Body on the Rocks: Crime in the south of France (Madame Renard Investigates Book 1)

by Rachel Green

  Chapter 10

  On the other side of the hot tub Crystal’s friend was giving him the come-and-get-me eyes. When she swished through the bubbling white water to take her share of the two lines of coke that Enzo had carved out for them, her sparkling blue eyes never left his. Her soft inner thigh nestled against his as she lowered her nose to the tile. Enzo held her hair while she vacuumed it up, and then kissed Crystal on the lips as she came over to join them: a threesome treat he’d been promised as a reward for not siding with his wife at the restaurant last night.

  Crystal’s friend had been awestruck when she’d seen the new house. Enzo rarely invited people into his home, but with his wife away and this treat on offer he’d given in to temptation. Watching them swim naked in the pool earlier he’d been undecided which of them he was going to enjoy the most. Crystal was the eldest and knew how to please him, but her friend had the better body, curves a porn star would kill for. Maybe he could come up with a challenge of some kind. Get them to see who could keep him going the longest. Crystal’s friend suddenly raised her head.

  “Where’s yours?”

  She seemed surprised he’d only carved out two lines.

  “Enzo never touches the stuff, do you lover boy?” Crystal said, reaching across for the tile.

  “How come?”

  “It kills his libido.”

  The coke quickly kicked in and soon they were both all giggles and jiggles.

  True, Enzo never touched the stuff, but no, it did not affect his libido. It was a fool’s game, he knew that better than most. If you were dumb enough to get suckered in you only had yourself to blame.

  They settled down on his either side and Enzo lay back, ready to enjoy. But despite the fantastic prospects on offer he found himself strangely unmoved. He couldn’t stop thinking about his wife. A few hours ago she’d jetted off to the Alps to go skiing with a girlfriend. Her family owned a big old chalet up there – seven bedrooms, views of Mont Blanc. They’d had a huge late snowfall; Marielle had sent him pictures of happy smiling faces, glistening in white sunshine, and it had got him reminiscing. As kids, he and Paolo had used to love playing in the snow.

  The frivolity in the hot tub quickly grew tiresome so he prized himself free. Two faces looked up in pretend disappointment as he swished to the side.

  “Enzo no want to play?” Crystal said, putting on a baby voice.

  Enzo looked back at them with mild annoyance. Sometimes he got the feeling they only came for the free coke. He clambered up onto the hot tiles and pulled the champagne bottle from the ice bucket. “Bolly’s got warm,” he said, and collected his robe on the way out.

  In the changing room, Mutt was welded to the sofa, staring at a giant TV.

  “Hey, lard-ass – you think this is what I pay you for?”

  Mutt pulled a face and levered himself up. “Sorry, boss.”

  Enzo pushed the warm champagne bottle into his chest. “Go fetch.”

  He took Mutt’s place on the sofa and lit a cigar. He reached for the remote and flicked away from the sports channels, feeling suddenly grumpy. He must be getting old. Passing up the chance of an amazing threesome to watch the news instead – was this what life would be like from now on? Maybe it was time to start taking the little blue pills. A man in his position needed to keep up appearances.

  He almost flicked past it – a bulletin on the local news about some dead migrants that had been washed up – but held off when they said where it had happened. He jabbed the button to turn up the sound:

  “The two bodies, believed to be father and son, were found within a kilometre of each other on a popular stretch of coastline near Argents-sur-Mer, close to Perpignan. Police are working to identify them, but so far few leads have been uncovered. An eyewitness reports seeing a boat out that night – an Oceanus RIB – and the gendarmerie are keen to trace the boat’s owner.”

  Mutt came back with a fresh bottle of champagne and held it out, but Enzo stared blankly back at him. He turned off the TV, his mind elsewhere.

  “You okay, boss?”

  Enzo went on staring, and then finally nodded. An Oceanus RIB – that sounded familiar.

  He got to his feet and slapped Mutt on the arm. “You take it in,” he said. “They’re all yours.”

  Mutt could hardly believe his ears. “Boss?”

  “Family calls. I need to go and speak to my brother.”

  ***

  Enzo got dressed and took the elevator up to the living room level. He went into his office where he retrieved an encrypted phone from the safe. It could have been a coincidence but the more he thought about it the more likely it seemed. A while back Paolo had got into a little migrant importation. Every few months he and his friend Etienne would make a trip down to North Africa, pick up a boat-load of losers. And Etienne’s boat was an Oceanus RIB.

  “Paolo – it’s me.”

  Silence from the other end of the line. Enzo expected little else. When Dad died fifteen years ago his kid brother had wanted nothing more to do with the business and had been determined to go his own way. Even now, after years of life going nowhere, Paolo barely tolerated him.

  “I’ve just watched the news. You been up to your old tricks?”

  “None of your business.”

  “If there’s something going on I really need to know.”

  Paolo didn’t answer. He’d never been the most talkative of people but some silences meant more than others. Enzo sat down in his chair.

  “You need some help?”

  “Haven’t you got better things to do?”

  Enzo clenched his jaw. He had a good mind to describe to him exactly what he’d passed up on to make this call but the kid would only get jealous. “I’m coming up to see you.”

  “Stay out of it.”

  “I wish it were that simple but trouble affects you then trouble affects me. I really don’t want any attention right now.”

  Another silence.

  “Will you be at the garage later?”

  “Maybe.”

  Enzo squeezed the phone. “For God’s sake, Paolo. Just grow up, will you?” He checked the time. “It’s eight o’clock now; I’ll meet you at the garage at eleven. You got that?”

  There was another short silence before his brother hung up. Enzo punched the red button and tossed the phone onto his desk. Maybe one of these days he might not bother bailing him out, let him go to the wall, for all the thanks it got him. But even as he thought that Enzo knew it wouldn’t happen. Not this time. Not next time. Not ever. Paolo was the only family he had now.

  Chapter 11

  At six o’clock Margot switched her phone to silent. Pierre hadn’t got back to her and in some small way she was relieved. As soon as he found out what she’d been up to he would only get worried and insist she leave it to the police. She was too keyed up to eat a full meal and only picked at a salad. She put on a set of dark clothes, slipped into a pair of soft-soled shoes, tucked her hair into a black wool beret. She chain-smoked three cigarettes while she waited for her phone to finish charging. The garage closed at seven, but she didn’t set out until nine. Walking back to the street where she’d parked the car she was surprised to find a spring in her step. It had been months since she’d last felt such a tingle of excitement.

  It was a moonless night and the roads were dark. When she got to the port, she parked on the other side of the railway arch and sat at the wheel, eyes on the garage. The place was all closed up – the tow truck gone, the shutters down. No light shone in the front window, and the street was quiet apart from the thrum of muted music coming from a bar at the end of the street. She gave it another half-hour and then, at 9:53, went for a closer look.

  Something the size of a rat scurried away from her as she walked through the railway arch. She went a little way down the street before crossing over, and then slowed as she approached the garage. A security light blinked on, scalding her retinas. Margot briefly paused while she pinched shut her eyes. She turned l
eft at the next corner.

  A jumble of two- and three-storey additions were tacked onto the rear of the garage and it was impossible to discern any boundaries. A high brick wall meant she couldn’t even see in. The first opening she came to led to an access road at the rear of the properties, little wider than an alley. Margot hesitated before going in, eyes probing the darkness. No one appeared to be down there.

  High walls ran along both sides. She felt her way forward, palms on the brickwork. The shape of a parked car materialised at the end of the lane; beyond it was another wall, meaning she was walking into a dead end. If anyone challenged her now she would be trapped. Soon she came to a pair of tall timber doors with a personnel door tucked into an alcove. Margot halted as another security light came on, revealing her surroundings in harsh white light. If she was imaging the layout of the building correctly she was still in line with the rear of the garage. She waited for the light to go out, and then switched on her torch.

  She stepped into the alcove, careful not to trigger the lights again. Her heart sank when she spotted the illuminated keypad – the door was secured with an electronic lock. Hugo had once told her about the tricks lock-breakers used, but without specialist equipment there was no way of getting past a lock like this. She was about to start looking for another way in when inspiration struck: ‘7 4 3 1’. The text message on Aswan’s phone. Could whoever have given him this address also have texted him the door code?

  She punched in the numbers, flinched when a small green light came on. Margot’s pulse quickened when she heard the click. She turned the handle, pushed the door, and after peering through to make sure no alarms were going off, quietly stepped inside.

  It was pitch dark but the acoustics suggested she’d entered a cavernous space, a storage unit or a small warehouse. With the aid of her torch she soon located a bank of light switches, but she didn’t risk putting any of them on. The space was so congested its full extent was impossible to judge; the floor so jampacked she had to shuffle from spot to spot. Margot’s roving torch-beam revealed several cars crammed into the space to her left, three vintage 2CVs amongst them. On the opposite side was a collection of motorcycles in various stages of restoration. A custom chopper was raised up on a bike lift; beside it an over-the-top scrambler with a pink leather seat. Scattered between the various vehicles were tools and spare parts and racks of shelving; every step of the way she had to be careful not to knock over a box or bump into something solid and heavy. There was no sign of the staircase she’d seen earlier, or the door with the red velvet curtain.

  As she neared the edge of the space, the ceiling lowered and it became apparent she was walking beneath a mezzanine level. In the corner, her eyes picked out a dog-leg staircase and Margot ascended cautiously, her footsteps silent on the chequer-plate treads. It opened onto another storage area, just as cluttered as the space below, and her eyes went straight to the only door. It opened easily, but when she went to take a step forward she almost jumped out of her skin – five metres below, a solid concrete floor would have been the next thing to greet her.

  There was no barrier. Margot took a quick step back and held onto the doorframe. She stood on the verge of a much larger space, an abandoned factory of some kind. High-level windows let in a little ambient light, and her torch-beam moved over a shadowy shop-floor that had long been stripped of its machinery. Pieces of heavy equipment lay abandoned, their chunky iron components relics of an earlier age. Heavy-duty chains hung from girders, and small, swept-up piles of broken glass littered the floor like puddles of precious stones. And, weirdly, in the centre of it all was another custom motorcycle, this one a purple Harley sporting a set of ludicrously high ape-hangers. Unable to make sense of it all, Margot closed the door.

  She checked the time – it had gone ten-thirty and she’d still found no clue as to why Aswan and his father might have come here. Growing impatient, she quickly descended the stairs.

  And from this angle she spotted a door that had previously been hidden to her. A flash with her torch revealed a sign saying PRIVATE. When Margot opened it she was relieved to find herself at the end of the corridor she’d discovered earlier – the hideous orange carpet the obvious giveaway. She strode the ten metres to the back door of Paolo’s office and this time found it locked. Not that it mattered: her focus switched immediately to the stairs. She paused with her hand on the handrail, one foot on the bottom tread. If someone found her here right now the consequences were unthinkable and she briefly considered turning back. She could be out the back door in ten seconds flat. But curiosity was a hard thing to resist.

  She paused again at the top of the stairs, skin prickling with nerves. A loud car raced by in the street, the raucous bark of its uncapped exhaust making the walls vibrate. She approached the curtain and drew it aside, holding it back with the gold rope tie. Directly behind it was a solid black door, a shrunken skull for a handle, a keyhole below. Margot was certain her luck would run out and she would find it locked, but the door opened easily when she turned the handle. A squeak came from the hinges, making her suck her teeth. She reached for the light switch and tentatively flicked it on. A series of fluorescent tubes blinked on revealing a large room dominated by a table, at least five metres in length. An assortment of boxes and papers and prints and books covered the table, and more were piled up on the floor. Margot worked her way around the edges of the room first, her eyes drawn to the large, high-end printers that lined one wall. A small photographic studio was set up in the corner with lights on tripods and backdrops strung from a pole. A camp-bed was tucked into the next corner, looking like it had recently been slept in, and a dozen or so rolled-up sleeping bags lay nearby. A side table was laden with tins of food, a gas stove, half a loaf of bread. Several pairs of shoes were lined up beneath the bed and there was a free-standing rail with clothes. An inner door opened onto a toilet – Margot peered in and noted the single toothbrush in a glass on the shelf. Next to the toilet, a black curtain screened a darkroom.

  Margot turned back to the table. It was so cluttered it was hard to know where to begin, but her eyes quickly settled upon a pile of EU passports. Thirty or forty of them were arranged in small piles, and when she examined them they looked brand new and genuine, or at least very good forgeries. Her eyes quickly returned to the printers. Is that what they were doing up here – manufacturing fake documents and supplying them as part of the package? Passage to Europe and a shiny new passport?

  There were hundreds of photographs spread across the desk, some in boxes, many in albums. Margot took her time looking through, captivated by what she found. They were clearly the source of the rumours Raymond had passed on – many of them were in black and white and the subjects were young women, tied to chairs or bound in chains in a location very much like the abandoned factory she’d seen next door. The subjects were all naked, or near naked, and some of them were quite explicit, but they weren’t pornographic. They were artfully staged and interestingly lit and wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Paris gallery. Whoever had taken them undoubtedly had talent.

  Margot was so engrossed she barely registered the sound of voices and when she did tune in, her head snapped up in disbelief. A light was shining up the stairs. Through the open door she could hear men’s voices, moving closer. She raced to the door and switched off the light, then listened with her back to the wall. The men were coming up the stairs, hard-soled shoes clanging on the metal treads.

  She searched the greyness for a way out. There was a window but it was too high up. The footsteps reached the landing, giving her only seconds to hide. She ran to the black curtain and hid in the darkroom, snatching a breath when the lights clicked back on.

  They didn’t seem surprised to find the door wide open. When Margot eased back the curtain to create a slit, she saw two men standing on the far side of the table, one of whom was Paolo.

  “You ever think about tidying up?” the other man said.

  Paolo didn’t seem impress
ed. “Just say what you’ve come to say and then get out.”

  The second man moved slowly around the table and sat down in an armchair, his back to the darkroom. There was a clink of a heavy metal lighter, followed by silence as he lit a cigar. As the smoke started to billow, he leaned back in his seat and made himself comfortable. Whoever it was clearly had no intention of leaving soon.

  Chapter 12

  Enzo stretched to pick up one of the passports. They were immaculate, barely distinguishable from the real thing. “How much do you charge for one of these – five, six hundred?”

  Paolo took the passport out of his hand and tossed it into a bag. “Everything’s not about money.”

  Enzo put his feet up on the table and blew a column of cigar smoke into the air. He watched without comment as Paolo continued tidying his stuff, and then glanced around the room with a feeling of dismay: the camp-bed, the tinned food, the rolls of toilet paper. Why did his brother choose to live like this when he could have so much? All he had to do was swallow some of his pride and come and work for him. Enzo had made the offer plenty of times.

  And all these photos – piles of them, spread across the table. Enzo shuffled through … silhouetted nudes, a pair of legs, some tattooed freak with her ass to the camera. Why couldn’t he just take a straightforward god-damn snap? The kid was stuck inside his own head, that was his problem. Growing up he’d wanted to be an artist. At eighteen, he’d applied to an art school in Florence, bragged about the fancy life he was going to have. He did well in his exams, got offered a place, was all set to move away from the family home, but Dad had refused to pay the fees and there was no way Paolo could rustle up the money himself. He’d got a job as a grease monkey instead. Stupid kid was wasting his time, anyway; he was never going to fit in with that arty crowd. But he wouldn’t listen, and he’d gone on taking his pictures, setting himself up in this crappy garage and turning this room into his studio. Sure, Enzo could see the allure of the naked ladies and had one time tried to persuade him to turn his hand to pornos, at least make some money out of it. But Paolo had refused, deluding himself into thinking it was all about ‘the art’.