Death on the Marais

by Adrian Magson

  ‘I didn’t ask for it.’

  ‘Maybe so. But you’ve got it. Just make sure you don’t get too freewheeling in your methods. Keep me informed of your findings.’ Massin went back to his papers, a deliberately curt dismissal.

  Rocco turned and left, annoyed by the man’s arrogance but relieved to be out of his way. He had the feeling it was as close as he was going to get to being given the nod to carry on.

  He walked across to a grey, single-storey block next door, where whatever passed for the pathology and forensics team did their work. He took the opportunity to take a few deep breaths: the combination of cleaners, chemicals and death in the busy Paris mortuaries was a smell he had never entirely got used to, and he doubted it would be any different here.

  A sign hanging on the door advised callers that it was closed for lunch. No difference there, then. Rocco toed the door open and flipped the sign over. Lunch could bloody wait.

  He was in a small corridor with doors leading off. All were closed, except for the first one spilling light and the rustling of paper, followed by a thumping noise. Rocco stopped in the doorway and waited.

  The room was a small, cluttered office, holding a single desk, some filing cabinets and several wallcharts. A man in a white coat was working at the desk, desultorily marshalling a few scraps of paper and imprinting them with a rubber stamp. The air was surprisingly fresh, with only the faintest smell of chemicals to indicate what went on in the building.

  ‘We’re closed, can’t you read?’ the man said without looking up. He had a wisp of mousy hair, thin wire spectacles and looked far too pale, as if he spent too much time here among the corpses and chemicals. A plate of sandwiches sat at his elbow.

  ‘You’ve just opened again,’ said Rocco, and flipped his calling card onto the desk. ‘Are you the pathology person?’

  The man read the card without touching it, then looked up at his visitor. He didn’t appear surprised, although he looked faintly startled by Rocco’s height. Rocco got the feeling someone in the detective office had buzzed ahead of his arrival.

  ‘I’m a doctor, actually. Bernard Rizzotti.’ The man stood up and lifted his chin, but without offering his hand. ‘We don’t run to a pathologist; I’m on attachment only. However, I can tell you that I completed a preliminary examination of your … um … deceased. Interesting case, from the point of view of the uniform, but pleasantly straightforward, I’m relieved to say.’

  ‘Glad you approve,’ said Rocco dryly. ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Drowning.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Rocco had been certain there would be something else. A drowning seemed too mundane, especially with the body left in the military cemetery.

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’ Rizzotti’s forehead developed a ripple of dismay. ‘You have other facts I should know about?’ The way he put the question suggested it was unlikely.

  Rocco explained about the bruise on the neck. ‘I know the body had been immersed in water, but I didn’t expect drowning to be the primary cause.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Let’s call it instinct.’

  The doctor’s lip curled. ‘Really? Ah, you mean that vague, inexplicable sense you people refer to as “gut feel”, which takes precedence over the precision of modern science? The intuitive ability to make leaps of the imagination which the most advanced laboratories cannot match? Maybe it works every once in a while where you come from in Paris, and in those ridiculous films from America. But not in this building. Not with me.’ He sat down and folded his hands in his lap, then flapped them open and smiled condescendingly as if to ask, So what now, clever Dick?

  Rocco moved to the side of the desk and leant over the doctor until his face was close enough to make Rizzotti flinch. ‘I’m sorry “people” like me don’t share your entirely scientific view of the world,’ he said softly. ‘But that’s the way we are. Now, I’d like to see the body, Doctor.’ He was holding himself in with difficulty. What he really wanted to do was to dangle this little prick by his throat and shake him until his teeth fell out. He’d seen too many deaths before, many from a variety of causes that were not immediately obvious, and the last thing he needed was some self-satisfied, corner-cutting medic playing a game of trump-you with blind science.

  Rizzotti went pale and blinked, trying to squirm away sideways in his chair. ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘Why not?’ Rocco thought about calling Perronnet, but decided against it. It would be momentarily satisfying to see this white-coated jerk taken down a peg or two, but ultimately it would serve no purpose. And being in a senior officer’s debt didn’t appeal, either. He picked up the plate of sandwiches and balanced it in his hand as if he were about to hurl it across the room. ‘Are you going to show it to me or do I have to tear the place apart?’

  ‘You can’t – it won’t do you any good.’ Rizzotti swallowed hard and stared at the sandwiches, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a fishing float on a line.

  ‘Tell me!’ Rocco muttered, and made as if to tip the plate into the waste bin by the desk.

  It was enough. Rizzotti finally gave in.

  ‘The body has gone.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rocco? Impatient … eager … jumps in with both feet sometimes, but no fool.

  Sous-Brigadier Gilles Nevalles – École Nationale de Police – Clermont-Ferrand

  Rocco put the plate down. ‘Gone where? We haven’t finished the investigation …’

  Rizzotti stuck out a hand and reclaimed his sandwiches before Rocco could pick them up again. ‘I’m aware of that, Inspector. But you’ll have to take it up with your superiors. The body was claimed by a representative of the family first thing this morning. They had a release signed by a magistrate in Paris and countersigned by Central Administration.’ He opened his hands again. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘You’re kidding. How could anyone get a release signed so quickly?’ Rocco felt as if the ground had been swept from beneath his feet. Nobody but nobody moved this fast to take a body out of the system before a full investigation had been made. Not unless the examining pathologist – in this case a pretend pathologist – was either negligent or easily leant on. He decided to do a bit of leaning himself, pressing over Rizzotti until the medic back-pedalled in his chair like a kid on a toy bike.

  ‘I can’t help you, Inspector,’ he gabbled. ‘It came in, I made a preliminary inspection, it went out again. I deal in facts, and the fact is simply that the woman drowned.’ He reached out for the papers on his desk as if grasping a lifebelt and held up a single sheet. It showed an outline diagram of the human body, with notations at various points, presumably marks or cuts that Rocco hadn’t been able to see. ‘This was my initial inspection copy. As you can see, I found several marks – mostly small cuts or abrasions – but nothing specific or suspicious. Some mud around the face, which is usual in these cases, where the body may have become inverted in the water. There was a bruise on her neck, here’ – a cross had been placed on one side of the neck consistent with where Rocco had seen the mark – ‘but it was not serious enough to have killed her. At least,’ he smiled thinly and without humour, ‘not unless the person who administered it gave her the kiss of death.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A love bite, Inspector. Not a bruise in the way you mean.’ He sat back, his features softening slightly. ‘I’m sorry you have had this taken away from you. I sympathise, really I do. What I can tell you is that the woman had a large amount of fresh water in her lungs and a considerable amount of alcohol in her stomach – possibly Martini, whisky – a mixture, anyway. There were also traces of drugs, but I have not yet had the results back.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘In my opinion, she got drunk, fell into some water and was unable to extricate herself. It happens all the time.’

  ‘What kind of drugs?’

  ‘Well, I’m pretty certain we’re not talking about headache pills.’ He stood up and shot his cuffs self-importantly. ‘I think you ne
ed to find out where she was just prior to her death, Inspector. That will answer a lot more of your questions than any scientific evidence.’

  ‘Really? I thought science could provide all the answers.’ Rocco turned and walked out, then turned back. Something he’d forgotten: the clothing. ‘What about her uniform?’

  ‘Ah, yes. That we have retained. What about it?’

  ‘Did you check the label?’

  The surgeon blinked. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘The tailor’s label. Every piece of clothing has one, even the cheapest backstreet T-shirt. It’s a trick we unscientific plods use to tell us where the clothes came from.’

  ‘I see. Of course – excuse me.’ Rizzotti sidestepped Rocco and left his office in a rush. He was gone several minutes. When he came back, he seemed rattled. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but you were correct. There is one label, in an inside pocket. But not that of a tailor. It is Louis Pheron et Fils. Costumiers.’ He held out a piece of paper with the details written on. ‘I confess we … I … had not thought to check that. It was sewn inside a jacket pocket. We checked the clothes first thing for identification papers and personal items, of course, but found nothing.’

  Rocco nodded and let Rizzotti stew. It might do him good. Pheron et Fils. He’d never heard of the name, but it told him something else about the dead woman: she had not been a member of a revivalist Gestapo club, come back to hoist a contemptuous finger at French sensitivities. Nor had hers been a genuine German body buried and preserved for the past 20 years and uncovered as part of some sick neo-Nazi plot. She had simply been a woman in fancy dress, probably attending a party where she had picked up the love bite. Tasteless, perhaps, even sick, given that particular uniform. But not a crime and not the first he had come across.

  ‘Was there anything else about the clothes that you did manage to notice?’

  Rizzotti bristled, on the defensive, but Rocco was beyond caring. The man had been careless. ‘Such as?’

  The hat, for one, he wanted to say. It was dry. How come, if she fell into water? But he decided to keep that to himself. ‘Anything in the pockets? Any marks on the clothing? Come on, you know what we “people” look for.’

  Rizzotti’s eyes dulled as he trawled his memory. ‘There were no obvious tears or rips, if that’s what you mean. The fabric was worn around the hems and wrists, but that’s quite common. The pockets were empty.’ He shrugged. ‘There were some chalk marks here and there, but again, nothing especially helpful. The area in this region is full of chalk – she could have picked it up sitting on the ground or falling down a riverbank.’

  Nothing helpful, then. Now all Rocco had to do was find out where she had been and how come she had been spirited away from this place so quickly and easily. If he did that, he might discover her identity.

  ‘How long has she been dead? Do you know that much?’

  ‘Not for certain. There are signs, but I am not skilled enough to tell for sure; it is not my area of expertise. They are making swift advances in scientific circles … in America and Germany – the British police, too. But without access to funds and better facilities …’ He stopped as if aware of sounding too critical.

  ‘So guess. You’re a doctor. One day, a week, a month?’

  Rizzotti lifted his shoulders. ‘A guess? Three days, not more. There are …’ He hesitated.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think the body was taken straight out of the water after death before being kept … somewhere.’

  At last. This was getting somewhere. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The level of deterioration is more advanced than that of someone drowned and left for any length of time in the water. I worked with an aid agency in the Congo once, after a flood. Many of the bodies retrieved were wrapped in sheeting and stored awaiting identification. This had similar signs.’

  Rocco lifted an eyebrow. ‘See? You do have expertise – you just didn’t know it.’ If Rizzotti was right, the body had been kept somewhere before being dumped in the cemetery. And to be still wet, it must have been wrapped in plastic or heavy canvas. It might explain the smell and the slimy film on the skin.

  He wondered how far he could push the doctor. He had already shown himself to be malleable by allowing the release of the body, and by Rocco himself. He had nothing to lose by pressing him further.

  ‘I need names,’ he said.

  ‘Names? What names?’

  ‘Don’t piss me off,’ warned Rocco. ‘The names on the release papers; the name of the dead woman.’

  ‘I don’t know. How would I know who she was? I told you, there were no identification—’

  ‘Maybe not. But someone must have known. How else would they have got the release papers prepared? Or is someone going around claiming unknown bodies for fun?’

  Rizzotti’s mouth opened and closed in confusion. He looked dazed, like a guppy in a tank, thought Rocco. But he thought he knew why: it was probably the one question the doctor had been dreading.

  He said nothing, waiting for the doctor’s conscience to tell him what to do. It was one of those moments when intimidating silence was far more effective than open threats.

  ‘The papers have already been sent to the main office,’ Rizzotti muttered finally, his voice dull, ‘awaiting transfer onto microfiche. We don’t have the facilities to duplicate them here. I’ll … have to see if I can get them back.’ He shrugged and looked beyond Rocco as if wishing himself far away from this suddenly cramped office.

  Rocco sighed. Short of frogmarching the man across the yard and into the main building, it was the best he could hope for. ‘All right. I’ll wait to hear from you.’ He scribbled Claude’s phone number on his card. ‘Call that number and leave a message. I’ll call back.’ By the time that happened, he hoped to have his own phone installed and ready to use.

  ‘I can’t promise …’ Rizzotti began, then saw the look on Rocco’s face and appeared to think better of it. ‘Right. I’ll call you.’

  ‘If you don’t,’ Rocco growled. ‘I’ll come back. And you’ll have more than your sandwiches to worry about, I promise.’

  Rocco returned to the main office and asked to see their collection of telephone directories. A beefy man in a tight shirt silently waved a ham sandwich towards a cupboard against one wall. After a few false starts, he found Pheron et Fils listed at an office in Malakoff in the south of Paris. He took a quiet corner desk away from the other staff and dialled the number. No reply.

  He called Michel Santer.

  ‘Christ, you’re still alive, then?’ his former boss greeted him. ‘I’ve been fielding calls about you ever since yesterday. What are you trying to do, Rocco – get an early ticket out?’

  ‘What kind of calls?’

  ‘High-level ones – the kind I can’t ignore. A divisional commissaire named Massin was the first up. He sounded thoroughly pissed. Then a Captain Canet was on, talking about you and a female body in a Nazi uniform. I thought maybe you’d got into some weird stuff out there among the buttercups, but he put me straight. He was OK, actually, just sounding you out. And this morning, as I was about to enjoy my first coffee, another senior shirt named Perronnet bent my ear. Sounds to me like you’ve gone in with both feet first, same as usual, and upset the big boys. What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll tell you some other time.’

  ‘Oh. Right. You’ve got company.’

  ‘Yes. What did the two seniors want?’

  ‘Background stuff, mostly. Where you’d come from, what you’d done – the usual crap-shovelling when someone wants to stick it to you and needs a personal, non-official edge. I told them you were a royal pain in the neck and couldn’t find your arse in the dark with a sniffer dog, and I was bloody glad to have got rid of you. Did I do right, Lucas?’

  Rocco smiled. Santer never called him Lucas unless he was taking the rise. He also knew his former boss wouldn’t have said anything detrimental, but neither would he have over-buttered the bread. ‘Thanks.
I appreciate it. Now I need a favour.’

  ‘Of course you do. And I’d like a longer penis, but I doubt that’ll happen, either. Go on.’

  Rocco explained briefly about the body in the cemetery, and the tag in the uniform. ‘The manufacturer’s name is Pheron et Fils, costumiers – probably on the theatrical side. Can you check them out for me?’

  He heard the scratching of pencil on paper. ‘OK, will do. I’ll send your replacement. He finally turned up this morning like a spare wheel on a horse and cart. He’s already got lost twice, so this should be just up his street. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Can you make sure he stays zipped about it? No written notes.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Any particular reason for that?’

  ‘I’m not sure. The body’s already been released.’

  ‘Jesus, that was quick. How come?’

  ‘Somebody had the right paperwork.’

  ‘Where from?’

  Rocco smiled. Santer was right up there with him. For a body to be released so quickly and with no questions, only the best papers would have sufficed. And those could only come from one source. ‘Paris. I don’t know the details, but I hope to get them.’

  ‘Good luck on that one. Who was the dead Nazi – de Gaulle’s favourite niece?’

  ‘As soon as I find out I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Do that.’ Santer hesitated. When he spoke again, it was in a low voice. ‘Watch your back, big man. When the big fish start taking notice of minnows, it’s time to look for a handy rock to hide under. I don’t know what you’re getting into, but it could get messy.’

  The phone clicked and Santer was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Rocco? He’s a cop. Always will be.

  When he’s not, he’s sweet.

  Emilie Rocco – ex-wife

  By the time he got back to Poissons, it was too late to do anything useful, so he drove to the house and parked the car. The day’s heat blanketed the front garden, oppressive and still, and he stood for a moment, enjoying the tranquillity. It was something he’d rarely found in Paris, where he had always been too close to others and their lives, too concerned with the next case on his list or the ones he had been forced by the pressure of work or political imperatives to consign to the backlog files.