‘Even then. I haven’t told them because the less they know the better. They clam up tighter than a banker’s fist otherwise. Now, be off with you. Just promise me you’ll let me know what you intend to do before anyone else in this village. I’d love to see the look on that Sylvia’s face when she finds out I know more than she does.’
Seventeen
The streets of Le Vésinet were quiet when Rocco arrived the next morning and parked his car at the kerb outside the house named Les Jonquilles. The familiar Ministry car dawdling behind him parked a short distance away. Rocco thought about it for a moment, then walked over to the car and signalled for the passenger to wind down the window. The man complied with a scowl.
‘You know whose house this is?’ Rocco asked him.
The man nodded, staring straight ahead. His driver appeared more interested in his fingernails and said nothing, his hands flat on the wheel.
‘Good. Then you’ll know why I’m here. If you get in my way, I’ll arrest you – and I have the paperwork to do it, no matter who you are.’
The window was wound back up again, and as Rocco entered the garden of Les Jonquilles he heard the car driving away.
Rocco one, Ministry nil, he thought.
Looking around, he had a faint recollection of having been in the area some time ago, although not to this particular property. Something to do with the theft of some jewellery, he remembered. Investigating the case had been like prising open a box of secrets, with the victim, a retired civil servant, seemingly anxious to keep the police out of his house and willing to write off the theft as a minor thing, really not worth their time or trouble. It had been his daughter who had discovered the break-in and made the call, unaware that her father was in possession of stolen goods acquired through dubious sources.
It was one of Rocco’s first brushes with the hidden powers of the higher establishment. He’d been made sharply aware of his limitations when it came to intruding on their lives, even though he was merely trying to do his job. The one bright spot in the affair had been the civil servant finally admitting he’d bought the jewellery from ‘a source’ currently serving a lengthy sentence for dealing in stolen gemstones and other valuables.
The gates to Les Jonquilles stood open, with a police guard standing on the front steps of the house. He was young and clean-shaven, and his uniform looked as if it had been taken out of the box fresh that morning. A red line ran around his throat where his shirt collar had pressed into the skin, and Rocco felt a degree of sympathy; he’d gone through the same painful transition himself. New uniforms, whether military or police, were one of the many obstacles to be overcome by new recruits, as if the discomfort and tell-tale strangulation marks were designed to test willpower and poise. The young officer shifted his feet as Rocco approached, and finally stepped forward and held up a hand that hadn’t yet learned to show the authority that went with the uniform.
‘Sorry, but this property is off-limits.’
Rocco smiled and held up his card. ‘I should hope so,’ he said. ‘It’s sealed pending my investigation.’
The officer flushed and hopped to one side, throwing up a snappy salute. ‘Apologies, Inspector,’ he murmured. ‘I was warned you would be coming, but I wasn’t expecting someone on foot.’ He looked past Rocco as if his car might suddenly appear rolling along the drive under its own steam.
‘Relax, officer. I wasn’t trying to catch you out. What’s your name?’
‘Mahon, sir. Gilles Mahon.’ He stepped towards the front door and said, ‘Mme Achard, the housekeeper, is in the kitchen, sir. Straight ahead of you to the rear of the building.’
Rocco nodded his thanks and wandered along a carpeted hallway to a kitchen large enough to do service in a restaurant. It seemed to contain all the latest pieces of equipment for producing meals on a grand scale, and he could have fitted his kitchen in Poissons into it several times over. A percolator on one side was issuing a drift of steam towards the ceiling, and a small woman in an apron was standing at a large double sink, staring out of the window into the extensive rear gardens. She turned suddenly with an expression of surprise, and he saw traces of tears down her cheeks.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly, picking up the hem of her apron and dabbing at her face. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. Are you the policeman who’s come to see the painting? They told me to come in today to talk to you.’
‘Inspector Rocco,’ he confirmed. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mme Achard, and for having to ask you to be back here today. But I have just a few questions for you about Secretary Bourdelet. Can we sit somewhere?’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’ She looked around in confusion and said, ‘Sorry, only I don’t normally ask people to sit down in here. I’ve been trying to decide what to do but they said not to touch anything until you said. It’s all so …’ She lifted her hands as she ran out of words.
‘I understand.’ He gestured towards the percolator. ‘That smells wonderful; perhaps we could have some while we talk? I know I could do with a cup.’
‘Of course.’ She seemed relieved to be doing something familiar and busied herself with practised efficiency, placing two coffee cups on a tray with a small jug of cream and a pot of sugar. ‘I’ll take them through, if you’ll follow me?’ Before he could offer to help, she had scooped up the tray and was off at a brisk pace, veering left out of the kitchen and along another short hallway to a doorway that led into a wood-panelled room that was part library, part office. It contained a large desk, an ornate sideboard, a card table with four chairs and two standard lamps with heavy lampshades. It felt more office than home, a masculine and formal domain. He checked the sideboard, which held nothing but a few framed photographs, showing group gatherings with some faces he recognised.
A painting – nearly two metres high and a metre wide – completely dominated one wall. What Madame Récamier’s enigmatic gaze and the upward curl of her mouth showed was that the photo Dreycourt had given him did her no justice at all.
Mme Achard put the tray on the card table and gestured to a chair, waiting for Rocco to sit before she did. She placed a cup in front of him.
‘I’ll come to the point, madame,’ Rocco said, after taking a sip of his coffee. ‘As I understand it, Secretary Bourdelet bought this painting about a year ago. Is that correct?’ He gestured at the wall.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ She looked at it as if for the first time, her eyes moistening. ‘He loved it. He said it was the best thing he’d ever bought … It was something he never tired of looking at. He once said it reminded him of someone he’d once known.’
‘His wife?’
‘No. Definitely not.’
‘Do you like it?’
She looked surprised by the question and shrugged. ‘It’s not for me to say, is it? I’m just the housekeeper.’
‘Personally, I think it’s a bit overpowering, but I’m no expert. I’d rather look out of the window. I won’t tell anyone what you think, I promise.’
She smiled and seemed to relax at last. ‘She’s pretty enough I suppose. Too pretty, actually.’
‘Really?’
She looked a little guilty and explained. ‘Call it a woman’s vanity, Inspector. Having that on display is an unkind reminder of the aging process – and I’m just as vulnerable as the next person.’ She flushed. ‘I think he was a little in love with her, to tell you the truth. You must think I’m talking out of turn.’
‘Not at all. We can’t all like the same things. What a boring world that would be. Did he say where he bought it?’
‘Not to me.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘It appeared one day and he got a man in to fix it to the wall. He did ask what I thought of it. As if my opinion mattered. But what could I say? He obviously loved it, so I told him it was a fine painting and went about my duties.’
‘What about his wife? Did she like it?’
There was a moment’s hesitation, then a shake of the head. ‘She’d pretty much moved out by then.
I think she’d lost interest in anything he did. She came back one day to collect some things, and I found her standing in here staring at it.’ A hint of a smile touched her lips. ‘She looked as if she was thinking of taking a bread knife to it. In the end she just turned and walked out and never came back. Is it important?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Rocco stood up and went over to the painting. He tilted it carefully away from the wall and checked the back. Nothing to show its origins, no gallery name or number. Just a picture, and not one he’d want to hang on his wall. But then, he figured he’d be considered a barbarian by most art lovers, capable of walking past most great paintings with little more than a glance. ‘I’d be interested in knowing where it came from, though. Did you see who delivered it?’
‘A man in a truck. But I don’t recall any details. Sorry.’
Rocco returned to the table. ‘Does Monsieur Bourdelet have any children?’
‘One daughter, Karine, but they fell out some years ago. She lives in the Netherlands and hasn’t been back here since last year. They’re not what you’d call a close family.’
‘Did he keep a diary in the house?’
She nodded and pointed to the desk. ‘It was in there.’
‘Was?’
‘Two men came yesterday. They looked through the house and took away some papers and the diary.’
‘Do you know where they were from?’
‘I think it was the Ministry of the Interior. They showed me their official cards, but I don’t recall any details. Why they’d be interested in his diary was a puzzle, and I said so. It was his social record, not the Ministry one. Not that he had a busy social life lately. Just a few friends came over occasionally, and some visits he made. The truth is, since his wife left, he hardly went anywhere apart from the office and away on official business, so I don’t know what good it would have done them to take it.’
Rocco felt a buzz of curiosity. The Ministry had sealed the house, complete with a guard, pending his investigation, yet that hadn’t stopped them sending in a couple of men to check the place out for documents of interest. No doubt they’d been looking for corroboration of the accusation made about Bourdelet using state funds to buy the painting, but he wondered what else may have been spirited away in the process.
He finished his coffee and stood up. If there had been anything of interest here, it was by now beyond his reach. He thanked Mme Achard for her help and was about to leave when he had a thought.
‘The diary taken by the two men. That was for the current year?’
She nodded. ‘I expect you want the previous year’s, don’t you?’
‘Please.’
She bustled across to the sideboard and opened one of the doors. Inside were a number of books which Rocco recognised as desk diaries. They must have gone back a dozen years. Mme Achard took the one off the top and handed it to him. It was heavy, wrapped in tooled leather, and a quick flick through the pages showed it had more outer substance than inner content. Whatever else Bourdelet may have been, he was certainly no social bunny. He handed it back to her.
‘You don’t think it will help?’ said Mme Achard, ‘with what happened to him, I mean.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Rocco wondered how long it would take the men to realise what they might have overlooked and to come back for it. He might as well give them something else to do. ‘Were there any other staff employed here, like a gardener?’
‘He used a small contract firm, a father and son business. They looked after the place but he rarely spoke to them. They knew what he wanted and got on with it. There was nobody else.’
‘One last question: a letter was delivered here on the day he died. I gather you had a medical appointment that day.’
‘That’s correct. An regular check-up. I have high blood pressure.’
‘What time does the post usually arrive?’
‘Eight o’clock. It can vary but not by much.’
‘And what time did Secretary Bourdelet leave for the office every day?’
‘Earlier than that – usually just after seven, but sometimes before. He liked to avoid the traffic and get organised for the day.’
Which meant the sender of the letter must have been aware of his routine, thought Rocco. It had been delivered in time for Bourdelet to take it with him to the office, where he’d arrived by seven-thirty, according to Dreycourt. ‘Could it have been placed there the previous day?’
‘I don’t think so. I was here until gone ten doing some baking.’ She flushed. ‘He kindly allowed me to use the ovens here whenever I wanted to bake cakes because my oven at home doesn’t hold the heat well. But it was always on the understanding that I gave him a slice or two.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘He had a sweet tooth.’
‘How do you know a letter wasn’t delivered?’
‘Because I always make a point of checking the box as I leave, in case of late deliveries. And occasionally a member of the public might choose to write to him here. I didn’t like to think of anything important being left in the box overnight.’
He thanked Mme Achard for her help and wished her well for the future, then walked back to his car, pausing to ask Officer Mahon a question on the way. The officer’s answer was all he needed. There had been no moves yet to do a house-to-house check.
As he climbed back into his car, Rocco saw the familiar figure of Detective Desmoulins waiting by his Renault along the street. Rocco gave him a discreet nod, letting him know he should carry on, then drove away, heading towards the centre of Paris.
Eighteen
Detective René Desmoulins watched Rocco drive away then began his task of talking to the neighbours. Rocco’s signal had confirmed what he’d already suggested: that there had probably been no attempt by the local police at canvassing the area for information, presumably on orders from the Interior Ministry. Exactly why he didn’t know, but it left Desmoulins a clear run.
The entire street would undoubtedly have heard by now from the rumour mill that something was going on at Bourdelet’s house, which was going to make his job a little easier. Rather than having to explain his reasons for being there, and waiting for people to get over the shock, they would probably be in a hurry to get him off the doorstep.
He braced himself before knocking at the first door, which was an impressive chalet-style building with metal shutters. This wasn’t his first investigation by any means, but it was the first directly instigated by the Interior Ministry, and he didn’t want to let Rocco down.
His knock precipitated a rattle of bolts and the turning of a key, before an elderly woman appeared. She made a lengthy examination of his official card after listening to his explanation for his visit.
She shook her head. ‘I’d have been asleep at that time,’ she said finally, light flashing off her thick-framed spectacles. ‘Like all God-fearing folk. It’s a dreadful thing to happen in this area. We’re a peaceful, law-abiding community, not like some I could mention.’ She thrust his card back at him. ‘What are you going to do to make this area safe again, that’s what I want to know? Any day now and the criminal masses will be moving in and none of us will be safe in our beds.’
‘Madam, it was a suicide, not a crime,’ Desmoulins reminded her soberly. ‘There was nobody else involved.’
She gave him a vicious stare. ‘Really? You think suicide’s not a crime? You’ve plainly not set foot in a church lately, young man.’
Desmoulins felt his control of the situation slipping away. He tried to reassure her that she had nothing to worry about from criminal elements.
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ she snapped. ‘You’re young and I bet you always carry a gun, don’t you? I’m a frail widow barely able to walk.’ With that she hopped back swiftly and slammed the heavy door in his face.
This call set the tone for the day. Each house brought no answers, long tirades about unstable politicians, crooks, conspiracies and suggestions that weren’t far short of insane. In all, it was a norma
l day’s police work as Desmoulins knew it, occasionally interesting, sometimes good-willed but mostly unproductive.
Eventually Desmoulins approached a house in which an elderly man was clipping a small bush to certain death in his front garden, while pretending not to watch the policeman’s slow progress down the street. The local watchman, Desmoulins figured. Every neighbourhood has one, male or female, self-charged with keeping an eye on all the goings-on around them.
‘Ah, I figured you for a flic,’ the man said, eyeing the official card. ‘I’ve been waiting for one of you lot to turn up. You’ll no doubt be wanting to ask if I saw anything to do with Bourdelet at Les Jonquilles, won’t you?’ He stood up straight and brushed a stray leaf off his belly, before glancing around to see if he had a neighborhood audience. He didn’t and huffed in disappointment, slipping his clippers into his pocket.
‘That’s very perceptive of you,’ said Desmoulins. ‘And did you?’ As he spoke, he felt something tugging on his trouser leg and looked down to see a tiny dog, the size of a wet rat, sinking its sharp little teeth into the hem of the material.
‘Filou, stop that,’ the man muttered mildly. ‘Sorry – he’s harmless. Just don’t let him cock his leg at you, that’s all. He can pee for the Fifth Republic when he gets going. You wouldn’t believe how much piss comes out of such a small dog.’ He showed twin rows of yellowed teeth in a humourless smile. ‘After hearing Bourdelet blew his stupid head off, I’ve been expecting the place to be crawling with uniforms. Instead of which there’s just been the pimply youth on guard over there. He looks as if he’s hardly begun shaving. And now you. Not exactly a convincing response is it, for such a big cheese? What kept you?’
Rocco and the Price of Lies Page 11