Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  Claude smiled. ‘You mean you want me to provide an official excuse?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He gave it some serious thought. ‘Ah, I know: there’s been some out-of-season hunting on his land in the past, and only the other day somebody reported hearing gunshots over that way. I think it’s about time we had a chat about that.’

  ‘And were there any? Gunshots, I mean.’

  ‘Not that I know of. But I doubt he’ll know either way. Anyway, it’s reason enough to allow me to have a talk with him. How you handle your part is up to you, of course. You can drive me if you like.’

  ‘Why not? If you’re good I’ll let you play with the car radio.’ He waited for Claude to climb aboard, bringing with him a smell of damp earth and gun oil. He laid his shotgun on the back seat before reaching for the car radio in search of a music channel.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll need the gun,’ said Rocco. ‘We’re going to talk to the man, not blow his head off.’

  Claude frowned. ‘It’s my badge of office, that is. I’d feel naked without it. And everybody expects a garde champêtre to have a gun. Don’t worry, it’s not loaded. Anyway, I hear these artistic types can be a bit excitable. I like to be prepared.’

  ‘In that case, if he looks like beating us senseless with a loaded paintbrush, I’ll step aside and let you handle it.’

  Cezard’s château lay on the outskirts of the village of Passepont in a sleepy fold in the countryside. The village itself consisted of a church, a café and maybe twenty houses. A blink would have had a driver passing through without noticing its presence. The château, however, was not so easily overlooked, standing on a piece of elevated ground and surrounded by a high stone wall, green with moss and creeping ivy. A gateway flanked by a pair of impressive stone pillars looked sturdy enough to have withstood a tank had one happened along, Rocco thought, although back in its heyday the worst it would have had to face was a marauding crowd of peasants with pitchforks looking for rumoured aristos.

  Rocco drove up the cobbled drive to the main building and parked where it broadened out close to the front doors. Whatever Cezard did besides painting, gardening was clearly not high on his list of priorities. The grounds at the front still showed signs of terracing, with stone steps leading to each level, but sprouted generous clumps of couch grass, dandelions and nettles, while the sides bore a variety of bushes and trees with low-hanging branches heavy with untamed foliage.

  The two men climbed out and studied the building. The front and one side rose to three floors of solid stone blocks, but one wing had long crumpled. Most of the original roof had gone, but had been replaced by newer modern tiles which gave the building a comic, lopsided appearance, like an old lady in a skewed top hat. Heavy shutters opened either side of the large front windows on the ground floor, but no higher, the glass in the first-floor windows staring back at them, dark and mysterious.

  ‘Bit creepy,’ said Claude. ‘But attractive in a tumbledown kind of way.’

  ‘I think barely standing is the style you’re looking for,’ Rocco commented, and turned to look at a sporty soft-top Renault parked at the side of the house. A soft powder blue, it had several dents along the front wing and a scrape down the side. Pretty much like a lot of cars in Paris, he thought.

  ‘That’s his daughter’s,’ Claude said, following his look. ‘According to the locals she drives like a maniac.’ He turned and climbed the steps and knocked on the front door with the flat of his hand. The slap-slap echoed back at them. Moments later they heard footsteps on tiles and the door opened to reveal a smiling young woman. She wore a blue skirt and yellow blouse with flat shoes, and had a silk scarf tied loosely around her neck.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said softly, brushing back a shock of brown hair. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Good morning, mademoiselle,’ said Claude, flicking a hand towards his forehead in a casual salute. ‘Garde champêtre Claude Lamotte, out of Poissons. May we speak to Monsieur Cezard, please?’

  The young woman lifted an eyebrow, and stared at Claude’s weather-beaten corduroy trousers and heavy cotton shirt. ‘Aren’t you supposed to wear a uniform, Officer Lamotte?’ She glanced at Rocco with a twinkle of amusement. ‘And who’s the big silent type – your driver?’

  Claude scowled in faint disapproval, although by the gleam in her eyes, it was clear she was teasing. ‘I prefer to wear my own clothes, as a matter of fact. And this is Inspector Lucas Rocco, also out of Poissons, but based at the commissariat in Amiens.’

  The young woman fixed Rocco with a pair of dark brown eyes. ‘An inspector, no less? And so smartly dressed. My, we are honoured. What have we done to merit such important visitors? Do I need to call my lawyer?’ Before either of them could answer, she laughed and stepped aside, sweeping an arm invitingly towards the interior. ‘Come in, the pair of you. I’m just teasing. My name is Eliane, by the way. My father’s in the back room. If you follow me, I’ll introduce you.’

  With that she turned and walked across the tiled entrance hall and along a passageway towards the rear of the building. She moved with a swing of her hips and glanced back once. Rocco wasn’t sure if it was to see if they were following or to check on the effect she was having. Either way, he kept his eyes firmly ahead, wondering at a mix of music in the air, part something contemporary and, behind it, a classical piece Rocco recognised but couldn’t have named if his feet had been on fire.

  ‘Sorry about the clash of music styles,’ Eliane called back. ‘Pa likes his highbrow stuff while he’s working but I prefer something a bit lighter at this time of day.’ She waved vaguely towards a number of large canvases of rural scenes on the walls on either side. ‘He painted all these. He has a thing about bare walls: he can’t stand them. It’s a bit of an obsession in my opinion, but he says it’s to do with creating an artistic and relaxing ambiance for his work.’

  ‘You don’t share that view?’

  ‘Not entirely. I mean, I like them well enough but my mother wasn’t very artistic and she must have passed it on to me. I prefer people.’ She stopped and turned, smiling. ‘They’re a lot more fun.’

  Rocco stopped and studied a scene that might have been of the marshes around Poissons. Filled with reed beds, trees and the glint of faint sunlight off dark water, it was beautifully executed but not what Rocco would have chosen. Maybe Cezard had been in a dark mood when he’d created it, but it seemed a little too full of menace to be relaxing, if that’s what he’d been aiming at. On the other hand, from Rocco’s close encounters with the local marshland it was an accurate representation, showing the contrast of natural beauty while hinting at unseen dangers lurking beneath. A quick glance showed other works on similar themes, and he saw Claude nodding his head in recognition.

  ‘Eh bien. Not bad,’ he said approvingly, jutting out his lower lip.

  They both turned as Eliane opened a door at the end of the passage and stood aside to usher them in.

  A man was standing by the window, puffing on a cheroot and staring out at a stretch of grass and a pond full of dark water and a mass of waterlilies. He was holding a half-glass of yellow liquid in his other hand; Rocco guessed pastis. The classical music they’d heard was coming from a record player on a sideboard. The man turned as Claude and Rocco stepped inside, followed by Eliane, who walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Sorry to intrude, Pa,’ she said softly, ‘but these two policemen want to speak with you. They’re Officer Claude Lamotte and Inspector Lucas Rocco.’ She turned and gave Rocco a dazzling smile. ‘I think I got that right, didn’t I?’ She turned back to Cezard and said, ‘I thought I’d better let them in before they called for reinforcements and bashed the doors down.’ She turned and clapped her hands together. ‘Now, I was just about to make tea. Everyone want some? Good. I won’t be long.’ With a swish of her skirt, she disappeared through the door and hurried back down the corridor, leaving a heavy silence in the room and the three men
looking at each other awkwardly.

  Sébastien Cezard merely smiled and shook his head. He put the glass down and lifted the head of the record player. Silence took over the room. ‘You’ll have to forgive Eliane. She has a habit of disregarding convention and her humour is sometimes questionable, as is her taste in music.’ He shook hands with both men and invited them to sit on a sofa to one side of a large fireplace, before taking an ancient armchair on the opposite side himself. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

  Heavily built, with an expansive belly and a curly grey beard, Cezard seemed to fill the room with his presence, even when sitting down. His hands, shirt front and trousers were spotted with paint of various colours, and a smear of dark blue crossed one cheek like a scar. The cheroot was now shuffled into one corner of his mouth and he reached up to adjust a pair of thick-framed spectacles perched on a broad, flat nose that might have been broken with a shovel.

  ‘I’m just along for the ride,’ Rocco explained easily. ‘We’re on our way to Amiens, but I believe Officer Lamotte wanted to ask if you had heard any shooting close to your land recently.’ He nodded at Claude to continue.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Claude. ‘We had a report of gunfire a couple of days ago and I was wondering if you were aware of anyone hunting in the area?’

  ‘Gunfire? Around here?’ Cezard shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Officer Lamotte, but I can’t help you. I don’t own a gun and I haven’t heard any shooting. In the hunting season one gets the feeling we’re living in a war zone, as you probably know, but right now? Nothing. Although I have to confess that when I’m working, I tend to be oblivious to anything short of a bomb falling on the roof. Ask Eliane – she might have heard something.’

  Just then Eliane appeared with a tray of cups, saucers and a teapot, and placed it on a low table between the three men. ‘Here you are,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Already poured. Add sugar, lemon or milk according to taste. Personally, I prefer the English way, with milk.’

  ‘I was just telling these officers,’ said Cezard, ‘what I’m like when I’m working.’

  Eliane rolled her eyes. ‘My God, he’s like the walking dead. Put a paintbrush in his hand and he goes deaf, dumb and … well, not blind, of course, but as good as. Trying to have a decent conversation with him when he’s in full flood is virtually impossible.’ She softened her words by bending over and kissing him on the head, then turned to the door. ‘Excuse me, I have a few errands to run and some marking to finish.’

  ‘Eliane’s an emergency supply teacher,’ Sébastien explained, when she had gone. ‘She fills in for schools who are short-staffed. They want her to go full-time but she likes it the way things are.’ He sipped his tea then studied Rocco. ‘I get the impression you’re not local, Inspector … may I call you Lucas?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m Sébastien. You must be the detective from Paris I’ve heard talk about.’

  Rocco nodded. ‘That’s correct.’ He explained briefly about being transferred as part of a policing initiative, then steered the conversation back to the painter. ‘What kind of work do you do – apart from the pieces in the hallway, I mean?’

  ‘That’s pretty much it, actually. I do what I have to, like most working artists.’

  ‘You’ve been to the marais at Poissons,’ said Claude. ‘Spot on with the detail I have to say.’

  Sébastien smiled in gratitude. ‘Thank you, Claude. They’re part of a commission for a gallery in Paris. They wanted several scenes from the local area, so I spent a few days down there sketching out some ideas. Eliane will be taking them into the city any day now while I get on with some other work.’

  ‘Do you always work to commission?’ Rocco queried. ‘I thought artists chose their own work.’

  ‘Ha – I wish.’ Sébastien replied. ‘Truth is, I’d rather dabble in a variety of styles and see what comes out, but commissioned work is what puts food on the table.’

  ‘Portraits?’

  ‘Some, although not many people these days have the patience to sit still for long enough. They’d rather give me a photo and come back when it’s completed. There’s a favoured pet once in a while, but that’s about it. The pastoral scenes are the biggest sellers.’

  ‘So, no special jobs?’

  Cezard blinked. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘I thought people liked paintings in … what do they call it – in the style of someone famous?’

  ‘Ah. I see. Well, that’s one line of work, I grant you.’ He winced as if in distaste at the idea of producing copies. ‘Cheap impressions of Monet’s ‘Sunrise’ or ‘La Plage de Trouville’ go down well in certain quarters. I even know a couple of artists who knock them out on a regular basis for clients in England. They’re pleasant enough to look at, I suppose, but they’ll always be copies, nothing more.’ He turned towards a sideboard, alongside which were three canvases stacked on the floor. He lifted one out so they could see it. It was of a young woman sewing against a backdrop of roses. ‘Take this, for example: it’s a copy of a Berthe Morisot painting I was asked to produce for a client in Paris. Unfortunately, he died before I could finish it.’

  ‘A copy?’ said Claude. ‘Looks like a pretty damned good copy, if I may say so.’

  Cezard smiled. ‘Thank you. But no signature, you see, and there’s some detail included in it to differentiate it from the original.’ He smiled. ‘That way I can’t be accused of supplying a fake.’ He put the painting back against the wall. ‘Who knows – I might be able to find another client for it someday. The thing is, in this business, you’re only as good as your last job, and abstract expressionism is much more fashionable these days.’

  ‘Expressionism?’ Rocco asked.

  ‘You know – the jazzy shapes and colours brigade. And now Warhol has decided that coke bottles and Hollywood film stars can be art.’

  ‘You don’t approve.’

  ‘Actually, I think he’s very clever, even inventive. And the young seem to like his work. But like it or not, it won’t last, in my view. How long can you look at a picture of a soup can on your wall?’ He waved a hand. ‘That makes me sound like a resentful old goat, doesn’t it? You’re probably right.’ He gave a last puff of his cheroot before tossing the butt into the open grate, where it bounced off a log, spraying sparks into the shadows. With that he stood up, waving away the smoke, and looked at Claude. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, Claude. I haven’t been hunting I can promise you that; it’s never been of interest, chasing harmless animals for sport. I know that puts me at odds with most of the male population, but I’m too long in the tooth and Eliane’s an animal lover. She would string me from a tree if I even suggested it.’ He gave a disarming smile. ‘If that’s all, I’m afraid I really must get on.’

  Rocco and Claude took the hint and followed him down the hallway to the door. There was no sign of Eliane, and they said their goodbyes and thanked Sébastien for his hospitality. As he drove out of the gate, Rocco looked across at Claude. ‘What do you think?’

  Claude shrugged. ‘He came across as genuine enough. His daughter, too.’

  Rocco nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’ At the same time, he found his cop’s instinct clicking in. He had to ask the question he’d asked about many people he’d met in the line of duty: too good not to be true or a brilliant actor? Only time would tell.

  His radio crackled into life and he pulled over to take the call. It was the operator in Amiens. Marcel Dreycourt had called asking for another meeting at the same place as before, same time tomorrow. More bad news, apparently.

  ‘What did they really want, Pa?’ Eliane had returned an hour after Rocco and Lamotte had gone, and had walked straight through the house to her father in his studio. She found him staring out of the window, drumming on a side table with a long paintbrush. To her, it was a sign that he was worried about something.

  ‘Sorry?’ He looked round, his expression vague and distracted.

  ‘
Rocco and Lamotte. You know who I mean. Why were they here?’

  ‘Ah. Well, you heard them. Someone’s been shooting in the area. Most probably a poacher after a cheap meal.’ He dropped the brush and began to tidy up a bench covered in tubes of paint, knives, brushes, rags and bottles of spirit. It did nothing to restore any kind of order to the chaos, and he eventually sighed and gave up.

  ‘You really think an inspector concerns himself with poachers?’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘I’ve heard things about Rocco. They say he deals with serious crimes, like the shootings near the British cemetery outside Poissons last year, and the dead man found at that sanitarium three months ago.’ She paused, then said softly, almost apologetically, ‘Pa, you haven’t got yourself into any trouble, have you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you mean, chérie. I expect Rocco was just helping out. After all, he can’t be chasing serious criminals all the time, can he? Don’t worry about it.’

  She stared at him, frowning at the tightness of his expression and the fact that he suddenly wouldn’t meet her eyes. They had few secrets between them, father and daughter, but she knew that the death of her mother five years ago had left an indelible mark on his soul, and he’d retreated into himself in a way that concerned her. It wasn’t merely grief for a lost one, she was certain, but a weakness that had entered his body after losing the love of his life. He drank more than he used to, she knew that, although rarely to excess, but she’d suspected for some time now that he was keeping things from her. And she had a feeling that she knew the cause.