Twenty-four
Commissaire Francois Massin had never been one for mixing at the kind of social levels of Secretary Bourdelet, Judge Jules Petissier or even former Director General Gambon. He had never been much of a socialite and, after his fall from military grace in Indochina, any kind of interaction with such people had become too much of a potential ordeal. Many senior members of the establishment had served in the military and were likely to be amply acquainted with Massin’s past. The military world was small and tight-knit, and chatting to men whom he suspected would look at him with barely-concealed distaste was something Massin preferred not to do. He didn’t fail to see the irony in this additional lack of courage, but was prepared to live with it.
Yet still there was buried away inside him a need to know what his contemporaries and those above them truly thought of him. Had his service in the police helped to gloss over the memories of the disgrace? Or was his reputation following him around still, like a noxious smell, to be revived and chewed over the moment he put in an appearance?
The answer was, he didn’t know. And since nobody had come out and voiced an opinion over the years, about which he was both grateful and a little suspicious, he wondered if this exercise he had decided to undertake in place of Rocco might provide some answers, whether positive or negative.
In any event, this evening would be the first test, prompted by an embossed invitation he’d found in his personal mail, and felt like jumping off a cliff. It was one of the regular gatherings of senior police personnel which he’d previously been happy to avoid, held at a plush venue outside Versailles. They were designed to instil a sense of comradeship among the officer corps while smoothing over any inter-regional problems that occasionally occurred. He knew that many of the officers attending, including some retired high-ranking members invited as a courtesy, had contacts high up in the establishment, and were not the kind to hide their lights under a bushel, especially when alcohol was flowing and everyone felt comfortable in the company of equals. If there was any gossip circulating, it would be a useful place to start.
He handed the invitation card to a male receptionist at the front desk. The man took it with a faint frown, shrugged and placed it to one side without looking at it.
Massin took a glass of champagne from a table and walked into the main hall, where he did a tour of the room. Nodding occasionally, exchanging a greeting here and there, gradually he felt himself settling in among them while resisting the urge to turn and flee for the obscurity of the darkness outside.
‘Ah, Massin.’ A voice sounded in his ear. He turned to find himself face to face with a man he hadn’t seen in a long while. Contrôleur Généralde Police Nationale Alexandre Ceyton had always been genial, especially when he was first assigned a position in the force. ‘It’s good to see you,’ Ceyton said, and shook his hand with no evident censure.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Massin noticed a few looks from officers around them. With the confident manner and good looks of a film star, Ceyton’s approach immediately placed Massin among the ranks of the accepted.
‘You’ve been absent too long from these gatherings. How is Amiens treating you?’
‘Very well, sir,’ said Massin. ‘It suits me very well.’
‘Good. I’m glad you decided to come this evening. It’s always useful to have a full house at these events.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I heard you’ve had some interesting occurrences up there, including the death of a gang leader and that planned attempt on de Gaulle last year. I always thought it would be too remote up in Picardie for there to be such problems, but apparently not. What was the name of your officer who dealt with those? I should know the name but it escapes me.’
‘Rocco, sir. Inspector Rocco.’ Massin hid his surprise that this senior officer had such instant recall of the events, among all the other crimes throughout the country. He felt rather than saw other men bending an ear nearby, no doubt wondering about his friendship with such a senior member of the hierarchy.
‘Rocco. Yes, I remember now. Isn’t he the one handling the Bourdelet thing?’
‘That’s correct.’
Ceyton pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Rather him than me. Like being thrown into a bed of nettles in one’s underwear. Still, he sounds capable and you’ve clearly got a good hand on the tiller, so I’m sure he’ll survive.’ He leaned forward and said, ‘Good thing he weathered the de Gaulle thing, though. It would have been a real stinker for his promotional prospects if the big man had gone down, wouldn’t it?’ He gave a grim laugh and was joined by chuckles from two other men who had moved closer, attracted by the topic of conversation.
‘So, you’re Massin,’ said one, eyeing him appraisingly over his glass of champagne. ‘I’ve heard things about you.’ He murmured his own name and introduced the man next to him. Both names Massin instantly forgot. He shook their hands and wondered if what they had heard was good or bad.
‘I’m in Nantes district,’ the newcomer continued. ‘I’ve had a couple of men recently interested in moving somewhere else, and both enquired about transfers to your region. What do you do up there to arouse such interest? I know you don’t pay better than anywhere else, and the weather’s no better, so what’s the secret?’
‘No secret,’ said Massin. ‘We’re just doing our jobs. No different from yours, I suspect. And we got lucky a couple of times.’ He hoped that didn’t sound stuffy or self-deprecating. People at this level were suspicious of pomp or false modesty, and neither did he wish to downplay Rocco’s part in the investigations.
The man nodded in acknowledgment. ‘Good point. Luck plays a big part. But you have to be able to capitalise on it when it comes along – as you and your team evidently did.’
The third man joined in. ‘I’m in Touraine and our analysis is that the wider corridor between Paris and the ports of La Manche is going to see a surge of growth in the coming years. And you’re sitting bang in the middle, Massin. Of course, a lot depends on whether Britain is allowed to join the Common Market.’
Ceyton gave a chuckle. ‘Somehow I can’t see that happening, although you’re right: if trade grows then so will a need for effective policing to cope with the increased infrastructure.’ He looked at Massin. ‘Do any of your men speak English, as a matter of interest?’
‘A couple,’ he replied easily. ‘I do, a little, as does my deputy, Perronnet. Rocco, too. In fact, he went over to Scotland Yard last year to discuss the English gang suspected of involvement in the de Gaulle issue you just mentioned.’
‘Damn,’ the second of the two officers muttered with a wry smile. ‘You’ve got the territory sewn up already, haven’t you?’ He laughed. ‘I’ll be contacting you for help if I need to send anyone to England, you can be sure of that.’
Later, having circulated and noticed only one or two signs of recognition in men’s faces, Massin found himself back again with Ceyton, who was standing on the edge of the room studying the crowd and looking, thought Massin, faintly bored.
‘You look as impatient to be away as I am,’ Ceyton commented. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, I enjoy these functions as much as the next man, but they can be rather wearing. The Americans swear by it for sounding people out. They call it pressing the flesh.’ He gave Massin a sideways look. ‘Tell me, what’s your real reason for being here? Is it anything to do with Rocco’s potential move back to Paris?’
The question caught Massin off guard. He had no idea that the subject of Rocco’s new job was common knowledge. His reaction must have been visible because Ceyton looked around and said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not public yet, which is why I didn’t mention it earlier.’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, it was tempting with those two so eager to listen in to our chat. That would have ruined their evening.’
‘I see.’ Massin didn’t, entirely, but didn’t know what else to say. This conversation was moving far above his head, perhaps a result of his not having been to these gatherings before.
‘You won’t be aware,’ Ceyton continued smoothly, ‘but I’ve been on the planning panel from the beginning in discussions about the proposed Brigade de Recherche et d’Intervention or BRI. It’s something of a touchy subject in some quarters. There’s the cost, of course, of setting up the force, and there are libertarians in the establishment who feel it’s merely a subversive way of expanding the powers of the police, a sort of addition to the CRS. It’s not, believe me.’
Massin nodded. From what little he’d heard, the new BRI would be like a scalpel compared with the blunt hammer of the CRS. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I doubt Rocco would be interested otherwise.’
Ceyton nodded, and looked at him as if searching his face for clues. ‘Why have you never been to one of these before?’
‘It’s never been my thing, to be honest.’
‘Nor mine. I’d get out of it, too, if I could, and my wife would certainly appreciate me spending more time at home.’ He had a sharp twinkle in his eyes and gave Massin a friendly smile. ‘Yet you suddenly turn up out of the blue and manage to look as if you’ve been a regular. What are you after? Come on, you can tell me. I came here deliberately to make contact with a couple of specific individuals, so you’re not alone in having an agenda.’
Massin felt a drumming in his ears. He swallowed. He might as well be honest with this man. After all, what was the worst that could happen? ‘It’s a work question,’ he replied. ‘I’m looking for inside information, I suppose you’d call it … of a sensitive nature.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ Ceyton said, and snatched up two fresh glasses from a passing tray. ‘A senior uniform doing some detecting. How unusual. Do tell, is it a current case?’
Massin hesitated, but since Ceyton had already mentioned Bourdelet, it was pointless trying to avoid it. And refusing to answer questions from such a senior officer would look highly suspicious.
‘It’s partly the Bourdelet case,’ he said, ‘but Rocco’s been assigned to two more just like it. Judge Petissier and Director General Gambon were victims of the same blackmail letter.’ He gave a brief summary of the reactions to the letters and Rocco’s search for the blackmailer.
Ceyton lifted both eyebrows. ‘I heard about that. What is it you’re after, specifically?’
Massin told him. Links, he explained, between the three men. Someone had to have known the backgrounds of all three, specifically that they had purchased forged or copied paintings of old works of art. It wasn’t the kind of information one could stumble on by chance, since none of the men would have been keen to have their peccadilloes aired outside their close circle of friends. ‘Find the links, is Rocco’s belief,’ he finished, ‘and we could be a lot closer to finding out who knew all three men. Who could be responsible for sending the letters.’
‘And why,’ Ceyton suggested heavily. ‘What is it they say – follow the money? Find out who would benefit most from financial gain?’
Massin nodded. ‘Unless it’s simply a way of ruining their reputations.’
‘Revenge? I hadn’t thought of that. You could be right.’ Ceyton peered into his glass. ‘Well, I’m not going to get any husband of the year award for going home now, and I could do with a bit of excitement.’ He looked around at the crowd. ‘Tell you what, Massin, I’ll give you a hand. I probably know more people here than you do, so let me do a bit more mixing, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow if I find anything. That do you?’
Massin nodded. He wasn’t sure if he hadn’t just made a disastrous mistake, but he had a feeling that Ceyton’s offer of help was genuine. ‘That’s very kind, sir. I appreciate it.’
‘No problem. It might lead nowhere, of course, but that won’t reflect badly on Rocco. As long as he puts on a good show, eh?’
‘Show, sir?’ Massin was puzzled.
‘Yes. It’s all about public perception, you see. This entire Bourdelet affair is a scandal waiting to explode. If we do nothing we’re accused of a cover-up; if we go overboard we’re accused of wasting money. But, by focussing certain special resources on the case – a well-known investigator with a proven record – even for a short time, we’re seen as being even-handed.’
‘I see.’ Massin didn’t quite, but he decided to let it ride.
But Ceyton hadn’t finished.
‘The advantage to this approach,’ Ceyton continued, ‘is that there’s nothing wrong with a failed investigation. They happen, as we all know. And sometimes, as might be the case here, you have to know when to cut your losses. Job done but nobody loses.’
‘Failed? Sir, I’m not sure Rocco will fa– ’
‘I’m sure he won’t, Massin. I’m sure he won’t.’ Ceyton leaned forward, his wine breath touching Massin’s face. His expression had turned almost chilled. He said softly, ‘As long as your boy does what he’s told when he’s told. Get my meaning?’
‘Told what?’
‘Told to write it off. Shove it in a bottom drawer somewhere and forget it.’ He finished his drink. ‘If he does that, he’ll have a prosperous and successful career ahead of him, mark my words.’ He tapped Massin on the arm. ‘Make sure you remind him, though, won’t you?’