Twelve

Save for an absence of sunshine, Douligny-la-Rose looked as sleepy as it had on Rocco’s first visit and Dreycourt was once more the café’s only customer. The art expert saw Rocco and waved a greeting, then banged on the café door. The owner appeared instantly, and Rocco wondered if the man had been waiting just inside for the summons, a rural genie popping out of a lamp to perform magic.

‘Sorry about dragging you back out here at such short notice, Lucas,’ said Dreycourt. ‘But you’ll soon understand why.’

‘More information about Bourdelet?’ Rocco replied, taking a seat.

‘I wish it was. Unfortunately, there have been two more “events” like it. Let’s have coffee first. I need to get my thoughts in order.’

Rocco was happy to do so, although impatient to hear more. Did he mean two more blackmail threats or two more deaths? At this rate a single investigator wasn’t going to be sufficient to work the cases fast enough.

The café owner appeared with their coffees and, after using a cloth to dust off the surface with a cavalier flourish, set the tray down and retreated indoors. Both men tasted their drinks, before settling back.

‘I’ll come back to Bourdelet in a minute,’ said Dreycourt. ‘The latest victims received similar letters threatening exposure. Both, if the claims are to be believed, had purchased paintings and both men are – or were – in positions of great delicacy, if exposed.’

Whoever the new victims were, Rocco thought, the threat of their ownership of copy paintings being made public had to mean more than mere embarrassment. ‘Who were they?’

‘Ah, now you’re officially on the case, there’s no problem in disclosing everything.’ Dreycourt looked relieved at the idea. ‘The second case was Jean-Marie Gambon. Gambon recently retired from his position as Director General of the Sûreté Nationale, to settle in Mers-les-Bains on the coast. He was divorced. Gambon’s letter referred to the purchase of two paintings, one of which he’d sold, allegedly to pay off some debts and to fund his retirement.’ Dreycourt’s expression didn’t change as he added, ‘The letter reminds Gambon that he knowingly sold it to a private buyer in the United States as an original. That claim is so far unsubstantiated and I’m having someone in our consulate general staff in New York look into it. It will take time and it’s possible the buyer won’t be happy to admit he’s been fooled.’

Rocco nodded. Caveat emptor. Buyer beware. Maybe the American buyer hadn’t been any more bothered by the authenticity of the painting than Gambon himself. Brothers in arts.

‘And the other?’

‘The third victim was Jules Petissier, a senior judge in the Assize Court. He lives in Abbeville.’

Another high-profile name, thought Rocco. Whoever was doing this wasn’t exactly aiming at the bottom of the tree. High-profile usually indicated a measure of wealth and the kind of reputation the owner wouldn’t want sullied by accusations of illegal dealings.

Dreycourt had spoken but he’d missed the words.

‘Sorry?’

‘I was wondering if you might have come across either of these men in the course of your duties.’

‘Because one was a judge and the other the head of the Sûreté?’ Rocco shook his head. It was a reasonable assumption. ‘I don’t fly high enough for that. What happened to them?’

‘Petissier received the letter and folded immediately. In his job you have to be cleaner than clean. Any whiff of a misdemeanour is enough not only to get you dismissed, but in all likelihood to provoke any cases you’ve adjudicated to be appealed and reinvestigated. A messy and protracted business that would have followed him to the grave. According to the letter, he’d intervened in at least four cases which saw serious criminals walk free, allegedly to his financial benefit. That’s not been confirmed yet and is probably unprovable.’

‘But Petissier must have believed it was.’

‘Yes.’

‘Were the cases named?’

‘They were. But three of the defendants have since died and the remaining man is in a care home, so I don’t see them taking us much further.’

Rocco didn’t say anything. Many people forgot that the perpetrators of crimes and witnesses to misdeeds were as vulnerable as everyone else to age, disease and death. But there was always something left behind if you knew where to look, and had some luck on your side.

‘Petissier must have seen no other way out,’ Dreycourt continued. ‘He wrote a letter of resignation and slit his wrists. His gardener found him and they managed to get him to hospital, but he’d lost a lot of blood. He’s currently in a coma and it’s doubtful he’ll survive.’

‘And the other man?’

‘Gambon tried to bluster his way out. I met him once and I’m not surprised – he’s a combative man who doesn’t like being bested. Unfortunately for him the letter he received was seen by his housekeeper, with whom he’d recently ended a long and close liaison.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Quite. The letter referred to loans he’d taken out from questionable sources in order to buy the two paintings.’

‘Questionable?’

‘Criminals. That matter alone is enough to have him hauled in and investigated. Even knowingly selling a forged painting as a genuine work of art would be enough for him to have been looking at prison time.’

That wouldn’t have been fun, thought Rocco. Prison wasn’t fun for anyone, but any former cop going to prison faced a greater raft of dangers. Settling scores didn’t always have to be against a specific person; in the absence of a cop who’d put you away for your crimes, any other cop would do, especially a dirty one.

‘The housekeeper must have known about the paintings because she immediately passed the letter to a local newspaper and confirmed the facts, along with dates and details. They didn’t publish the claims but approached the Ministry for a comment. It was the end of the road for Gambon and his reputation. After submitting to initial questioning to verify if the allegations were true, he hanged himself in a copse near his home.’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘And here was me thinking all cops swallowed their guns when they’d had enough.’

Rocco ignored the dark humour. ‘I need to speak with Gambon’s lady friend and Petissier’s family, if he has one. Bourdelet’s secretary and his housekeeper, too. And I’d like to see all three blackmail letters.’

‘Petissier’s wife died last year. There are no children.’ Dreycourt took a thick envelope from his inside pocket and passed it across the table. ‘You can read these at your leisure. They’re exact copies, nothing has been redacted but they are sensitive so keep them to yourself. I also took the liberty of getting photos taken of the paintings at each house. That way you’ll know what you’re dealing with.’

Rocco was impressed. It showed Dreycourt to be more than just an art expert; he had an eye for the requirements of an investigator going cold into a case.

There were two photos, both of nudes. He flipped over the first one, which was a study of a young woman lying invitingly on a couch, her blonde hair pinned on top of her head. In neat script were the words: “Mademoiselle O’Murphy” by Francois Boucher – 1751 – currently in the Wallraf-Richartz-Museum, Cologne. Gambon.’

The second photo showed another blonde, this one playing with her hair and titled ‘The Toilette of Esther’ by Théodore Chassériau, dated 1841. Petissier. Like Bourdelet’s fake, the genuine article was also residing in Paris, but in the Louvre.

‘A touch of sentimentality there, I believe,’ Dreycourt commented. ‘According to records Petissier’s late wife was named Esther, although I’m assured she looked nothing like that painting.’

Rocco said, ‘I’m no expert but these look amazing.’

‘They do. It’s an irony that never ceases to amaze me: like forgers of bank notes, you’d think they would be capable of making a perfectly respectable living doing it properly.’

‘It wouldn’t be the same, though, would it? Respectable doesn’t always appeal.’ He held up the photos and letters. ‘Thanks for these. I need to get this thing up and running.’

‘I’m glad you see it that way.’ Dreycourt gave a wry grin. ‘It probably won’t surprise you if I say nobody else was exactly eager to throw their hat into the ring. Bourdelet’s involvement was bad enough, but add in these other two and the whole mess is a potential career killer if the investigating officer doesn’t get it right.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ Rocco knew what he meant, though. With Bourdelet alone, toes and reputations were likely to be trampled on in the search for answers, and anyone thrown into investigating the case was likely to pick up some black marks along the way. Not that it troubled him too much; he’d been picking up black marks for most of his career. To Rocco, doing the job right was the main thing, not pandering to other people’s expectations or their instincts for self-preservation.

‘What will you be looking for?’ Dreycourt asked.

‘Whoever wrote the letters will be high on the list. Secondly, where the paintings came from. Join those dots together and we might get somewhere.’

Dreycourt smiled. ‘Joining dots – I like that. Pointillism. Georges Seurat holds the credit for that.’ He waved a hand. ‘Sorry – I’m sure you know that. Are you reserving judgement on Cezard?’

‘Until I have reason not to.’

‘Fair point. Just don’t let his genial manner fool you, that’s all.’

Privately, Rocco didn’t hold out much hope of the letters proving too helpful. They would be devoid of clues, he was certain of that, with nothing to tie them to the originator. The mere fact of them having been sent showed that the author wasn’t concerned about their discovery. In fact, that very openness may have had a secondary intention, to bring about their recipients’ downfall if the demands for money failed. He suggested as much to Dreycourt.

‘Revenge? That’s a new one.’

‘It’s worth considering. Judges, politicians and cops collect enemies like rosettes at a dog show.’ Rocco was speaking from experience. The threat of payback went with the job, although most came to nothing: just hot air covering the individual’s sense of failure. But all it would take was for a sense of grievance to gain traction in an aggrieved individual’s mind, to ferment and blossom over the years, and eventually it could spill over into action. ‘Tell me what happened with Bourdelet.’

‘It was simple, unexpected and quick. He went into his office, telling his secretary not to come in, then locked the door, placed a jacket over his head and blew his brains out with a service revolver. The letter was on his desk.’ He sniffed. ‘It got a little … contaminated, as you’ll see from the copy, but it’s perfectly readable.’

‘Has this gone public?’ Rocco was well aware of the procedure surrounding bad news and government officials. Diving for cover was instinctive; just how deep usually depended on the power and level of the official involved and the potential repercussions for those around him. For a secretary of state, he guessed it would have been considerable.

Dreycourt looked nonplussed. ‘Not yet. But there are indications that details might have been leaked. They’ve had calls from a couple of reporters.’

‘No suicide note?’

‘Not as such, but the letter was as good as. It threatened to make public the fact that the esteemed secretary of state had purchased a forgery of a famous work of art, namely the Gérard painting, to hang on his wall at home. The threat was simple: if he didn’t make a “substantial” donation, the details of which would follow, the matter would go public. The letter was dated the day before and must have been delivered before he left for the office.’

‘Why would buying a forgery be worthy of blackmail? It’s his money, he can do what he likes with it.’

‘If only that were true. Unfortunately, it wasn’t – his money, I mean. The letter went on to suggest that he’d used government funds to acquire it. It’s already been confirmed that Bourdelet had access to a little-known finance ministry “special purposes” account. I’m advised that records of the account show that a cheque for cash was drawn at a bank near his office.’

Rocco grunted. Special purposes. A caisse noire, in other words – a slush fund. Where else would you find secret money but in large corporate bodies and government departments, where paying for information, for campaign support, for buying off opponents and a hundred other things made back-channel persuasion an essential method of doing business?

‘By substantial, what are we talking about?’

‘It didn’t say precisely. But it suggested that as secretary of state for finance, it would be left to Bourdelet to judge how much his position and reputation were worth.’

‘Unusual, for a blackmail letter.’ It had placed the burden solely on Bourdelet to decide what to do. Unfortunately, he had chosen what some might see as his only – maybe even the honourable – way out. ‘Would the alternative have been that bad for him?’

‘For a man in his position, the damage would have been colossal. He’d have lost everything and the government would have been – and undoubtedly will be – enormously embarrassed, with accusations by the opposition of fraud, corruption and impropriety in public office. The media and public would have demanded his head on a plate and he’d have been finished professionally, socially and financially. The unauthorised use of government funds, no matter how secretive they might be, still earns a term in prison.’

‘Could that have been the real aim?’

‘Possibly. It’s hard to say until we dig deeper. With a clever lawyer, the way the law stands, if there was no specific demand it might be hard to make a case if the blackmailer were ever caught. He or she might simply claim they were going to demand that the victim pay back the money to the government to put right a wrong. I think there could be some weight of public opinion behind that.’

‘If the accusation is true. What about the painting?’

‘I was called in to verify it yesterday afternoon. It’s good – very good, in fact. But a fake. I checked with a colleague and she says there’s absolutely no doubt. According to Bourdelet’s ex-wife, he bought the painting a year ago, which ties in with the secret account withdrawal, and never stopped talking about it. As far as she was concerned it was an ego trip and he should have done what most middle-aged men do which is to acquire a sports car or a young mistress.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘There’s not a lot of love lost there, as you can imagine.’

‘Do you have a suspect in mind?’

Dreycourt shrugged and pursed his lips. ‘I’ve tried to find proof that it’s not, but I’m inclined to think it must be Cezard.’