Pel and the Promised Land

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Where did you get this information?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘I asked a few questions and got a few answers,’ Pel said.

  ‘Who from? This information made public could bring up a whole lot of protests. From the Green lot. Land preservation societies. That sort.’

  ‘The river’s being re-routed, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing of it.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you? It’s not been announced yet.’

  ‘Why is it being re-routed?’

  ‘The government’s given permission for a dam at Calotte-Montrachel. It’s a good area for dams round there. It’s a fast-flowing river, the valleys are deep and the hills are high. It’s not a big dam – it’s not the Aswan – but they’re going to drown a village.’

  ‘Faux-Villecerf?’

  ‘Good God, no! Faux-Villecerf’s too high. It’s Taillude. There are several streams there and it’s planned to build the dam on the Tarine and direct the other streams into the Ouronne to act as the spillway. It’s to protect the riverside villages downstream. There’ve been one or two disastrous floods down there in the past.’

  Pel was listening with a deep frown. The director was clearly not very happy about the project.

  ‘The consortium who got the contract claim they’re going to evaluate the wild life and protect the environment. But they’re already being called “The Assassins of the Tarine”. Taillude’s a poor area but further downstream the Tarine flows back into the mainstream north of Lyons, and there’s industry there, and big houses owned by wealthy people. There’s a lot of influence.’

  ‘Why doesn’t anybody know about it?’

  ‘Policy. People will protest. I’m protesting. There’s also a society called “The Friends of the Tarine”. Nature conservationists. Greens. That sort. People who want to protect the environment. After all, we don’t do much about that sort of thing in France. I’m behind them on the quiet. The government daren’t let it out of the bag yet because of the fuss that’s being made over the proposed damming of the Upper Loire. But it’ll have to come out in the end.’

  Pel stared intently at him. ‘I think it’s come out already,’ he said. ‘What about the Ouronne? What will happen to that?’

  ‘It’ll become wider. Very wide, in fact. It’ll cover the meadows alongside for fifty kilometres. Anything up to ten to fifteen metres deep in parts. The people who’re building the dam are talking of making use of it. As a lake. For sailboarding. There’ll be a restaurant and beaches. It would recoup some of the cost of the dam. It would also be a sop to local protests. But it would also bring a flood of applications for building. People like water frontage.’

  Pel was silent for a moment. ‘Who else would be likely to know of these plans in addition to you?’ he asked.

  Nineteen

  Leaving the Water Board, Pel picked up his wife and they lunched at their favourite restaurant, the Relais Saint-Armand. Despite his outward manner, Pel was a sentimentalist at heart and it was at the Relais Saint-Armand that he had first met Madame. It hadn’t been a romantic meeting. Pel had been going through a period of trying to roll his own cigarettes in an effort to cut down smoking and he had been struggling with one when Madame, on the next table, had found her interest caught. She had watched him light it and watched it disappear in a puff of smoke and a shower of sparks. ‘Do you ever set yourself on fire?’ she had asked and they had continued from there.

  He was trying to explain his problems over the Raby-Labassat case. ‘It just doesn’t fit,’ he said. ‘It ought to but it doesn’t. The Planners would never allow it.’

  With her business background, Madame was wise in the ways of officials. ‘Like everybody else,’ she pointed out, ‘planners are far from perfect. They make mistakes. Sometimes they’re even greedy. So are bankers. The manager of the bank at St-Frond, a man called Coubertin, handled my Aunt Violette’s estate for years and when she died I found he’d managed to get her house made over to him.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Madame smiled. ‘I had a better banker and he got it overturned. Coubertin retired rather suddenly and went into business as adviser to a company that constructs golf courses. He plays a lot of golf.’

  Escorting his wife back to her office, Pel headed for the Planning Department. It seemed as difficult to see the man at the top as it was to see the President of the Republic. He obviously believed in his own importance and liked it to show.

  The waiting-room was as big as a football field. At one end was a door with a large plaque on it, Hugo Lorrière, Director of Planning, and alongside it a large notice in red which stated peremptorily NO SMOKING. Non-smokers, Pel decided sourly, were making it so difficult, smokers would soon have to have dives like Opium dens.

  When he asked to see Lorrière, he was handed a form on which was printed Name? Address? Business? He glared at the receptionist, a stiff-faced woman with blue hair and a perfume strong enough to make his knees buckle.

  ‘What’s this for?’ he demanded.

  ‘You can’t get in to see Monsieur Lorrière unless you fill it in,’ she said sharply. ‘He’s a busy man.’

  Pel filled in the form with savage pleasure.

  Name: Pel. Chief Inspector, Brigade Criminelle, Police Judiciaire.

  Address: Hôtel de Police.

  Business: Murder.

  This last he crossed out and replaced with Double Murder. Underneath he added a line of his own, Time of appointment: and answered it with Now, which he underlined twice and then, for good measure, added three exclamation marks.

  The blue-haired woman picked up the sheet languidly as he skated it across the desk to her but as she read what had been written her eyebrows shot up as if she were a terrorist who’d suddenly discovered she was sitting on her own bomb. In no time at all two or three people were running round in a hurry. It seemed Monsieur Lorrière had been taking a calm afternoon tea with his subordinates and Pel saw two plump young men hurry out of his office, carrying cups and saucers.

  Lorrière’s office matched the rest of the department and looked as though it contained a few additions supplied by Lorrière himself for his comfort. The walls were covered with framed photographs from which it was clear that, like Madame’s banker, Lorrière was a golfer. He came forward to meet Pel. He was a large handsome man, always something to put off Pel, who was neither, and he wore the eager smile of a man about to meet his mistress.

  Pel ignored the smile. ‘I see you enjoy a game of golf,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ Lorrière was clearly trying to establish himself as a man full of the milk of human kindness. But there seemed to be an edge of nervousness beneath his smiles.

  Pel indicated one of the photographs that had caught his attention. It showed Lorrière holding a silver trophy. Alongside him was another man holding a putter. On either side was a woman. ‘You seem to win things,’ he said.

  ‘Final of the Malmort Members’ Foursome,’ Lorrière said. ‘That’s me and my partner, Dugusse, the lawyer. I expect as a policeman you’ve come across him in the Palais de Justice now and again.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pel agreed. ‘Now and again.’

  ‘With our wives,’ Lorrière said. ‘They wanted to be in the picture. They usually do, don’t they?’

  ‘Usually,’ Pel said. His smile looked as if it had been hired for the occasion.

  ‘Amazing how golf’s caught on in France.’

  ‘Amazing. My wife’s bank manager was a great golfer. Your class of player, I imagine. Name of Coubertin.’

  Lorrière’s face went blank, as though he had walked away and left the smile behind. ‘I’ve met him,’ he said. ‘Played with him once on holiday. On one of those courses they have in Portugal. They build a lot down there. Money in them. As a banker, he was interested in the developments. What can I do for you?’

  Pel’s mild manner changed abruptly as he slammed down the file he was carrying and opened it to show the pla
ns he had brought. ‘Ready to go to the Conseil Général for approval,’ he pointed out. ‘I gather they’ve been improperly presented.’

  Lorrière peered at the plans, his face suddenly grey.

  ‘How did they come to be passed?’ Pel persisted. Lorrière looked uncertain. ‘I – I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Why wasn’t it noticed?’

  ‘You can’t expect us to examine everything in detail.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you’re here for?’

  It gave Pel a great deal of pleasure to provide Lorrière with an unhappy half hour. ‘Were they presented to the Planning Committee?’

  ‘I suppose they must have been.’

  ‘Must they indeed?’ Pel eyed Lorrière coldly. ‘Who else would see them? Besides you.’

  It seemed to be time to see the Prefect. He was a big man like the Chief who took his duties seriously. Maires and minor officials existed to do what the people wanted. The Prefect had been appointed by Central Government to see that they didn’t get away with it.

  Pel tried him first on the subject of foreign house buyers.

  The Prefect frowned. It was obviously a subject he didn’t enjoy discussing and he made a little speech on the subject.

  ‘It’s a problem,’ he admitted. ‘We want to develop these poorer backward areas, and allowing people to build is a way to do it. Some of rural France is a backwater and should be opened up. We’re even making grants to do it. But people in rural areas don’t want it opened up. They consider it’s their land and resent the intrusion of foreigners. They feel unbridled development could fill the village streets with GB cars. It’s a question that splits whole communities and brings bitterness.’

  He was trying to see all the angles to the question at the same time. It was difficult to tell whose side he was on and so far he wasn’t saying. On the other hand, the merest whiff of stinking fish was enough to put him on the alert.

  He sat up at Pel’s query, obviously startled that Pel knew about it. His response was exactly the same as the director of the Water Board’s and Pel answered it in the same way.

  ‘Where did you hear about that?’

  ‘I asked a few questions and got a few answers.’

  ‘Nobody’s supposed to know about that.’

  ‘Then it’s time they did. Is it going to come off?’

  The Prefect decided it was time to climb down from the fence. ‘I think it will,’ he said. ‘It’s a Paris project and Branco Construction’s powerful enough to pull a few strings.’

  Branco Construction, Pel remembered, was the firm which had wanted to build on the shores of Lac Léman and had been refused permission. Doubtless, they’d find the people behind Branco were the same faceless people who were involved with the plans for other places that had turned up.

  ‘Of course,’ the Prefect pointed out, ‘if there’s any suggestion of influence being brought to bear, the whole thing could fall through. And there might be. People have certainly been approached. One or two who were against the dam at first have suddenly switched sides. Perhaps somebody’s been persuading them. Branco have a lot of money to throw around.’

  ‘What’s your position, Monsieur le Préfet?’

  The Prefect frowned. ‘I’ve spoken against it. It could cost me my job.’

  ‘When is it likely to be finished?’

  ‘They’ve estimated three years. Why? What’s this all about? Is somebody dipping their fingers into it?’

  ‘It begins to look like it.’

  ‘It could kill it dead. Are you on the case?’

  ‘I’m investigating a murder. Two murders, in fact.’

  ‘The Raby-Labassat case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think they’re connected with the building of the dam?’

  ‘I do now.’

  The Prefect suddenly smiled. ‘You’d better clear it up,’ he said. ‘I hear there’s panic among the British residents.’

  ‘Why? What’s the difference between British murders and French murders?’

  The Prefect’s smile became a grin. ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘ours are bloodier.’

  When Pel returned to his office there was a message waiting for him to ring Chief Lapeur of the Fire Brigade. Instead of telephoning, he got into his car and went round to Fire Brigade Headquarters. Chief Lapeur had a list for him, of fires he considered might have been deliberately set alight. There were more than Pel imagined.

  ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘From Records. You’d be surprised how many people are in danger of ending their days as a heap of ashes. In spite of fire warnings and ceiling sprinklers. Have you got an alarm?’

  Pel hadn’t and he was startled enough to decide to get one.

  Chief Lapeur produced a couple of bottles of beer and went off on to his favourite subject – fire, and what caused it. He delivered a long diatribe about mistakes that were made and ended with, ‘You’d be surprised how many buildings could go up in smoke tomorrow.’

  Returning to his office, Pel sat for a while, deep in thought, then he telephoned Cousin Roger. Cousin Roger sounded as if he’d had a good lunch with a lot of wine.

  ‘Are you well in around there?’ Pel asked.

  ‘Well in? What do you mean?’

  ‘Do people know you?’

  ‘Very well. They cross the road when they see me coming.’ Cousin Roger laughed. ‘Of course people know me.’

  ‘Everybody? Estate agents, for instance?’

  ‘We back one.’

  ‘Bank managers? Fire chiefs? Insurance brokers?’ There was a puzzled silence and Pel went on. ‘I have a few questions I want answering.’

  ‘Do I get paid?’ Roger asked.

  ‘No.’

  Roger’s sigh was audible. ‘I didn’t think I would be,’ he said. ‘Fire away.’

  Pel told him what he wanted and he could hear papers being shuffled. ‘That all?’

  ‘No. There’s some more. Know an accountant by the name of Tussot?’

  ‘Very well. Lives at St-Frond. Plays a lot of golf.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’

  Roger paused. ‘Well, since we’re on the telephone, I’ll just say I prefer not to do business with him.’

  ‘Is he a crook?’

  ‘You said it, not me.’

  ‘How about a banker called Coubertin?’

  Roger laughed. ‘He’s the type who tried to diddle Aunt Violette out of her house. He had ambitions to be a tycoon and rule the world. He comes from St-Frond, too.’

  ‘Yes, he does. Do they know each other?’

  ‘Like goes to like. I shouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘Know Dugusse, the lawyer?’

  ‘What is this? Some sort of thieves’ kitchen you’ve dug up. Yes, I know Dugusse.’

  ‘He used to be Maurice Tagliatti’s lawyer. You’ll remember Maurice Tagliatti. I think he’s Carmen Vlaxi’s lawyer now.’

  ‘Is he indeed?’

  ‘Does he know this Coubertin and your friend, Tussot?’

  ‘I dare bet he does. I’ll check.’

  Cousin Roger rang back that evening. ‘They know each other,’ he said. ‘Same golf clubs. I’ll let you know the answers to the rest of your questions shortly. They’re not so easy.’

  The following morning, Pel put his head in the sergeants’ room. It had all the ease and comfort of the hold of a ship. The floor was covered with cigarette ends – cops were always the last to get worked up about not smoking – the waste baskets were all full, and it had a stale atmosphere that came from nobody ever bothering to open a window. Nosjean was writing his report on the Genois garage case. He was pecking at a typewriter – slowly, because he only used two fingers and, like all the typewriters in the sergeants’ room, the one he was using was a reject from the typing pool. The rejects from the typing pool always landed in the sergeants’ room. On the wall above his head was a notice, SAVE PAPER. Under it someone had written with a felt pen, Re-use trees.

&
nbsp; ‘Busy?’ Pel asked.

  ‘The usual, patron. Up to the eyeballs.’

  ‘Good. You’ll have plenty of time then. I want you to do a bit of checking for me. Fast.’ Pel handed a list of names across the desk and his finger jabbed. ‘Dugusse,’ he said. ‘What do you know of him?’

  ‘Only what’s in the files, patron. He’s careful to keep his nose clean. Doesn’t get involved. But that doesn’t mean he’s straight.’

  ‘Find out more about him, will you?’

  ‘What are we after?’

  ‘Whom he knows. What he does. I believe he plays golf, for instance. At Malmort. Find out who he plays with, drinks with, eats with, spends his weekends with.’ Pel’s finger rested on the list of names. ‘What this lot are doing.’

  ‘That’s a lot of names, patron.’

  ‘What’s De Troq’ up to?’

  De Troq’ had already signed off, leaving the details to Nosjean. Nosjean assumed he was with the girl from the Palais de Justice, whose family also had a title. De Troq’ wasn’t a snob but he liked to move in the right society.

  ‘Call him in,’ Pel said. ‘I want to know all about the people on that list. Whom they know. What connection they have with each other. What they’re up to. And quickly. Get on with it.’

  Nosjean came back forty-eight hours later. He looked tired but he had a notebook full of names. Most of them were names Pel was interested in. ‘They all seemed a bit on edge,’ he said.

  Pel nodded. ‘Well, they would be,’ he agreed. ‘Who’s first?’

  ‘Lorrière,’ Nosjean began. ‘Plays golf.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Various people. One, an accountant called Tussot. Two, a banker called Coubertin. Three, an architect called Michel. Four, Dugusse.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  There was a woman called Jacqueline Defay who had turned out ‘to be a cousin of Dugusse and worked in the surveyors’ office. She and her husband, who was deputy director of the Highways Department, had a weekend home on Lac Léman.