Twenty-eight

Rocco headed for home after telling Desmoulins he’d see him in the morning. He radioed the office and got patched through to the Lille police station, where he asked to speak to officers Pouillot or Maté.

‘Sorry, sir, Maté’s out,’ said the operator. ‘Pouillot’s here, though. I’ll just get him for you.’

Seconds later Pouillot came on. ‘Inspector Rocco? Is there a problem?’ He sounded calm enough but with a hint of unease, as if something might have gone wrong with the arrest of Fontenal and his colleague.

‘Not at all,’ said Rocco. ‘I need your assistance. Are you still holding Fontenal?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m not sure of the progress, though. It’s in the hands of the magistrate.’

‘Good. I need to speak with Fontenal about an unrelated matter. It won’t undermine his case so there’s no conflict. Who do I need to talk to in your office?’

‘I can check that for you, Inspector. Can I call you back?’

Rocco thanked him and cut the connection. Standard procedure would have involved going through Massin to the Lille commissaire for permission to visit a prisoner in his care. But with no provable connection to the Bourdelet case it would have encountered too many obstacles, and the Ministry’s letter of authority would count for nothing. He’d figured Pouillot would be anxious to be seen as proactive, and that might cut a couple of corners and save time.

His sole rationale for speaking to Fontenal was expediency. The gun-toting criminal’s usual area of operations was in the outer reaches of Paris rather than the inner districts where the bigger gangs held sway. But Fontenal was a jackdaw, picking up names and contacts all over because that was the way his larcenous mind worked. If a person seemed useful, Fontenal would slot their name into the back of his head because you just never knew when a name could be turned into a profit. And the name Gregnard had finally spilled – that of the man who’d hired the yellow van – was one Rocco was pretty sure Fontenal would know.

While he was waiting for the young officer to call him back, he checked with the station and found he had an urgent message from Dreycourt.

‘Sorry to load your case burden even more, Lucas,’ said the art expert when he got through. ‘I just received a call about a house fire involving a work of art just outside Compiègne. The local brigade commander thought there was something a little off about the owner’s attitude and wondered if it was a potential fraud case. The Compiègne police knew about my involvement from a previous case and called me.’

‘Go on.’

The fire had occurred in the living room of a house, Dreycourt explained, destroying most of the room and half of a large painting on one wall. The fire brigade was summoned by a neighbour who saw smoke coming from an open window. But the owner, Olivier Bajon, refused to talk to the police who attended and insisted it was an accident with a room heater.

‘In high summer?’ said Rocco.

‘Exactly. I mean, if the owner doesn’t want to make a fuss about a fire, that’s up to him and his insurance company. It could be nothing, but it was the involvement of a work of art so soon after the other three that got my attention.’

‘Quite right. I’ll take a look. Is there a letter involved?’

‘No. At least, if there is, Bajon isn’t saying. But the brigade commander said he seemed unusually agitated, while saying it really wasn’t worth anything.’

Rocco thanked him and pulled into the side of the road to check his map. He was closer to Amiens than Compiègne and the diversion would take a further bite out of his day, but any new potential lead was worth checking.

As he got back on the road Pouillot came through on the radio. The officer sounded pleased at getting the co-operation. ‘I’ve passed word to the duty officer to expect you.’

‘Good of you, Pouillot. Thank you.’

Rocco dumped the map on the back seat and headed for Compiègne.

He found the house easily enough, on a small estate of upmarket detached properties. It was easy to spot, with a damaged fence where the fire brigade had dragged their hoses through, leaving behind a layer of water that had turned the front garden into a swamp.

He knocked at the door. It was snatched open by a small man in his sixties with tufts of white hair above his ears and an aggressive expression on his face.

He stared at Rocco’s card and muttered, ‘Mother of God, when do you people let up? I said it was an accident. Why can’t you accept that?’

‘We like to make sure you’re certain before we close the file,’ said Rocco easily, and pinched his nose at the smell of smoke hanging in the air. ‘It’s all part of a public safety initiative. May I see the damage?’

Bajon stepped back with a huff of impatience. ‘If you want to waste your time, be my guest. It’s a fire-damaged room, that’s all. I’m sure you’ve seen worse in your time. Anyway, why are the police involved? It’s not a crime to be careless in one’s own home, is it?’

‘Of course not.’ Rocco followed him through into a room blackened by smoke and smelling of burnt plastic and wood, where the air was gritty on his tongue. The damage seemed mostly confined to one wall, where half of a large oil painting lay propped at floor level, presumably where it had fallen or been dislodged by the fire hose. The burned remains of an oil heater lay nearby, mixing the air with the pungent smell of paraffin. The subject of the painting was difficult to make out through a layer of soot, but it looked like a woman in a long, floaty dress smiling at someone in the section burned away by the fire. The style was vaguely familiar, like a host of other paintings he’d seen in the past.

‘Nice,’ Rocco commented. ‘Family heirloom?’

‘Huh. I wish,’ said Bajon. ‘It’s worthless if you must know. Not that I’d know the difference. I bought it because my wife liked it. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

‘Of course not. But why were you using the heater?’

Bajon scowled. ‘Because I feel the cold, Inspector, that’s why. I used to work for the foreign office overseas, and caught a dose of pneumonia, followed by a fever. It was some years ago but I haven’t been able to get warm ever since, even in this hot weather. My wife thinks I’m off my head but she doesn’t know what it’s like. I like to stay warm, that’s all.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘I was an idiot, if you must know. I was lighting the heater when I dropped the match. It fell onto a spilled patch of paraffin and went up like a bomb.’ He pointed to his eyebrows. ‘See there? I lost some of the hairs. I was lucky I didn’t lose my eyes.’

‘Are you insured?’

Bajon laughed. ‘You mean for the painting? Forget it. I got it from a man I know who owed me a favour and I hope I never see him again. He said an antique dealer had told him it was decent enough so he offered it to me for a few francs.’ He leaned close and stared up at Rocco. ‘Even I know it’s rubbish. I’m not an art lover; I wouldn’t recognise quality art if it bit me on the arse!’

Rocco bent and peered down at the bottom right-hand corner, but could see no signature.

He looked at Bajon. ‘Does the name Cezard mean anything to you? Sébastien Cezard?’

‘No. Should it?’ The old man looked irritated by the question and Rocco got the feeling he wasn’t acting. ‘There’s no provenance, if that’s what you’re looking for. If it was worth anything the dealer would have made an offer, wouldn’t he? Now, is that all? Only I have a lot of cleaning up to do.’

Rocco thanked him and walked out to the road, relieved to be out in the open air once more. An elderly man was standing by the gate to the property next door, pretending to be checking the hinges. When he spotted Rocco, he shuffled across to intercept him. ‘Are you the police?’

‘I am. Can I help, Monsieur–?’

‘Oh, my name doesn’t matter, Commissaire.’

‘Inspector, actually. Inspector Rocco.’

‘Sorry. I just wanted to tell you something. It was me who called the fire brigade. If it hadn’t been for me the whole place might have gone up in smoke, and yet old Bajon had the cheek to criticise me for sticking my nose in, would you believe? I was simply being a good neighbour. I mean, what kind of person would just stand by while a neighbour’s house burned to the ground?’ He ended on a breathless note, as if it had taken some effort to let out his grievance and he’d finally run out of puff.

‘Perhaps,’ Rocco suggested, ‘he’s feeling embarrassed about it. People do sometimes, when this kind of thing happens.’ He put his hand on the door handle of his car, but the man hadn’t finished. He stepped closer, bringing with him a smell of fried food.

‘Hold on – there’s something else. It’s just … something about the painting that got burned isn’t right.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, he told me and my late wife not so long ago, God rest her soul, that it was an inexpensive piece he’d acquired from his father just recently. Yet I heard him telling one of the fire brigade men that it was a work of art, a family heirloom left to him by his father who died before the war.’

‘Memory plays tricks with people when they’re under pressure,’ Rocco countered. It was more likely that Bajon had been confused, even lying for the sake of appearance and wanting to impress his neighbours.

‘If you ask me, there’s something funny about it,’ the man insisted. ‘I mean, if it was that special why did he tell us differently? Did he think we’d steal it?’

Why indeed, Rocco agreed. But people had their reasons. He decided to get Desmoulins to look into it. If there was an insurance angle, it shouldn’t be too hard to get hold of the details. In the meantime, he had to get this man off the scent before he got himself into an argument he couldn’t handle. ‘Maybe he’s too upset to know what he’s saying.’

The man pulled a face, as if realising that Rocco wasn’t going to be drawn into his game. ‘If you say so, Inspector. Only don’t blame me if it turns out he’s perpetrating some kind of fraud, that’s all I’ve got to say.’ With that he stomped off and disappeared behind his gate, where he glared back at Rocco before turning and walking out of sight.

Gossip or truth? Rocco wondered, as he drove to the office. Misremembered detail, perhaps. Neighbours occasionally fell out and previous confidences often became weapons to be used in the subsequent war of words.

As he drove away, his radio buzzed. It was Pouillot calling from Lille.

‘Inspector, I think you should know that if you want to speak to Fontenal it has to be today … that’s to say, this evening.’

Rocco checked his watch. It was already six. ‘Why the hurry?’

‘We’ve been advised he’s going to be moved to one of the Paris stations first thing in the morning. There’s an outstanding warrant on him and they’re claiming priority.’

Damn. Someone with more muscle was grabbing him, no doubt because of the gun involvement. He had no choice; he’d have to see Bam-Bam now, before he got dragged into the Paris system and out of reach.