Twenty-three

Rocco returned home to find a cloth-covered dish on his doorstep. The smell as he unwrapped it told him all he needed to know: it was from Mme Denis. Gifting him with eggs and fresh vegetables from her own abundant plot was her way of ensuring that he did not forget the basic principles of eating to stay alive. But a pie? And a meat pie at that, with a golden crust peppered with holes and releasing a tantalising aroma of meat and herbs. He sensed this might be a further offer of apology for her curtness of the other day. He decided to walk round to the old lady’s small cottage. A personal thank you was required along with, no doubt, a snippet of detail about his latest case.

‘Thank you, madame,’ he said warmly, when she came to the door. ‘I shall eat well tonight. But you really didn’t need to go to such trouble. And meat is expensive.’

She brushed off the words with a pouff. ‘There’s no need to concern yourself. I have an arrangement with a friend at the other end of the village. Her husband’s a farmer and produces his own excellent meat. He supplies several restaurants in the area.’

‘An arrangement?’

She gave a chuckle. ‘Yes. I let drop a few choice details of your past cases in return for some of her husband’s meat cuts. It’s called bartering. It’s a lost art – you should try it sometime.’

‘I do, often,’ said Rocco. ‘Only I barter not to shoot criminals if they come quietly.’

She gave him a sideways look. ‘I don’t believe that for a second. Eat the pie and be grateful; you’re looking a bit peaky, if I may say so. You need feeding up. That commissaire of yours is working you far too hard.’

‘Thank you. I’ll tell him you said so.’

‘What you don’t eat, keep cool, otherwise it will go off.’

‘How do I do that?’ Rocco didn’t have a refrigerator and hadn’t yet seen the need.

She frowned. ‘Use the cave – the cellar – of course.’ Then her face cleared. ‘Wait – you don’t know about the cellar?’

‘Didn’t know, never had cause to look,’ he replied honestly. It was the truth. He’d never been concerned with storing anything so hadn’t ventured to search.

‘Honestly, you men.’ She grabbed him by the wrist. ‘Come with me. I know there is one because the previous tenant used to complain about the steps being too steep.’

She bustled off, and led him to his kitchen, where she pointed to a cupboard door beneath the stairs. ‘It’s under there – a trapdoor in the floor.’

Rocco opened the door and sure enough saw a square cut-out in the floorboards. When he lifted it, he saw a flight of stone steps going down into the dark.

‘It’s not very deep so you’ll have to stoop,’ said Mme Denis. ‘It’s perfectly dry and there’s room for some bottles and vegetables and what-not and …’ She turned on him. ‘And I can’t believe you didn’t find this already!’ She slapped him on the arm. ‘How do you think we store food in the countryside without all the modern trucs you city folk use?’

Rocco shrugged. ‘I don’t know … I assumed you just hung it from a tree wrapped in a dead animal skin.’

This earned him another slap, this time accompanied by a smile. ‘Idiot. Eat your pie and put the rest down there.’

When she had gone, he inspected the pie. It was quite heavy and looked substantial enough for at least two hearty meals. He cut a wedge out of it for his dinner and prepared some potatoes, then put them on to boil while he placed the rest of the pie on a ledge in the cellar, which was little more than a brick-lined two-metre square hole in the ground, and surprisingly cool after the heat of the day outside. Then he took a walk around his garden and thought about his future.

Leaving this place would be getting back to what he knew best, which was the city and its fast-moving atmosphere, with little time to relax or wonder what was coming next. Crime in Paris was like nowhere else, fuelled by a cultural mix from all over France, North Africa and the rest of Europe. Given the correct documentation, people were now able to travel legally more easily than ever before in their search for work and a new life. And, for those who cared little for constraints or social conventions, there was ample opportunity to feed off the more law-abiding of its citizens and the increasing wealth around them.

Thoughts of Paris reminded him of Vauquelin. The lawyer had behaved no differently from most of his kind when a client was confronted by the police. He’d been suspicious, coolly aggressive and defensive. But there had been something in the man’s demeanour and even his presence at the château that made Rocco wonder at his hostility.

He went inside, picked up the telephone and called a Paris number. If anyone could find information about the lawyer it would be Captain Michel Santer, his old boss and mentor in the Clichy-Nanterre district. A fount of knowledge on all matters of justice in the Paris metropolis, what he didn’t know he could usually find out very quickly from his legion of contacts built up over many years. Overweight and tough as a Seine barge-master, he would no doubt make Rocco pay for the favour in some way – usually with food – but it would be worth every centime in the end.

‘Vauquelin?’ Santer echoed, once they had got past the customary exchange of friendly banter. ‘Maître Vauquelin?’

‘That’s the one,’ said Rocco. ‘You know him?’

‘Of him, yes – and not much of it pleasant. I’ve never crossed swords with him, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m far too low down the ladder for that. Why do you ask?’

‘He’s popped up in this area, representing a local artist who might be mixed up in a case I’ve been asked to look at.’

‘An artist, huh? They’re said to be a passionate lot. Probably all the paint fumes and lack of good food. Anything juicy?’

‘Bourdelet.’

There was a pause, then Canter swore softly. ‘Mère de Dieu! You mean Secretary–’

‘That’s the one.’

‘How the hell did you get lumbered with that? They might as well have given you a stick of dynamite and told you to shove it down your trousers!’

‘I think the Interior Ministry must like my sparkling wit and go-get-them attitude.’

‘I hope you don’t live to regret it. You know cases like that can be a killer, don’t you? Especially if you stumble on the kind of information the people at the top don’t want to hear. It’s called shooting the messenger.’

‘So I’ve been told. Anyway, this lawyer Vauquelin also calls himself an artist’s agent.’

‘Fancy that. Artists have agents, too, do they? Like film stars. They’ll be making records next. Listen, the short answer is, I don’t know anything definite, but I’ll ask around and get back to you.’

‘Thanks, Michel. I appreciate it.’

‘How much?’

‘Pardon?’ Here it comes, thought Rocco, and smiled to himself. He hadn’t seen Santer in a little while, so it would be good to get together again. But his captain was about to make him pay for the privilege.

‘You heard me.’ Santer laughed. ‘If you remember the last time we spoke, over that Vieira killing a little while back, I mentioned a new restaurant I’d heard was doing a nice line in seafood. I could do with trying it out – just for research, you understand.’

Rocco laughed. ‘I remember. Langoustine in garlic butter followed by smoked salmon, I think you said.’

‘And a nice Chablis – premier cru, of course. That’s the one. Glad there’s nothing wrong with your memory, even if your choice of work is a bit suspect. The restaurant’s on the outskirts of Montigny, in an old mansion, so not far from your place. It’s called Le Vieux Poêle. I reckon I can spare some time to meet up with one of my star pupils.’

‘It’s a deal – but don’t blame me if your heart explodes one day.’

‘There are worse ways to go, my friend. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow. Luckily tomorrow’s a half-day off for me, so let’s meet up in Montigny for lunch, say twelve-thirty?’

‘You’ll have something that soon?’ He’d expected to wait forty-eight hours at least for Santer to tap into the grapevine of police contacts. Plainly he had underestimated the man.

‘I already know who to ask. I just need to pin him down – he’s a busy man. Don’t worry, Lucas, it’ll be worth it, I promise.’

Rocco couldn’t argue with that. With his current workload, anything he could learn from Santer would be useful. It could well be that any snippets about Vauquelin were purely gossip and unhelpful, but that was police work: some you won, some you lost.