‘Tell me about this.’ Rocco dropped the photo of the Resistance group on Didier’s hospital bed the following morning. The scrap man had been placed in a single room with a view over some gardens. Better treatment, Rocco thought, than he deserved.
‘Never seen it before,’ Didier Marthe muttered sourly. The response was too quick to be anything but instinctive, but he was staring at the print as if it might bite him. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Pinned to the noticeboard in your kitchen. What’s that about – reliving old times?’ Rocco turned to stare out of the window. Experience had taught him that while facial expressions could be feigned, there was often more to be sensed from the way a person spoke, and the timbre of their voice.
‘You’ve been in my house? Bastard!’ Didier lashed out angrily, sending the photo spinning across the room.
‘Calm down,’ Rocco warned him, bending to retrieve the snapshot, ‘before I sit on you. I’m pursuing a possible murder investigation, so yes, I went into your house. Anyway, the door was open after your little explosive episode.’ He slapped the photo back down on the bed where Didier couldn’t ignore it. ‘You can try suing me for trespass if you like, but I wouldn’t fancy your chances much.’
‘Murder?’ Didier instantly dropped the aggrieved expression and looked shifty instead. His eyes went back to the photo and lingered there in fascination. ‘I don’t know anything about any murder.’
‘Attempted, in your case. Somebody tried to kill you, didn’t they?’ Rocco dragged up a chair and sat down heavily. He needed at least a litre of coffee, but it would have to wait. ‘With the grenade.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was an old Mills, that’s all. British. It blew up. Unstable crap.’
‘Balls. It blew up because someone spiked it with plastique and a detonator.’ Rocco leant forward, pinning Didier with his gaze.
‘You’re insane.’ Didier looked away, rubbing subconsciously at the stump of his arm.
‘They left it lying around for you to pick up. But you recognised the detonator or the explosive for what it was and tried to get rid of it. You weren’t quick enough.’
‘That’s a fancy imagination you’ve got there, Inspector. How would I know about plastique? I only deal with ammunition I find in the ground.’
Rocco looked pointedly at the photo on the bed. ‘You were in the Resistance. That photo proves it.’
‘So?’
‘You’d know all about explosives, how they work. Tell me I’m wrong.’ Didier said nothing, so Rocco pressed on. ‘I’m guessing someone doesn’t like you and they’ve decided to get even with you over something. Am I right?’
‘No.’ Another response that was too quick. ‘Go screw yourself.’
‘Wrong answer. There was a shooting accident last year in the woods. Guess who was standing next to the victim? You. A botched attempt on your life, was it? That didn’t work either. You must have more lives than a cat. Care to share with me who might be after you, Didier? Hopefully, before any innocents get caught up in this little vendetta.’
‘What’s going on here?’ It was the doctor Rocco had spoken to on the day he and Claude had brought Didier in for treatment. He was standing just inside the door, his expression chilly. ‘This is not permissible! Why are you interrogating this man?’
Rocco sighed. He’d get no further now. Didier would duck behind medical protection. And if he pushed the doctor, Rocco would likely end up being hauled out of here by a couple of Massin’s men.
‘Apologies, Doctor,’ he said politely. ‘Only I like to try and find out as early as possible why someone will try to kill a man using plastic explosives. It’s the protective side of our job, you know?’ He looked at Didier and tossed a card on the bed, then snatched up the photo. ‘If you have a relapse and remember a name, give me a call.’
‘OK… OK. Jesus! The plastique is mine, all right? I was trying an experiment.’
Rocco and the doctor stared at Didier in surprise. ‘What kind of experiment?’ Rocco wanted to tell the doctor to get lost, but he didn’t dare lose the moment now it had come.
Didier shrugged and licked his lips, eyes flicking left and right. His good hand was shaking as if he was running a fever. ‘What I do needs speed and lots of material, right? The quicker I can separate off the metal components, the more money I make. I was trying to use a small charge of explosive to split the grenade’s casing and expose the guts.’ He shrugged again. ‘It didn’t work.’
‘Bollocks!’ As convincing as Didier sounded, he knew the man was scrabbling for anything that could get Rocco off his back. The idea of anyone using plastic explosives to open up a grenade was ludicrous.
The doctor stepped forward, the focus of his attention now on Didier. ‘But how do you come to have plastic explosives anyway? Why would you have such a thing?’ Plainly the idea of possessing anything larger than a firecracker seemed astonishing to him.
‘Tree stumps,’ Didier blurted. ‘I have lots of them on my property and burning them out takes too long.’ Another shrug. ‘Blowing them out is quicker.’
‘Mother of God,’ whispered the doctor. ‘You people are truly insane.’ He turned and walked out, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘You’ll be charged with possession of prohibited materials,’ Rocco warned Didier. ‘That carries a prison term. Unless…’ He waited, sure that the wounded man would look for a deal if he could get one. It had undoubtedly stood him in good stead in the Resistance, where quick thinking was a survival skill, and he would have lost none of that ability over the years.
‘Unless what?’ Didier looked sullen and defeated, but his eyes were sharp with cunning.
‘Unless you stop being an obstructive pain in the arse and help me.’ Rocco nodded at the photo. He had to get Didier focused on it: a trade of information in exchange for the illegal explosives charges being dropped. ‘Who are the others in that group?’
‘Christ, you expect me to remember that? It was twenty years ago in another life; they’re probably all dead by now!’
‘You aren’t.’
‘Might as well be, with this.’ He waved the stump of his arm, then slid down in his bed with a heavy sigh and turned to face the wall. ‘I need some rest. Close the door on the way out.’
Rocco realised that he had lost the initiative – for now, at least. Didier was tough all right. But for how long? ‘Fair enough. Just one more question: who owns the big lodge in the marais?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘Because you damn near live in the marais, that’s why.’
‘So?’
‘And it’s just across the stream from your place. You trying to tell me you’ve never seen or spoken to anyone down there?’
‘Of course I have. But they don’t tell me their business – why should they? They’re just lousy Parisians with too much money and no respect for the common man.’ His shoulder moved under the covers. ‘Show them the guillotine, I say. That’ll thin out their filthy capitalist ranks.’
Rocco gave up. This kind of pseudo-political nonsense could go round in circles. But he was convinced Didier knew far more than he was letting on.
‘I will find out what’s going on,’ he said, walking to the door, ‘one way or another. But you’d better hope none of your neighbours get hurt in the meantime. Otherwise, it’ll be you seeing the guillotine, not a bunch of posh partygoers from Paris.’
He made his way back out to the car, reflecting on what had just happened. As a first interview with a significant person in a case presented with a piece of evidence, it had been no different from most of the others he had conducted. Witnesses and suspects alike were often adept at expressing denial, then anger in equal measure. Mostly, it was just a matter of wearing them down.
As he climbed in the car, his thoughts returned to the photograph. The one impression uppermost in his mind was that Didier Marthe really had never set eyes on it in his life before.
From the hospital, Rocco drove to the office where he found a detective making a pot of coffee. He introduced himself and they shook hands.
‘René Desmoulins,’ the man said. ‘I heard about you.’ He was in his forties, genial, with a thin moustache and a weightlifter’s chest and legs. ‘You want coffee?’
‘Is it strong?’ Rocco peered at the mixture; it looked like treacle.
‘It’ll float a brick if you want it to. Help yourself.’
Cups full, Desmoulins led the way to an empty office and closed the door. ‘I’m supposed to be working on a petrol scam on the outskirts of the town,’ he explained, sitting down. ‘It’s a crap job which nobody else wanted, and I drew the short straw. If you’ve got something more interesting, for God’s sake let me in on it. I’m dying of boredom.’
Rocco smiled. At last, a potential accomplice. ‘Who do I clear it with?’
Desmoulins grabbed a phone and pushed it across the desk in front of Rocco. ‘You know Eric Canet?’ Rocco nodded. ‘Dial two hundred and forty-one; to you he’ll say yes.’
Rocco dialled the number and Canet answered. He quickly outlined what he needed and saw Desmoulins making notes on a pad. ‘It’s not much,’ he said, ‘but I need someone to trawl through the records. This could go all the way back to the war.’
‘Tell Desmoulins to get on with it,’ said Canet with a smile in his voice. ‘He’ll much prefer that to the smell of petrol.’ He cut the connection.
Rocco relayed Canet’s agreement. ‘You’ll also have Massin’s blessing if you need it.’
‘Yeah?’ Desmoulins looked impressed. ‘That’ll do me – I need all the blessings I can get. What have you got so far?’
Rocco showed him the photo of Didier and his fellow Maquisards. ‘Not much, I’m afraid. This man’s a local in Poissons, although he doesn’t originate from there. He just blew himself up with a grenade – don’t ask, it’s complicated.’
Desmoulins laughed. ‘Christ, we heard about him. Take one idiot with a hammer and a death wish – and boom. Why the interest?’
‘Because I don’t think the boom was an accident. Somebody’s trying to kill him. He calls himself Didier Marthe, but that might not be his real name. Run it past anyone you can think of: police, military, medical… I can’t narrow the photo down to a specific location, but it would have to be somewhere with Resistance groups operating during the war.’
‘Tall order. It could be anywhere.’
‘Not really. There were large parts of the country without any organised Resistance. I’ve a feeling he’d have been part of a known group, most likely communist in leanings.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘He’s got a line in angry left-wing rhetoric that’s too practised to be put on. If you can find any historians or archivists working in the field of Resistance groups and their affiliations, they might be able to help you. Massin is chasing up the source of the photo, so that might narrow it down, too. Liaise with him via Canet if you need to.’ He handed the detective his card. ‘Call me when you get something.’
‘Will do.’ Desmoulins made more notes, then stood up. ‘Sounds a lot more fun than chasing down petrol crooks. Anything else I can do?’
Rocco suddenly remembered the telephone number he and Claude had found in Nathalie Berbier’s flat. He read it out and Desmoulins scribbled it down. ‘Get the PTT to run it through their records. I need an address for the subscriber. It could be a Tomas Brouté but I’ll take whatever they’ve got. And I need it fast.’