Death on the Marais ilr-1

by Adrian Magson

  ‘You know it. Philippe Bayer-Berbier.’ The words came out flat, lacking any feeling.

  Seconds ticked by before anyone spoke. Then Rocco said, ‘What were you thinking of doing when you found these two men?’

  She shrugged again, this time looking him straight in the eye. There was nothing there, though: her eyes were empty. The very absence of emotion was utterly chilling.

  ‘I was going to kill them.’

  ‘How were you going to do that?’ he said finally. Another tour of the room had not eased the discomfort in his ribs. He felt as if he had nothing else left to ask. Claude had sunk into his chair, incredulity on his face.

  ‘Any way I could. I was going to bide my time. As to how, Elise told me. She blew up a train once, when it was in a siding. I was a good listener. I nearly did it, too.’ She gave a half-smile, eyes drifting, and Rocco felt the last vestige of sympathy fall away.

  ‘So Elise knew all about explosives?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘And guns?’

  ‘Naturally.’ She sounded proud of the fact, and he wondered how much of that was for her own skills, picked up at her big sister’s knee.

  He glanced at the photo again, at Elise holding a dagger as if she knew how to use it. ‘And knives, too.’

  This time she said nothing. Simply stared at him, a flicker of something crossing her face, then gone. She was ahead of him; knew where that question was leading. No matter. It was all he needed.

  ‘Did you kill Nathalie Berbier?’ He was pretty sure he knew the answer to that. He’d failed to judge Francine Thorin correctly until now. But Poudric apart, her approach to getting revenge was fairly basic: she focused on and went directly for those she held responsible for the death of her sister. Her response confirmed it.

  ‘Is that who the dead woman was?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  He believed her. There was something undeniable in her reply. Besides, he knew she’d had no prior contact with the lodge or anyone else in it until she had been taken by Didier. He nodded and stood up. As he reached the door, he turned and asked casually, ‘Who was Agnes Carre?’

  She turned on her side away from him and pulled the covers over her shoulder, shutting him out. ‘Someone I once knew,’ she said softly.

  He glanced at Claude, who lifted an eyebrow. That she hadn’t denied knowing the name might be enough. That and having admitted to pinning up a copy of the photo in Didier’s house. Enough to prove that, after seeing the photo in Rocco’s house in the Rue Danvillers, and realising only then that the photographer, Ishmael Poudric, was a loose end that needed clearing away, she had driven back to Rouen and murdered him.

  Tidying up loose ends. No doubt something else Elise had taught her.

  He walked out of the room and called the office. After a few false starts, he was told Massin was still there. He was put through. He gave the senior officer a summary of events, then asked him to arrange for someone to come to the hospital and serve Francine Thorin with an arrest warrant for the murder of Ishmael Poudric and the attempted murder of Didier Marthe.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The marais at night was a ghostly environment. Musty smells, strange sounds and the furtive movement of wildlife echoed in the ever-changing and almost invisible landscape. With a weak moon flitting through thin cloud cover, it was a mass of shifting shadows, too, adding to the unreal quality of the place. Rocco had spent too many nights on surveillance in city streets and back alleys to be anything but easily bored by inner-city stillness and its lack of vibrancy; but this place had an undercurrent all of its own that was almost a relief to a bored cop.

  He was lying beneath the overturned aluminium boat near the reeds, a few paces from the back door of the main lodge. Arriving on foot just after 02.30, he’d slid underneath the curve of its side, dragging in a square of canvas tarpaulin to form a groundsheet against the damp grass. The location gave him a clear view of the lodge and the approach along the path into the marais, but the road and the turning circle in front of the building were hidden from his sight. He had debated waiting in the reeds across the far side, giving him a view of both approaches, but a sneak look earlier had revealed soft, marshy ground underneath. He’d also dismissed the interior of the building: it was too restrictive and Didier would expect it of a city cop, anyway.

  In the end, the boat had been the only solution.

  He hadn’t mentioned his intentions to anyone, mainly to prevent Claude from insisting on joining him. Two-man surveillances were easily spotted, and he’d seen so many fall apart through the presence of two breathing souls trying hard to remain still. In addition, he had no guarantees that the scrap man would come back here. For all he knew, he was a hundred miles away by now, nursing his wounds. Yet something told him otherwise. Too much had been happening in a very short space of time for Didier to have gained access to his home for long, and if he wanted to remain at large — and he was too much of a survivor not to — there were things he would need, like money. And that meant the locked cellar. Didier didn’t seem the sort to have faith in bank accounts.

  He shifted his weight to ease the pain in his side. The nurse at the hospital had said it would be uncomfortable for some days, and had given him a supply of painkillers if it got too much to bear. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten to bring them with him.

  He tensed as something pale entered his field of vision. But it was too high off the ground to be human. He relaxed as an owl flashed briefly through a patch of moonlight. Soundless and white, it glided into the trees and was gone, swallowed by shadows. Then a fox appeared, trotting nimbly along the path and nosing under a fallen branch before disappearing among a heavy growth of reeds. From his position, Rocco could feel the cooler air coming off the lake, and heard a variety of plops and soft swirls as the creatures of the water went about their business. At any other time, he would have enjoyed the opportunity to study the place. But now was not it.

  Time had passed quickly. When he tilted his watch towards the moonlit gap near the ground, he saw it was 04.00. The time most cops on surveillance detail found the hardest to stay awake. Not criminals, though; they loved the hours leading to dawn, like feral cats on the prowl, going about their unseen business.

  He yawned, mouth threatening lockjaw, and wished he’d brought coffee. A strong caffeine hit would have worked wonders right now, but he knew that a hunted man like Didier would pick up the smell from fifty paces away.

  He checked his watch again. 04.10. Now time was hanging. Then he tensed as a crackle of grass came from his left, and he heard the familiar, faint whistle-brush of undergrowth against fabric.

  A bird flitted up into the trees and a swirl of water in the lake behind him indicated something moving nearby. Whatever it was had come through the trees from his left, following the line of the track from the road. He cursed. The boat was tilted to the left, with the lower edge against the ground, and he wouldn’t get a sight of the intruder until he or she moved across his front nearer the lodge.

  Was it a moonlight hunter? Someone else from the village on a foray for fish or fowl?

  Silence.

  Something brushed against the hull of the boat and Rocco froze, half-expecting his cover to be lifted away. He was sure he could hear someone breathing. A man, it had to be. There was a sour smell, like that of disturbed water or mud mixed with body odour.

  A faint cough, followed by a sigh. Rocco tensed, ready to follow the boat upright, gun at the ready. Instead, he heard a metallic click and a footfall. Whoever was out there was moving away.

  He lay on his side, giving him an extra few centimetres of view under the curve of the boat. A shadowy figure crossed between him and the lodge, paused for a moment, then continued walking. Stopped again as the clouds shifted and pale moonlight flooded the clearing. The figure had moved in an odd, crablike fashion, as if normal walking was too hard, and was now standing slightly bent over, as if nursing a bad
back. Or a gunshot wound.

  It was Didier. He was standing in full view. He had a bag slung across his shoulder and was holding a shotgun, his battered bush hat a clear marker. He stood there for a few moments, head turning to scan the shadows like an animal at bay, and Rocco swore he could hear the man sniffing like an old bloodhound.

  Then he was gone, moving soundlessly along the path towards the second lodge until he vanished into the shadows.

  Rocco counted to fifty, then lifted one side of the boat and slid out. He followed the direction in which Didier had gone, keeping the tall reeds between him and the path. It was hard on his stomach and thigh muscles, but a relief to be out in the open where it gave him the chance to take out his gun and get the blood circulating in his veins. If Didier spotted him and swung that shotgun on him, he wanted to be able to defend himself.

  He came in sight of the second lodge and hunkered down on the path. He was sweating, his heart going like a train, and he resolved to get back to some morning runs after this was over. Nothing too energetic, though. Just enough to make him feel better than he did right now, which was tired and flabby.

  He counted to twenty, impatient to have it ended. There was no movement in the lodge, no signs of light. With a last look around and his chest pounding with tension, he crossed the clearing past the lodge and moved along the path towards the final lodge and the bridge to Didier’s house.

  He reached the last bend in the path and paused. No sounds or movement. He was about to step forward to view the ruined building, when something touched his leg.

  He looked down.

  His shin was resting against a thin sliver of silver strung across the path.

  Tripwire.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Rocco pulled his leg back, balanced agonisingly on one foot. If the wire was released too quickly, it might still trigger whatever device was waiting for him. He put his foot down, then lowered himself to the ground. He began probing the immediate area with his fingertips, nudging aside stems of grass and dead reeds.

  The ground was clear. That left the wire itself.

  It was drawn tight across the path, held by two metal spikes driven into the ground. He couldn’t see what the wire was connected to, but it ran off to his right after being curled around the spike, before disappearing into the reeds by the side of the path. He leant over and ran his fingertips along its length, stopping abruptly when he encountered something cold, round and metallic, held in place by three more spikes. He recognised the shape immediately.

  Grenade.

  Rocco felt a chill move across his shoulders and down into his groin. If he had triggered the tripwire, it would have tugged the secondary wire, setting off the grenade just as he moved level with it. It was a mantrap, of the type he’d seen in Indochina and other places. One of the simplest forms of killing device with the minimum of hardware: a grenade pinned in place by pegs, sticks or in a bamboo cup, with the pin balanced and waiting for the lightest of tugs to set it off. Cheap, easy to place and deadly.

  He waited for his breathing to settle and wondered what other little surprises Didier had waiting for him. This one had been simple to put in place: with practice — and if anyone was practised in the art of killing it was Didier — it would have taken seconds to ram the spikes home, string up the wire and drop the grenade in place. What he didn’t know was whether Didier was carrying more such devices.

  He stepped past the grenade and continued along the path to the bridge. No time to disarm it now… and trying to do so in this light would be a quick way to blow off his face. He could see the roof of Didier’s house. No sounds came from it, no light. No movement.

  He eyed the dark bulk of the bridge. The last time he’d crossed it, there had been no tripwires or booby traps. But that was then. Didier had changed the rules of engagement. If he’d once spiked the bridge to deter a few kids, he’d do it for a cop with even fewer regrets.

  Rocco shook his head. Was he giving the man too much credit? Would it be another tripwire or a pressure plate and some plastique? Whatever, he didn’t care to take the risk, and discomfort won out over death or dismemberment. He moved past the bridge and slid down the bank until he reached the water, which was cool and flowing smoothly. He slid his feet into the depths, feeling the cold moving up his legs until he was standing knee-deep, with tendrils of weed holding his calves in a gentle embrace. If Didier put in an appearance now, he reflected, bringing up his gun, he wasn’t going to waste any time on semantics: he’d shoot him where he stood.

  The water gurgled noisily around his legs as he moved forward, and he reached the far side convinced that his approach had woken half the village. Clambering up the far bank, he looked across to the house and saw a dim light burning just inside the open door.

  Before swinging over the top of the bank, he eased off his shoes and emptied them of water, then squeezed out his socks. Replacing them, he waited for the moon to slip behind a cloud, then stood up and walked across the open yard until he fetched up alongside one of the two large artillery shells either side of the door. From inside came the clinking sound of glass, followed by a heavy sigh. Didier drinking.

  The clouds shifted again and suddenly moonlight flooded the yard. Rocco felt the hairs on his neck stirring. If Didier happened to poke his head out of the door, there was no way he could miss seeing him. He lifted the gun to head level and waited. There was nobody to see what went on here, no one to enforce the rules and regulations determining calls for surrender or the dropping of arms; one sign of the little man and his big gun and it would all be over. Then he heard a rattle of a key and the sound of a door being tugged open. The cellar.

  Rocco waited until Didier’s footsteps faded away down the steps, then stepped inside the house. The shotgun was lying on the kitchen table. He picked it up and placed it out of sight behind a chair, then slid off his shoes and followed Didier down into the dark.

  He was at the bottom of the steps before he saw a dim light at one end of the cellar, through a narrow doorway. He stopped to allow his eyes to adjust and checked the floor for obstacles. The atmosphere down here was surprisingly dry, and smelt faintly of nothing more noxious than machine oil. He moved away from the steps and edged towards the light.

  Didier had his back to him. He was kneeling in front of a large metal cabinet, with a leather bag by his side. He was dropping items into it in rapid succession, using his one good arm.

  Rocco took in the room at a glance. The doorway where he was standing was a cheap plywood partition to section off this end of the cellar from the rest. Apart from the metal cabinet, there was a table, an armchair and a wardrobe. Along one wall was a wine rack filled with dust-covered bottles. A radio stood on a shelf on the opposite wall, with a line of thin paperback books below it. Cheap novels and ageing wine, Rocco noted. Didier’s attempt at a higher form of life than the one he presented to the outside world.

  Something must have changed in the atmosphere to alert the scrap man, because he uttered a shrill sound and spun round, dropping something on the floor.

  It was a thick wad of money bound together with a rubber band. Alongside it lay a film reel.

  Rocco leant against the wall and made sure Didier could see the gun in his hand.

  ‘Come back for vital supplies?’ he murmured. His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the confined space. He gestured for Didier to stand up.

  Didier did as he was told, his eyes hot, black holes in a yellowed face. If he was alarmed by Rocco’s sudden appearance, he wasn’t showing it. The stump of his arm was sheathed in a filthy bandage and covered with a plastic bag, and dried blood the colour of a milky chocolate drink showed where it had seeped through the gauze. He hadn’t shaved and looked even gaunter than Rocco remembered. And sick. He was amazed the man was still standing.

  ‘What do you want?’ Didier demanded. ‘Money?’ He nodded at the wad of notes on the floor. ‘Take it, it’s yours. If you let me go.’

  ‘No chance.’ Rocco stare
d at him with disgust. ‘You think you can just buy yourself out of this?’

  ‘Why not? It’s what you people do, isn’t it — take money to look the other way?’

  Rocco stepped forward. He resisted the impulse to lash out, instead nudging Didier into the armchair. He bent and flicked open the bag. It contained a few items of clothing and more cash in rubber bands. And something wrapped in greaseproof paper.

  ‘You taking a holiday?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘They came to kill you, didn’t they? The men in the woods. What was that about — thieves falling out?’

  Didier said nothing, simply sat hunched in the chair with a brooding menace.

  ‘Of course, you know he’ll get away with it.’ Rocco hitched one hip onto the corner of the table, his gun resting on his thigh. Didier stared fixedly at it, but said nothing. ‘People like him always do. They’re like greaseproof paper — nothing sticks to those ex-SOE types.’

  At the mention of the SOE, Didier’s eyes shifted. A bright light was shining there, and Rocco shrugged elaborately, feigning indifference. ‘Still, what’s new, eh? Shit always sinks, you know that. He must have had his life planned since that night in forty-four. Lose the money, come back for it later when nobody was about and sail off into the sunset. He was on his own out there, with nobody to watch him. So what could go wrong?’ Rocco snapped his fingers. ‘Ah, silly me. You were there, weren’t you? Threw a bit of a spanner in the works I expect. But he was adaptable — the SOE had taught him that. He tipped some of the money your way and off you went like two honeymooners, set up for life.’

  ‘ Bastard! ’ Didier was breathing heavily, his jaw working. A dribble of saliva oozed down his chin and his good hand was shaking as if he’d been holding a road drill for too long.