‘So?’ Tasker stuck his chin out. ‘What’s your point?’
‘My point, Mr Tasker, is why? Most people in your situation would be eager — is that the word, eager? — to get out of here. After all, our jails are not famous for being comfortable.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a constant source of national shame, but budgets are very limited. However, you men are different. No, for some reason, you make more of this… episode than it needs. Almost as if you want to stay here. Is it the British military cemeteries which have attracted you to our region? I think not. It can hardly be the local fishing because you do not look like any fishermen I have ever seen. I’m just a little puzzled, that’s all. Perhaps we should talk about it.’ He studied Tasker’s eyes very carefully, looking for something, but failing to find it. It only added to his bafflement. He decided to unsettle him and turned to the three officers, pointing at Calloway. ‘Bring that man.’ Then he turned and left the cell.
‘Hey!’ Tasker was on his feet in an instant. ‘Come back here, copper! Why aren’t you questioning me? Hey — frog!’
But Rocco’s footsteps were already fading along the corridor.
Tasker could only watch as the officers lifted Calloway from his seat and took him away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘One of my colleagues,’ Rocco said in a conversational tone when they were all seated in a room upstairs, ‘recognised you from Le Mans a few years ago. You were good, he says, but your team let you go after an accident. Is that correct?’
‘Something like that.’ Calloway shifted in his seat. It was clear even to Rocco from his accent that the former race driver came from a different strata of English society to the other men, and he wondered about the man’s apparent fall from grace. He was good-looking in a soft-focus kind of way, like a film star just past his prime. Clean-shaven and tanned, he’d clearly been following the sun. No doubt some women would find him attractive.
‘You do not seem at ease with those others, Mr Calloway. Would you care to tell me why you are with them?’
‘A couple are friends from way back,’ Calloway replied easily. ‘I heard they were coming here for a bit of fun and decided to tag along.’
‘Fun. In Picardie in December? What kind of fun would that be? You think we have skiing here?’
A wry grin. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’ The comment showed a level of wit and intelligence, highlighting further his difference from the other men.
Rocco flicked a hand sideways. ‘You call what you did to that cafe fun?’
‘Yeah, well, maybe it did get out of hand a bit. We’re sorry. Your English is pretty good. Where did you learn it?’
‘Here and there.’ Rocco reached across the table and grasped Calloway’s hands. The palms were clean and soft. Driver’s hands, unmarked by rough labour… or glass splinters from a wall mirror. He flipped them over. Not a scratch on the backs, either.
‘You didn’t take part, did you? In that destruction. Why is that? Were you looking after your hands?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Calloway was beginning to look uncomfortable under the closeness of Rocco’s scrutiny. He tugged his hands out of Rocco’s grip and thrust them in his pockets.
‘Of course you do.’ Rocco stood up and grabbed the Englishman by the collar and lifted him off his feet with no great effort. He sniffed. Aftershave, like old leather, but sweeter. Calloway was a man who cared about his appearance, unlike his companions. Something else that set him apart.
‘You are not drunk, either.’ Another oddity. He released the driver, who flopped back into his seat, his face suddenly pale under the tan.
Calloway tugged his collar down and looked resentful. ‘I don’t need it, that’s why. I only drink to be sociable. The others, though… they expect it.’
‘Do you always do what they want?’
‘I like a quiet life.’
‘You were not alone.’ When Calloway looked puzzled, Rocco explained, ‘The leader of your little group of violent drunks: Tasker. He has had a few drinks, but he’s a long, long way from being drunk.’
‘I don’t know how you can tell.’
‘His eyes are too clear and his movements too relaxed. Believe me, as a policeman in Paris, I’ve seen more than enough to be able to read the signs.’
‘I’m sure. Look, Inspector, is this going to take long? I know we did a lot of damage, and I’ll be happy to pay for my share, but I have to be back in England for work in a couple of days.’
‘Your share?’ Rocco pulled a sheet of paper towards him. It listed the property of each of the men arrested. ‘You have just over thirty pounds sterling on you, your colleagues even less. Except for Mr Tasker, who has rather more. Quite a lot more, in fact.’ He looked up. ‘How do you propose to pay? I should warn you we don’t take cheques.’
‘Tasker will cover it.’
Before Rocco could respond, the door opened and Detective Desmoulins appeared.
Rocco beckoned him in.
‘I’ve checked all the hospitals,’ Desmoulins explained. ‘No bodies, serious injuries or records of facial damage since last weekend. And no permits issued for filming. The truck and car search is going to take longer.’ He gestured at the Englishman. ‘Is he being cooperative?’ He flexed his muscular shoulders and rubbed his knuckles with a menacing grin, which made Calloway shrink in his seat.
‘No. Not really.’ Rocco pursed his lips and sat back. He wasn’t going to get much from this man, and the others were clearly too in awe of Tasker to say anything. A waste of time, therefore.
He said to the guards, ‘Take him to a separate cell and bring Tasker.’
When they brought the big man upstairs, he came without a fight, Rocco noted. He wasn’t surprised; he’d seen it before in groups with an obvious hierarchy. Better for the lead man to go voluntarily and try to score a point in front of his men than to be dragged out ignominiously by the heels.
He pointed to the chair. ‘Sit.’
Tasker did so, a sly smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. He glanced round at Desmoulins, and gave him a sneer, but pointedly ignored the two members of Godard’s squad who had brought him upstairs and were now standing by the door. ‘What’s up, copper, safety in numbers? Got to go mob-handed?’ When there was no answer, he changed tack. ‘Calloway give you the old silent treatment, did he? You should learn how to speak nice to people.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Where is he, by the way?’
Rocco eyed him coldly. The more he saw of this man the less he liked him. Very few people affected him this way — usually the worst of criminals or the most pompous of officials. But there was something about Tasker which went beyond the norm. It was as if he were trying deliberately not to be liked.
And that puzzled him.
He emptied an envelope containing Tasker’s personal effects onto the table. A large amount of cash in sterling and francs, a cheap pen, a packet of mints, a contraceptive in a foil packet, a comb, a wallet, a small key with no brand name.
‘I said, where’s Calloway?’ Tasker growled.
‘He is in another room, writing a statement.’
‘Statement?’ Tasker frowned, then sat up suddenly as Rocco picked up the key. ‘Hey — that’s my stuff!’ He reached forward but was brought up short by Desmoulins clamping a muscular hand on one shoulder and slamming him back in his chair.
Rocco signalled for Desmoulins to let him go, then dropped the key back on the table. ‘No need to get excited, Mr Tasker. It is merely “stuff”, as you call it. What is so special about it — apart from the money? That is a lot to be carrying around with you.’
‘That’s a crime in this poxy country, is it?’ Tasker’s eyes glittered and he suddenly relaxed, looking away from Rocco. ‘Like having a bit of fun.’
‘Of course not.’ Rocco dropped a finger on the key. ‘What is this for?’
Tasker’s face went blank. ‘No idea. It’s not mine. Probably someone else’s crap.’
Rocco changed tack. ‘I br
ought you up here to give you a chance to
… spill the beans, isn’t that the expression?’
‘About what?’
‘About what you are doing here and why you wrecked the bar.’
‘We were visiting, that’s all. Like you said, seeing the cemeteries, a bit of food, some drink.’ He shrugged. ‘Yeah, okay, a lot of drink. The boys can get a bit excitable when they get away from the manor. Don’t tell me you’ve never let rip before.’
‘Manor?’
‘The area where we live.’
Rocco gave a cold smile. ‘Somehow I did not think you meant a big house.’ He scratched his chin. ‘So, you came for a visit and… it got out of hand. Is that all? Only, I have to say, Mr Tasker, the more I think about this, the more it seems to me to have been almost… deliberate.’
Tasker shrugged. ‘Think what you like. That’s all I’m saying.’ He scowled. ‘What’s Calloway making a statement about?’
‘What do you think? About your visit. He’s being very cooperative.’
There was a knock at the door. One of Godard’s men opened it to reveal a gardienne — a woman officer — standing outside. She was slim, with short auburn hair and freckles across her nose.
Alix Poulon, Claude Lamotte’s daughter.
At a nod from Rocco, she entered and placed a sheet of paper on the table in front or him. It was an estimate given by Madame Mote at the Canard Dore of the damage to the bar. Rocco whistled silently. She might have been shocked by the events, but it hadn’t prevented her making an itemised and generous assessment of what she felt they were owed. He pushed it to one side and looked up to find Tasker’s eyes fastened on Alix with the gleam of a predator.
‘So, you got women cops now,’ Tasker breathed, his eyes travelling slowly up Alix’s body. ‘Nice uniform. She fills it out well, too. Perks of the job, eh?’ He glanced slyly at Rocco. ‘Bet you been there and done that, ain’tcha, Rocco?’ He laughed outright, his tongue flicking obscenely across his upper lip. ‘I heard Froggie tarts know a few tricks. Never tried one meself. Maybe I should, eh?’ He gave Alix a slow grin. ‘Maybe I’ll come back sometime and we can get together — what do you say?’
Rocco held up a hand. It was enough to stop Desmoulins and the two guards from moving forward. They hadn’t understood Tasker’s words, but the meaning was obvious, and Alix Poulon was sufficiently highly regarded around the station to engender an instinctive need to protect her.
‘Take him downstairs,’ Rocco said quietly.
‘What a horrible character,’ said Alix, once the men had gone. ‘What did he say?’
‘I think you can guess,’ said Rocco. ‘Men like him, their vocabulary is about as limited as their imagination.’
He decided he’d had enough. He’d let the magistrate deal with them in the morning and send them home again. There were far more important things for him to deal with than a bunch of drunks, no matter how unpleasant they were.
‘Three mysteries in one day,’ he said aloud, and picked up the small key. ‘A vanishing cinema verite film crew, a missing body and a bunch of English hard men who don’t know when to go home. And,’ he added, ‘I wonder why Mr Tasker was lying about this little item?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘All hands on deck,’ Desmoulins murmured. ‘The bosses have landed.’
Rocco looked up from the case file he was working on to see Commissaire Massin striding along the glass-walled corridor running the length of the building, heading for the stairs to his office. Impeccable in his uniform, he was trailing behind him three men in dark suits, well coiffed and austere of face. Two looked neither right nor left, as if homing in on a target. The third man, a more leisurely three paces to the rear, ran a sharp look over the office, finally settling on Rocco and lingering a moment before flicking away. This man was tall and slim, with the athletic build and easy stride of a soldier.
Officials. Ministry men.
Rocco watched them go. No doubt Massin would put in an appearance later, showing off his terrain and his men, anxious to impress his visitors from the big city.
He knew Massin of old. The autocratic, ascetic and by-the-book police commissaire had been the same in the army in Indochina, when Rocco had witnessed him having a serious crisis of courage under fire. He hadn’t set eyes on the man since escorting him off the battlefield to safety, until fate had intervened several months ago. Rocco had found himself transferred out from Paris on a new policing ‘initiative’ to spread investigative facilities around the provinces.
From Clichy to Picardie had been quite a change, from gangs to… well, anything, strange crash sites on a country road being the latest. But as Rocco had discovered very quickly, crime here was the same animal as anywhere else. It sometimes came disguised as something different, but crime it remained.
Coinciding with his transfer to the Amiens region, Massin had turned up in his life once more. The atmosphere had been strained ever since, with Rocco fully expecting to be transferred out again at any moment. That it hadn’t happened yet was a minor miracle, and probably due to Massin needing a period of calm and playing a waiting game until Rocco tripped up and gave him the excuse he needed.
Surprisingly, Massin and his three visitors stayed upstairs out of sight, with instructions issued for them not to be disturbed. Deputy Commissaire Perronnet did a brief tour instead, checking shift details and ongoing tasks while skilfully avoiding answering any questions about the identity of the three men.
‘Bloody strange,’ said Desmoulins.
The comings and goings went on for the rest of the day. Massin and his visitors went out for a late lunch, returning at the end of the afternoon when the shifts were changing. They looked sombre in spite of the break, raising speculation among the officers and staff who watched them pass by.
‘Something’s going on,’ one of the desk sergeants professed knowingly. ‘The top kepis don’t act this secretive unless it’s going to be bad news for the troops.’
‘We could be in for a pay rise,’ Desmoulins countered. ‘Of course, I have been known to underestimate our esteemed superiors on numerous occasions before.’
Rocco continued working, using the period of calm to make sure his paperwork was in order. Joining in with the speculation was pointless; it broke down the barriers between the ranks in an entirely damaging way and encouraged rumour. But his cop’s nose was beginning to make him uneasy. The men were right; something was going on.
Then the identity of the military-looking man came to him in a flash. He was neither Interior Ministry nor police. Rocco had seen the man once, maybe twice before, but only in passing. Colonel Jean-Philippe Saint-Cloud eschewed any kind of publicity, but was always much closer to the public than many would have believed, moving among them and seen only by those who knew where to look. Never identified by the press or Government, he had one purpose in life and one only: to run a top-class protection squad.
He was, in name at least, the president’s chief bodyguard.
The three visitors and Massin were already in when Rocco arrived next morning. The atmosphere in the building was still tense, but Perronnet and Captain Canet were surprisingly calm, which gave Rocco a degree of confidence that nothing serious was about to happen. The brass had a way of channelling news without saying anything, so maybe the general feeling of suspicion had been misplaced.
He checked the overnight list of reports and early calls, and noted one from Claude Lamotte. A local vagrant known as Pantoufle had been reported missing by the priest of a village called Audelet, not far from Poissons and within Claude’s patch. The man had a regular circular route around the area, which took in Audelet village church each Friday. That was the day Father Maurice handed out parcels of bread and cheese to the needy. His failure to turn up was sufficiently unusual for the priest to have alerted Claude.
Rocco was about to pass the task back to Claude to deal with, when he happened to glance at the large wall map of the region, idly tracing the usual rou
te taken by Pantoufle from Audelet through Poissons and around the other nearby hamlets until he fetched up again back at Audelet.
The route ran along the same stretch of road where they had found the blood and the tooth.
CHAPTER NINE
‘What do you know about this Pantoufle?’ Rocco was driving his black Citroen Traction, with Claude in the passenger seat fiddling with the radio. They were on their way to see Father Maurice in Audelet. Rocco had never met the priest, and had asked Claude to come along in case he needed the familiarity of a known face. He had little time for men of any cloth and felt uncomfortable in their presence, as if they were trying to read his soul. It was fanciful rubbish, he knew that, but he preferred not to encourage them.
‘He’s a clochard,’ Claude replied. ‘A tramp. Always has been, I think — or as long as anyone can remember, anyway. Some say he was wounded in 1918 by a shellburst, and lost his memory. He’s been wandering around the district ever since, sleeping in barns and under hedges. It’s not his real name, by the way.’
Pantoufle. Slipper. Rocco thought the name oddly appropriate for a tramp, a gentleman of the road. A hobo, as the Americans called them. A hobo in slippers. ‘What is his real name?’
‘Nobody knows. He popped up in the area about forty years ago, I gather. People asked his name, but he always went blank. I asked him myself once; it was like looking into an empty bottle. Nothing there. After a while, people gave up. Then some wag gave him the name Pantoufle because he always wore slippers, even on the road. Reckoned proper shoes hurt his feet. He must have gone through a few thousand pairs over the years. The name stuck. He’s genial enough and harmless, so they leave him alone.’
Rocco wondered if they were chasing a false line of enquiry. All the indications at the crash scene pointed to a serious injury or death. But add in the report of a missing person — a tramp — who frequented the very road where the crash had happened, and it was hard to ignore the possibility that the two might be connected. While he was certain that Massin would want him to concentrate on more serious issues, there was something about the information at the crash scene which had remained with him, as if it were trying to convey a message. The only way to get to the bottom of it was to clarify at least this aspect and prove that this particular person wasn’t involved.
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