Five

Rocco drove home to Poissons. It was too late to go back to the office, where he’d quickly find himself wrapped up in fresh cases and old gossip to no good effect. His mind was buzzing with questions about the as-yet unidentified dead man, and how he’d come to end his life in the ditch. How, for example, had he got to such an isolated spot? Maybe Desmoulins was right and whoever had killed him had brought him to the area. Had they argued and fought, and the killer used some kind of tool to stab him in a fit of anger, then panicked and pushed him into the ditch in an attempt to hide the body? If so, why strip the body of any possessions first, unless it was to confuse or delay identification?

He wondered if that pointed to someone local, although the victim’s clothing suggested otherwise. There were several large towns in the region where a man in a suit might have come from: Amiens, Beauvais, Abbeville – even Arras. But short of stumbling on a missing person’s report, trawling those towns would require a lot of legwork.

He arrived at his rented house and spotted Mme Denis, his next-door neighbour, kneeling in her garden. Of medium height and compact, she had white hair and thick glasses, and was dressed as always in a blue apron over a grey dress. A triangle headscarf was pinned neatly over her head. She looked up at the sound of his car and waved, then got to her feet with difficulty and walked slowly to meet him.

‘What’s this?’ she murmured, rubbing her back. ‘Back early? Have you solved all the crimes in the area this week?’ She took three large spring onions from the pocket of her apron and handed them over, brushing some dirt off them. ‘Here, make yourself a nice salad for a change; the freshness will do you good.’

‘Thank you,’ Rocco said, and took the vegetables. As he’d learned long ago, a refusal would offend and offering food had been her way of welcoming him to the village. She had continued the habit ever since, mostly with eggs, often leaving them on his doorstep if he was out. In her own way this gentle old lady had been largely responsible for making him acceptable here, in spite of the local antipathy and suspicion towards all forms of authority. He looked at her carefully and thought she looked unusually pale. ‘Have you got a problem with your back?’

She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, nothing really. Old age pains, I expect. You’ll get them yourself one day, believe me.’

‘Have you seen a doctor?’ Rocco didn’t know her real age, but he guessed she was in her seventies. Like most country people, she was tough and obstinate when it came to ailments and brushed off any questions about her health. A little like his own mother had done years before.

‘Actually, I’m going into town tomorrow,’ she said, surprising him. ‘A good friend in the village told me about a specialist who’s holding a surgery at the hospital. The pain has been keeping me awake so I decided to see what can be done about it. There. Satisfied?’

‘When tomorrow?’

She gave him a sharp look. ‘Why – are you checking up on me?’

‘Not at all. I’ve got some time off and I know the bus through here doesn’t always turn up on time. And you won’t be able to get back easily. So I’ll take you.’ He smiled. ‘Who knows, if you behave yourself I might even bring you back.’

She scowled and began to protest but he raised a hand to forestall her. ‘You can argue all you like, but I insist. Anyway, what will I do for eggs, vegetables and gossip if you’re not well?’

She prodded his chest with a gentle finger. ‘I’ve never asked you for anything and I never would. Understood?’

‘I know that. But I’m offering – which is not the same thing.’

‘Good point. As long as we’re clear on that. My appointment is at four in the afternoon.’ She smiled with gratitude. ‘Can I make you some coffee? You look like you could do with it. While the water boils you can tell me all about your latest case.’

‘How do you know I’ve got one?’

‘Because you have that look about you; the one that tells me your brain is working overtime trying to tease out a puzzle. Am I right?’

He raised a hand in resignation. She was as sharp as a razor and didn’t miss a thing, and he was still getting used to the fact that news travelled fast here, often much faster than in cities, even without the benefit of telephones.

‘A coffee would be good,’ he admitted, thinking that anything would be better after the black poison he’d had at the café. And any time spent with Mme Denis was a great counter to his daily work, even if she did like hearing about every detail.

‘And a chat?’

‘A chat, too. But strictly between us.’

She smiled impishly and led the way into her cottage. ‘That goes without saying. Don’t you know the best part of being a gossip is knowing something that nobody else does?’

Rocco followed her into her kitchen and sat down at the table. It was spotlessly clean, with the air of a room regularly scrubbed whether it needed it or not. She waved away his offers of help and busied herself heating water and filling an ancient aluminium cafetière topped by a glass lid. She poured two cups and placed them on the table with a box of sugar cubes and a small canister of milk. Rocco usually drank his coffee black, but he’d learned quickly that the old lady expected him to take milk with his, believing that too much black coffee was bad for the digestion. He wondered what she would say if she saw the stuff being served at the café in Faumont.

‘So,’ she said, taking a chair across from him, ‘how’s that young lady of yours? I haven’t seen her for a while. Jacqueline, I think you said, wasn’t it?’

Rocco smiled. He was pretty sure he hadn’t said any such thing, but Mme Denis had her ways of extracting information from complete strangers within moments of meeting them.

‘It’s a long story,’ he said, and made to drink his coffee.

‘The best ones usually are,’ she said pragmatically, giving him a look of total innocence. ‘But we have time. Go ahead, humour an old lady.’

He sighed and gave in. He wasn’t going to be able to leave this house without giving her a proper answer, so he might as well save himself the trouble of attempting to. ‘I’ve faced tougher grillings from the Ministry of the Interior,’ he complained, ‘and I never tell them half of what they want to know. Why do I always tell you everything?’

‘Because deep down, you need to talk. Most strong men do – they just don’t like to admit it. My husband was the same, bless his memory. Now, drink your coffee – it’ll help you unload.’

‘Jacqueline’s gone to Washington,’ he explained. ‘There’s talk of setting up an embassy there in addition to the consulate general in New York. An advance team has been sent out to help with trade talks and other matters and she was selected to go with them.’

‘You should have married her when you had the chance,’ Mme Denis said with characteristic bluntness. ‘I think I told you that at the time.’

‘Really? I don’t think you did.’

‘Well, if I didn’t, I certainly should have. What happened, anyway? I thought you liked her. She was very pretty.’ She reached for the cafetière and refreshed his cup, her way of keeping him in his seat for a few more minutes. ‘She’d have kept you warm at night, too.’

Rocco felt himself flush, and sank more coffee. ‘I did like her – I do. But she’s entitled to make her way in the world. She was offered the job, and has the skills, so it seemed a good chance to get on.’ What he didn’t mention was his suspicion that the job offer hadn’t been quite so innocent as it might have seemed. Nominally at least, Jacqueline worked for the Interior Ministry. But as he’d discovered later, she seemed also to hold a floating position in the DST – the Directorate of Territorial Surveillance – the domestic intelligence service. And having been trained by a branch of the intelligence service, her skills would prove very useful when coming into contact with foreign diplomats and envoys.

The old lady wasn’t having it, however. ‘What you mean is, her father didn’t want his daughter marrying a cop. It’s usually the fathers in my experience.’

‘That, too, probably,’ he said wryly. Jacqueline was the daughter of a career diplomat. He’d never met her father, but François Roget was rumoured to be very protective of his daughter, driving away undesirables before they could get their feet under the family table. Jacqueline had denied any interference on his part in her selection for a post overseas, but Rocco had no doubts that the timing was more than just a little coincidental. The irony was, he’d recognised and liked her ambitious nature, and had suggested that the Washington position was too good an opportunity to miss. Whether that was a good move on his part he couldn’t judge but, not long after, Jacqueline had called to say goodbye. It was mildly encouraging that she was tearful at the prospect of leaving him, but he wasn’t sure how long that would last in the new and exciting surroundings of Washington.

Mme Denis reached out and placed a hand over his. ‘Sorry – it’s not my place to interfere. But I like to see a man happy. And she seemed a very pleasant young woman.’

‘She was – is,’ he affirmed, and finished his drink. ‘Just not my young woman. Thank you for the coffee. It was nice.’ He held up the spring onions. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll make that salad you were suggesting.’

‘But you haven’t told me about your latest case yet.’

‘I will, I promise,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, in the car. I won’t be able to escape then.’

He walked round to the house and dropped the spring onions by the sink. A couple of eggs, some ham and chopped vegetables might be a good idea. First, though, time for a bath. As he walked into the bathroom he heard a familiar scurrying sound overhead, and smiled. The fruit rats had their own little community up there, and had been resident since before he took over the house. Rocco didn’t mind their presence. He’d quickly got used to their comings and goings, even welcoming the sounds of other living beings in the house when they played with dried walnuts left up there by a previous tenant, rolling them around the floor in a bizarre game of night-time football.

The phone rang, stilling the noises from the attic for a moment. He sighed. Forget the bath, he thought. Duty calls.

‘Lucas?’ It was Captain Michel Santer, his old boss and friend from the Clichy district in Paris. Amazing, Rocco considered fleetingly, how bad news could be heralded by the tone of a single word.

‘Michel. What’s up?’

‘I hope you’re sitting down, my friend.’