François Massin put down his phone with a trembling hand. He hadn’t been expecting the call from Berbier, still less had he been quick enough to deal with the man in the way he would have liked. But as the voice had dripped like acid into his ear, part cajoling, part threatening, laying out in carefully camouflaged terms what his future might be – would be if he wasn’t able to appreciate the ‘delicacy’ of the situation – he had begun to feel a deep anger building inside him.
He stood up and walked around his office, uncertain about what his immediate response should be. He had few friends in the senior ranks of the police service mostly through his fault, he acknowledged, and there was little he could do about it for the moment. But right now, he could have done with some wise advice on how to handle internal politics. Being threatened by the likes of Philippe Bayer-Berbier, even in the subtle, ‘friendly’ tones the man had employed, was something he had never faced before. Yet he was all too aware of the enormous power the man wielded among the ranks of senior policemen and politicians – men who could decide Massin’s fate at the snap of a finger. In a straight test of wills, he would be no match for that kind of influence.
He found himself standing before the photo of his younger self in uniform. So proud, he recalled his feelings at the time. So intense. And so determined to redeem himself and regain some of the self-respect he’d lost in the army.
And now this. He shook his head. He’d be an idiot to go up against Berbier, no matter what Rocco said the photo suggested. It would be professional suicide. He’d have no allies, no backing and would become a pariah with no fate but a lonely, humiliating resignation and a disappearance into obscurity.
It was not the ending he had envisaged for himself. And with that thought, he hated himself more than at any time in his life.
A knock sounded at his door. He straightened his shoulders and called, ‘Come in.’
It was Desmoulins, looking flushed. Captain Canet hovered behind him, face tense.
‘Urgent call from Poissons, sir,’ said Desmoulins. ‘Officer under threat. The missing woman has been found and there’s been gunfire… several armed men are in pursuit of Inspector Rocco.’
‘What?’ Massin stepped towards the two officers. ‘What men?’
‘That’s not clear, sir. One of them – the kidnapper – is Marthe, the man from the hospital. The caller said the others look like ex-military. Rocco’s been forced to go to ground in the local marais.’
Massin turned away in a moment of indecision. Ex-military men who were prepared to go up against the police? Impossible, surely. What if Rocco had stumbled on some kind of official operation? Careers could be fatally damaged if the wrong response was made. Yet if it was true, and the men were not part of the state, then it boded ill if it was allowed to go unchallenged. He glanced at the photo on the wall. He hadn’t done much to be proud of since those days. Now he was embroiled in a battle of wills with an enemy he could hardly see, let alone fight.
‘Sir?’ Canet prompted him. ‘The lads are ready to go. Your orders?’
Massin turned. Desmoulins had his service weapon strapped on and a bunch of car keys in his hand. Canet, too, was armed and looked ready for action, his eyes bright. Behind them in the corridor, he sensed the presence of others.
He nodded. Maybe this would be a new start. If not, he could deal with his future later.
‘You’d better get them moving, then, hadn’t you?’