‘Well, that’s not right.’ It was Mme Duverre, who’d crept up silently behind them and was now leaning forward and sniffing the air like an old gun-dog. ‘That’s not right at all. My sister doesn’t smoke.’ She glared at them each in turn and jammed her hands into her apron pocket. ‘Well, isn’t someone going in to look?’
Rocco stepped past Alix and through the door. He was in a small kitchen with a table, two chairs and an ancient wood stove with a large top plate for cooking. Several objects on the table caught his eye: a small metal bottle of camping gas, two empty water bottles, a half-baguette and an opened pack of Camembert with a resident audience of flies.
Cold rations, thought Rocco, eyeing the scene. Whoever had been in here had brought the absolute basics. He prodded the baguette with his finger, the flies lifting off the cheese in protest. A day old, he reckoned, more likely two.
A sink against the back wall gave off the soft plink-plink of a dripping tap. Rocco moved towards a door leading to the front of the cottage and looked through. It was a front room like all front rooms, containing another table, an armchair and a wooden dresser holding an abundance of ornaments and framed photos, snapshots of a time stood still. Everything was unused, layered in dust.
Alix meanwhile had moved to another door off the kitchen. It opened onto a bedroom with a large single bed and a wardrobe. Rocco joined her. The bed was stripped bare but there was a definite dent in the mattress as if someone had been lying there.
‘What’s behind that wall?’ he asked Mme Duverre. She had followed them in like a shadow and was peering around in disbelief at the signs of occupation.
‘My bedroom, if you must know,’ she snapped. ‘Someone’s been sleeping in here – I knew I was right!’
Rocco nudged the scrolled wooden headboard with his fingers. It went back without effort and gave off a faint thump as it connected with the wall. She was right. Somebody had sat on the bed and caused it to move against the wall.
‘It probably won’t produce much,’ said Rocco to Alix, ‘but check the co-op in the village to see if anybody bought a gas stove and other provisions in the last couple of days.’
Alix nodded and made a note.
As Rocco turned to go, Mme Duverre held his arm. ‘Is that it? Aren’t you going to do anything else?’
‘I’m not sure what we can do. Do you think anything’s been stolen?’
She shook her head. ‘Like what? My sister wasn’t rich, you know. And what about the van?’
‘Van?’ said Claude. ‘You never mentioned a van before.’
‘Didn’t I?’ She looked confused. ‘Well, it’s been a stressful time, hasn’t it? There’s been a van out in the main street more than once, which is unusual. It wasn’t from around here, I know that.’
‘Can you describe it?’ Rocco asked.
‘I thought I just had. It was grey and looked like a delivery van, that’s all I can tell you. One of those square ones. And it had a different number from the cars around here.’
‘Which was?’
‘Seventy-five. I don’t remember the rest. My memory’s not what it used to be… although I can remember certain other stuff easily enough.’ Her eyes settled on Claude like two deadly gun barrels.
‘Paris,’ said Claude, ignoring the look. A huge area, thought Rocco, and pointless to even think of looking. Still, it was worth asking around the village in case anybody else had seen it, and he suggested as much to Alix, who nodded. He turned to Mme Duverre and said, ‘I think whoever was here has gone, Madame, and won’t be back. In the meantime I suggest you get somebody to secure the back door and shutters. That should deter anybody else taking up residence without your sister’s permission.’
Leaving Alix to finish off and help close the house, Rocco bid the old lady goodbye and left, with Claude following quickly behind.
‘You want to tell me what that was about back there?’ Rocco said, as they walked down the track together.
Claude shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Liar. You couldn’t get out of there fast enough and I could have bitten chunks out of the atmosphere.’
Claude stopped and looked over his shoulder to where Alix was just leaving the cottage with Mme Duverre. ‘It’s nothing. A bit of history, that’s all. Ancient history at that.’ He started walking again, but when Rocco failed to catch up, he turned and came back. ‘OK, I grant you, there was a bit of an atmosphere. It’s nothing to worry about, though. It’s been like that for years.’
‘Really? Hell, don’t tell me you and the old lady used to–’
‘No!’ Claude looked horrified. ‘Certainly not. What do you take me for?’
They were out on the main street before Claude explained. ‘She had a niece used to come and visit a few years back. Her name was Christine. We met up in the village one time, got friendly and went out on a few occasions. It was nice. Uncomplicated. My wife had died a couple of years before that, and I thought maybe I was ready for the… commitment stuff, you know?’
‘But you weren’t?’
‘Running scared, if I’m honest. It was all right until she began to get serious. Then I got the sweats and it all went downhill very fast after that. Christine ended up moving away and Madame Bulldog has never forgiven me; accused me of behaving like a limace and ruining her Christine’s chances of making a decent marriage.’
‘A slug? That was a bit harsh.’
‘Absolutely. I mean, it takes two, right? Fine, I admit I upset her – Christine, I mean – but she forgave me a long time ago and said it had been nice but we’d never have worked out, anyway, me being a cop. She married a bank manager a while after, so what does that tell you? Anyway, the old lady still thinks I’m the spawn of the devil and should be roasted over a hot pit.’ He shrugged. ‘I try to avoid her where possible, but in a place this size it’s not easy. And as you’ve discovered, some memories around here are extremely long.’
Rocco nodded. He could vouch for that, all right. And time wasn’t much of a healer when it came to remembered hurts.
Claude disappeared inside just as Alix arrived. She turned to Rocco and said, ‘I’m sorry about earlier, Inspector. I didn’t mean to be insubordinate. I just didn’t want to miss the opportunity to prove what I can do, although I can see now that this assignment is a good one for me. Especially as Pa–’ She stopped, biting her lip.
‘Go on.’
‘Papa says I should welcome the chance of working with you because unlike some other policemen he knows, you’ve never looked down on him. You’ve always made him feel like a real policeman.’
‘I hear you’ve been investigating an outbreak of house-breaking in the village,’ said Mme Denis with a wry smile. She was standing by his garden gate and it was obvious she’d been waiting for him. ‘We’re getting a very high level of service here, I must say.’
He smiled. As usual, nothing much escaped her attention, and he had no doubts that the three-cop visit to Mme Duverre was already doing the rounds of Poissons at high speed. ‘I was nearby and decided to lend a hand.’ He pushed open the gate and found the old lady almost skipping along behind him, no doubt anxious to hear all the gory details so she could relay them to her network of friends and gossips.
‘I’m surprised Lilliane allowed Lamotte into the house,’ she muttered, bending to attack a weed in the path. ‘Did you notice the tension between them? What’s the word… toxic.’ She tossed the weed aside and brushed her fingers.
‘I suppose you must know all about what happened.’
‘Who doesn’t? It was quite the drama, believe me. She decided to make it her life’s work never to forgive Lamotte for “breaking her niece’s heart”. Utter rubbish, of course – it wasn’t that serious for either of them. Anyway, Christine forgave him and that should have been the end of it. People move on, don’t they? It’s what makes the world go round.’
‘Really? I thought it was love.’
She scowled at him. ‘Now you’re t
easing. Be careful the same doesn’t happen to you, young man, or you’ll end up old and lonely.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘So who was it, do you think, camping in her sister’s house? I’ve never heard of anyone doing that before.’
‘Not out here, maybe, but it happens in cities, where houses or apartments are left empty. The English call it “squatting”.’
‘They actually have a word for it? Strange people.’ With that, she turned and bustled off along the path to the gate.
Twenty-four
Refreshed by a good night’s sleep, in spite of the fruit rats’ best attempts to keep him awake, Rocco drove out to Les Sables early the following morning, ready to replace the two officers. Just before reaching the turning to the isolated house, he looked in his mirror and saw Claude’s 2CV coming up behind him, with Alix in the passenger seat.
As he bumped along the track, Rocco experienced an odd sense of misgiving. He soon saw why: the twin wooden gates, the house’s first line of defence, were wide open, something he’d warned Bouanga against allowing.
Rocco stamped on the accelerator and blasted through the gap, skidding to a halt in front of the house. He jumped out, drawing his gun. As he did so, Claude pulled up alongside him in a cloud of dust, he and Alix leaping out to join him.
Rocco stepped up to the front door and pushed. It was already open and swung back.
‘Delicat!’ he shouted. It was pointless being quiet, since their arrival would have been heard already.
Nothing.
‘I’ll do the other side,’ Claude called out, and disappeared round the corner.
‘What about me?’ Alix queried. She looked pale but determined, holding a rifle which looked huge in her hands.
‘Stick with me,’ Rocco told her, ‘but ditch the rifle. If anybody’s still inside you’ll need to move fast.’ He knew it wasn’t her first time facing danger, but searching a house with a rifle could be more of an encumbrance than a help. ‘Let’s go.’
He moved quickly inside, scanning the hall and alert for any sign of movement. ‘Mr Bouanga!’
Rocco stepped across the hall to where the phone had been on a side table, but was now on the floor. He picked up the handset and listened. No dial tone. The line must have been cut. He pointed towards a small room on the right, with the door wide open, and Alix moved quickly to check it out. She came out again seconds later and shook her head. ‘Empty.’
He beckoned her to follow and made his way along the hall to the conservatory, which Bouanga seemed to have made his daily spot. Papers were scattered about the floor and on the settee where the minister had sat, and a cup and saucer lay in pieces on the rug. A broken chair lay in one corner below a section of glass starred with cracks, and a large pot plant had been kicked over, spilling dirt and pebbles.
There was no sign of Bouanga or his entourage.
He turned and ran through to the kitchen. It was empty, with a mixing bowl lying in pieces on the tiles. A smear of red stood out on the side of the large table in the centre, but he couldn’t tell if it was blood, human or otherwise. Through the window he saw Claude scouting the grounds outside, angling towards the outbuildings.
The stairs were silent and sombre, a host of shadows at the top inviting careful investigation. Rocco’s footsteps were muffled by the carpet as he ran upwards, with Alix close behind. He reached the top and signalled for her to go right before turning the other way.
The rooms were empty, with nowhere that he could see for anyone to hide. What furniture there was looked untouched and wasn’t large enough to conceal an intruder. He entered a room at the rear of the building and opened the window, pushing back the shutters. It gave him a view of the fields overlooking the site where Vieira had died, and a lot of emptiness save for a clutch of dark shapes where crows were circling and dipping by the fence above the slope.
‘Alix?’ he called, and was relieved when she appeared from the other side of the house shaking her head. Nothing there.
They hurried downstairs just as Claude erupted through the front door. ‘Lucas?’ He looked distraught. ‘In the barn out back.’ He turned and led the way round the side and out towards the barn where Rocco had parked his car the previous night.
The barn smelled musty, of straw long dried and of birds and other small creatures that had made this their home. Dust hung in the air and a butterfly struggled to escape, the sound of its wings the only thing to break the silence. The car used by the two officers on guard stood where it had been all night.
Alongside it lay a body.
It was one of the officers. He had his head thrown back, eyes staring sightlessly at the roof. His sidearm was still in its holster, Rocco noted, and a splash of blood and a scorch mark on his uniform fabric showed he’d been shot in the chest at close quarters.
‘No sign of the other one?’ said Rocco.
Claude shook his head. ‘Nothing in the house, I suppose?’
‘Not a thing, but the phone line’s been cut. Whoever did this didn’t want to risk any calls going out.’ He glanced at Alix, who was staring at the dead man with a look of horror. He said gently, ‘He’s beyond our help. We need to look for the others.’
His words seemed to shake her out of her sense of shock, and she nodded and turned away. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Use the radio in my car. Get on to Massin and tell him it’s a crime scene, one dead so far and no sign of Bouanga or his people. This looks like a planned attack. Then stay by the car.’ He turned to Claude. ‘Stay close by, will you – I’m going across the field.’
Claude nodded. ‘You saw the crows?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take it easy.’
‘Crows?’ Alix stopped and looked between the two men. ‘What does that mean?’ But neither of them bothered to explain. She would soon figure out that crows gathering over what appeared to be an empty field could only mean one thing: there was something of interest out there.
‘Go on,’ said Rocco. ‘Talk to Massin. Stay calm and stick to the details.’
Rocco jogged across the field, his body temperature rising quickly in the warm air. Out here in the open, the only sound he could hear was the swish as he moved through the lush grass, and his breathing as the adrenaline coursed through him. Down at ground level and with the field curving away downwards, he couldn’t see what was attracting the birds, but it could only be one thing. If Bouanga had been taken and one guard killed, it meant that whoever lay out here was one of three people: the second guard or Delicat… or his wife Excelsiore.
The crows voiced their displeasure when they saw him approaching, rising in the air in a frantic clatter of wings. They wheeled away towards the far end of the field where they sat on a line of fence posts and waited, like mourners at a funeral.
He slowed as he neared the spot, and finally saw a dark shape lying in a shallow fold in the ground.
It was the second officer. He was face down, his arms spread out. A splash of blood showed where he’d been shot in the back. An entry wound, Rocco realised immediately. Unlike his colleague, his weapon was gone from its holster.
He checked the body and was surprised to find the man still alive. His breathing was coming in short, harsh gasps, as if he was struggling to force the air into his lungs. There was a lot of blood soaked into the uniform, and Rocco knew that if he didn’t get medical help for him soon, he would be beyond it.
He stood up and whistled, and when Claude looked round, made a circular signal to the side of his head, then pumped his fist. Claude understood immediately, and turned and ran towards Rocco’s car and the radio.
Rocco stayed with the wounded man and busied himself removing the man’s belt and tying a compress of a folded handkerchief against the wound in his back while making him comfortable. It wasn’t much but if he could slow the blood loss it might give him a chance of survival. He gently checked the front of the man’s body but could find no exit wound. The guard moaned a couple
of times, but showed no sign of coming round, which Rocco thought was probably a good thing for now.
As he knelt alongside him he was transported back to Indochina and the ghastly battlefield wounds he’d witnessed there, and the efforts he and others had made to secure the lives of men hit by bullets or shrapnel. All too often they had lost the fight very quickly. Out of range of immediate help and dependent only on the most basic treatment by field medics, their bodies covered in mud and dirt, they soon fell prey to flies and mosquitoes and the inevitability of infection. Yet amazingly some of the wounded soldiers had pulled through when all hope had seemed lost.
Time seemed to hang still as he waited for the first sounds of emergency help arriving, and he realised after a few minutes that he’d begun talking to the guard without realising it, urging him to hold on and telling him that help was on its way. It was, he knew, the sound of a human voice nearby that often made the difference between someone fighting… or giving up altogether.
He checked the compress to scan the area around him, wondering which way the assailant had gone. There were no other tracks through the grass save for his own, which he could clearly see, and a single, zig-zag line leading right up to the body. It prompted a thought and he lifted the man’s jacket, and found that blood had run down the inside of his uniform and puddled around his waistband, soaking into the heavy serge cloth of his trousers and the lower extremities of his shirt. But that seemed to be as far as it had gone. There was none gathered around the front of his body, where gravity should have taken it, and none on the grass beneath him.
Rocco sat back. The blood and the absence of other tracks in the grass meant the guard had been shot somewhere else – probably back at the house. Having lost his gun, he must have run for his life across the field, but had collapsed right here, unable to go any further.
Then he heard a whistle, and looked up to see Claude waving and pointing towards the road, and heard the sound of a siren drifting towards them on the breeze.
‘Keep breathing,’ he told the guard. ‘They’re just coming.’
Rocco and the Nightingale Page 13