herself. She stood up. ‘Of course. I’m sorry…’

  ‘Lucas Rocco,’ he said. ‘Inspector of police. I’m here to help.’

  She nodded and turned away, picked up a percolator and poured him a cup of black coffee. Then she fetched a glass and poured a shot of cognac. She placed both on the table in front of him, gesturing at a box of sugar cubes and a small jug of milk.

  Rocco picked up a newspaper from the table. Etienne Maintenant, the foreign minister, was shown boarding a flight to Peking and waving to the cameras like a film star. The headline was stark:

  France confirms diplomatic relations by sending foreign minister and trade delegation to China! The dawn of a new era for French trade?

  Minister Maintenant, Rocco thought dryly, looked a little uneasy at the top of the steps leading to the aircraft door, as if he thought he might be on a one-way trip and desperately wanted to change his mind at the last moment.

  ‘Quite a development,’ said the nurse, nodding at the newspaper and sitting back down.

  ‘We live in interesting times,’ Rocco agreed, scanning the faces but seeing nobody he recognised. Nurse Dion showed no sign of having recognised his paraphrasing of the alleged Chinese curse. He picked up the glass. It was both too late and too early for it, but he showed willing by taking a sip. It was better quality than he’d expected; maybe they kept it for staff emergencies. He poured the rest into his coffee. His relaxed approach worked, and Dion took a sip from her own glass, wincing as she swallowed.

  ‘So tell me,’ he said, ‘who did you call?’

  She frowned. ‘Call?’

  ‘Yes. You’re a professional, I can tell. In a place like this, there must be standing orders to call someone in case of emergencies. Who was that?’

  ‘Director Drucker. I called him. He should be here soon.’ She looked nervous and he wondered why. With help coming from various quarters, she should have been feeling reassured. ‘Where did you train?’ he asked. It was a distraction question only, but might prove useful. She looked about forty, at a guess, which meant she would have been old enough to be involved in the war, had she wanted to be. If so, she would be tougher than she seemed right now.

  ‘In Brest,’ she said vaguely. ‘Other places, too. Wherever I could get work.’

  ‘Places like this?’

  ‘Hospitals, mostly. Why are you so interested in me?’ She looked pale but somehow in control, as if a core of durability lay beneath, sustaining her. She was tough all right.

  ‘I’m interested in everybody and anybody,’ he replied, and sipped his coffee. ‘I’m also interested in why nobody else is around. As I understand from Officer Lamotte, you screamed loudly enough when you discovered the body to have attracted a lot of attention.’

  ‘Scream?’ She looked defensive. ‘I did not. I was calling out.’

  ‘Of course. Who for?’

  She stared levelly at him. ‘For anyone… for help – I saw a man entering the driveway and didn’t know he was a policeman until he told me. I was probably panicking a little. Shouldn’t you be getting the man out of that pool?’ She brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, her starched uniform rustling crisply in the silence.

  ‘We will, soon enough.’ He changed tack. ‘What’s the dead man’s name?’

  There was a lengthy silence, then she said, ‘I can’t talk about that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. I have instructions. You’ll have to speak to Director Drucker.’

  ‘I will, of course. But let me tell you something, Mademoiselle: in the matter of a murder investigation, my instructions supersede any that you might have.’ He breathed easily. ‘Let me start again. Why is there nobody else here, and who is the dead man? Two very simple questions. Take them in any order you wish.’

  Dion said nothing for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I am the only one on duty tonight. There was… there’s nobody else. A relief nurse when required, and two cleaners on rota – but that’s it.’

  Rocco jumped on the hesitation. ‘You were going to say something else. What was it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She twisted her fingers together, then appeared to relent. ‘We have a security man, but I don’t know where he is. He arrived for his shift yesterday evening, but I haven’t seen him since. I called, but he didn’t come.’

  ‘And his name? Or is that something else you can’t tell me?’

  ‘André Paulus.’

  At last. ‘Good. Now, how many patients do you have here?’ Rocco was amazed at the lack of activity. Surely someone else had heard the commotion? And could a man have been overpowered and chained up like this, then manhandled into the harness and dropped into the water without arousing attention?

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t discuss that, either.’

  ‘Are they sedated? Is that it?’

  Her eyes flickered in alarm. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It’s a fair assumption, isn’t it? A sanitarium in the middle of the night, a murder and a scream – pardon me – a shout. And no reaction from the other residents. What other reason would there be? Unless they’re locked in their rooms.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Really?’

  He let the silence build. Now he’d got her talking and knew she wasn’t going to fall apart in front of him, he could apply some pressure. Yet something told him it wasn’t going to be that easy. She acted as if she was scared of someone. But it clearly wasn’t him, or the police.

  So who, then?

  Chapter Three

  ‘I’m sorry. Really. But you have to understand—’

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  Rocco turned. A short, stocky man had entered the kitchen and bustled up to the table with an air of fussy self-importance. ‘This is a private facility and you should not be talking to my staff without authorisation.’ He emphasised this by shooting a hard look at Dion, as if she were at fault, his gaze lingering on the drink glasses. ‘Gilles Drucker. Director of this establishment.’

  Rocco said nothing. He sipped the last of his coffee and counted to five. Then he stood up.

  In any room, standing at two metres tall and dressed all in black, Rocco looked down on most people. To this man he must have appeared like a giant. With his impressive width of shoulders and short scrub of black hair, Rocco knew he was no baby face.

  ‘That’s good, Mr Drucker,’ he said, and watched as the man swallowed hard and moved back a step. Drucker was a dandy, wearing a smart suit and highly polished shoes, and a handkerchief poking out of his right jacket sleeve. And where his imperious manner clearly worked here most of the time, it looked like suffering a sudden failure. ‘Have you seen the reason I’m here?’

  ‘I… no. Not yet.’ Drucker flapped a hand. ‘Inès – uh, Dion told me about it.’

  ‘Good. Follow me.’ Rocco turned and walked away, but not without making sure that Drucker didn’t say anything to the nurse. He led the man at a fast pace through the main building and across to the pool, where Claude was tying off a makeshift string barrier to prevent anyone walking inside. Just before they entered the pool house, a car’s headlights swept across the entrance and a vehicle stopped in the car park area.

  ‘That must be Alix,’ said Claude.

  Rocco said to Drucker, ‘Wait here.’ Then walked over to meet Alix as she stepped from the car.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ she said. She was wearing a freshly pressed uniform and looked surprisingly alert for the time of morning.

  Rocco gave her directions to the kitchen. ‘A nurse
named Inès Dion found a body in the pool. Sit with her, draw out anything you can. She’s been told to button it by the short-arse in the suit behind me, but before I get heavy, see what you can find out. In particular, I’d like to know where the security guard, André Paulus, beds down when he’s not here. I want to talk to him, find out where he’s been.’

  Alix raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘So I get to talk to the nurse. Women’s work, is it?’

  ‘Actually, yes. Didn’t you know some of the best interrogators throughout history have been women? You’re not going to let the side down, are you?’

  He nearly laughed at the tightening of her lips. No doubt she would get her own back soon enough.

  He walked back to the pool entrance and led Drucker inside.

  ‘Stay between the string lines,’ he instructed him, ‘and don’t go too close to the edge. Tell me what you see.’

  Drucker cleared his throat and took out his handkerchief as a line of perspiration sprang up across his forehead. He mopped his brow, then stepped forward as if walking across a minefield, and moved closer to the pool’s edge.

  While waiting for Drucker to react, Rocco looked at Claude. ‘You never trained as a diver, I suppose?’

  ‘Me? Hell, no. Dry land is hard enough. Why?’

  ‘Because sooner or later we’re going to have to get someone to go in there and cut the body free of those chains.’

  Claude nodded. ‘Couldn’t we drain the pool?’

  ‘No.’ Drucker had heard them. ‘It takes approximately seven hours to drain completely. The pipes are a very small bore. Besides, we would get complaints from the locals because it drains into the canal.’ He shrugged. ‘Fishermen don’t like the chemicals in the water.’

  ‘I know a man who’d go in there,’ Claude suggested. ‘He’d do it easy.’ He knew all manner of strange people, some with slightly shady backgrounds.

  ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘Well, not a friend, exactly. Local lad. Got lungs like a porpoise. He can stay underwater after most people have passed out.’ He sniffed. ‘He’s good with locks, too.’

  ‘Get him in here but don’t tell him why.’

  Claude nodded and disappeared to make a phone call. ‘Well?’ Rocco looked at Drucker. The director was standing by the pool trying not to look sick. He was flapping his handkerchief around as if attempting to dispel the aura of death, but Rocco sensed it was something of an act.

  ‘He’s one of our residents. I can’t believe this. Why would he do it?’

  ‘You think it was suicide?’ Rocco stared at him. The man was in denial.

  ‘I don’t know. I thought maybe…’ He flapped his hand again towards the water and up at the pulley.

  ‘He was murdered,’ Rocco said bluntly. ‘Somebody put him in that contraption and dropped him in the water with the milk churn chained to his legs. As it filled with water it pulled him down. No way back up from that. Odd item to have handy, though – a milk churn.’

  ‘There are two or three about the place,’ Drucker murmured vaguely. ‘They’re purely ornamental, left by the previous owners.’

  ‘So who is the dead man?’

  ‘We don’t have many residents, you understand,’ Drucker continued as if he hadn’t heard the question. ‘That’s why we don’t need many staff, especially at night. It’s a small facility, but effective. Too big and we wouldn’t be able to give each one the care they need.’

  ‘How many exactly?’

  ‘Five at the moment. Never more than six.’

  ‘How do they get here?’

  ‘They’re referred.’

  ‘By whom?’

  Drucker shrugged. ‘By a specialist… or a doctor, often working with a magistrate or judge. The usual thing.’

  ‘What kind of specialist?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. It would violate the terms of privacy.’

  Rocco kept his calm. Sooner or later this man would run out of rules to hide behind. ‘All right. What about this particular patient? Who referred him?’

  ‘I still can’t tell you.’

  ‘Why not? He’s dead.’

  ‘If I tell you what kind of specialist, it would indicate the nature of the patient’s problem.’ Drucker looked affronted at the very idea. ‘That would be unethical.’

  ‘So would me throwing you in the pool alongside him with weights tied to your ankles,’ Rocco growled. ‘So don’t tempt me.’ He leant towards Drucker, and the director nearly toppled back into the pool. ‘I’m investigating a murder, not discussing ethics or your patients’ medical ailments. Now. Give. Me. A. Name.’

  ‘All right. Wait. Wait.’ Drucker took a small card from his pocket and scrabbled for a pen. He wrote down a number and a name, and gave the card to Rocco. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but that’s all I can give you.’ He slid past Rocco and headed for the door at a near trot.

  Rocco glanced at the card. Drucker had written down a Paris telephone number and a name. Marcel Levignier.

  ‘Wait.’ Rocco turned. ‘Is this the dead man?’

  Drucker stopped immediately, skidding slightly on the tiles. ‘No. It’s a number we call if there are problems,’ he muttered. ‘But that’s all I’m allowed to tell you. In any case, you won’t have to call Levignier; he’s already on his way. He’ll be an hour – perhaps a little longer.’

  ‘You called this in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Before coming here?’

  He hesitated. ‘Yes. It’s standard operational procedure.’ He turned and scurried away, his back rigid.

  Rocco watched him go. The man was behaving like a frightened rabbit. But a rabbit with a big and scary older brother.

  Standard operational procedure. The words had an unmistakably official air. He wondered why he found that so sinister.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Inspector Rocco?’ A tall, lean man in a dark-blue suit stepped out from a Citroën DS and walked across the car park. Above their heads a flock of small birds was in full song, lending the scene a surreal air. Two other men followed at a distance, scanning the inner courtyard of the Clos du Lac and staring at the birds as if they were intruders. They had the hallmarks of policemen, only much better dressed.

  Rocco nodded. He’d been alerted to their arrival by Claude, on station in the small lobby at the front door. Claude was holding his shotgun in the crook of his arm, the over-under barrels pointing down and gleaming in the morning light.

  ‘Marcel Levignier,’ said the new arrival, eyeing Rocco carefully and shaking his hand. He had deeply tanned skin and dark hair peppered with hints of grey at the temples. He looked fit and his handshake was firm; to Rocco the signs of a former military man.

  ‘Welcome to paradise,’ said Rocco. ‘You have a rank?’ Levignier looked surprised. ‘Why do you assume that?’

  ‘I rang the number Drucker gave me. Your department is located within the Interior Ministry. In my experience, there are people in the Ministry who value rank over title. And you don’t look like a civilian.’

  Levignier smiled without humour. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. But you read it well. I was a commandant, although I don’t have cause to use it much now.’ He glanced sideways at Claude, standing a couple of paces away. ‘Does he have a permit for that thing?’

  ‘Of course. It goes with the job.’

  ‘All the same, I’d prefer to have it locked away. Would you—’

  ‘On what grounds?’ Rocco interrupted him. This wasn’t going to go well if Levignier was intent on establishing pissing rights.

  ‘On the grounds, Inspector, that this building is under the control of the Interior Ministry, and we are assuming command of events here. That includes who carries a weapon… and who does not.’ He nodded at one of his men, who stepped forward and reached down to take Claude’s gun.

  Claude responded by tilting the weapon so that the tip of the barrel nestled firmly into the man’s crotch. The man froze, as did his companion.

  Claude smile
d. ‘I can hit a sparrow on the wing at two hundred metres every time. You honestly think I’d miss your tiny couilles at this range?’

  ‘He’s a cop,’ explained Rocco to Levignier. ‘Like me, he only gives up his gun to a direct superior.’

  Levignier hesitated, then flicked a hand for his men to back off. ‘Very well. But you had better call your superior because you are now off this investigation. Good day, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, in that case, good luck,’ Rocco told him. ‘I hope your men are experienced in underwater recovery. Will you take the dead man all the way back to Paris in your DS?’

  Levignier brushed past him without a word and walked into the main building, followed by his men. Drucker was waiting just inside the door, feet shifting nervously on the tiled floor of the foyer.

  Rocco glanced at Claude. ‘Wait here in case Rizzotti shows up. I won’t be long.’

  He walked across to the pool house and picked up the telephone on the desk. It clicked automatically onto an outside line. He dialled the office number in Amiens and asked for Commissaire Massin. It was just after seven-thirty, but the senior officer was an early starter.

  ‘What is it, Inspector?’ Massin’s voice was crisp and faintly suspicious in tone. But then, with Rocco it usually was. The two shared a history going back to the war in Indochina, when Massin had suffered a crisis of confidence in the battlefield, and Rocco had been forced to escort him to safety. Finding on arrival in the Amiens region that Massin was his new boss had not been welcome news for either man. But they were working on it.

  Rocco gave him a summary of events. When he mentioned the name Levignier and the Ministry, he felt a chill come down the line.

  ‘You had better do what he says, then.’ Massin’s decision was as speedy as it was predictable. He rarely stood up to the Ministry attack dogs, preferring to let others take the heat, another point of contention between them.

  ‘But it’s a murder,’ said Rocco. ‘It’s our job, not theirs.’

  ‘I hear what you say, of course. And I agree. But you won’t win on this one. Levignier is very established within the Ministry. He will have the backing of senior figures and his brief gives him considerable power.’