‘An exorcism. It’s mumbo-jumbo. Did it work?’
‘No. In fact the priest refused to go back in there. Said it contained forces beyond his control.’
Rocco shook his head. Cops were usually too cynical for talk of ghosts, but there were a few who might have claimed that anything that couldn’t be written up on a charge sheet must be from darker realms. ‘So apart from Fontenal and his pal we’re up against the spirits of a dead café owner and two adulterers, and an unknown quantity of old explosive. I wonder if Bam-Bam knows that. It’s about time something gave him a good fright.’
He set off across the field and waved the two uniformed men to advance, while Desmoulins jogged out to his right, drawing his own pistol. The ground was firm, and a covering of long, dry grass scratched at the cuffs of his trousers, chafing his ankles. High overhead a skylark sang, unaware of the human drama being played out below, while the rumble of a tractor engine drifted over the fields.
When they were a hundred metres away from the building, Rocco stopped and signalled to Pouillot for him to fire a single shot over the roof.
The man nodded, aimed and fired. The shot was loud and flat, drowning out the tractor and silencing the skylark. The men instinctively looked up for signs of feathers. Echoes of the shot drifted away over the café and were quickly absorbed by the landscape.
The reaction from the café was instantaneous. A section of shutter still clinging to the building’s rotting exterior was thrown back and a face appeared in the dark space behind. Another appeared alongside it, followed by the glistening barrel of a shotgun.
‘Don’t be an idiot, Bam-Bam,’ Rocco called out, and lifted his service weapon above his head so that the men inside could see it. He didn’t want to use it, but there were always instances where it was the only option. ‘You couldn’t hit a stationary train if you were standing on the platform. Give it up before you get hurt.’
A momentary silence was followed by a voice, shouting, ‘Rocco? Is that you? What the hell! So, this is where they sent you!’ The man swore fluently, cursing his bad luck.
‘Yes, it’s me. And that means you’re on my turf – again. And the men with rifles are military sharpshooters trained to shoot the buttons off shirt fronts. Think about it.’
He saw Maté beginning to bring up his rifle as if to prove it, and waved a hand to stop him. Fontenal may have been hopeless with a gun, but if he got nervous and let loose at this distance, even he might, for once in his life, hit someone.
The two faces disappeared and there was silence. Ten seconds went by, then twenty. Just as the counter in Rocco’s head reached thirty, and he was about to send the men off to the sides of the building with orders to place a couple of intimidating shots through the windows, the shotgun appeared again. This time it dropped from the window to the ground with a clatter.
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes. That’s it – my word of honour.’
‘Right. You know what to do,’ Rocco called, and signalled for the officers to spread out further and wait. Hopefully Bam-Bam had prevailed on his colleague to come out quietly and not to try something idiotic like shooting from concealment.
A puff of cigarette smoke at the corner of the building was followed by the familiar beanpole figure of Bam-Bam, a hand-rolled yellow mégot hanging off his lower lip. Behind him came another man, a stranger to Rocco, shorter and rounder and wearing the same air of defeat. Both men had their hands on top of their heads, a sure-fire indication that they’d been through this before and knew the drill.
‘What’s the game, Bam-Bam?’ said Rocco, as they drew close and Pouillot and Maté moved forward to cuff them and check them for other weapons. ‘This isn’t your usual kind of stunt, coming out this far from civilisation. I’m surprised you haven’t got a nose bleed.’
Bam-Bam scowled and winced at the tightness of the cuffs. ‘We thought we’d chance our luck out this way for a change. It was the Merc let us down, otherwise we’d have been home and clear, enjoying a few drinks by now.’
Rocco nodded at Desmoulins, and the young detective walked across to the Merc to check it out.
‘Nice car. Bit above your usual level, though. What did you do, win the Loto?’
‘I acquired it, if you must know,’ Bam-Bam muttered haughtily, ‘from a mate.’
‘Of course you did.’ Rocco’s scepticism was unconcealed. ‘And this “mate” was a kind garage owner who gave you the pick of his fleet. Nice to have mates like that.’ He knew that when they came to verify the details the car would be logged as having been stolen sometime within the past few days in the Paris area.
Bam-Bam said nothing. He watched as Desmoulins climbed into the car, bending to the ignition.
‘It’s a load of German rubbish, anyway.’ Bam-Bam’s voice was heavy with resentment. ‘It worked fine when we picked it up, but when we came to leave here last night, nothing. The battery was dead. You’ll probably have to tow it out of here.’
As the words left his lips the Mercedes burst into life, ticking over with the smooth hum of a quality piece of engineering. Desmoulins gave a wry grin and a thumbs-up. When he got out of the car, he was dragging two large bags with him, no doubt the proceeds of Bam-Bam’s clumsy bank heist.
Fontenal looked incredulous and spat on the ground. ‘I don’t believe it! It wasn’t working last night, I swear.’
‘Never mind,’ said Rocco. ‘You must have upset the spirits of the dead.’
‘Eh?’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to think about it. How’s Edith?’ Edith, Bam-Bam’s common-law wife of many years was as pleasant and cheery as her man was inept. It could have only been love that had kept her by his side in spite of his numerous prison terms regularly disrupting their life.
‘She’s fine, thanks for asking. She’d be happier if you let us go, though.’
Rocco shook his head. ‘Nice try.’ He indicated to the two officers to take them to their patrol car up the field.
As Bam-Bam went by, he leaned towards Rocco, his stale tobacco breath strong enough to choke a horse. He said, ‘If this is your new patch, Rocco, I feel sorry for you. Why’d you bother coming out here? It’s a dump.’
An hour later, checking in at Amiens while the two robbers were taken back to Lille, Rocco found an envelope on his desk. The room was deserted save for a duty officer in one corner, busy on the phone. The envelope contained a letter of instruction from Commissaire François Massin, Rocco’s boss. It was ordering him to present himself at the café tabac in the village of Douligny-la-Rose the following morning, where he would meet a man from the Ministry of the Interior. The man’s name was Marcel Dreycourt and Rocco was to comply with whatever might be requested of him.
‘Another Ministry job?’ Rocco muttered. ‘I thought they’d had their litre of blood from me after the last business.’
‘Problem, Inspector?’
Rocco turned and saw Deputy Commissaire Perronnet standing in the doorway. Stiff as a board and immaculate as always, Perronnet believed implicitly in the rulebook as laid down by the Ministry of the Interior, and made sure everyone knew it.
‘No,’ said Rocco, and folded the letter into his pocket. Arguing with Perronnet would be like fencing fog. He would go to the meeting as ordered and speak to Massin afterwards to see if he could be excused whatever it was they wanted him to do. Having only recently completed an assignment directed by the Interior Ministry, which had involved babysitting a foreign government minister taking refuge in France after a coup in his home country, he’d been foolish enough to think that might be the last he’d hear from them for a while.
To his surprise, Perronnet said softly, so that the duty officer could not hear, ‘We all know you have reservations about the Ministry’s occasional calls to unusual assignments, Rocco. I sometimes share your puzzlement, especially with an ever-increasing case load in our normal policing matters. But there are some things we cannot choose not to do. Besides, this could be one of y
our last cases here and I think you might find this one particularly interesting. I’m sure you’ll carry it out to the best of your abilities. Good evening.’
Rocco watched him go, and wondered at Perronnet’s words. He’d been referring to the recent job offer which had dropped in Rocco’s lap, although Rocco himself was trying hard to put off thinking about it for as long as possible. Going back to Paris to work offered both attractions and disadvantages. Evidently others had not forgotten and were keen to remind him.
By the time he arrived home in the village of Poissons-les-Marais, most of the day’s light had leached away, bringing a soft dusk and a welcome breeze. He locked his car and walked up the path to his rented house, then stood by the front door for a moment, enjoying the quiet hum of the countryside, so very different to the bustle and noise of his old patch in Clichy, Paris. There, the very idea of a quiet evening was a joke. Even retreating to one of the parks, where an impression of space might be found, rarely brought escape from traffic noise and voices raised in laughter or anger, often both.
He’d been in Picardie just over a year, and now he was being offered the chance to leave and head back to the city, his old beat. A chance of advancement, a move up the ladder and an opportunity to get back to the kind of policing he knew best: fighting gang crime.
Before he could dwell further on the problem, a small figure appeared at the gate and bustled up the path. It was his elderly neighbour, Mme Denis. Motherly by nature and inquisitive by inclination, she had immediately welcomed the tall outsider to the village and looked after his wellbeing with a regular supply of eggs, vegetables and good advice, in return for whatever inside information he could share about his latest investigation. On occasion she’d even traded local gossip culled from her network of friends in the area, although none of it turned out to be the kind that would draw Rocco’s professional attention.
This evening, however, she didn’t seem inclined to pass the time of day. Instead she thrust a small basket containing half a dozen eggs into his arms and said briskly, ‘I don’t know what the hens are going to do,’ she muttered, before turning away. ‘But at least they’re lucky enough not to realise when they’re being kept in the dark, unlike the rest of us. Enjoy your eggs.’
With that she turned and disappeared into the gloom without a backward glance, leaving Rocco thoroughly confused.
Five
Despite its elegant name, Douligny-la-Rose was too small to qualify as a town, yet too sprawled for a village. Neither were there any roses in sight, thought Rocco, as he entered the community limits. Deserted and deathly quiet, it lay still as a lizard in the morning sun, a rambling array of houses and bungalows connected by a single street with a high centre curving down to dust-filled gutters. Apart from a few faded flyers on trees and telegraph poles advertising tag wrestling bouts and a visiting circus that had passed through a year ago, there was little colour to be seen, as if the locals had decided on a sepia life.
In other words, Rocco estimated, the place was bigger than Poissons but nowhere near as lively. The thought reminded him that he’d seen no sign of Mme Denis this morning. Usually up and doing with the skylark, the old lady’s shutters had still been closed when he’d left home. It was unlike her, but then so was last night’s abrupt behaviour. He made a mental note to check on her as soon as he could, wondering what he could have done to upset her. Maybe she was having problems with her back, which had been troubling her recently.
He looked across a nearby garden, spotting the tip of the gothic cathedral of Amiens just visible on the horizon between two houses and the rooftops. It was only about fifteen kilometres away, but might as well have been a hundred, for all the aspirations Douligny’s citizens seemed to harbour. Ancient and fort-like walled farmhouses, with double wooden doors wide enough to admit a horse and cart, were dotted around in a haphazard fashion. They were interspersed with with more recent buildings – meaning those less than two hundred years old – all huddled together. It seemed a community held together with reluctance, born of necessity. Only the stone church seemed above it all, standing on a slight mound at the end of a narrow track, a dark presence looming over the community.
Rocco parked his car in the shade of a large beech tree. The sight of the vehicle would undoubtedly arouse some interest, but then the black Citroën Traction was as hard to ignore as its driver. Rocco, too tall and sombrely-clothed to pass unnoticed in this rural area, had long given up trying to blend in. It hadn’t been so difficult in Paris, but out here he was taller than the average man and dressed in a way which guaranteed he would be noticed. He’d also resisted the suggestion by his superiors that he change the Citroën for something a little more innocuous and up-to-date. His counter was that it was reliable, solid and comfortable, so why bother?
Up ahead he could see where the street opened out into the inevitable village square, with the tall roof of the town hall, topped by a tricoleur hanging limply against the flagpole, untroubled by a hint of breeze.
He walked along the rutted pavement, passing a handful of houses with polished steps and shuttered windows, each wooden fascia closed to the street save for a hand-sized diamond cut-out in the top centre. Had Rocco been able to see inside, he knew he would have found a series of small front rooms, neat and little-used, darkened by the shutters to keep out any unwelcome heat. Most of the households would possess impressively sturdy furniture handed down by their forebears, would see no reason to spend money on new items.
Rocco stopped at the corner of the square and looked around. It was more of a lopsided triangle, formed by the main through-route and two short stretches of paved road no longer than a hundred metres on either side. A small war memorial stood at the top against the iron railings of the town hall, with fading ribbons hanging from the stonework. The handful of shops around the square comprised a co-op, a bakery, a garage with a single fuel pump and a crêperie which appeared to be closed. The only sign of life was a dog sprawled in the sun outside the co-op, a hind leg kicking as it dream-chased a cat.
Immediately to his left was a café with three small tables and a number of chairs arranged haphazardly along the narrow pavement outside. They seemed perilously close to the kerb, with a line of wooden posts on flat bases in the gutter, although whether in an effort to safeguard the customers or claim more territory wasn’t immediately obvious.
Only one customer was in evidence, a man in a smart suit sitting by the front door. He was studying a newspaper. Before him was a large, white cup and saucer and a box of sugar cubes, and he couldn’t have looked any more out of place in this sleepy village setting if he’d been stark naked and wearing a chef’s hat.
This had to be Dreycourt. Ministry of Interior suits had a look all of their own. Like peas in a pod only greyer.
Without looking up the man raised one hand and beckoned Rocco to join him. With the other he reached to one side and hammered on the café door. As Rocco went over, a shambling figure in a loose shirt and creased trousers stepped outside and flicked a stained tea towel at a couple of wasps buzzing around the awning. He nodded at Rocco then looked at his suited client.
‘Two coffees and a jug of milk,’ the man said, folding the paper and pushing it to one side. ‘Strong, preferably. The coffee, I mean.’ He squinted up at Rocco and made a gesture for him to take a seat. ‘I’ve been advised by my doctor to take milk with mine. Bit late in life to start worrying, but what can you do? Your work file suggests you have a liking for coffee. I take it that hasn’t changed?’
‘Not entirely.’ Rocco sat with his back to the wall. ‘Do they actually employ someone to do that – note our likes and dislikes, I mean? It’s a touch intrusive, isn’t it?’
‘I agree,’ said the man, ‘but that’s the Ministry for you. They see it as one of their strengths, having a finger on every pulse. They’ve got a file on me, too, God rot them, but that’s one of the penalties of government work. Marcel Dreycourt.’ He smiled dryly and held out a hand. His grip was firm
but didn’t linger. Not a professional hand-shaker, thought Rocco, the kind who uses a greeting as an opportunity to show superiority or dominance. He had a direct expression, too, with no hint of guile, and the clean-shaven look of a man who took pride in his appearance without being obsessive. ‘Between you and me,’ Dreycourt continued, ‘I think it’s something they’ve copied from the Bundespolizei. I’m sure you know of the German passion for detail, even when it seems unnecessary.’
Rocco nodded but said nothing. If he’d learned one thing in his two careers as a soldier and policeman, you got more information by employing silence than speech. And right now, he wanted to know what this smartly-suited and booted man from the Interior Ministry wanted of him.
Dreycourt must have learned the same lesson, or maybe he was instinctively discreet when out in public. He smiled briefly, nodding towards the café door as an indication to wait for the owner to return with their coffees. Moments later, the large man appeared and placed the cups and a small jug of milk before them, then swatted at the wasps again before disappearing inside.
‘I’d like to clear up one small misconception you might have about me,’ Dreycourt said, stirring sugar into his coffee. ‘That I’m a Ministry employee. I’m not.’
‘Really?’ Rocco could do without the mystery; it was far too early and he had too much to do, too many case files to review to waste time sitting here. ‘So why the official letter?’
‘Because that was my instruction. I’m sorry – I couldn’t avoid it. I’m employed by the government in an advisory position, but that doesn’t mean I can ignore direct requests.’ Dreycourt sipped his coffee and pulled a face, although not at the taste. ‘I was on the payroll once, one of the worker drones, but they dispensed with my field of speciality as it was seen as too … special, I think one of them put it.’ He grinned sourly. ‘You know civil servants: getting rid of something when they don’t understand it is as natural as breathing.’ He broke off and looked down into his cup with an expression of surprise. ‘This is amazingly good coffee. I wasn’t sure with the first cup, but this confirms it. I might come here again. It’s always good to get out of the city when I can.’
Rocco and the Price of Lies Page 3