Commissaire Massin was in his office reading a report from one of his detectives and feeling a gradual surge of apprehension building in his gut. He’d just spoken to a Detective Bertrand in Rouen, following a briefing from Desmoulins, and was trying to work out what Rocco was up to. Desmoulins was either unaware or not saying, and Rocco himself was conveniently out of touch somewhere in Poissons, looking for a missing woman. Her disappearance was apparently out of character, but possibly tied in with a missing patient from Amiens hospital being sought for assault on a cleaner. Desmoulins had told him that Rocco had been sufficiently concerned as to leave immediately, briefing him on his way out to his car.
Desmoulins had also advised that the murdered photographer near Rouen was the same man who had taken the photo of the Resistance people during the war – the former owner of APP – and that the entire group had subsequently died at the hands of the Nazis in the camp known as Natzweiler-Struthof. Included in their number was one Didier Marthe… the same man now being sought for the assault and theft at the hospital.
Even more intriguing – not to say worrying – was that Rocco had identified another person photographed among the group shortly prior to their demise: a French SOE officer. If he was correct, then that man was also very much alive, and now known throughout France as a pillar of the establishment.
Philippe Bayer-Berbier.
Massin sat back and fingered his chin. He was aware of the concentration camp and its grim history, and how few, if any, Resistance people had come out alive. He wasn’t sure precisely how Berbier’s survival was connected with the murder of his daughter, Nathalie, but no doubt that would become clear in due course. If Rocco was allowed to take his investigation that far.
What he was struggling with was the request Rocco had passed to him via Desmoulins: to find out the nature of Berbier’s history with the SOE. Privately, he reckoned it would be a non-starter. Men like Berbier, even those who were known to have had a background in wartime subversion and sabotage, were rarely keen to allow those records to be made a matter of public detail. And a man like Berbier, who was acknowledged even by his supporters to have a somewhat shadowy history from the period immediately following the war, would be even less likely to allow it.
Rocco. The man was like a rough-trained bulldog: let him loose and he attacked anything and everything, secure in the knowledge that he was doing his job, no matter where it took him. It was useful at times, having a man like that, but it also generated enmity and bad feeling for those caught in any fallout. Like himself.
He turned and studied the one photograph he had decided to put up in his office. It showed him in police uniform, proud and determined following his award of a distinguished pass mark at the academy. It had not, over the years, led to the higher echelons of the service as he had envisaged, but he had not completely given up on progressing higher. There was still time.
He had another photograph, this one kept buried in his desk drawer. Also of him in uniform, this time in the distinctive Lizard pattern camouflage, and taken shortly after his arrival in Indochina aboard a French military flight. He’d been empowered with a single brief: to pursue action against the communist Viet Minh with all urgency and aggression. It had been his last photocall in military uniform and the memory of it still caused him moments of pain and humiliation. A humiliation renewed each and every time he saw or heard of Lucas Rocco.
It still surprised him that the former sergeant had given no indication of their shared history, either by expression or deed. Could he have forgotten that day on the front line? A day etched in Massin’s own mind as though with acid? He doubted it: men like Rocco did not forget easily. He shook his head, angrily dislodging the thoughts that brought shame to him in the still night hours and plagued many of his daytime moments, too. He turned instead to the investigation Rocco was pursuing.
Maybe, just maybe, if he could keep Rocco on a tight enough rein, a move higher up the ladder might be achieved riding on the back of a successful murder investigation. On the other hand, he recognised, it would be he who might end up with egg on his face if Rocco performed as usual, barging his way through people’s lives without due thought to the consequences. People like Philippe Bayer-Berbier, for example, he thought wryly, suppressing a shudder. God forbid that he should let Rocco go anywhere near that man again: Berbier possessed too many friends in high places and, no doubt, too many favours he could call in if he really wanted to kill somebody’s career stone dead, merely by lifting a telephone.
He swung back as his secretary poked her head round the door. He was going to allow Rocco a bit more rope. By all accounts the Rouen police were highly impressed by the unselfish help he had given them, and that could only reflect – had already reflected, via Bertrand’s commanding officer – on himself. Maybe this could serve his own needs after all. Especially if the case involved bringing in someone of note, which would run through the halls of the Ministry like wildfire and enhance everyone associated with it.
‘Sir?’ his secretary prompted him urgently, waving a hand. ‘Important call from Paris. Line one.’
Massin tried to remain calm. Most calls from Paris were important; they usually came from higher up the chain of command and required a sharp mind and sharper reactions to whatever news they brought. The only question was, would it be good news or bad?
‘Who is it?’ It had to be one of around three senior staff members.
‘A Philippe Bayer-Berbier, sir. Shall I put him through?’