Rocco? Big and scary. A bit nuts. Women seem to like him, though, lucky bastard.
Capt. Michel Santer – Clichy-Nanterre district
‘Monsieur Paulais says we can use the station waiting room if we need to.’
Claude had driven off earlier in Rocco’s car to speak to the stationmaster. He had returned immediately with the news. ‘As I thought: he called the papers as well as the regional radio news channels. He’s already dressed in his best uniform, hoping to get interviewed.’
‘He’s welcome to it,’ said Rocco. ‘Can you put up a barrier across the lane? The last thing we need is the press trampling all over the scene.’
‘We could leave your car parked sideways across. They’d have to drive onto the fields to get past.’
‘That won’t stop them, will it?’
‘Not until Duchamel, the farmer who owns these fields, sees them flattening his crops; then he’ll come and shoot their tyres out. Anything for a bit of sport. I can arrange it, if you like.’ He looked positively eager at the idea.
‘Stop it. You’ll be selling tickets next.’
‘Hey, not a bad thought. By the way, you should get yourself something more practical than the Traction. Nice car, but not good for driving over these tracks. Too low for one thing: you’ll wreck the suspension within a week.’
Rocco hadn’t thought much about the kind of terrain he’d be covering until he arrived. City streets were either good or bad, and you took them at your own risk. But at least you went with the knowledge that they were usually passable. As he’d already seen here, anything less than a metalled road was little better than a cart track.
‘What do you drive?’ He hadn’t seen a car at Claude’s house, although there had been a building big enough to house one.
‘2CV Fourgonnette. Amazing vehicle.’ Claude looked enthusiastic. ‘I once saw a farmer overturn one in a field. Then he and his son flipped it back over and away he went.’ He dropped his lower lip. ‘A bit rippled here and there, I grant you, but as good as new.’
‘Thanks. I’ll keep this for now.’
‘Your funeral.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Rocco looked up towards the wood behind the cemetery. ‘Where does the track lead?’
‘Nowhere much. Only the farmers go up there, to their fields.’
‘And the wood? Or is it just a wood?’
‘Christ, no. You don’t want to go in there. It’s an old ammo dump, full of shells, bombs and grenades. You step on the wrong thing and baff! – you lose a leg. Or worse.’ He gestured towards his groin with a grim chopping motion.
‘Wasn’t it cleared?’
‘No. The commune kept asking, but there was never the money or the men – the experts. One suggestion was to lob in a couple of mortar shells and stand well back.’ He grinned. ‘That would have been worth seeing.’
‘It didn’t fly?’
‘No. It was vetoed on grounds of insanity. And despoiling the countryside.’ He spat on the ground. ‘Like they worry about that kind of thing.’
Rocco paced back and forth, returning to study the ground between the cemetery gate and the monument where the body lay. He’d already taken a stroll around the inside of the cemetery while Claude was away, and had seen nothing helpful: no clues revealing how the dead woman had got here, no telltale tracks, no arrows pointing to the guilty party. He stared at the hump of the body, now covered by a tarpaulin Cooke had got from the tool shed, the brick structure in the far corner of the plot. The forensics boys weren’t going to be happy, but it was better than allowing the legions of flies waiting to get in on the act to begin feeding, especially with this heat.
He wondered who the woman was. Had been. And why she was dumped here. She certainly hadn’t died in this place. The clothing, with the exception of the hat, had been in water; and he’d seen similar bloating to the skin on bodies pulled out of the Seine, which indicated that she had been immersed for a while. Then there was the uniform. Was it someone’s idea of making a point? If so, it was a grisly one. He deliberately hadn’t tried the pockets of her jacket yet, which might yet yield a clue; that would be best done with the forensics team in place, in case they found anything that might deteriorate rapidly and be lost as evidence.
‘Lucas!’
He turned. Claude was looking towards the main road where three vehicles – a black saloon and two chunky police vans, all with their roof lights flashing – were speeding towards the turn-off.
He walked to the entrance gate to meet them.
The man in charge was a cheerful-looking individual with a red face and a well-developed middle. He hopped from the car, followed by men from the other vehicles, and watched as Rocco approached.
‘Who are you?’ he queried. ‘This is the scene of an unexplained death.’
‘Good description,’ Rocco congratulated him. He took out his transfer orders and calling card. The officer read the details carefully, eyebrows lifting.
‘OK, that changes things, I grant you.’ He ducked his head. ‘Captain Eric Canet, Amiens Préfecture. We heard someone new was coming. My men are at your disposal, Inspector.’
‘I appreciate that.’ Rocco shook the captain’s hand, relieved that Canet wasn’t about to jump on his soapbox over who had primary position. By rights, Rocco should have presented himself at the Amiens office prior to coming here, but he had seen no reason to do so until absolutely necessary. ‘My colleague is Garde Champêtre Lamotte, based in Poissons, and the other man is the cemetery gardener, John Cooke. He’s English.’ He gestured towards the monument. ‘The body is at the base of the cross, covered with a tarpaulin against the flies. There are no obvious signs showing how it got there, or even the cause of death… but I’ll leave that to you and your men to determine.’
‘Of course.’ Canet acknowledged the courtesy and flicked a signal to his men. They began to mark out a pathway from the gate to the monument, examining the ground as they went. ‘To be honest,’ he added softly, ‘rather you than me on this one. Is it true about the Gestapo uniform?’
‘Yes.’
‘God help us. That’s all we need, stirring up old memories. That’s always bad news.’ He paused and nodded towards the stone cross. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’
‘Help yourself.’
Canet set off in the wake of his men and disappeared behind the memorial. He reappeared two minutes later and walked back to join Rocco. He looked pale around the eyes, his sights fixed on the ground.
‘Holy Mother,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve seen some stuff in my time, but that…’
Rocco nodded. They all would have seen far worse before, but the shock value in what lay beside the monument was the degree of contrasts: the bloated, stodgy skin of the dead woman against the black of the hated uniform.
Canet walked to the gate and spat onto the track, then wiped his lips. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, and checked his watch, glancing towards the road.
‘You expecting somebody?’
Canet nodded. ‘You won’t have been made aware of it, but we’ve just inherited a new divisional commissaire, starting today. It’s part of this big reshuffle. He’s from Marseille.’ It was clear from Canet’s wry expression that he looked on the senior officer’s move to Picardie as an odd, not to say controversial one.
‘Know anything about him?’
‘No. I was on leave until today and came out here as soon as I got in. His holiness was doing an arse-kicking tour of the sous-préfectures this morning so I don’t even know his name, only that he’s ex-military from way back. But I do know he’ll have something to prove… which is why he’s on his way here to take charge of the investigation.’
‘Oh, joy.’ Rocco was dismayed. Commissaires didn’t usually involve themselves in such matters, limiting themselves instead to making announcements to the press and their superiors in the Interior Ministry about successful outcomes and an increase in performance statistics. He could foresee an argument looming; one he would probably lose.
Canet sniffed in agreement. ‘Well… I’m not surprised. This thing looks like being a touchy subject – the Gestapo kit and all. It could make good headlines for him if it breaks quickly, bad if it doesn’t, in which case you’ll get responsibility.’
Rocco smiled. ‘Cynic.’
Canet shrugged fatalistically. ‘With good reason: I’ve seen it all before.’
Just then, the sound of car engines intruded on the quiet and both men turned. Two gleaming black saloons were approaching along the main road, moving at a sedate clip.
‘Shoulders back, stomachs in,’ said Canet, hitching up his trousers and stepping through the gate. ‘You ready for this?’
‘Not yet.’ Rocco had better things to do than tug his forelock for a bunch of self-important desk jockeys. He decided to take a tour of the outside perimeter of the cemetery instead. It might also offer a chance of getting upwind of the awful smell for a while. If standing on ceremony was important to the brass, they would wait. If not, they’d have to follow him and get their shoes dirty.