* * *
Out on the mudflat, Delombre had given way to utter exhaustion. He tossed away his gun. It was no use to him now; all his shells were gone and his enemies were out of sight and beyond reach. He hoped he’d managed to take at least one of them with him with that last volley, and that it was Rocco. Bloody man.
The watery ooze was now up to his chest, its relentless sucking power drawing him deeper and deeper, the more he struggled. Something moved against his leg, wriggling frantically, then was gone. He began to shiver, goosebumps rising on his upper chest and shoulders, but it wasn’t the cold. A gentle pressure was gripping him, and he could feel the wetness moving inexorably upwards towards his neck and face, claiming him centimetre by centimetre.
He coughed as the foul stench of mud filled his nostrils, and tried one last time to lift his legs, to push himself up from whatever certain horror lay beneath.
But it was no good. He was too tired.
He sighed. It shouldn’t end like this. Not for him. But there were some things you couldn’t control.
With a final defiant curse at the fates, he emptied his lungs of air, then lifted his arms and made his body go rigid, and allowed himself to sink smoothly beneath the surface.
Chapter Sixty
Rocco arrived home and left the car out in the road. He felt too tired to open the iron gates and drive inside, and with a long day of paperwork and briefings ahead of him, there were better things to worry about. Like catching a couple of hours sleep. He checked his watch. Already nine o’clock. He’d promised Massin a full report at midday.
He’d sent Claude and Desmoulins home, and left Captain Canet and a fresh team of officers to finish off at the Clos du Lac. Medics had taken away a bruised and bewildered, but otherwise increasingly lively Véronique Bessine, swapping his coat for a blanket, and her husband, no doubt accompanied by half the cabinet and the media, was on his way to Amiens hospital to meet her. Dion was on her way to a high-security cell and a lot of questioning.
He went over to the pump and kicked off his muddy shoes and trousers, dropping his jacket to the ground. He got the pump flowing with a few deft strokes, and washed off the mud and filth that had soaked through his trousers onto his legs and feet. The ooze was black, like coal dust, and the rank smell took him right back to the last few moments of the chase as Delombre vanished in the dark. He left his soiled things outside, ready to take to Madame Drolet at the co-op for cleaning, and went indoors and changed into fresh clothes and shoes.
The phone rang.
‘Inspector?’ It was Georges Maillard. ‘Sorry to trouble you, but I heard you go by. There’s somebody down here you should see.’
Rocco walked down the road to the café, the smell of stale water replaced by the tangy aroma of cow droppings from the farms along the way. Cows, he decided, were better than swamps.
Maillard was waiting for him at the café door, scratching his belly and yawning. He waved a thumb towards the side of the building, which edged on to a stretch of green space beneath a line of chestnut trees.
‘There’s someone here arrived more than an hour ago and woke me up asking directions to your place. I knew you weren’t in, so I told her she should wait here. I gave her coffee and kept an eye on her, and last I saw she was asleep in her car. Nice model. She’s not bad, either.’ He smiled knowingly, then added more seriously, ‘Sounded bad, during the night. Anyone hurt?’
‘Nobody who didn’t expect it. Does this woman have a name?’
‘I asked, but she said she wanted to surprise you.’ He fluttered his eyebrows, then turned and went inside, humming tunelessly.
Rocco walked round to the side of the café, and saw a sporty-looking cream Renault Floride parked beneath a tree. Jacqueline Roget was curled up behind the wheel, asleep.
He tapped gently on the window. She came awake instantly, looking up and smiling when she saw who it was, and wound down the window.
‘You realise I could arrest you for violating local parking laws,’ he told her sternly.
She grinned and yawned, then opened the door and climbed out. She was dressed in a jumper and slacks and looked surprisingly fresh, considering where she’d been sleeping and the time of day.
‘Sorry, Officer,’ she said meekly, then added, ‘I remembered what you said about your house being at the end of a road, but I wasn’t sure which one, so I stopped here to ask directions, just in case.’ She fluffed her hair into place and straightened her jumper. ‘The owner, Georges, was very sweet. He said there had been shooting just outside the village during the night, so it might be best if I stayed here until you got home. There were a bunch of other men here, talking about it. He told them to watch their language and they asked if I was any good at Babyfoot.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘I thrashed them. I used to beat everyone when I was at college but I didn’t tell them that. Georges is a big fan of yours, by the way. He thinks you’re tough.’ She frowned and looked him over. ‘The shooting. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. You want to drive me to my place? Only our every move is now being closely monitored.’ He was referring to the curtain twitching in the café’s end window. Give it a couple of minutes and the entire village would know he’d got a lady visitor who beat everyone at Babyfoot.
He directed her down the lane and led her inside, where he put the kettle on and excused himself while he bagged up his dirty clothes. Jacqueline watched for a moment, then picked up his shoes and began to clean off the mud.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ he protested, but she shooed him away.
‘I used to clean my father’s boots when he came in from fishing. I became quite expert. Besides, if you leave these too long, you’ll ruin them.’ She studied the inside label. ‘They’re English. Expensive.’
‘It’s a weakness I have.’
‘Well, I’m pleased you have at least one.’ Then her eyes became serious. ‘Was the shooting to do with Delombre?’
‘Yes. He got away.’ He guessed that might not be accurate, but they wouldn’t know for sure until later this morning when they dragged the lake.
‘You weren’t hurt, though.’ It was a statement, a reassurance, and said with relief.
‘No. I ducked.’
She frowned slightly. ‘Please don’t joke.’ She put his shoes down and began to stuff them with newspaper.
‘Sorry. It’s a coping mechanism.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She brushed her hands, then looked up as a skittering noise sounded across the ceiling. ‘You’ve got fruit rats! I love them – they’re so cute, with their little Zorro masks.’
‘I didn’t know they wore masks.’ He tried to recall the things Claude had said about them. Razor-sharp teeth was one. Not masks, though. Another species, maybe.
‘The little ones do. Aunt Celestine has them, too. You won’t try to get rid of them, will you?’
‘I’m not sure I could, now,’ he replied. ‘In fact I’m thinking of adding them to the rent book. Would you like some cake?’
‘I’d love some.’
He cut two slices and put them on plates. They sat and ate in silence, and Jacqueline expressed her approval by having a second slice.
‘My neighbour,’ he explained. ‘She doesn’t think I eat enough.’
‘Lucky you. It must be nice being surrounded by people who think so highly of you.’ She dusted crumbs off her fingers. ‘Would it be dreadfully bad for your reputation,’ she added carefully, ‘if I stayed here today? Only I have a lot of thinking to do. This place feels so peaceful.’
Rocco felt the last of the cake go dry in his mouth, and his heart began pounding faster again. Actually, he decided, it hadn’t slowed much in the first place. ‘We’d have to keep one foot on the floor and drink lots of tea.’
She smiled and blushed. ‘Of course.’
He explained about having to report to Massin, and the likelihood that Interior Ministry people would descend on Amiens in droves, in the wake of the kidnapping and shoo
ting. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll only stay a few hours. Then I have to go back to the city.’
He asked, ‘Does your aunt know you came?’
‘Of course. I told you, she’s the family black sheep. She approves.’
‘And you’re taking after her?’
She looked down. ‘No. Not really. My father thinks I’m a lot like her, especially doing the job I’m doing. Was doing.’
‘“Was”? Is that what the thinking is about?’
‘Yes. I resigned. I decided that all the skulking around and being secretive wasn’t really me, nor was being expected to make late-night visits to a senior officer’s apartment. So I rang my supervisor yesterday evening. He told me there’s a big reorganisation going on, so I shouldn’t make any rash decisions, but I said it wouldn’t make any difference.’ She bit her lip. ‘Levignier has disappeared. Did you know that?’
‘No. I didn’t. When?’
‘Sometime yesterday. My supervisor told me that a security guard saw him being picked up outside the office by two men in a car. He didn’t come back. What do you think that could be about?’
Justice, Rocco thought instinctively. A clean-up operation to make sure none of what had happened over the past few days ever got out. Levignier was probably discovering the hard way that even being near the top of ISD was no guarantee of protection against failure. It had so many ramifications, failure, especially allied to official circles; one of them being its cast-offs getting scooped up like rubbish in a dustpan.
‘I’m sorry I was so touchy at my aunt’s,’ she said after a while, and another cup of tea. ‘About the questions, I mean. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘It’s what I do,’ he explained. ‘Ask questions. But I’ll try to keep them appropriate to the occasion in future.’ He realised immediately how that sounded, but suddenly didn’t mind. It was an unusual concept, the future.
She was smiling, a delicate crease forming in the middle of each cheek. She said, ‘I might keep you to that.’
Next in Inspector Lucas Rocco:
Rocco and the Nightingale
‘…a classic crime star in the making’ Daily Mail
Find out more
First published in the United Kingdom in 2013 by Allison & Busby
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Copyright © Adrian Magson, 2013
The moral right of Adrian Magson to be identified as the creator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781800322455
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Death at the Clos du Lac Page 29
