‘You’re not working with that horrible man again, are you?’ she asked, and pulled at his arm, forcing him to turn and look at her.
He gave a weak smile and touched her face with a paint-spattered hand, the fingers trembling. ‘God, ma petite, you sound just like your mother when she caught me sneaking a glass of cognac to help me sleep.’ A shadow crossed his face at the memory, and her heart went out to him. But she persisted. He was hiding something, she was certain of it.
‘Don’t change the subject. Are you?’
He shook his head, but it wasn’t a denial. ‘My dear, that horrible man, as you call him, has helped us keep a roof over our heads these past couple of years. Without Laurent’s help we’d have been reduced to God knows what kind of existence. You know me: I’m not a salesman. I don’t have the skill to talk to people when it comes to selling my paintings and getting new commissions, and neither do I have the contacts.’ He sighed. ‘There isn’t the same appreciation for art these days, you know that. It’s all about quantity and cheap printed copies for the masses.’
‘You did all right before he came along, didn’t you?’
‘Call it good fortune. I was lucky to get my work into a couple of active galleries and it gave me a base to work from. But that was years ago. The world has changed since then and got a lot harder.’
‘So you are working with him.’ Even to Eliane’s ears it sounded like an accusation, and she felt guilty when he winced at the barb in her voice.
He patted her arm. ‘In a limited way, I promise. He’s found some more clients for me, that’s all, so we should be fine for a while yet. That’s good, though, isn’t it?’
Eliane couldn’t even nod agreement; her heart wasn’t in it. She felt a tinge of guilt. She knew that he was doing his best for the two of them, as he had done all along when they were three. She wondered how long this ‘good thing’ could last.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he added brightly, ‘Laurent’s coming to see me tomorrow. Promise me you’ll be on your best behaviour?’
She gave him a serious look, tinged with displeasure. ‘I’ll do better than that, Pa – I’ll be out all day. Then I won’t have to stand his oily presence.’
Sébastien winced. ‘Seriously, Eliane – he’s harmless. And he’s been a great help to me, you should acknowledge that.’
She touched his face with her fingertips. ‘So you keep saying. But I still don’t like him and I don’t like the way he treats you. He acts as if he owns you.’ She shuddered. ‘And he gives me the creeps.’
Eleven
The third letter presented Georges Peretz with a different kind of delivery problem from the previous two. The directions to the drop, near the town of Abbeville, described it as a large house on an isolated single-track road outside the main conurbation. Isolated was bad news to a city man like Peretz, accustomed to using busy streets by way of cover to avoid being noticed. By itself it was no different from risks he took all the time for his employer. As a trusted man in the organisation he regularly carried messages and packages – and none of the recipients were what would be called upright members of the community. Had they been, they wouldn’t have been receiving drops from Yuri Serban. The messages were invariably in code and the packages were undoubtedly money or drugs, or sometimes heavy and metallic and smelling of gun oil. But Peretz never made the mistake of looking inside. As long as he took normal precautions in his work and wasn’t intercepted by the police, it was easy money. But working outside his normal stomping ground, he couldn’t rid himself of a lingering concern that his movements might have been observed and recorded, if not by cops then by nosy neighbours with too much time on their hands.
That he also now knew a little more about the background of the envelopes’ recipients was an additional concern. A senior politician followed by a former top cop, and now a top judge … that was straying into a very dangerous kind of territory. Especially as Serban had told him the politician, Bourdelet, had topped himself only hours after Peretz had delivered the first letter. It hadn’t been in the news yet, but he knew Serban had sources of information inside the police and elsewhere.
He was already beginning to wonder if maybe a new line of employment might not be a good idea.
For now, though, there was another, potentially trickier problem: Serban had warned him that the local Abbeville crime group was resentful of anyone trespassing on its turf. Tentative approaches by Serban to gain permission for his man to enter had been rebuffed unless full disclosure of the reasons for doing so were made. Serban had refused. If the local group knew what they were doing, there was nothing to prevent them taking over the situation themselves. Unfortunately, the group would now be on the lookout for strangers bearing gifts.
Peretz was trying not to be too concerned, as he’d never been here before and, as far as he was aware, had never met any members of the local criminal community. But that didn’t prevent the feeling that he was being watched the closer he came to the town. He had found no way around the town to reach the drop, and had to pass through its quieter outer limits. That meant lighter traffic and the danger of being unable to remain invisible.
He pulled on the official-looking cap and drove at a steady pace, passing through a small area of commercial businesses, warehouses and distribution depots, then a sprawl of housing. Eventually he left this behind and found himself on a country road bordered by a lake on one side and woodland on the other. He checked the directions written on a pad. So far so good. Up ahead he saw a sign and signalled to turn left.
He was now on a narrow track curving round the lake itself, with signs showing names which he presumed were single properties backing on to the water. This was rich man’s territory and he began to feel out of his depth at the sense of isolation.
He slowed as he rounded a bend in the track and saw a large house up ahead. It was set back from the road with a spread of lush gardens to the front and bordered either side by a screen of trees. Privacy was clearly what the owner wanted here, and he checked the name as he drove by. L’Abri. The Shelter. He wondered what the owner might be sheltering from, and whether it had any connection with the letter he carried. Who knew what these kinds of people did or had done to merit the attentions of a man like Serban? Rather them than me, he thought.
Three more properties followed, each set in their own fenced-off space and all backing down to the lake. He didn’t look at them as he passed, but kept his head down. When he saw the road ending at a wooden barrier overgrown with grass, he turned the car round and drove back.
He arrived back outside the first house and stopped. The structure was impressive and looked newly-built, wide rather than deep and with an imposing pair of what resembled giant portholes looking out from the tiled roof over a curved wrought-iron balcony across the centre. A double garage stood to one side with a sizeable shed next to it, and he could just make out what might have been a small boathouse sitting on the edge of the water to the rear of the property.
He climbed out and took the letter from the bag, pulling the cap down low over his eyes. If anyone was watching, he didn’t want to be identified later, either by crook or cop. A mailbox stood outside the front gate on a sturdy post, and he wasted no time placing the envelope inside and walking back to the van. This was the last one for the time being and for no reason that he could fathom he felt a flush of relief.
The feeling lasted all of thirty seconds. As he drove back along the track towards the road, he felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. A police car was coming towards him at speed, dragging a cloud of dust in its wake.
This was the very thing Peretz had been worried about: that the kind of people he was delivering to, with their fancy houses in discreet locations, had access to security at the other end of a telephone. Someone must have become suspicious about his van and called it in.
He looked for a way out, a gateway he’d missed or a farm track where he could lose himself before they could pull him up. If the cops were h
ere because they suspected he was up to no good, he’d be in trouble. Even being held for questioning could lead to phone calls being made, and if they hit on the right – or wrong – person, being flagged up as an associate of one Yuri Serban would guarantee the letter being subjected to scrutiny. End of game.
Then good sense prevailed and he forced himself to remain calm. Whatever the car was doing here, it was moving very fast, bouncing over the uneven surface and clearly in a hurry. If it was going to stop him, it would have been slowing down by now and signalling him to stop.
He told himself that the cops inside couldn’t possibly know what he was here for. How could they? If they stopped him and asked, he’d simply say he’d lost his way on the route into town to meet up with a former pal from military service.
It drew nearer, still making no effort to slow down, and he pulled over to give it room. As it flashed past in a shower of dust and kicked-up gravel, the passenger waved a brief acknowledgement. Peretz returned the gesture and pulled back onto the track, watching its progress in the rear-view mirror. It careered up to the first house, its nose dipping as it showed a flash of brake lights, then continued around the bend and out of sight.
Peretz breathed easier then stamped hard on the accelerator. Seconds later he was back on the main road and heading east as fast as the van would go, determined not to stop until he reached his own kind of civilisation. Then he’d call Serban and let him know it was done.
It wasn’t until much later in the day that the owner of the house by the lake returned home. Judge Jules Petissier parked his treasured British Jaguar S-type 3.4 in the garage and locked the doors, then walked back down the drive to the mailbox, enjoying the cool afternoon air coming off the lake. It brought with it a rich, loamy smell of water he’d always loved, and a sense of serenity and a return to nature, always reminding him of his childhood days near Avignon.
Tall and slim, with iron-grey hair and an athletic profile belying his age, he possessed a prominent nose and a powerful gaze, two features that had served to bring him a certain fearsome notoriety among those who appeared before him, whether criminal or legal.
After a brutal few days in the Court of Assizes in Paris, where he sometimes spent the night after late sittings, Petissier was relieved to be home. Away from the smell of failure and desperation, of lost causes, lengthy legal arguments which inevitably went in circles, and of the overpowering and conflicting forces of the state and the criminal classes that he was forced to endure. It was good to be able to spend time appreciating what he had amassed over the years through his diligence and planning.
He reached the mailbox and took out a bundle of letters held together by a rubber band. A single white envelope remained. He took it out and turned it over, tucking the bundle beneath his arm. Unstamped, he noted, so hand-delivered. Unusual.
Seconds later, Petissier dropped the envelope and uttered a cry of alarm which echoed across the garden and vanished among the trees. He felt a sharp stab of pain beneath his silk shirt and clutched his free arm against his body, forcing himself to inhale as a wave of nausea swept through him.
When he was once more in control, and certain he wasn’t about to suffer a seizure, he looked around to see if he was being watched. Impossible to tell out here, with the woods and the fields stretching away into the distance. Someone could be quite easily hidden and watching him from among the trees. The deliverer of the letter, perhaps?
He turned and walked up to the house as casually as he could, determined to show no obvious concern. Once inside he went to a cabinet and poured himself a drink. He drank deeply, feeling the pleasant burn of fine Cognac all the way down. He poured another and drank that, too, savouring the flavour in an attempt to divert his attention away from the contents of the letter. But for once the alcohol did nothing to calm his nerves.
This was a disaster, he decided. It had been stupid and risky in the first place, and he should have known that one day it would come back to haunt him. Stupid for giving way to greed and ego, risky for placing himself in a position of vulnerability to people with the morality of the gutter. Head swimming from the effects of shock and the double shot of Cognac, he paced back and forth, trying to think of a way forward. Perhaps there was someone he could call to track down the sender of the letter and deal with them. It wouldn’t be any kind of official help, of course. One look from a policeman at the content of the letter would probably have him incarcerated within twenty-four hours.
It was useless. Names and possibilities came up, but they were discarded just as quickly as he thought of them, and he realised eventually that there was nobody he could confide in. With this realisation came the bitter regret at not having done something about this situation before.
Unfortunately, the letter’s demands indicated that it was already far too late.
Twelve
Save for an absence of sunshine, Douligny-la-Rose looked as sleepy as it had on Rocco’s first visit and Dreycourt was once more the café’s only customer. The art expert saw Rocco and waved a greeting, then banged on the café door. The owner appeared instantly, and Rocco wondered if the man had been waiting just inside for the summons, a rural genie popping out of a lamp to perform magic.
‘Sorry about dragging you back out here at such short notice, Lucas,’ said Dreycourt. ‘But you’ll soon understand why.’
‘More information about Bourdelet?’ Rocco replied, taking a seat.
‘I wish it was. Unfortunately, there have been two more “events” like it. Let’s have coffee first. I need to get my thoughts in order.’
Rocco was happy to do so, although impatient to hear more. Did he mean two more blackmail threats or two more deaths? At this rate a single investigator wasn’t going to be sufficient to work the cases fast enough.
The café owner appeared with their coffees and, after using a cloth to dust off the surface with a cavalier flourish, set the tray down and retreated indoors. Both men tasted their drinks, before settling back.
‘I’ll come back to Bourdelet in a minute,’ said Dreycourt. ‘The latest victims received similar letters threatening exposure. Both, if the claims are to be believed, had purchased paintings and both men are – or were – in positions of great delicacy, if exposed.’
Whoever the new victims were, Rocco thought, the threat of their ownership of copy paintings being made public had to mean more than mere embarrassment. ‘Who were they?’
‘Ah, now you’re officially on the case, there’s no problem in disclosing everything.’ Dreycourt looked relieved at the idea. ‘The second case was Jean-Marie Gambon. Gambon recently retired from his position as Director General of the Sûreté Nationale, to settle in Mers-les-Bains on the coast. He was divorced. Gambon’s letter referred to the purchase of two paintings, one of which he’d sold, allegedly to pay off some debts and to fund his retirement.’ Dreycourt’s expression didn’t change as he added, ‘The letter reminds Gambon that he knowingly sold it to a private buyer in the United States as an original. That claim is so far unsubstantiated and I’m having someone in our consulate general staff in New York look into it. It will take time and it’s possible the buyer won’t be happy to admit he’s been fooled.’
Rocco nodded. Caveat emptor. Buyer beware. Maybe the American buyer hadn’t been any more bothered by the authenticity of the painting than Gambon himself. Brothers in arts.
‘And the other?’
‘The third victim was Jules Petissier, a senior judge in the Assize Court. He lives in Abbeville.’
Another high-profile name, thought Rocco. Whoever was doing this wasn’t exactly aiming at the bottom of the tree. High-profile usually indicated a measure of wealth and the kind of reputation the owner wouldn’t want sullied by accusations of illegal dealings.
Dreycourt had spoken but he’d missed the words.
‘Sorry?’
‘I was wondering if you might have come across either of these men in the course of your duties.’
‘Because on
e was a judge and the other the head of the Sûreté?’ Rocco shook his head. It was a reasonable assumption. ‘I don’t fly high enough for that. What happened to them?’
‘Petissier received the letter and folded immediately. In his job you have to be cleaner than clean. Any whiff of a misdemeanour is enough not only to get you dismissed, but in all likelihood to provoke any cases you’ve adjudicated to be appealed and reinvestigated. A messy and protracted business that would have followed him to the grave. According to the letter, he’d intervened in at least four cases which saw serious criminals walk free, allegedly to his financial benefit. That’s not been confirmed yet and is probably unprovable.’
‘But Petissier must have believed it was.’
‘Yes.’
‘Were the cases named?’
‘They were. But three of the defendants have since died and the remaining man is in a care home, so I don’t see them taking us much further.’
Rocco didn’t say anything. Many people forgot that the perpetrators of crimes and witnesses to misdeeds were as vulnerable as everyone else to age, disease and death. But there was always something left behind if you knew where to look, and had some luck on your side.
‘Petissier must have seen no other way out,’ Dreycourt continued. ‘He wrote a letter of resignation and slit his wrists. His gardener found him and they managed to get him to hospital, but he’d lost a lot of blood. He’s currently in a coma and it’s doubtful he’ll survive.’
Rocco and the Price of Lies Page 7