‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard. I think he’s been moved on.’
The hum of a car engine approached along the road and her eyes flicked past him.
‘Because of what happened here? That’s harsh.’ But typical of some government departments, Rocco thought. Especially those with secrets to hide. Clear out the dead wood, paper over the cracks and start all over again.
Inès turned as the crunch of tyres on gravel heralded the arrival of a vehicle. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I think the first of our new patients is here. You’ll have to excuse me.’
Inspector, he noted. Not Lucas.
‘Late in the day, isn’t it, to move medical cases?’
‘I don’t dictate times or dates.’
He turned as a Citroën DS ambulance swept into the car park. It had a simple blue cross on the bonnet and ruched curtains along the side windows. Two men up front, no expressions. Business-like.
‘I must ask you to stay back,’ Inès said, with no trace of apology. ‘We are expected to be discreet, I’m afraid. Part of the rules.’ Then she stepped past him and walked across to the ambulance as the attendant and driver climbed out and went to the rear door. Inès spoke to them briefly, indicating the front entrance.
Rocco watched as a stretcher was slid out from the back and the driver snapped the wheels into place. A blanket was covering a shapeless form, held secure on the stretcher by two straps. He couldn’t tell whether it was male or female. Just for good measure, the attendant had drawn a lightweight veil across the patient’s head.
Inès turned and stared at him. It seemed to be a signal for Jean-Pierre, who moved across and stood in front of Rocco, close enough to share his body odour and partially blocking Rocco’s view of the car and patient. Rocco resisted the temptation to drop the big man where he stood. It was time for him to leave. He walked to his car and got in. When he looked back, Inès and the two attendants had disappeared inside with the stretcher, leaving Jean-Pierre by the front door, watching him.
Rocco felt his hackles rising. This wasn’t over.
Chapter Thirty-eight
‘It was clumsy.’ Josef Girovsky slapped a firm hand on the polished surface of the conference table in the Interior Ministry annexe. He glared at Levignier but his words were directed at the man sitting at the far end of the table. Morning coffee stood undisturbed on a trolley near the door, the talk too urgent for it to have tempted anyone.
‘It was necessary.’ Delombre looked relaxed and unconcerned, as if discussing the deaths of two men was something he did every day. ‘The kid came at me with a cut-throat razor. I had to stop him. And the fat man had a heart attack. I know I’m good, but even I can’t arrange that.’
‘You still shot one of them,’ Girovsky reminded him. ‘That’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, and I arranged the scene so that it’ll look like an argument that went too far. The cops will never be able to trace the gun, and they’ll assume it belonged to the pervert. The kid came at him with the blade and he shot him. It’s a simple scenario and they’ll read it like a book.’ He gave Girovsky a cool glance. ‘Not that I have to justify myself to you.’
‘All right, let’s stick to the facts,’ said Levignier, interposing a calming word between the two men. He wasn’t so much concerned with anything the industrialist might say that could damage Delombre, but the other way round; he knew what his man was capable of if the Pole pushed him too far. ‘What’s done is done. At least we now know what Rocco had learnt – and it’s too much.’
‘You should have stopped him sooner,’ Girovsky muttered.
‘We tried. He’s been lucky,’ said Levignier.
‘I meant for good, not some half-arsed girl trap. Mother of God, if I ran my businesses in such an inept manner, I’d go bankrupt.’
It was an old argument, and one Levignier was sick of hearing. But it was one of the penalties of having to work in conjunction with this man. To change the nature and course of the discussion, he asked, ‘Where are the negotiations with the Chinese so far?’
Girovsky sat back, content to be on his own ground. ‘They’re moving forward, but the topic of aircraft manufacture has come up again. They don’t like the discussions with Taiwan and are suggesting it could cause irreparable hurdles if those deals go through.’ He sniffed. ‘Unlike in other matters, when it comes to trade deals and Taiwan, Peking does not believe in talking in convoluted circles.’
‘What’s the likely outcome?’
Girovsky shrugged. ‘All bets are off, as the Americans would say. They’ll go elsewhere and we lose everything.’ He stared down at the table. ‘And all because of the ego of that bloody man, Bessine.’
Levignier barely hid a wry smile. When it came to egos, Girovsky was up there with the best of them. But desperation was also at play. If he gave the word, he knew Girovsky would leap at the chance of him sending Delombre after Robert Bessine, the aircraft manufacturer and Girovsky’s bitter industrial rival. They had each been storming about the world stage for years like trumpeting elephants, both eager to win huge contracts and outdo each other. But Bessine was currently holding firm, even now, by insisting on talking with Taiwan on the supply of jet fighters and commercial airplanes, much to the fury of Peking… and many people involved in the current round of trade negotiations on the French side, like Girovsky.
‘We have to be extremely careful,’ he said calmly. ‘If we rush, we fail.’
‘But you hold all the cards, surely, ever since you—’
‘Don’t say it.’ Levignier’s voice was soft, but cut through Girovsky’s anger like a knife. Although he was certain the room was secure, what Girovsky had been about to blurt out would, if overheard, be enough to see them all put away for life. His eyes glittered dangerously. ‘We have that situation under control.’
‘Really? I hope so.’ Now even the Pole sounded uneasy, as if realising that what had been set in motion in the past few days had taken them all beyond redemption.
‘Absolutely. The subject is now housed in a facility where nobody will find it.’
Girovsky sniffed and looked up. ‘I heard talk of a special task force being set up to do just that. Is it true?’
Levignier wondered how much to say. He was becoming concerned at Girovsky’s limited level of patience, and his dubious ability to keep his information and opinions to himself. If he was sounding off in here like this, who knew what he was saying to his close confidants higher in the Ministry or elsewhere. But leaving him out of the sequence of events completely would only expose Levignier if the idiot began blabbing to his business friends – or worse, initiating some kind of drastic action using his own people.
‘It’s true that a small search team has been put together, yes. But they won’t find anything. They’re too few and too late.’
‘How can you guarantee that?’
Levignier shrugged. ‘We have our ways. In any case, this city is very large and a handful of men can’t search everywhere.’ He paused while searching for the correct words. ‘The point was made from the very start by those much more senior than me that impulsive action on the part of the police would only lead to a drastic reaction by those on the opposite side. Hence the small team which, I remind you, benefits us all. The less they accomplish, the better.’
‘He means if there was a city-wide search, the crazy idiots would panic and kill her,’ Delombre put in bluntly. If he was concerned at upstaging Levignier or using direct language, he didn’t show it. He shifted in his seat and stared hard at Girovsky. ‘Why don’t we stop pissing around? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? A chance for a power play? You knew what you were asking for as a means to change the course of the talks, and this is what you’ve got. Now you just have to sit back and be patient.’
Girovsky’s lip curled and his face flushed. He slammed a hand down on the table and stood up, sending a pen skittering onto the floor. ‘And what if I choose not to, Mr whatever-your-name-is? What if I decide to stop
“pissing around” as you so inelegantly put it, and tell that maniac Bessine that his wife has been kidnapped by men accustomed to killing and unless he stops talking to Taiwan, she won’t be coming home again? What if I do that?’
Delombre smiled, and glanced at Levignier, who said nothing but waved a hand, a simplified form of shrug. Taking it as a signal to continue, Delombre said softly, ‘Well, you can do that, Mr Girovsky. Of course you can. But if you do, I can guarantee you that she won’t be the only person not going home again. Where will your trade advantage be then?’
‘Gentlemen… enough.’ Levignier spoke quietly but firmly, cutting off an outraged protest from Girovsky. ‘Nobody is going anywhere near Bessine, least of all you.’ This last was directed at Delombre, before he turned to address the businessman. ‘In fact, a message has already gone to him which will quickly establish the ground rules.’
Girovsky blinked at the roundabout message he was hearing.
‘Ground rules? What the hell does that mean? This isn’t some minor civil service matter we’re talking about – this is business!’
‘It means that as soon as he receives confirmation of the situation, we can expect to hear by return that all the hurdles, as you put it earlier, will be cleared out of the way, and your – our – plans can go ahead.’
‘But will he do the right thing? What if he digs his heels in and goes ahead with his talks?’
The idea had not been given voice before, and Levignier had a momentary feeling of uncertainty. What if, against all perceived odds and expectations, Bessine went ahead, risking his wife’s life? It would be a disaster. And there were people in positions of power who were counting on that not happening; people who would soon decide to cut themselves loose of Girovsky and anyone else who might be able to talk of what had happened.
People like himself.
But then he took reassurance from the fact that, unlike Girovsky, who preferred money and business deals to any woman, Robert Bessine had a much-celebrated relationship with his wife and would do anything for her, no matter what the cost.
‘Oh, I feel sure he’ll do the right thing.’ He stood up, signalling Delombre to stay where he was. He had a job for him to do. ‘At least, he will if he wants her back in one piece.’
Chapter Thirty-nine
‘Rocco. You were in Pontoise yesterday afternoon, were you not?’ It sounded like a question, but since Massin must have already read Rocco’s report, it clearly wasn’t.
Rocco sat up in his chair, clamping the phone to his ear. He’d had a sleepless night and insufficient coffee to snap him fully awake yet, and the dead atmosphere of the office wasn’t helping. ‘That’s correct. I went to interview Stefan Devrye-Martin.’
‘I see. And how was he when you left him?’
Rocco experienced a frisson of unease. It was the kind of circumlocutory question Massin liked to ask which, if he wasn’t careful, could land him in trouble. Yet what sort of trouble? Beyond the usual felon’s protests when suspected of almost any crime on the planet, Stefan hadn’t complained about his treatment yesterday. So what had changed the situation?
‘He was fine. We talked, he told me what he knew about the Clos du Lac, and I left. It’s all in my report. Why?’
‘Because Stefan Devrye-Martin, he of the faked death in Thailand, really is dead this time.’
Rocco felt the ground drop away beneath his feet. ‘What happened?’
‘A fire gutted most of the house, although a local doctor thinks Devrye-Martin might have had a heart attack. But there was a second deceased person present; this one with a gunshot wound to the head. His name was Alain Préault, a local thug and petty thief. The neighbours said he and Devrye-Martin – not the name they knew him as, of course – seemed to be friends. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light.’
‘No. I can’t.’ It was a set-up. He knew it, could feel it in his bones. People like Stefan and Préault didn’t fall out – or if they did, Stefan wasn’t the sort to win out over a streetwise thug. There was surely only one question to be answered. ‘What about a gun?’
‘Well, that’s where it gets interesting. Devrye-Martin was holding a small calibre handgun. A Unique, according to the local captain – a pocket gun. The barrel had been machined to take some kind of screw attachment.’
That could mean only one thing: a suppressor. A killer’s close-up weapon. But that didn’t make sense. Unless…
‘It wasn’t Stefan who shot him,’ said Rocco with certainty. ‘I doubt he’s ever held a gun in his life, much less had the balls to kill a street thug with one.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Someone else was there. Someone who went to clean up a mess.’
There was a brief silence, then Massin said, ‘I think I need an extra paragraph or two for your report, Inspector. You had better come up with something concrete – and quickly. This is beginning to look ugly.’
Rocco was surprised. ‘You’re going to send it in?’
‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?’
‘Because I thought you, along with ISD, wanted me off this case.’
‘I don’t control ISD, Inspector – and they do not control me. In fact, I resent their interference. But they have influence in the Ministry and clearly have their reasons for shutting you out of the investigation into the death in the therapy pool.’
‘Reasons which need to come out.’
‘That may be true. But we’re running out of time with this and I’m not sure how much longer I can delay them. Sooner or later, they will get their way and the case will be closed… or you will be compromised.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ve had calls suggesting that this Clos du Lac business has been blown out of proportion by an officer seeking to make a reputation for himself and get posted back to Paris where he really wants to be. Is that true?’
Rocco didn’t hesitate. A few months ago, he’d have said yes. Back then, anything was better than this rural backwater where a man could feel himself dying of inactivity, away from the hustle and sheer speed of events and the adrenalin rush of high-level crime. But now he felt differently. Occasional contact with Michel Santer was good for his spirits, but it wasn’t a precursor for going back. He liked it here.
‘No. It’s not. But it confirms what I suspect: there’s some kind of conspiracy here. How deep, I don’t know, but there’s a lot more to this than I’ve uncovered.’
‘I hope you’re right. If it’s a safe house – an elaborate one, I grant you – for people being held by the justice system, even if outside the normal rules, then we have no case.’
‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that. Bending a few rules doesn’t get people killed. If there was anyone who’d be a target for a professional killer, it would be the gangster, Betriano. There must be a long line of people on both sides of the fence who’d love to stop him getting to court and spilling his guts. But the dead man was a civil servant who’d threatened to expose a scandal about foreign trade deals.’
‘Maybe. Just remember this, Inspector, in case you ever feel like going back to Clichy: Paris has plenty of Inspector Roccos, whereas this region needs the one it’s got.’
The phone went dead, leaving Rocco certain that just before the connection was cut, he’d heard something like a smile in Massin’s voice.
The phone rang again. He snatched it up. ‘Rocco.’
It was Santer. He sounded serious. ‘Lucas, your information’s correct: there is a man named Delombre who works for ISD. Bobo says he’s a tough guy – un dur – and not one to mix with. He’s Levignier’s errand boy, but he seems to come and go as he pleases.’
‘So what is he – a mercenary?’
‘Could be. He’s been around a fair bit recently, according to Bobo, so something must be cooking. Watch your back, my friend.’
Rocco replaced the phone. It was no surprise that ISD were using outsiders – if that’s what this Delombre was. There were
all manner of reasons to use part-timers, or ‘deniables’, with no links to officialdom. It just made Levignier’s scope of activities all the more interesting, especially if Delombre had some authority over people like Bezancourt and his men.
The phone again. It was proving to be a busy morning.
‘Rocco.’
There was a brief pause, then, ‘Inspector. It’s Jacqueline Roget.’
It took a moment or two for the name to click into place.
‘Have you had your shoe mended?’ He wondered for a split second how she had found him, then realised that with her connections, it couldn’t have been simpler.
‘I still owe you a coffee, Inspector. Remember?’ There was a hint of a smile in her voice. ‘But most of all an apology. I’m in the Augustine. I’m hoping you can spare me a few minutes.’
The Augustine. A nice restaurant here in the town centre. Five minutes away on foot. If he cared to go.
He started to tell her that he was too busy, but the phone was already dead.
Chapter Forty
‘It’s a long way to come for a coffee,’ he said, easing into a seat across from Jacqueline Roget. There were no other diners yet and the place was silent, save for a waiter laying tables for the lunchtime trade.
‘Worth it, though. I hope.’ There was no trace of coquetry in the words, and Jacqueline’s expression was carefully neutral, save for a slight pulse in her throat. An attack of nerves or was this another attempt to entrap him? ‘In any case, my aunt lives not far from here; I thought I’d call on her at the same time.’
Rocco waited as she poured coffee from a silver pot, and added cream when he nodded. It gave him a chance to study her. She wore a dark-green silk blouse beneath what looked like a jacket of soft doeskin. A gold necklace hung at her throat, disappearing beneath the blouse and offset by the remains of a tan. She looked even more attractive than she had the other evening, and he detected a look of humour in her eyes that street lights would have masked.
Death at the Clos du Lac Page 20
