Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Where will it lead?’

  ‘Nowhere. They’ll go round in circles.’ The reply sounded confident, even dismissive, which worried Serban even more. People who overestimated their own cleverness invariably made mistakes.

  ‘Who will head the investigation?’ It was an open question. Even if he knew the names of the officers concerned, there was little he could do about it. But he didn’t believe in leaving matters to chance. It was a trait that had kept him out of the clutches of the law so far and he intended keeping it that way. Whoever they were they were unlikely to be ordinary cops, not when it involved the death of a senior ministry official. No doubt some high-flier from internal security would be handed the job, someone unknown to him and therefore untouchable. Even so, it would be good to know the name if he could get it, in case some form of leverage became possible.

  ‘There’s one man I know of who might become involved, a specialist in art fraud and forgery. His name’s Dreycourt. Marcel Dreycourt. He’s retained by the Ministry of the Interior.’

  ‘Can he be bought?’ It was Serban’s default position: find a man’s weakness and exploit it to the full. Government servants were not highly paid, a fact he was prepared to exploit.

  ‘I doubt it. From what I’ve heard he has money and is not interested in more. His job will be to identify the source of the painting.’

  ‘And will he do that?’

  ‘He might. But I doubt it. There are few forgers working at the highest level, but pinning it on one specific person is almost impossible unless the artist confesses. I know this particular painter and he won’t say a word. Even if he is identified, there’s no law against producing copies of paintings for admirers. Galleries do it all the time. Once they hit a brick wall, they’ll hand the investigation over to another department, and when they also get nowhere, they’ll close the case down.’

  Eight

  The second delivery made by the yellow Citroën van was to a quiet avenue on a hill to the north of the resort of Mers-les-Bains. Overlooking the English Channel, and one of three ‘sister towns’ along with close neighbours Le Tréport and Eu, Mers-les-Bains boasted a seafront façade of 19th-century art-nouveau villas, high chalk cliffs, a long pebble beach and small casinos where wealthy Parisians could gamble their money in a pleasing atmosphere and healthy sea air.

  Not that any of this interested Peretz. The casino might have proved a draw in different circumstances but, as he’d learned long ago, gambling meant running the risk of getting both legs broken if someone didn’t like the way you were winning. The stakes and pots were higher than in licensed casinos, but there was always someone who wanted a cut and had to be paid off if you valued your health. Bad bets and sore losers were a lousy combination no matter how civilised the venue.

  All he was aiming to do today was get in and out again as quickly as possible, even more so once he’d seen the name of the recipient. In fact, having this letter in the mailbag alongside him had been about as comforting as sitting next to an unexploded hand grenade. Even if he had harboured ideas of spending a couple of hours in the resort before heading off, the name and title had killed them stone dead.

  He found the address he wanted amid a row of newly-developed brick-and-rendered villas with sculpted gardens, stepped entrances and au sous-sol garages beneath the gardens, with double doors opening on to the road.

  Peretz checked the street for observers, but saw none. Pulling an official-looking cap low over his face, he took the letter from the bag, hopped out of the van and stepped across the pavement. Slotting the letter into the mailbox atop the retaining wall, he returned quickly to the van and drove away, heading back towards the centre of town and the road east.

  As he drove away from the house, a man appeared at the front window. Wrapped in a dressing gown and carrying his first cup of coffee of the day, he watched the van leave. It was too low down to see the registration plate, but he noted the familiar PTT colour and decided to finish his coffee before venturing down the steps to the mailbox. Was there anything these days that couldn’t wait? Retirement brought several benefits, one of which was that nothing was urgent any more, save for the desire to keep on living at the level of comfort his police pension had earned over many years of loyal and diligent service.

  He finished his drink while deciding what to do that morning. A stroll down to the seafront would be pleasant, although with the tourist season in full swing it might be better to go sooner than later to avoid the crowds. Perhaps he’d call in to a salon de thé where they served excellent pastries.

  But first he had a situation to deal with. It involved his housekeeper, Anne-Marie Guillard, with whom he’d enjoyed until recently a pleasant physical relationship without strings … or so he’d thought.

  He’d ended the affair when she’d begun to involve herself just a little too much in the fine details of his life, including going through some documentation he preferred to keep away from prying eyes. She had insisted on coming round this morning to collect a few of her belongings. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He suspected that the passionate character which had first attracted him probably fuelled a less forgiving nature when roused in another way. Even so, a part of him was already regretting ending their arrangement, though he was certain he would soon find a replacement. The town was a popular retirement community with many widows and he’d sensed more than one of them sending him silent messages over the past few weeks.

  As he turned to the front door, pulling his dressing gown around him, he saw another vehicle come to a stop at a house across the road. Another yellow van. He watched as the driver climbed out and delivered a selection of envelopes to one house, then walked across the road to his mailbox with a folded magazine and fed it into the slot.

  Something about this double delivery stirred his gut: a sting of suspicion that had served him well throughout his career. He waited for the van to leave before walking down the steps and opening the mailbox. Inside was the magazine, a familiar monthly subscription on all things ornithological, and a plain white envelope. He flipped the envelope over.

  No stamp. Just his name typed across the front: Jean-Marie Gambon, Director General, Sûreté Nationale, followed by his address.

  The title seemed to mock him, but he didn’t know why. All he knew was that something about this wasn’t good news. He was no longer the director general of the national police force, which could have been a mistake easily made, but the disquiet he’d felt moments earlier was building to a pounding in his chest, causing his heart to flutter wildly.

  He hurried back up the steps and into the house. Dropping the magazine onto a side table, he ripped the white envelope open and pulled out a single-page letter. There was no address or signature, simply a flow of text which made his breath stick in his throat.

  Nine

  Rocco was deep in thought as he entered the office in Amiens following his meeting with Dreycourt. Receiving instructions of an unusual nature from the Interior Ministry was nothing new; the reach exerted by its staff was wide, and they were not beyond using official muscle to get results or manpower wherever they felt the need. But this latest move was from a self-described ‘consultant’, albeit a former member of staff. To take it further without double-checking with his superiors first might be a mistake.

  He headed for his desk, planning to check for any urgent issues, then go up and see Massin. The commissaire ran a tight ship and, although he had clearly passed on the Ministry letter, undoubtedly with Perronnet’s knowledge, running past him the substance of the talk with Dreycourt wouldn’t be a bad idea.

  As he entered the rambling main office, usually a smoke-tinted place of ringing telephones, slamming drawers and coarse jokes, he was met by subdued looks from uniformed and plain-clothed officers alike. One man, an older detective named Émile Anselin, was giving him a knowing smile as if enjoying a secret joke. As he caught Rocco’s eye, he turned away with a brief bark of laughter that carried a hint of derision, and made a comm
ent that Rocco couldn’t quite hear.

  Rocco ignored him. Anselin was a recent transfer-in, nearing retirement and assigned to the Amiens office to coast down to his final day of service. He wasn’t required to contribute much, thanks to an agreement between the Ministry and the independent police union, SIPN, and was fast becoming more of an obstruction than a help, content to amble around the place getting in everyone’s way. But it wasn’t Anselin’s attitude that surprised him. The usual laughter and banter that accompanied the drudgery of work – at least, when the senior officers were not in evidence – and countered the darker aspects of the job was absent. There was a subdued atmosphere in the office, and a quick shifting of eyes away from him as he moved between the desks to his own small patch of police territory.

  As he dropped his side-arm into his drawer and locked it, Detective René Desmoulins approached. Desmoulins was the polar opposite of Anselin: keen, hard-working and genial, he had proven himself to be a good right-hand man for Rocco, as he’d shown in the café siege.

  ‘Got a moment?’ he said softly, and gave a faint nod towards the rear door leading to the yard outside. Without saying more, he led the way across the room and out of the door leading towards the workplace of the stand-in pathologist, Dr Bernard Rizzotti.

  Rocco followed, wondering what was going on. There was definitely something in the atmosphere today; even Desmoulins was acting strangely.

  He soon found out. As the door closed behind them, he tapped Desmoulins on the shoulder and said, ‘What the hell’s going on in there, René? They’re all acting as if their favourite pet just died.’

  Desmoulins turned, nodded and cast a quick look around before saying, ‘Anselin says you’re bailing out and moving back to Paris.’

  ‘Anselin talks too much.’

  ‘So, it’s true.’ Desmoulins looked surprised.

  Rocco ignored the question. ‘What else is he saying?’

  ‘He claims he saw the transfer order in the admin office. It’s all over the station that you’re up for promotion to a new unit and can’t wait to kick the mud off your shoes for a cushy number and a bigger desk.’ He held his hands up. ‘That’s not me saying it; I’m just telling you what’s going round the building. You know what the rumour mill’s like: anything to brighten up a dull day. It’s your business, I know, but … you’re not denying it.’

  Rocco didn’t know what to say. He felt a measure of annoyance towards Anselin for spreading rumours, but also towards whoever had allowed the information to come out in the first place. However, he owed Desmoulins an explanation at least. The younger man had proven himself loyal and trustworthy, and was not the kind to be looking to benefit from a colleague’s potential departure. The rest of the building could wait until he was good and ready to make a decision.

  ‘I’ve been offered a new posting, it’s true,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s as far as it’s gone. It’s a new unit being formed in Paris to fight organised gang crimes – but that’s all I know. I only heard last week and haven’t even agreed to talk to anyone about it yet. Why are people getting their pants in a twist?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Desmoulins looked embarrassed. ‘I guess it’s the same whenever anyone moves on. A bit of envy, someone getting a promotion when they’re not; a sense that everything’s going to change. People don’t like that, do they? Change, I mean. Anyway, I thought you liked it here.’

  ‘I do. But change happens all the time,’ Rocco countered darkly. ‘Promotions, transfers, retirements – even death in service. Nothing stays the same for long, especially in this job. Even idiots like Anselin get moved around.’

  He checked his watch. He had to talk to Massin. Not just about Dreycourt but about the new job offer. He’d thought of little else since hearing about it through Massin himself a week ago, but hadn’t yet decided what to do. And that worried him. Rocco always tried to make decisions quickly and firmly. Chewing over something endlessly implied that he had doubts.

  The truth was, he was still getting over the mental and physical bruises incurred while dealing with the assassin, Nightingale, who had been sent after him by Lakhdar Farek, one of Paris’s leading gang lords. Ideally, he should have been relishing the opportunity to get to grips with more of Farek’s kind, backed by the better facilities and budgets promised in the new anti-gang unit known as the Research and Intervention Brigade (BRI). But the prospect wasn’t thrilling him for some reason and he could only think that the pressures of the past couple of weeks had something to do with it.

  ‘You don’t know what to do, is that it?’ said Desmoulins.

  ‘Not yet. But I’ll let you know as soon as I do. That’s a promise. And this stays between us, understand? Doesn’t matter what anyone’s saying.’

  ‘Of course.’ Desmoulins shuffled his feet and flushed. ‘It wouldn’t be the same, you know. And I bet I’m not the only one to say that.’

  Rocco clapped the young detective gratefully on the shoulder and walked back into the building. He was going to have to make up his mind one way or another. Putting it off would only make him look lame and indecisive. He’d go up there and tell them that his decision was made. They might not like it, apart from Massin, of course, who might be glad to see the back of him, but better to come out with it and be done.

  He rang Massin’s secretary, and after a few moments she told him to come up.

  Massin was with his deputy, Commissaire Perronnet, and Captain Eric Canet, who gave Rocco a smile. All three officers looked as if they were waiting for examination results rather than a report by a subordinate.

  Massin didn’t waste time with preliminaries. ‘I’m sorry, Rocco, but I appear to have conspired to put you once more under the eye of the Interior Ministry. I’m hoping you agree to take on this case as you have the experience.’

  Rocco felt the wind taken out of his sales. What the hell was Massin talking about? Was this his obtuse way of giving Rocco a shove out of the door?

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The authorisation letter to assist Dreycourt.’ Massin’s forehead creased in a faint scowl. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not interested. I’ve agreed you’ll be assigned to it until further notice. It means putting off your decision about the new job a little longer but, in light of the importance of the deceased person, I think it’s something we can’t avoid. The Ministry agrees and is understandably taking a very close interest.’

  Rocco finally understood. So, they weren’t waiting for his decision about the new job after all. Not yet, at least. ‘The deceased. You mean Secretary of State Bourdelet?’

  ‘Dreycourt told you?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t want to but I beat him up until he talked.’

  Massin didn’t even blink. ‘Now why don’t I find that impossible to believe?’

  Ten

  Rocco drove to Poissons after making a quick phone call to Claude Lamotte, the local garde champêtre,and arranging to pick him up. Rocco and Claude had worked together several times now, and he trusted the man implicitly. As a rural guard, which involved him in countryside matters, including policing poaching and fishing licences, Claude did not fall under the direct rule of the gendarmerie, but that hadn’t stopped him helping out whenever he was needed. He was a conduit for information on most people and most business in the area, and was Rocco’s most logical way of getting to meet the alleged master-forger, Sébastien Cezard.

  Claude was waiting outside his house on the opposite side of Poissons from Rocco’s. Heavy-set and dressed in his standard brown and green work clothing, there was no visible sign that he was any kind of policeman save, perhaps, for an official badge concealed somewhere: he could have been any one of the farm workers from the village. Even the shotgun held under one arm was common enough in most parts of France not to set him apart, which was how he liked it.

  ‘This all sounds mysterious,’ he said, approaching Rocco’s side of the Citroën. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Sébastien Cezard,’ said Rocco
. ‘Do you know him?’

  Claude nodded. ‘I’ve met him a couple of times. I wouldn’t say we’re friends, but he seems nice enough. Why, what’s he done?’

  ‘I don’t know that he’s done anything yet. I’m just filling in some background. Anything you have on him might be useful.’

  Claude puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, he’s some kind of artist, I gather – a painter. He lives in Passepont. He’s never been in any trouble to my knowledge. I’m not sure how successful he is. He never seems to be scraping for a living, so I suppose he does all right. As far as I know he doesn’t go out much, and prefers to stay at home in his château and paint.’

  ‘His what?’ Rocco looked at him. There were a few châteaux scattered around this part of the country, although not many were in habitable order. Down in the Loire region and further south, where they were becoming tourist sights, it was a different case, but this corner of Picardie seemed to have allowed such places to slide into disrepair. ‘A real one?’

  ‘Real enough, although I hear it’s pretty much a ruin for the most part. One wing has been rescued, which is where he and his daughter live, and there’s a studio of sorts in the old coach house. Other than that, I don’t know much about it or them.’ He glanced at Rocco from beneath heavy eyebrows. ‘Is this a new case?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve been asked by a man at the Ministry to take a look at him. It’s an ongoing case they’re investigating. I need a reason to go and see him, though. Do you want to come along?’