‘And why,’ Ceyton suggested heavily. ‘What is it they say – follow the money? Find out who would benefit most from financial gain?’
Massin nodded. ‘Unless it’s simply a way of ruining their reputations.’
‘Revenge? I hadn’t thought of that. You could be right.’ Ceyton peered into his glass. ‘Well, I’m not going to get any husband of the year award for going home now, and I could do with a bit of excitement.’ He looked around at the crowd. ‘Tell you what, Massin, I’ll give you a hand. I probably know more people here than you do, so let me do a bit more mixing, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow if I find anything. That do you?’
Massin nodded. He wasn’t sure if he hadn’t just made a disastrous mistake, but he had a feeling that Ceyton’s offer of help was genuine. ‘That’s very kind, sir. I appreciate it.’
‘No problem. It might lead nowhere, of course, but that won’t reflect badly on Rocco. As long as he puts on a good show, eh?’
‘Show, sir?’ Massin was puzzled.
‘Yes. It’s all about public perception, you see. This entire Bourdelet affair is a scandal waiting to explode. If we do nothing we’re accused of a cover-up; if we go overboard we’re accused of wasting money. But, by focussing certain special resources on the case – a well-known investigator with a proven record – even for a short time, we’re seen as being even-handed.’
‘I see.’ Massin didn’t quite, but he decided to let it ride.
But Ceyton hadn’t finished.
‘The advantage to this approach,’ Ceyton continued, ‘is that there’s nothing wrong with a failed investigation. They happen, as we all know. And sometimes, as might be the case here, you have to know when to cut your losses. Job done but nobody loses.’
‘Failed? Sir, I’m not sure Rocco will fa– ’
‘I’m sure he won’t, Massin. I’m sure he won’t.’ Ceyton leaned forward, his wine breath touching Massin’s face. His expression had turned almost chilled. He said softly, ‘As long as your boy does what he’s told when he’s told. Get my meaning?’
‘Told what?’
‘Told to write it off. Shove it in a bottom drawer somewhere and forget it.’ He finished his drink. ‘If he does that, he’ll have a prosperous and successful career ahead of him, mark my words.’ He tapped Massin on the arm. ‘Make sure you remind him, though, won’t you?’
Twenty-five
Rocco got to the office early, prior to a drive to Mers-les-Bains to visit Gambon’s house and, later, if he was conscious, to see Gambon himself. He wasn’t sure what either would produce in the way of answers, but it was work that had to be done. He hadn’t yet heard from Desmoulins about his visit to the coastal resort, so left a note at the duty desk about where he would be and walked round to the Café Schubert, the nearby watering hole of choice for officers from the station.
The café smelled of fresh pastries, strong coffee, serge uniforms, with a harsh overlay of cigarette smoke. It was half-full, having seen a recent changeover of shifts, and he made his way through the few officers and support workers, shaking hands on the way. He ordered a coffee and two croissants which he took to a corner table. Although he’d arranged to have lunch with Michel Santer, they were both experienced enough to know that meals and appointments meant little in the midst of a police investigation, and you simply had to grab food whenever you could.
He was halfway through the second croissant, enjoying the soft, buttery pastry washed down with black coffee, when the patron of the Schubert called out to him and pointed over the heads of the other customers towards the corridor at the rear.
‘Inspector Rocco? Telephone call.’
Rocco found the phone hanging by its cord down the wall. The caller was Michel Santer, sounding pleased with himself.
‘I struck lucky,’ he announced. ‘I spoke to a friend of mine in the Ministry of Justice. I figured he’d know more about current lawyers than anyone else.’
‘That’s quick work. Anything useful?’
‘Well, depends what you call useful. He told me Vauquelin’s a real scrapper and makes no secret of his dislike and distrust of cops. He takes on any case where he thinks he can question the integrity of the arresting officers or investigators, and doesn’t mind dragging them through the mud if it means he gets his client off.’
‘Scoring points, in other words. He’s not the first.’
‘Exactly. He’s been hauled up in front of the Inspector General’s panel on more than one occasion for making claims about the conduct of officers which subsequently turned out not to be true, and has weathered at least three investigations regarding his ‘unprofessional’ relationships with certain criminal types.’
‘And he’s still practising?’
‘Just about. The last one nearly finished him. He got too close to a fraud case in Lyon, and was accused of attempting to bring the judicial system and the police into disrepute. They took a soft line on that one, but he began to appear less and less. Now he only takes on particularly high-profile cases where he thinks he can stick it to the judges by winning spectacularly.’
‘There aren’t many of those, surely.’
‘You’re right. The fact is, anyone facing a big court appearance only has to ask around and they’d soon hear that Vauquelin’s not the most popular of defence lawyers with the judges. And who wants that kind of representation? They’d be at a big disadvantage from the word go.’
Rocco thanked Santer and told him he’d see him at the restaurant. He returned to his table and finished his coffee, before setting off for Mers-les-Bains. His mind was a jumble of questions about why a legal brawler like Vauquelin would want to represent a jobbing artist like Sébastien Cezard, both as agent and lawyer. Was he that desperate? Cezard hadn’t appeared to be any kind of star, more like a man who was getting by. And that would put him a long way from being able to meet Vauquelin’s level of fees.
In the station just around the corner from the Schubert, Detective Desmoulins stared in frustration at the report he was trying to compile. It didn’t amount to much and, in the cold light of day, even the yellow van seen in Le Vésinet was looking like a dead end. It often happened that leads would fall away to nothing, leaving a case no closer to being solved. But it was a major part of the job to keep going even when it seemed the odds were stacked against you.
He jumped when his phone rang, and snatched it up, grateful for the interruption.
‘Is that Detective Desmoulins?’ He recognised the nasal sound of M. Medioni, the madman conspiracy theorist and brandy drinker from Mers-les-Bains.
‘What can I do for you, Monsieur Medioni?’
‘I remembered that number – the one on the yellow van. I was sitting here, having a little drink and … there it was, plain as you like. How about that, eh? I wrote it down as soon as it came to me. I was going to mention it to Allain but I thought I’d better call you first.’
‘Best not tell him, if you don’t mind,’ said Desmoulins. He grabbed a pen and waited. ‘What was it?’
‘Oh, right.’ Medioni sounded disappointed but he read it out anyway, and Desmoulins felt a burst of relief. He thanked the man for his help and made him promise not to discuss the details with anyone.
‘But – not even with Allain? He’d be very interested, I know he would. He’s very proud of the PTT.’
‘Not even him.’ Desmoulins dropped his voice. ‘You’ve been very helpful, sir, and we value the co-operation from members of the public such as yourself. Unfortunately, we need to ask for your absolute discretion on this matter for the time being. It’s what we call a strictly need-to-know issue, if you understand what I mean.’
By the sudden silence on the line he thought Medioni had fallen over in shock. But then the man spoke, his voice dropping conspiratorially. ‘Of course. Perfectly understandable. Need-to-know. Got it.’
Desmoulins thanked him and dropped the phone back on the rest. He stared at the vehicle number on his pad. A Paris registration meant nothing
– there were thousands of those around and no doubt among them lots of yellow vans, too. This could either be nothing at all … or a step forward in the investigation. He consulted his directory and snatched up his phone again, dialling the number for the vehicle registration centre headquarters. It would take time to go through the system, but eventually the machinery would grind it out and he’d have an answer.
Rocco arrived at Gambon’s house and found a uniformed officer outside. The local police inspection of the property would have taken place by now, and a copy of any resultant paperwork would be on their way to him. But he wanted to make his own inspection to get a feel for the place.
The officer used a key to let him in, and Rocco set about checking the rooms. As he might have expected of a senior policeman, the interior was neat, tidy and almost spartan in appearance, everything arranged just so for the minimum of fuss. Furniture was aligned around each room rather than in it, and ornaments were few, other than several framed photographs of Gambon with colleagues and prominent members of the establishment. Rocco gave them a passing glance, recognising a former defence minister, two army chiefs and a current senior member of the civil service who’d been in the news discussing policing matters.
There were none with Secretary of State Bourdelet, he noted. It was a pity but not surprising; that would have been too easy.
He checked drawers and files, finding several albums and yearbooks charting Gambon’s steady rise through the police service. The man had evidently been keen to record his successes. Yet Rocco didn’t get the feeling that there was anything missing. Sometimes when searching properties relating to criminal activity, it was soon evident that the place had been culled of anything incriminating. Gaps in records were inexplicable, cardboard folders showing signs of once-bulging sides were disturbingly thin or empty. Gambon’s paperwork, however, looked perfectly normal.
He took out the copy of the letter received by Gambon. As Dreycourt had said, it referred to two paintings, one of which he had sold to an American buyer in California for an undisclosed sum. By itself that wasn’t a crime, but if Dreycourt managed to prove that the American had been sold the painting as a genuine article, it was fraud.
He found the other painting in the living room. ‘Mademoiselle O’Murphy’ was, like Bourdelet’s painting, the centrepiece on an otherwise bare wall, to be seen and admired. Much lighter in tone than the photo had suggested, predominantly gold and tan, it demanded attention without the need for extra light.
He checked the back of the painting, but there was nothing to suggest where it had come from. No discernible signature either, he noted, just a squiggle at the bottom which could have been anything.
He checked the notes from Dreycourt and saw that Gambon’s housekeeper, Anne-Marie Guillard, lived nearby. He left the uniformed officer to lock up and made his way there. If there was any evidence to find, it might well be the mistress/housekeeper who had been cast aside who provided it.
Guillard was small, neat, pretty and in her forties. Dressed in a tight skirt and scooped-neck blouse, she wore high heels that just about brought her head level with Rocco’s chest. She flashed a ready smile and her two-handed welcome drew Rocco into her home as if she had been starved of company. Her home was small, comfortably furnished, fluffy, flowery and predominantly pink, and she virtually pushed him into an armchair and insisted he take coffee.
‘That’s not necessary, Madame Guillard,’ he assured her, feeling the stuffed cushions sucking him down like quicksand. ‘I won’t disturb you for long, I promise.’
She made a moue with her lips. ‘But you already have, Inspector,’ she said softly, and gave a tinkling laugh as she turned towards a small kitchen. ‘I won’t be a moment. Just make yourself comfortable and we can have a nice long chat.’
In what seemed a few seconds she was back with a tray of cups and a pot of coffee. She set the tray down in front of Rocco, the blouse moving to reveal an ample expanse of sun-bronzed skin. ‘There,’ she murmured. ‘I hope it’s to your satisfaction.’ She held the pose for a moment, making him wonder to what she was referring, and fluttered her eyelashes before taking a cup and sitting down across from him.
Rocco sank half the contents of his cup in one gulp, wondering how many unsuspecting souls had come through the front door recently never to leave. To cover his thoughts, he took her through the details of the letter, asking how much she had known of M. Gambon’s affairs.
‘Affairs, Inspector?’ she queried with a coy smile. ‘Why, the only affair I know of was the one he had with me. If that’s the kind of affair you mean, of course.’ She gave another tinkling laugh and patted the skin at the base of her throat.
Rocco kept his face carefully blank. ‘Business affairs, madame. Like the purchase of the paintings.’
‘Oh, I see. Silly me.’ She looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath, her bosom lifting. ‘All he told me was how he’d got them through a contact at a very good price. I must admit I liked the one he kept. Very … sensual, I thought it was.’ She switched her gaze to Rocco and blinked twice. ‘He said she reminded him of me.’
Rocco felt heat building up around his neck. ‘Did he say who he’d bought them from?’
‘No. He was very guarded about that kind of thing. But he did say he’d found a buyer for one of them – an American he’d known in Paris many years ago.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘He was very pleased with himself about that, I remember, because he said the arrogant Yank knew nothing about art and had more money than sense. I told him that wasn’t very nice and that surely he was committing fraud.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not much, but I don’t think he was very pleased. Well, mention the word fraud to a policeman and they’re bound to get a little jumpy, aren’t they?’ She looked momentarily crestfallen. ‘I shouldn’t have said it, I suppose, but it was too late. However, what he did was wrong and I thought I was in a position to say so. My mistake. I should have let it rest and kept my mouth shut. But just recently we had a little … disagreement, and I called him a fraud. I didn’t mean to, but he took it that I meant about the … you know, the painting.’
‘And did you?’
‘I suppose so, yes. But it was out before I could stop it.’ She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘You know how it is, Inspector. You say things in the heat of the moment and suddenly it’s too late.’ She sighed. ‘It wasn’t long after that that he told me our little “arrangement” was over.’
‘Arrangement?’
She said candidly, ‘I wasn’t there just to clean his house, Inspector.’ She held his gaze as if daring him to comment. ‘Don’t tell me you’re one of the moral majority in this country who pretend people don’t ever have sex for fun instead of procreation?’ She blinked slowly. ‘You don’t seem that way, if I might say so.’
‘Not at all, madame. It’s none of my business what people do as long as it isn’t a crime.’
‘Please, call me Anne-Marie.’
‘Is that why you handed the letter to the local newspaper instead of the police? You were angry at him for ending the affair?’
‘I was bitter, I admit. It was so brutal, the way he cast me aside as if I’d never mattered to him. So maybe I did want a bit of revenge, yes. The thing is, he still expected me to keep house for him!’ A delicate handkerchief appeared out of nowhere and she dabbed at her eyes, which Rocco thought looked perfectly dry. ‘I thought if I handed the letter to the police they’d simply sit on it, him having been a senior officer. That’s how they protect each other, isn’t it – all boys in the same club?’
Rocco said, ‘My coming here is to prove otherwise. Did he ever mention any names or receive any visitors in connection with the paintings?’
‘No. He just said he’d got them from someone he knew. They were delivered one day, but I wasn’t there at the time. The next time I went in they were on the wall and he was admiring them. But the smaller one was sold not long after.’
‘Do you know if he
received any phone calls that might have upset him recently?’
‘Before he tried to hang himself, you mean?’ She looked away and shook her head. ‘Not as far as I know. He didn’t use the telephone much. But he used to go into town nearly every day so I suppose he might have used a public telephone down there. He was quite secretive like that, although I don’t know why.’ She paused and wiped her eyes again. ‘Perhaps I was stupid and he’d got another woman hidden away somewhere. Am I going to get into trouble for giving the letter to the press? Only that seems very unfair. I thought I was doing a public service.’
‘I can’t answer that. My guess is you won’t.’
Rocco stood up and thanked her for her help, then left.
As he climbed back in his car and headed back towards Amiens, the radio crackled. It was the police operator with Desmoulins waiting to speak with him. The young detective sounded upbeat.
‘I got a registration number for a yellow van seen in Mers-les-Bains, in the same street as Gambon’s house,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if it’s the same as the one in Le Vésinet, but it’s worth following up.’
‘I agree. Did you get a name?’
‘I have now. It’s registered to a garage in Sarcelles. I checked with the local police. They said the owner’s a local criminal with a reputation for some dubious connections. But so far they’ve never been able to pin anything on him.’
Rocco and the Price of Lies Page 16