Death at the Clos du Lac (2013)

by Magson, Adrian

  ‘Of course. I should have thought. Stroke of luck for you, though. Right place, right time, I suppose.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that. I feel fortunate, if that’s what you’re suggesting. But there’s nothing wrong with taking advantage of circumstance, is there?’

  ‘Of course not. Is that what André Paulus did?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ The question appeared to throw her and she glanced at Alix, then away.

  ‘Well, I gather he threw up everything to come here and be with you. Was that following circumstance? If so, it didn’t do him much good, did it?’

  ‘I-I’m sorry – I don’t understand.’ She looked stricken, her face flushed. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘According to his navy colleagues – former colleagues – he fell for you in a big way. From being a career navy man, he changed to a man in love and left the job he truly enjoyed. And then he was murdered. Shot twice with bullets, here,’ Rocco stabbed twice at the base of his throat, ‘and here. Apparently without any obvious attempt to defend himself. Odd, for an experienced navy cop like him. He must have been in the thick of his share of bad situations over the years, yet he never saw real trouble coming when it finally hit him. Why is that, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know – how could I? What happened to André was tragic … horrible!’ Her throat caught on the last word, and he saw a glimmer of moisture appear at the corner of one eye. She brushed angrily at her face and looked up at the ceiling for a long second, then back at Rocco. As she did so, a single tear rolled slowly down her cheek. She did nothing to stop it.

  ‘Yes. It was,’ he agreed.

  ‘Is that what you’ve come to tell me, Inspector – that you’re no further forward with finding out who killed André? For God’s sake, how difficult is it? There must be somebody who knows … somebody local he may have run into … an argument, perhaps.’ She looked beseechingly at Alix. ‘You live locally, you told me. Don’t rumours circulate easily in a rural place like this? Somebody boasting, perhaps, spending more money than they would normally?’

  ‘No,’ said Alix. ‘Nothing like that.’ And when Dion turned away, she looked at Rocco and nodded.

  Dion was good, Rocco conceded. Exceptionally good. Unless he was making the biggest character assessment error of his life. But one thing he was certain about was her self-control and cool ability to put on a convincing act. Because he’d seen all this before: the grief, the angry flushes and the tears … then the switch to being composed and businesslike. And the red eyes on his previous visit were most likely less to do with grief at the death of Paulus than the result of some frantic rubbing as she’d climbed from her car to meet him.

  He hadn’t been entirely convinced then; he was even less so now.

  Because he hadn’t mentioned to anyone that André Paulus’s wallet had been missing. So why did she mention money being spent?

  ‘I’d agree with you, Miss Dion, but there aren’t many people around here who carry nine-millimetre pistols, and fewer still who know how to use them with such precision.’ He slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. ‘How are the patients settling in, by the way?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Dion frowned and dabbed at her cheek.

  ‘Your new arrivals – or, at least the one that I saw. How is he doing?’

  She stood too, and nodded. ‘Oh, that. Yes – he’s fine, thank you.’

  ‘Good. Well, sorry to have upset you. I hope not to disturb you again.’ He turned and led Alix out and across the foyer, where Jean-Pierre was waiting by the door to let them out.

  ‘That was pretty brutal,’ Alix commented as they got back in the car.

  ‘Maybe.’ He started the engine and backed out of the space. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘About her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m no expert, but purely from a woman’s perspective, I’d say she was lying through her teeth. She was playing us.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ he breathed. ‘I thought it was just me.’ ‘Playing’ was a good word to use, he thought. She had been playing them from the very start, through the aftermath of Simon Rotenbourg’s murder, the discovery of Paulus’s body, the search of the building. By staying to ‘help’ them with the search, she was able to steer them wherever she wanted … and away from anything incriminating.

  But she must have played Paulus on an even bigger scale: persuading him to leave the navy and join her because she knew she could control him; luring him away from his post so the killer could enter the building … maybe even pulling the trigger herself. After all, who else could have got closer to him than the woman he loved and trusted?

  ‘So what now?’

  He was thinking about the guards around the place, the way they controlled every inch with such care and expertise, and the way Dion had reacted to his question about the new arrival. The ‘he’ that she had fastened on so easily, when every instinct told him that the only person in the place was a woman.

  He saw Claude step out from the edge of the road a hundred metres ahead, and stopped to let him climb aboard.

  Alix was surprised to see her father. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Watching over you,’ he said, brushing a stray leaf from his hair. ‘I lost sight of you once you entered the building, but I had at least two of the guards in my sights all the time.’ He patted the shotgun across his knees.

  ‘How many did you see?’ said Rocco.

  ‘Three, unless they have others sleeping. They’re good, too. Former military, from the way they move.’

  ‘They would be.’

  ‘So was the visitor.’

  Rocco caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Say again?’

  ‘The visitor in the Peugeot. He arrived not long before you, walked in like he owned the place.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Tall, thin, walked like he was on a long, slow route march.’

  In other words, like an ex-Legionnaire, Rocco thought. He remembered Jacqueline’s description of the man. Delombre. It had to be.

  He drove on. The momentum was gathering. Whatever was going to happen, it had to be today.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Rocco dropped Claude and Alix off in Poissons before heading back to Amiens. He found a note from Massin, waiting to see him in his office.

  ‘I’ve been advised,’ Massin said as soon as Rocco entered, ‘that an undercover team of officers working in the Pantin district of Paris was attacked last night while raiding an apartment. One of them was shot and wounded, but not seriously. He was lucky. Inside the apartment they found two bodies, both male, both shot at close range.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Well, that’s where it gets interesting. The undercover team had been following the two men’s progress across the north of the city, although they hadn’t managed to get a clear sighting or identify them. But they were certain they were driving a furniture van with Véronique Bessine inside.’

  ‘But they didn’t find her.’

  ‘No, sadly, they didn’t. What they did find is a large van parked in a street nearby containing ample evidence that a person was held captive for a number of days. And one of the men has a history of being involved in kidnaps, although no firm convictions.’ He looked at Rocco. ‘You don’t sound surprised.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He hesitated, wondering how far he could take this man into his confidence. They had a chequered history, he and Massin, where trust had not been a high priority between them. But he couldn’t see any way past this point without telling Massin what he suspected … and what he knew for certain. What Massin – who invariably chose the safe against the risky where his superiors in the Interior Ministry were concerned – chose to do next was anybody’s guess.

  He told Massin everything.

  The senior officer looked aghast at first, then incredulous, then shocked when Rocco told him about the trade talks and the motive behind the kidnap of Bessine’s wife.
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  ‘Rocco, I find this hard to believe,’ he said at one point. He reached for the telephone. ‘Do you want coffee?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  He ordered coffees, then told his secretary to hold all calls, no matter who they were from. ‘Well, of course,’ he conceded after a brief exchange, ‘unless it’s from Monsieur le President. But I don’t think that’s likely, do you?’ He shook his head and put the phone down as if it might bite him.

  He looked hard at Rocco, then held up a finger and stood up. He walked around his office, then sat back down again, clearly agitated. ‘So let me understand this properly. All this … the killing at the Clos du Lac, the murder of the guard, and then of this supposedly already dead Stefan Devrye-Martin and his friend, and the approach to you by this Miss – Roget, you say? Roget, yes – on the orders of this Commander Levignier of ISD, and now the killings in Paris … they’re all linked to this kidnap, which has been carried out by, you suspect, Levignier’s people in order to frustrate trade talks between Bessine’s people and Taiwan.’

  ‘In favour of Peking and other industrialists here in France, yes.’

  ‘Incredible. It doesn’t seem possible. Why—’ He broke off at a knock on the door, and leapt up to admit his secretary carrying a tray with cups and a fresh brew of coffee. She handed the tray over before being ushered out again, but not before glancing at Rocco with a look of incomprehension.

  ‘Who else knows about this?’ he queried, stirring sugar into his cup.

  Here it comes, thought Rocco. This might be where it gets stamped on.

  ‘Desmoulins, Lamotte … and Gardienne Poulon,’ he conceded, adding, ‘they all know bits and pieces – Desmoulins probably more than the others.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Massin drank some coffee, then took another walk around his desk, tugging at his jacket. ‘We need to keep this contained.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I don’t mean swept under the rug, Inspector. I mean between a select few officers.’ He sat down and gave Rocco another hard stare. ‘Can you get her out of there – the Bessine woman?’

  ‘I think so.’ Rocco held his breath. This was unexpected. He didn’t know what to say. Thank you seemed inappropriate.

  ‘You’ll need men – good men. I’ll speak to Godard. He’s got some excellent officers under his command. And whatever resources you need from here. But you’ll have to be discreet. If word leaks out about an operation being planned …’ He shook his head and didn’t finish. Natural caution rearing its head again, thought Rocco.

  ‘So,’ he said quickly, before there was a change of heart, ‘you’re ready to go with this?’

  ‘Of course. I should have my head examined, I know. But if we had not had the … uh … experiences that we have, you and I, then I would now be calling the Ministry for advice.’ He stared into his coffee. ‘But we all know that would be a disaster. When are you planning on going in?’

  ‘Tonight, after dark. There’s a back way in, but we might have to play it by ear.’

  ‘Not sooner?’ The implication was clear: what about the kidnap victim – if indeed she was in there?

  ‘They’d see us coming. The guards look as if they know what they’re doing, and they must have a fall-back plan in case of a raid. Darkness gives us the edge.’

  ‘Well, that’s your … speciality. But you have my full authority.’ He picked up the telephone and said, ‘I’ll speak to Godard, Canet and Perronnet. I can’t hide this from them, but I know they will be discreet and support us where necessary.’ He nodded and began to dial, and Rocco took it as his cue to leave.

  Rocco found Desmoulins churning through some paperwork, and said quietly, ‘What are you doing this evening?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘Come to my house, eight o’clock. Don’t tell anyone.’

  Desmoulins looked at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Are we going hunting?’

  ‘Something like that. Dress for the occasion.’

  ‘You bet.’ Desmoulins looked excited, and began to attack the paperwork with renewed vigour. ‘See you later.’

  Rocco picked up the phone and rang Claude.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  A light mist was hovering around the lake like a shroud as Rocco and Desmoulins made their way around its perimeter, keeping the water to their right. Claude had assured them that the ground here was solid enough, as long as they didn’t stray too close to the reeds.

  It was two-thirty in the morning, and the air was still, carrying the metallic aroma of water and rotting vegetation. A cloudy sky ensured no moonlight, and there was a promise of rain in the air. Poor visibility wasn’t ideal, but it favoured them rather more than the guards on watch.

  They were both dressed in dark clothing, with smears of mud on their cheeks and foreheads, and even from a couple of metres away, Desmoulins merged like a wraith into the gloom.

  The hours had ground past with agonising slowness following his talk with Massin, expecting to hear at any moment that the kidnappers had been caught somewhere else with their victim, or that the raid was off. But first Godard had sought him out to discuss plans and personnel, then Canet and even Perronnet had appeared to give him a subtle nod of support.

  Now he was here, Rocco felt calm and ready for what lay ahead. His nerves were on edge, but that was a necessary part of any armed operation. He paused every few metres to scan the ground ahead. He had a clear image of the area in mind from a previous sighting: the grassy area ran flat for about fifty metres, before reaching a line of trees standing like sentinels in the dark, their tips just visible against the slightly lighter sky. They were poplars, lining the canal and planted by the same man who had designed the Clos du Lac, no doubt to add order to the view on offer.

  He had no reason to suspect that the new security arrangements had placed a scout out here this far from the buildings, but he wasn’t about to take chances. Jean-Pierre looked the sort to shoot first without asking questions, and he didn’t want to increase the risk to Desmoulins or Claude, who was approaching on the far side of the sanitarium, by exposing them to a trigger-happy thug with an attitude problem.

  He looked to his right, across the lake. Two of Godard’s men were over there somewhere, approaching on a similar course, while Godard and two more men had control of the road running past the Clos in case anyone tried to leave. All had military experience and were skilled at moving around in difficult terrain.

  A burst of activity betrayed a waterfowl skittering away through the reeds, and Rocco sank down instinctively, Desmoulins doing the same. They waited until the bird had splash-landed out in the centre of the lake before continuing.

  As they neared the trees, Rocco looked for a flash of white in the gloom. It would be a marker post put in place by Claude earlier, to show the location of a footbridge across the canal. From the other side it was only a short walk to the lane running past the Clos. He was counting on the guards keeping a close eye on the lane itself, running from the road out of Poissons, rather than expecting any approach across the rougher ground around the lake and the canal. If they got that far without being spotted, they were in business.

  The ghostly shape of an owl drifted by overhead, and other noises in the dark showed how easily disturbed were the creatures of the night. Rocco slowed his pace, feeling his shoulders beginning to tense. It brought back memories of other times and places when he’d sought to become part of the world around him when all his nerves were screaming to be somewhere else. Then it had been jungle, vivid and claustrophobic, deadly in every sense; not the benign French countryside of the Somme valley. Yet with what he sensed might be waiting in the form of Jean-Pierre and his colleagues, the danger was no less real, no less final.

  He reached beneath his coat and checked the comforting feel of the MAB semi-automatic. It was no guarantee or protection but going in without it would have been suicidal.

  Claude had instructions to wait when he got into position, having first scouted the general
area around the sanitarium. They would meet up near the back door to the pool house, which was a blind spot for the guards, and decide on a point of entry once they knew what they were up against.

  ‘What exactly are we looking for?’ Claude had asked over the phone.

  ‘The guards,’ Rocco had replied. ‘Where they are, how far they move.’ He told him of the new arrival on the stretcher, and that gaining fast access to the inside was their first priority.

  ‘Who do you think it is? Another dodgy criminal hiding from justice?’

  ‘Bigger than that.’ He’d paused before saying it, the words suddenly seeming ludicrous. But it was too late now. ‘I think they’re holding Véronique Bessine, to put pressure on her husband and derail his trade talks.’

  There had been a stunned silence from Claude, which Rocco had made no effort to fill. There had been plenty in the news already about the kidnap; Claude was a cop and would see the problems they were facing.

  ‘You better not get yourself shot, Lucas,’ Claude breathed, ‘that’s all I can say. Otherwise Mme Denis will cut my balls off.’

  ‘You’d be the lucky one. Think what she’ll do to me.’

  Desmoulins stepped up alongside him, and Rocco sensed him pointing in the dark. ‘Over to the right,’ he whispered. ‘Is that your marker?’

  Rocco saw a faint glimmer several paces away. They were on target.

  ‘That’s it.’ He led the way and found a short post embedded in the soil, with a splash of white paint on the side facing the lake. Beyond it lay the footbridge over the canal.

  They moved apart and approached the bridge on a parallel path. Rocco paused and listened. If a guard had been posted anywhere out here, this would be a logical spot. But he couldn’t hear anything.

  The footbridge was made of wood, narrow enough to allow two people side by side across, or a farm animal, but nothing bigger, and rising in a curve to allow canal barges underneath. Rocco felt the first rise of the ground beneath his feet, followed by the dull, hollow scuff of the wooden ramp. He trod carefully, one hand on the balustrade to steady himself as he crossed, then down the other side, stepping off quickly to one side to wait for Desmoulins.