Death on the Marais

by Adrian Magson

  ‘You kidding?’ Santer laughed. ‘You think I move in those exalted circles? The man’s a living legend … and a friend of the president. I bet if you asked them, the esteemed sewer workers of Paris will tell you even his shit’s squeaky clean. What are you looking for, anyway?’

  Rocco didn’t entirely trust the phone system to talk too openly. It wouldn’t be unheard of for the Interior Ministry to have someone listening in, and he didn’t want to draw Santer into a mire by association.

  ‘Just curious,’ he said vaguely, hoping Santer would catch on.

  Santer did. ‘Um … you ever been to Clermont? It’s on Route 16 out of Paris, about twenty kilometres east of Beauvais.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Should take you about forty minutes to get there in that battle bus of yours,’ Santer continued. ‘I’m due some time off. Meet me outside the town hall at noon. You can buy lunch.’

  Clermont was quiet when Rocco arrived and saw Michel Santer standing looking in the window of a fabric shop near the town hall. It was just on midday.

  ‘Thinking of taking up knitting?’ said Rocco as they shook hands.

  Santer smiled lugubriously, his grip warm. ‘I’m saving that pleasure for when I retire. It’s about as far from police work as anything else I can think of.’ He nodded to a restaurant across the street. ‘It’s your treat, don’t forget. I should warn you, I’m hungry.’

  Inside the restaurant, they sat and ordered lunch. While it was being prepared, they did the small-talk ritual over drinks, discussing who had moved where and when, who was up for promotion and who was on the way out. After the food was served and the waiter retreated, Santer raised the subject that had brought them there.

  ‘So,’ he said, chewing on a slice of bloody steak. ‘How are you settling down out in the sticks? Got to meet any of the local vermin yet?’

  ‘Only the fruit rats.’

  Santer raised an eyebrow and Rocco explained about his housemates.

  ‘Jesus, how do you sleep at nights? That’s creepy.’

  ‘Actually, I’m growing used to them. They’re harmless.’

  ‘Well, good for you.’ Santer sat back and took a sip of wine. ‘So. Philippe Bayer-Berbier, rich bastard. What’s the deal with him?’

  ‘For a start, how did he get to be rich?’

  ‘You aren’t the first to ask that. The truth is, nobody knows for sure. He wasn’t born that way: his parents were medium-rank professionals by the name of Berbier; the Bayer bit came later – and not his wife’s, either. She’s deceased. You met the mother?’

  ‘Yes. Armour-plated and vicious.’

  ‘Also thought to be behind his social climbing. Mummy-knows-best kind of thing, I reckon.’

  ‘You saying he added the Bayer name?’ It wasn’t unknown for names to be hyphenated by wives seeking a specific identity in a marriage, but Rocco had never heard of a man adding a name of his own. Mother’s influence, no doubt.

  ‘Must have done. Maybe he thought it had a better ring to it for all his moving and shaking. Anyway, he started out dealing in reconditioned army trucks after the war, when the haulage industry was on its arse. Before long he was buying into other businesses. He has the Midas touch, apparently: can’t help making money.’ He shrugged. ‘If I was his accountant or bank manager I’d know more, but I don’t. Where’s all this coming from?’

  Rocco gave him a quick summary of everything he knew so far, including Berbier’s attempt to gloss over the death of his daughter, his call for helpers from the Interior Ministry and the information from Sophie Richert.

  Santer shrugged, playing devil’s advocate. ‘Fair enough. Maybe he’s an overprotective father. Heavy-handed, even. You can understand him being miffed about her getting knocked up – any father would be. He has a reputation to protect.’ He grinned. ‘Something you or I will never have to worry about.’

  Rocco grunted. ‘True enough. Even so, there’s something there that bothers me. He was taking a hell of a chance getting her body away from the Amiens morgue – and I still don’t know how he found out she was there. It could have easily blown up in his face, interfering with procedure like that.’

  Santer was sceptical. ‘That I doubt. Believe me, Lucas, I’ve seen a lot of these people and the way they operate. They have friends everywhere … and where they don’t, they call on contacts who do. People like Berbier also believe in their untouchable status – like the old aristos and royals. They don’t get into trouble because they simply don’t believe they can. And that belief breeds arrogance. It’s as if they think they can walk through walls. I’ve seen people like Berbier walk away from charges that would have had you and me locked up in a second.’ He shook his head. ‘If you think he’s hiding something in connection with his daughter’s death, you won’t find it out in the open.’

  Rocco saw the sense in what Santer was saying, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily. ‘He’s a rich businessman. Men like that have secrets.’

  ‘True. They also know people: people who can make nasty things happen.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning if you don’t watch your back, you could end up seeing the dark end of a muddy ditch.’

  Rocco stared at him, looking for a sign that he was teasing. ‘You think?’

  ‘No question.’ Santer moved his plate away and leant closer. ‘I checked with a mate who used to work in a division dealing with financial crime. A couple of years ago, one of Berbier’s factories near Toulouse was hit by a strike. It was serious stuff, union men coming in from miles away and threats on both sides. Dangerous practices were being encouraged inside, according to the workers, and a couple of assembly line people had been killed. Anyway, the strike for better equipment and conditions began to spread to other factories and looked like going national. Then two of the ringleaders travelling along a clear, open road down near Bordeaux died in a crash.’

  ‘It happens. So?’

  ‘A military fuel tanker ran over their car in broad daylight. The tanker driver claimed the car swerved across the road in front of him, and a half-empty bottle of pastis was found in the front of the car. It was written down as a drunk in charge. Without its two main leaders, and with an under-the-table pay-off, the strike folded.’

  ‘And the tanker driver?’

  ‘He died ten days later in a shooting incident while on manoeuvres.’ Santer shrugged eloquently. ‘End of story.’

  Rocco sat back, frustrated but hardly surprised. If it was true and Berbier had instigated the accident, it proved he was capable of using strong-arm tactics when it suited him. That made him no different from a handful of other business leaders who had cut corners and slipped into criminal territory to get what they wanted. It still didn’t take him any closer to finding out why Berbier was so coy about his daughter’s death. Reputation and scandal were polar opposites, and sufficient reason for anyone to want to hide unpalatable truths. But times were changing fast, in France as well as everywhere else. The Sixties were ushering in more than just a passion for long-haired youth and loud music, the Beatles and Johnny Hallyday. Moral outrage was no longer the potent force it had once been, and a man like Berbier would be able to weather the scandal of a pregnant, unmarried daughter easier than most.

  There had to be something else. ‘That’s it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s all I have. If I get anything else, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Inspector Rocco?’ It was a man’s voice, gruff with authority, cigarettes or too many late nights.

  ‘Speaking.’ Rocco hadn’t been back from his meeting with Santer more than ten minutes and was fast becoming disenchanted with his phone, wondering why it was that it rang so often early in the mornings or when he was just getting in. It had never been like this in Clichy, with an office to work in. If he wanted to escape the calls, he simply went out to a crime scene for a while.

  ‘Detective Bertrand, Rouen commissariat,’ the man introduced himself. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you, Insp
ector, but I think you might be able to help me.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said cautiously, wondering if an old investigation had caught up with him. Some cases never let go, coming back to haunt you years after they had concluded, or were gathering dust in a pending tray.

  ‘You made a visit recently to an Ishmael Poudric in the Saint-Martin retirement village near Rouen. Is that right?’

  ‘Correct. Why?’

  ‘Before I answer that, could you tell me the purpose of your visit?’

  Rocco stifled a groan. Surely he wasn’t about to have to apologise for stepping on someone else’s turf. Then he remembered, hadn’t Massin cleared this with the local office? ‘I was investigating an attempted murder involving a former member of the Resistance near Poitiers. There was a group photograph Poudric took during the war which we found during our investigation. I thought it might give us a lead. My visit was run past your office in advance by Commissaire Massin in Amiens.’

  ‘That’s not the problem, Inspector, don’t worry. I’m not that territorial.’ The captain’s voice contained an element of patience. ‘But I think you might want to come down here. We have a situation.’

  ‘Go on.’ Rocco felt the air around him go still. This was going to be more bad news. He knew it.

  ‘Poudric is dead. He was found in his study earlier today, stabbed through the heart.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Rocco arrived near Poudric’s house to find the expected posse of police vehicles and eager onlookers spread along the street. He negotiated the barriers and flipped his card to a uniform at the gate, and was nodded indoors. He found a tired-looking individual standing in the kitchen doorway, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Rocco?’ The man stifled a yawn and put out a meaty hand. ‘Louis Bertrand. Sorry – I was up all last night chasing a bastard of an arsonist halfway round the city. Now this.’

  Rocco shook his hand. ‘No problem. Did you get him?’

  ‘Yes. His dad’s a local councillor, would you believe? He had the cheek to deny it – and there was his little git of a son stinking of petrol and smoke right there in the living room.’ He shook his head at the thought. ‘I was tempted to flick a match near him: he’d have gone up like a Roman candle.’

  ‘What’s with the heat?’ said Rocco. The air was heavy and musty, as if the heating had been jacked up to its maximum temperature.

  ‘It was like this when we got here. We turned it down so we could work, but the place is well insulated.’ Bertrand bent his head towards the study. ‘We haven’t moved the body yet. Thought it best to let you take a peek first.’

  Inside the study, two men were checking through the papers on the desk, having to work over the reclining form of Ishmael Poudric lying in his chair. His head was thrown back and his arms hung by his sides, as if he had simply fallen asleep, too tired to find a more comfortable position. His mouth was open, Rocco noted, but there was no shock or surprise on his features, no frozen expression of pain.

  He moved round for a better look. A patch of blood no bigger than a small child’s hand showed on the front of Poudric’s jumper.

  ‘No sign of other wounds?’ he asked.

  Bertrand shook his head. ‘None. He didn’t answer his door to the postman this morning. There were a couple of parcels for him and a signature was needed. When the postman called back later and pushed the door, it opened. Poudric was right here, where you see him. The postman called us immediately.’ He lifted his shoulders, suggesting a complete lack of ideas. ‘No bad history, no rows with neighbours who, between you and me, are too old and infirm for this kind of nonsense, anyway – and no sign of a robbery.’ He puffed his cheeks in frustration. ‘If there’s anything you can tell me, I’d be glad of the help. Our local medic reckons he’s been dead over ten hours, but it’s not easy to be certain because of the heating. I think the killer knew what he was doing.’

  Rocco understood. Concealing or blurring the time of death usually had one purpose only: to allow the killer to prepare a convincing alibi for being somewhere else at the time.

  He bent closer. There were no cuts to Poudric’s hands, no defensive wounds to suggest the photographer had seen the knife thrust coming. Whoever had stabbed the old man had taken him by surprise.

  ‘We think he was standing when he was stabbed,’ Bertrand continued, pointing to the floor beneath the desk, where one of Poudric’s slippers had come off. ‘He probably fell back and the killer eased him into his chair.’ The detective pulled a face. ‘At a guess, I’d say he knew his killer and was comfortable having him in here.’

  Rocco couldn’t argue with that. He played the scene in his head, picturing the sequence of events. An elderly photographer, welcoming someone he knew. No threat, no sign of danger, relaxed in his own home. It fitted.

  ‘You found my card. Where was it?’

  ‘Ah.’ Bertrand nudged one of his colleagues, who handed him a buff folder from the corner of the desk. Rocco’s card was stapled to the top right-hand corner. ‘This was it, on his desk but under a pile of other stuff. He was building a library of war pictures, it seems, cataloguing photos from the period.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Rocco opened the folder. Inside were two black and white photographs. One showed the diminutive figure of Didier Marthe standing next to a tall man with his back half-turned to the camera. They were close, as if deep in conversation. The second snap was the one Poudric had mentioned. It showed the tall man by himself this time, sitting at a rough table in a clearing. He was wearing a heavy coat, work boots and a soft cap pushed to the back of his head, and seemed unaware of being captured on camera. He was busy examining what Rocco recognised as a British Sten gun. On the table alongside him were a revolver and a box of ammunition.

  But Rocco wasn’t looking at the weapon. He was more interested in trying to control his reactions when he saw and recognised the face of the man who was holding the Sten with such easy familiarity. A man who, according to the late Ishmael Poudric, was long dead, a victim of German repression.

  Philippe Bayer-Berbier.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  After giving Detective Bertrand a potted version of his own investigation so that he could complete an outline report for his superiors, Rocco made his way back to Poissons, his mind in a whirl. So far, he had a puzzle of several disjointed parts, and no signs of being able to connect them with any degree of logic. He ticked them off in his mind. A young woman is murdered in a tiny rural village, her death quickly glossed over by her father, a rich industrialist and former Resistance hero. Living in the same village is a scrap man who appears to have covertly taken over the phone of a previous subscriber, for reasons not yet clear. According to a wartime photographer, the same man was part of a Resistance group, and was pictured alongside a French SOE agent. That agent is now the same highly placed industrialist and war hero … and father of the dead woman. Yet the agent and the rest of the Resistance group were allegedly wiped out by the Germans.

  And now the photographer linking the two men had been murdered.

  Rocco wondered if Poudric had realised the identity of the SOE man and talked to someone he should not have.

  He was accustomed to having to shuffle leads like cards in a pack; it came with the job and required a degree of objectivity and creative thought which he mostly enjoyed. But so far in his career, gang murders apart, the majority of his cases had involved people known to one another and often in close proximity in their local community, which made connecting the links relatively simple. This one, however, not only stretched across distance and time, but social levels, too.

  He pulled up along a straight stretch of deserted road. He felt a headache coming on. A run of fields looped off into the distance, bare and empty of movement. He turned off the engine and lowered the window, allowing a breeze and a few crows in a nearby spinney to keep him company.

  He got out and walked away from the car, hands thrust into his pockets while trying to make sense of it all. Clearly Didier
Marthe knew Philippe Berbier. And the phone number in the Félix Faure flat just as clearly linked Didier with Berbier’s daughter, Nathalie. Yet logic said they could not have been further apart, by all the factors of birth, wealth and social backgrounds, as well as the generation gap and the kind of fashionable circles the young woman had moved in.

  He stopped and took out his gun. The MAB felt warm and comfortable, nestling in his hand with solid familiarity. He spotted a make-do scarecrow standing in a sugar beet field fifty yards away. It was a simple cross of sticks wearing a threadbare waistcoat and a holed trilby, and served little useful purpose if the casual proximity of the crows was any indication.

  Rocco took aim. It was too far for anything sophisticated, but he took a deep breath, released it slowly, then squeezed the trigger in a double tap followed by a single. The old hat snapped off at a wild angle and the sticks holding it exploded in pieces. The crows protested loudly, hauling themselves scrappily into the sky as the gunshots rolled away across the fields. Lucky, he decided pragmatically. Against regulations, too; Massin would have his balls if he knew. But it had served to release the tension and frustration he was feeling.

  And in spite of the lack of clarity about who knew whom, he was a step closer than he had been earlier that day. He had another connection, another link in the chain.

  He pocketed the gun and walked back to the car.

  Rocco was dreaming, running through a cold, grim marshland, tendrils of mist hanging around his face, strangely immobile and vertical like the hanging fronds of exotic vegetation. He was trying to reach the other side, pushing desperately with his feet but going nowhere, the ground as sticky as glue. A bell was ringing, insistent and piercing. Did that mean his time was running out and the exercise was nearly over?

  He snapped awake, mouth gummy and sour. That bloody phone again. He groped in the dark and found it, snatching it to his ear.