Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Lucas … Claude,’ he greeted them. ‘Eliane told me you were coming. I’m afraid she’s had to go out – but not to avoid you, though, I promise.’ He laughed nervously, his eyes shifting to the Mercedes outside. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Rocco said. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’ He stood back and waved them inside. ‘I’ve got a visitor with me at the moment from Paris. But if you don’t mind joining us, you’re welcome.’ He turned and set off along the hallway to the room where they had first met.

  As they entered, a figure turned towards them from the window overlooking the rear gardens. He was tall and upright, with carefully coiffed grey hair swept back on either side of his head. Clean-shaven, he was dressed in a smart navy-blue suit, a white shirt and maroon tie, and carried the confident and prosperous air of a big city businessman.

  Sébastien made introductions, scattering ash from the cheroot onto the carpet. ‘Inspector Rocco and Officer Lamotte. Laurent Vauquelin, my agent and lawyer.’

  The three men shook hands and Rocco wondered what the other man was doing there. From the way Vauquelin was looking at him, he got the impression the lawyer wasn’t surprised to see him.

  ‘So, you’re not local,’ Rocco said, to break the ice.

  ‘Heavens, no.’ Vauquelin lifted an eyebrow, as if the very idea was ridiculous. ‘I come out here only when absolutely necessary, to see my client. And it would appear that my timing might be appropriate. May I ask the reason for a visit from two officers of the law?’

  ‘That depends. Are you asking as an agent or a lawyer?’

  ‘I ask as a lawyer. Is that a problem?’ Vauquelin appeared unruffled by Rocco’s response, knowing he had the upper hand if his client wanted him present. ‘Perhaps we can start with seeing some documentation.’

  Rocco held up his ID card so that Vauquelin had to move closer to see it. He’d met individuals like this before. In the Paris courts they held sway like dangerous big cats. Smooth, educated, well-heeled and with a carefully cultivated arrogance, they exuded authority, especially when defending clients of a dubious nature. Their approach was to treat the police as the enemy, with barely-concealed contempt. In the close confines of the wood-panelled courts with their sombre, lofty atmosphere and rituals, which few policemen were able to confront on equal terms, it often worked.

  ‘I don’t want to interrupt your meeting,’ Rocco said, ‘but I have a couple of questions to ask Monsieur Cezard.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I need his professional opinion.’ Rocco could see he wasn’t going to get past the lawyer for long, so he took the envelope Dreycourt had given him from his pocket and extracted the photos of the paintings. Addressing Sébastien, he continued, ‘Have you seen these three paintings before?’

  Sébastien took the photos and leafed through them, lifting his glasses to study them more closely and humming as he did so. He looked up at Rocco. ‘I think so, almost certainly. They’re quite well known, of course. But I can’t recall exactly when and where I saw them last. Why do you ask?’

  Rocco was aware of Vauquelin edging closer, like a cruising shark looking for someone to bite. Before the lawyer could intervene, he said, ‘You’ve no doubt heard about Secretary of State Bourdelet’s suicide?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sébastien nodded. ‘A ghastly business. So sad when someone takes his own life.’

  Vauquelin showed no such empathy. ‘What has that got to do with my client?’ he demanded, as if anxious to regain some measure of control over the conversation.

  There was little point in Rocco pretending the main issue behind Bourdelet’s death was anything other than the painting, since the news about it was now in the public domain, so he tapped the relevant photo with his finger and said, ‘This particular item is hanging on the wall of Bourdelet’s home. It’s a copy of the original. On the day of his death he received a blackmail letter accusing him of using government funds to buy it. It’s believed the accusation led to him taking his own life.’

  It didn’t shift Vauquelin’s demeanour one bit. ‘Again, I ask the question, what has that to do with my client? You’re seriously overstepping your authority here, Rocco. What has Secretary Bourdelet’s death got to do with … well, a rural police force?’

  Rocco ignored the slight. ‘I’ve been given the responsibility to investigate the death by the Interior Ministry. I could show you my letter of authority but I won’t.’ He turned to Sébastien. ‘It’s been suggested that you may have produced this painting. Is that true?’

  Sébastien opened his mouth to reply but Vauquelin beat him to it, chopping the air with his hand to cut him off. ‘Who suggested such a thing?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘Are you accusing my client of forgery? Is that what this is about?’

  Rocco looked at the lawyer. ‘I’m not accusing him of anything. Unless you know better?’ He turned back to Sébastien. ‘It’s not a crime to produce copies of old works of art … not unless it’s meant to fool someone into buying it as an original, which doesn’t appear to have been the case here. But since this painting was central to the letter and Bourdelet’s reaction to receiving it, it might help my investigation if I could find out where he bought it in the first place. Monsieur Cezard?’ He was careful to observe a formal approach, aware that any lack of correctness with Vauquelin there could come back to bite him.

  The lawyer’s mouth snapped shut, unable to counter Rocco’s question.

  Sébastien looked lost for words, his eyes darting between Rocco and the lawyer. ‘I … I don’t think so. To be honest I can’t remember.’

  Vauquelin gave out a hiss of breath. ‘You don’t have to answer that question, Sébastien. Inspector, this is deplorable. Either you suspect my client of something, in which case you should say so and make a formal charge, or you should leave.’

  Rocco said nothing, his eyes on the artist, whose cheroot had gone out. The fact that Sébastien had said he couldn’t remember painting it was not an outright denial, merely an agreement that he might have done. Either way it didn’t incriminate him unless Rocco could find a trail to follow.

  ‘Without accusing you of anything, is there a possibility that you did paint it?’

  Sébastien took a drag at the cheroot, and looked puzzled when it didn’t produce any smoke. ‘I … I might have – a long time ago. One does many things when one is trying to get a name–’

  ‘Enough!’ Vauquelin jumped in and glared at Sébastien. ‘This has gone far enough and I strongly advise you to say nothing else unless you’re charged with a crime. Inspector?’

  ‘No charge,’ Rocco said calmly. ‘I’m done, thank you.’ He smiled and stepped back, nodding towards Claude. ‘Although there is still the question of the gunfire we last spoke about – but that’s a question for Officer Lamotte.’

  Vauquelin sighed and waved the matter aside as if he were bored with it already. He looked at Sébastien. ‘You’d better tell them if you know anything, Sébastien, then we can let them get on with some serious policing. My apologies, but I have other business to attend to. Call me if there are any problems.’

  On that pointed note, after a brief handshake with his client, he turned and walked from the room without so much as a glance at the two officers. Moments later they heard the front door closing, followed by the sound of the Mercedes driving away.

  ‘Friendly sort,’ murmured Claude, and went over to the window and stared out into the garden. ‘Wish I had a garden like this. How many rows of potatoes and onions I could get in there. I’d make a fortune.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sébastien replied, nodding towards the departing lawyer. He seemed genuinely regretful and tried to explain it away. ‘I’m afraid Laurent’s very protective on my behalf, always has been. He tends to see everything as some sort of threat to my livelihood.’

  Rocco wondered if that was the reason Sébastien seemed a little on edge, and why he’d felt it necessary to defend the la
wyer. Or was there something else? ‘His livelihood also, if he’s your agent,’ he suggested.

  Sébastien grunted. ‘I suppose. I never thought of it that way. He probably looks on me as a naïve and gullible paint-splasher who’s going to get taken in by anyone who comes along. Or maybe he thinks I might start selling my work behind his back and cutting him out of the deal to save on the commission.’

  ‘Did you tell him we were coming?’

  ‘Well, not deliberately. He happened to be here about another matter and I mentioned your intended visit. He said he would stay on until you called. I told him it wasn’t necessary but he’s what you might call a force of nature: difficult to put off when he’s concerned on a client’s behalf.’

  ‘You’ve known him for a while, then?’

  ‘A few years. He helped me out over a non-payment which went to court, and another case when I was accused of breach of copyright. He got me my payment and the case against me was dismissed, so you could say I was very grateful. After that, he offered to represent me and has done so ever since.’ He relit his cheroot, puffing a cloud of smoke into the atmosphere with a deep sigh. ‘Would you like some tea? Eliane would never forgive me if I didn’t offer. She’s a stickler for etiquette, although,’ he winced slightly, ‘not where Laurent’s concerned, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Not keen?’

  ‘Sadly, no. She’s never taken to him, which is why she decided to go shopping when I told her he was coming. My daughter’s headstrong, like all young women these days. Sorry – did I ask if you wanted tea?’ Sébastien’s mind seemed to be somewhere else, and Rocco wondered if it was a typical artist’s manner or a reaction to the visit from Vauquelin.

  ‘Not for me,’ said Rocco. ‘I didn’t know artists used agents. Although I suppose having someone with connections might be an advantage.’

  Sébastien shrugged. ‘Way of the world, Inspector. Way of the world. It’s what Laurent calls a commercial imperative these days. Stuck away out here I can’t get to the galleries as much as I used to, so it helps to have him dropping my name into wealthy ears whenever he can. He’s got a wide range of contacts and he’s also better at negotiating terms than I am. You might be surprised at how tough it can be to prise a decent fee out of the wealthy elite. They like to think they’re doing the artist a favour by giving them a commission, then pay as late as they possibly can when it’s finished. Still, I suppose that’s how they got to be rich in the first place.’ He looked at his now diminished cheroot and dropped the stub in the fireplace. ‘Now, you wanted to ask about the shooting.’

  Claude, studying some books on a shelf by the fire, looked confused by the sudden change of topic but recovered and said, ‘Only if you have any news.’

  ‘None, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen or heard anything.’

  ‘Fine. Case closed. We’ll put it down to sun spots.’

  Back outside, after bidding goodbye to Sébastien, Rocco looked at Claude. ‘Sun spots? Really?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Claude looked unabashed. ‘It caught me on the hop. It was the best I could do at short notice.’

  ‘What did you think?’ He’d brought Claude along because he valued his opinion. Unconstrained by trying to impress any superiors or a mountain of other cases calling for his attention, Claude relied on a more basic internal antennae to judge the words and actions of others. Some would have called it gut feeling.

  ‘That Vauquelin’s a bit of a connard, isn’t he? I told you I should have brought my gun.’

  ‘No argument there. Maybe next time. And Sébastien?’

  Claude pulled a face. ‘He’s harder to judge. He comes across as a nice bloke, a little odd, I suppose, but nice enough. If he’s crooked, he’s a good actor.’

  Rocco nodded. He was finding it hard to place Sébastien in the role of a master blackmailer. A possible forger, yes, since the man almost certainly possessed the skill. And he’d definitely seemed a little uneasy when he and Claude had first arrived. But did that make him guilty of having turned the screws on clients who’d bought his paintings?

  Claude climbed into the car and began fiddling with the radio until he found a music station. Rocco let him play. His mind was firmly fixed on the lawyer. He felt a sense of unease about Vauquelin’s attitude. Not the way he had leapt to his client’s defence, which was fairly normal for any lawyer; it was their job, after all. But he couldn’t help but get the feeling that there was something else going on in the background, something he couldn’t put his finger on. If Vauquelin had indeed stayed on because he’d heard Rocco was coming to see Sébastien, it made him wonder why. Was he trying to get his defence in quickly and, if so, why the rush?

  On his way back to Paris, Laurent Vauquelin stopped at a café on the outskirts of the town of Breteuil to make a telephone call. The place was fairly busy and nobody gave him so much as a look. Secure in the knowledge that nobody there would know him, he decided it would be better to deal with this now rather than leaving it until he got back to his office. He found the phone and dialled a number from memory. It was answered with the customary silence.

  Vauquelin said, ‘Serban? It’s me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I believe we may have a small problem.’

  There was a lengthy pause, then, ‘How so?’

  ‘I spoke to Rocco, the inspector dealing with the Bourdelet case. He was at Cezard’s place, asking questions about the paintings. I pretended ignorance about his being involved, of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s the type to back off as easily as we hoped. I’ve met his sort before.’

  A sigh came down the line and Serban said, ‘That’s unfortunate, Maître.’ The use of the title felt more like a slap than a mark of respect, but Vauquelin gritted his teeth and remained silent. ‘But, unless you make any mistakes, I can’t see how he’ll discover links to either of us. That said,’ Serban added pointedly, ‘the only one in danger of taking a fall is the painter.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But can we not do something?’ Vauquelin asked. ‘What if he finds a link through the letters?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that will be of my doing?’

  ‘No. I’m merely saying there ought to be some way of dissuading him.’

  ‘What do you want me to do – shoot him? Place a bomb under his car? Offer him a bribe?’

  ‘No … I don’t know.’ Vauquelin was startled by the suggestions and wondered if, deep down, they were serious.

  ‘I suggest you line up another target,’ said Serban. ‘And try not to panic. We have a business arrangement, nothing more; we need to recoup our losses on these first three because so far they’ve brought no returns whatsoever.’

  Vauquelin protested. ‘That’s hardly my fault. Their reactions to the letters were unforeseen. In any case, as I said before, you will receive payment.’

  ‘Are you saying there won’t be more?’

  ‘No. I’m saying this is a small setback. That’s all.’

  ‘I hope so, Maître. For your sake I hope so.’

  Vauquelin heard the words, followed by a soft click, and wondered what he had got himself into.

  Twenty-three

  Rocco returned home to find a cloth-covered dish on his doorstep. The smell as he unwrapped it told him all he needed to know: it was from Mme Denis. Gifting him with eggs and fresh vegetables from her own abundant plot was her way of ensuring that he did not forget the basic principles of eating to stay alive. But a pie? And a meat pie at that, with a golden crust peppered with holes and releasing a tantalising aroma of meat and herbs. He sensed this might be a further offer of apology for her curtness of the other day. He decided to walk round to the old lady’s small cottage. A personal thank you was required along with, no doubt, a snippet of detail about his latest case.

  ‘Thank you, madame,’ he said warmly, when she came to the door. ‘I shall eat well tonight. But you really didn’t need to go to such trouble. And meat is expensive.’

  Sh
e brushed off the words with a pouff. ‘There’s no need to concern yourself. I have an arrangement with a friend at the other end of the village. Her husband’s a farmer and produces his own excellent meat. He supplies several restaurants in the area.’

  ‘An arrangement?’

  She gave a chuckle. ‘Yes. I let drop a few choice details of your past cases in return for some of her husband’s meat cuts. It’s called bartering. It’s a lost art – you should try it sometime.’

  ‘I do, often,’ said Rocco. ‘Only I barter not to shoot criminals if they come quietly.’

  She gave him a sideways look. ‘I don’t believe that for a second. Eat the pie and be grateful; you’re looking a bit peaky, if I may say so. You need feeding up. That commissaire of yours is working you far too hard.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll tell him you said so.’

  ‘What you don’t eat, keep cool, otherwise it will go off.’

  ‘How do I do that?’ Rocco didn’t have a refrigerator and hadn’t yet seen the need.