Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  ‘And the other man?’

  ‘Gambon tried to bluster his way out. I met him once and I’m not surprised – he’s a combative man who doesn’t like being bested. Unfortunately for him the letter he received was seen by his housekeeper, with whom he’d recently ended a long and close liaison.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Quite. The letter referred to loans he’d taken out from questionable sources in order to buy the two paintings.’

  ‘Questionable?’

  ‘Criminals. That matter alone is enough to have him hauled in and investigated. Even knowingly selling a forged painting as a genuine work of art would be enough for him to have been looking at prison time.’

  That wouldn’t have been fun, thought Rocco. Prison wasn’t fun for anyone, but any former cop going to prison faced a greater raft of dangers. Settling scores didn’t always have to be against a specific person; in the absence of a cop who’d put you away for your crimes, any other cop would do, especially a dirty one.

  ‘The housekeeper must have known about the paintings because she immediately passed the letter to a local newspaper and confirmed the facts, along with dates and details. They didn’t publish the claims but approached the Ministry for a comment. It was the end of the road for Gambon and his reputation. After submitting to initial questioning to verify if the allegations were true, he hanged himself in a copse near his home.’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘And here was me thinking all cops swallowed their guns when they’d had enough.’

  Rocco ignored the dark humour. ‘I need to speak with Gambon’s lady friend and Petissier’s family, if he has one. Bourdelet’s secretary and his housekeeper, too. And I’d like to see all three blackmail letters.’

  ‘Petissier’s wife died last year. There are no children.’ Dreycourt took a thick envelope from his inside pocket and passed it across the table. ‘You can read these at your leisure. They’re exact copies, nothing has been redacted but they are sensitive so keep them to yourself. I also took the liberty of getting photos taken of the paintings at each house. That way you’ll know what you’re dealing with.’

  Rocco was impressed. It showed Dreycourt to be more than just an art expert; he had an eye for the requirements of an investigator going cold into a case.

  There were two photos, both of nudes. He flipped over the first one, which was a study of a young woman lying invitingly on a couch, her blonde hair pinned on top of her head. In neat script were the words: “Mademoiselle O’Murphy” by Francois Boucher – 1751 – currently in the Wallraf-Richartz-Museum, Cologne. Gambon.’

  The second photo showed another blonde, this one playing with her hair and titled ‘The Toilette of Esther’ by Théodore Chassériau, dated 1841. Petissier. Like Bourdelet’s fake, the genuine article was also residing in Paris, but in the Louvre.

  ‘A touch of sentimentality there, I believe,’ Dreycourt commented. ‘According to records Petissier’s late wife was named Esther, although I’m assured she looked nothing like that painting.’

  Rocco said, ‘I’m no expert but these look amazing.’

  ‘They do. It’s an irony that never ceases to amaze me: like forgers of bank notes, you’d think they would be capable of making a perfectly respectable living doing it properly.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the same, though, would it? Respectable doesn’t always appeal.’ He held up the photos and letters. ‘Thanks for these. I need to get this thing up and running.’

  ‘I’m glad you see it that way.’ Dreycourt gave a wry grin. ‘It probably won’t surprise you if I say nobody else was exactly eager to throw their hat into the ring. Bourdelet’s involvement was bad enough, but add in these other two and the whole mess is a potential career killer if the investigating officer doesn’t get it right.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ Rocco knew what he meant, though. With Bourdelet alone, toes and reputations were likely to be trampled on in the search for answers, and anyone thrown into investigating the case was likely to pick up some black marks along the way. Not that it troubled him too much; he’d been picking up black marks for most of his career. To Rocco, doing the job right was the main thing, not pandering to other people’s expectations or their instincts for self-preservation.

  ‘What will you be looking for?’ Dreycourt asked.

  ‘Whoever wrote the letters will be high on the list. Secondly, where the paintings came from. Join those dots together and we might get somewhere.’

  Dreycourt smiled. ‘Joining dots – I like that. Pointillism. Georges Seurat holds the credit for that.’ He waved a hand. ‘Sorry – I’m sure you know that. Are you reserving judgement on Cezard?’

  ‘Until I have reason not to.’

  ‘Fair point. Just don’t let his genial manner fool you, that’s all.’

  Privately, Rocco didn’t hold out much hope of the letters proving too helpful. They would be devoid of clues, he was certain of that, with nothing to tie them to the originator. The mere fact of them having been sent showed that the author wasn’t concerned about their discovery. In fact, that very openness may have had a secondary intention, to bring about their recipients’ downfall if the demands for money failed. He suggested as much to Dreycourt.

  ‘Revenge? That’s a new one.’

  ‘It’s worth considering. Judges, politicians and cops collect enemies like rosettes at a dog show.’ Rocco was speaking from experience. The threat of payback went with the job, although most came to nothing: just hot air covering the individual’s sense of failure. But all it would take was for a sense of grievance to gain traction in an aggrieved individual’s mind, to ferment and blossom over the years, and eventually it could spill over into action. ‘Tell me what happened with Bourdelet.’

  ‘It was simple, unexpected and quick. He went into his office, telling his secretary not to come in, then locked the door, placed a jacket over his head and blew his brains out with a service revolver. The letter was on his desk.’ He sniffed. ‘It got a little … contaminated, as you’ll see from the copy, but it’s perfectly readable.’

  ‘Has this gone public?’ Rocco was well aware of the procedure surrounding bad news and government officials. Diving for cover was instinctive; just how deep usually depended on the power and level of the official involved and the potential repercussions for those around him. For a secretary of state, he guessed it would have been considerable.

  Dreycourt looked nonplussed. ‘Not yet. But there are indications that details might have been leaked. They’ve had calls from a couple of reporters.’

  ‘No suicide note?’

  ‘Not as such, but the letter was as good as. It threatened to make public the fact that the esteemed secretary of state had purchased a forgery of a famous work of art, namely the Gérard painting, to hang on his wall at home. The threat was simple: if he didn’t make a “substantial” donation, the details of which would follow, the matter would go public. The letter was dated the day before and must have been delivered before he left for the office.’

  ‘Why would buying a forgery be worthy of blackmail? It’s his money, he can do what he likes with it.’

  ‘If only that were true. Unfortunately, it wasn’t – his money, I mean. The letter went on to suggest that he’d used government funds to acquire it. It’s already been confirmed that Bourdelet had access to a little-known finance ministry “special purposes” account. I’m advised that records of the account show that a cheque for cash was drawn at a bank near his office.’

  Rocco grunted. Special purposes. A caisse noire, in other words – a slush fund. Where else would you find secret money but in large corporate bodies and government departments, where paying for information, for campaign support, for buying off opponents and a hundred other things made back-channel persuasion an essential method of doing business?

  ‘By substantial, what are we talking about?’

  ‘It didn’t say precisely. But it suggested that as secretary of state for finance, it would be left to Bourdelet t
o judge how much his position and reputation were worth.’

  ‘Unusual, for a blackmail letter.’ It had placed the burden solely on Bourdelet to decide what to do. Unfortunately, he had chosen what some might see as his only – maybe even the honourable – way out. ‘Would the alternative have been that bad for him?’

  ‘For a man in his position, the damage would have been colossal. He’d have lost everything and the government would have been – and undoubtedly will be – enormously embarrassed, with accusations by the opposition of fraud, corruption and impropriety in public office. The media and public would have demanded his head on a plate and he’d have been finished professionally, socially and financially. The unauthorised use of government funds, no matter how secretive they might be, still earns a term in prison.’

  ‘Could that have been the real aim?’

  ‘Possibly. It’s hard to say until we dig deeper. With a clever lawyer, the way the law stands, if there was no specific demand it might be hard to make a case if the blackmailer were ever caught. He or she might simply claim they were going to demand that the victim pay back the money to the government to put right a wrong. I think there could be some weight of public opinion behind that.’

  ‘If the accusation is true. What about the painting?’

  ‘I was called in to verify it yesterday afternoon. It’s good – very good, in fact. But a fake. I checked with a colleague and she says there’s absolutely no doubt. According to Bourdelet’s ex-wife, he bought the painting a year ago, which ties in with the secret account withdrawal, and never stopped talking about it. As far as she was concerned it was an ego trip and he should have done what most middle-aged men do which is to acquire a sports car or a young mistress.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘There’s not a lot of love lost there, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Do you have a suspect in mind?’

  Dreycourt shrugged and pursed his lips. ‘I’ve tried to find proof that it’s not, but I’m inclined to think it must be Cezard.’

  Thirteen

  ‘Why?’ Rocco decided to hold off telling him that he’d been to see the artist. If something other than expertise was driving Dreycourt, he’d prefer to know about it sooner rather than later. It wouldn’t be the first time that an expert had reached a decision on the strength of suspicion fuelled by emotion.

  ‘Because as an artist he’s capable and skilled enough. More so, in fact, than anyone else I can think of – and I’ve looked hard at all the names I know.’

  ‘But is he capable of blackmail?’

  Dreycourt looked conflicted and gave a puff of resignation. ‘I don’t know. But it could be anyone … Someone helping him, for example. What do you think?’

  Rocco hadn’t had much experience in the field of blackmail and extortion, but he was guessing that this level of crime was rare, and therefore the list of potential names would be limited.

  ‘Blackmail is a very personal crime and relies on specific knowledge. It’s not a case of picking a name from a telephone directory; it takes personal acquaintance with the target’s background, their vulnerabilities and the degree to which they can pay up. You won’t get all of that by reading the newspapers, not even for a public figure such as a politician.’

  Dreycourt looked doubtful. ‘I understand what you say, Lucas. But surely Cezard is high on the list of suspects, isn’t he?’

  ‘Not on my list, he isn’t. I wouldn’t have even known about him if you hadn’t told me. Are you sure none of the others could be involved?’

  ‘I’d stake my reputation on it. If you want names, I can supply them, but I think you’d be wasting your time.’

  Rocco nodded. ‘Would they admit to it?’

  ‘Probably not willingly, if they thought a charge of forgery was involved. But most artists like to know who buys their work. Whoever is doing this would have known who bought the painting, which would have given him some indication of the buyer’s wealth and maybe even their vulnerabilities.’

  ‘Even to the extent of knowing about a government slush fund?’

  Dreycourt tilted his head to one side. It was a reluctant concession. But he wasn’t done yet. ‘It’s an open secret that the prime minister and Bourdelet didn’t get on, and no first minister wants to get embroiled in a scandal. Any accusations stick, whether several steps removed or simply untrue.’

  ‘Yet they do get embroiled, from time to time.’

  ‘True enough. But I still think Cezard holds the key to this.’

  Rocco sat back. If Dreycourt’s suggestion was correct, it stood out as a straightforward case of extortion between a forger and a foolhardy politician. Do as I say, said the threat, or the exposure will ruin you. Providing the blackmailer covered his or her tracks, it would be a difficult nut to crack.

  ‘You don’t seem convinced,’ said Dreycourt.

  ‘It’s a blackmail attempt, certainly,’ Rocco agreed, ‘but without a specific monetary sum or the name of the person involved, I can’t see it going anywhere. And I doubt whoever it is will put their hands up now.’

  Dreycourt looked glum. ‘True. But Bourdelet’s reputation is still ruined, professionally and privately.’

  ‘That could be what the blackmailer really wanted.’

  ‘It would still be good to find out who is behind it.’

  ‘How? I doubt the internal security section will allow me anywhere near the situation.’ In Rocco’s experience, anything involving a government minister, even a junior one, usually had a blackout imposed on the basis of national security. Any investigation would be carried out by senior officers from the Interior Ministry.

  Dreycourt took a letter from his pocket and passed it across. ‘That’s your letter of authority, countersigned by the deputy minister of the interior and the senior investigator for the finance ministry. It will get you through most doors pretty much – although I’d caution you against trying to climb too high with it.’

  Rocco looked at him. ‘Or what?’

  ‘You’ll find yourself running out of breathable air.’ His expression was bland, but along with the words, the meaning was clear. Rocco proceeded at his own risk.

  Rocco grunted at the warning; his investigation was going to be limited. He checked the letter. The signatures meant nothing but the names and titles were familiar and impressive.

  ‘Why didn’t they get one of their own people to deal with it in-house? That way they’d have full control.’

  Dreycourt shrugged. ‘I can’t say. It’s probably hand-washing. Bring in an outsider to look into Bourdelet’s activities, and they can avoid any accusations of bias or cover-up.’

  ‘Or of a failed investigation if anything goes wrong?’

  ‘Or that. I can make any access arrangements depending on how you plan to proceed, but how much leeway you’ll actually get is questionable.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound promising.’

  ‘It’s a sensitive issue. Bourdelet’s office has been locked and sealed until you get there, so you’ve got a clear run with that but probably no further.’

  Rocco thought it over. As with any investigation, he would need a free hand to ask questions. Lots of them. Some would be delicate, even painful, depending on the interviewees. But if they really wanted answers to why Bourdelet had killed himself, the deeper the probing the more it could lead to embarrassment for the government. That alone would shackle any attempts to speak to people above a certain level.

  ‘I’ll need to see his home, the same with the other two victims.’

  Dreycourt nodded. ‘That’s fine. What else?’

  ‘Bourdelet’s office and staff. They would have been the closest to him.’

  Dreycourt looked doubtful. ‘That’s the bit that might not be so easy. Government premises and staff are strictly off-limits. The internal security section are the only ones allowed to question civil servants and senior members when it comes to events inside the ministry. Sorry, but that’s protocol, I’m afraid. I’ll see what I can do as far as his secretary
is concerned, but that might be as far as you can go.’

  ‘Fine.’ Rocco had guessed that would be the answer, but he could at least take what was offered. ‘I’ll start with his home.’

  ‘No problem. There’s a police guard on the property and Bourdelet’s housekeeper will be there for an interview. I understand she wasn’t on duty on the morning of his death, so she might not prove very helpful.’

  ‘Was there anyone else working for him, a gardener or driver, for instance?’

  ‘He had a driver supplied by the ministry, name of Lopez. As to a gardener, I’m not sure. The housekeeper will be able to tell you. I’m not sure how much use any of this will be, though. I get the feeling Bourdelet was a lot more guarded about his private life than most people imagined, especially with colleagues.’

  Rocco nodded. It was no surprise. Most people who involved themselves in criminal acts were by nature careful about who they allowed inside their circle of confidants. A moment of unguarded conversation and a slip of the tongue could have career-changing results. That left the driver. Other than his secretary, Lopez would have been the last person to have spoken to him. And a regular and trusted driver would be the one person a man such as Bourdelet might have confided in, intentionally or otherwise. Stuck in busy Paris traffic, it would be natural to exchange a few words. Given a regular routine, the few words would soon turn into a level of familiarity experienced nowhere else among Bourdelet’s office colleagues and acquaintances.