Thirty-six
Rocco headed towards Mers-les-Bains. It was less than twenty minutes away and he needed to check something out. He was cursing himself under his breath. He’d been fooled by an expert. Whoever the man calling himself Hubert really was, he’d been cool and confident, adapting to Rocco’s arrival with a convincing explanation and getting out of there as quickly as possible. He’d done a good job of clearing out any paperwork from Petissier’s desk and torching it, reducing it to a fine dust just in time.
Who the hell was he? There had been a definite military air about the man, and he’d been well-prepared, even knowing Rocco was due to visit and that there was a sickness epidemic at the Abbeville police station. That took either inside knowledge or thorough and clever preparation. A professional, in other words.
He’d known several former soldiers who had worked for criminal gangs in the past. They had a good work ethic, followed orders to the letter and weren’t afraid of facing up to trouble if it came along. But something about Hubert had been different. He’d clearly been sent to obliterate all trace of embarrassing papers that might surface and reveal a criminal connection. But it was a clean-up operation on whose behalf? The state’s … or somebody else’s?
He realised, with frustration, that he’d probably never know.
He used his radio to contact the Mers-les-Bains station to see if they still had an officer on duty at Gambon’s house. They didn’t, but the duty officer promised to send someone down there with a key immediately.
When Rocco arrived, a young woman gardienne was standing outside the front door. He got her to open up and walked through to the living room where he’d seen the painting and the photographs. He checked the photographs one by one. Nothing. Then he looked through the drawers where he’d found the photo albums, this time paying close attention to each page.
There were no fewer than five photos featuring Maître Vauquelin. Three had been taken at what looked like official functions, while two were at more relaxed events, showing that Gambon and Vauquelin were acquainted by more than professional contact.
He closed the books after taking out the two last photographs, which he placed in his pocket along with the one he’d retrieved from Petissier’s study.
He thanked the policewoman for her time, left her to lock up and drove back to Amiens. On the way he got through to Dreycourt.
‘Hello, Lucas. What’s new?’
‘I need you to check a couple of things at Bourdelet’s house. I don’t have time to get there right now.’
‘Sure. Is it urgent?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ll certainly help if I can. But I should tell you that I’ve just been ordered to step down from this investigation. The call came from the Ministry ten minutes ago. I’m surprised they haven’t got to you yet.’
‘I’ve been keeping a low profile.’
‘Clever man. Anyway, I’ll do what I can. What is it?’
Rocco told him and Dreycourt agreed without question, although he sounded intrigued.
By the time Rocco got back to Amiens, Dreycourt had an answer for him. ‘You’ve got a good eye, Lucas,’ the expert said. ‘To be honest, I’d missed it completely.’ Rocco thought he sounded almost disappointed. ‘I checked the painting and you were right: there’s a flower all right. It’s small and almost hidden, but definitely not a feature of the original. I’ve checked the other copies and the same flower is present on those, too.’
At least he wasn’t calling them forgeries any longer, Rocco noted. The change of certainty about Cezard’s guilt must have been tough to accept. ‘What about the signatures?’
‘Deliberately vague – and nothing like the originals. He was clever; he deliberately made sure they could not be classified as fakes – at least, not by anyone who knew what they were doing.’
Rocco placed the photos of all three paintings on his desk side by side. Each one, now he knew where to look, contained a tiny white marguerite daisy in the bottom right-hand corner, a easily-missed detail on the floor, as if the flower had been dropped or cast aside in a moment of boredom by the subject of the paintings.
‘What about the photos in his sideboard at home?’
‘Got those, too. I took the liberty of acquiring three in all. Who’d have thought, eh? Bourdelet and Vauquelin, like best friends. Do you want them?’
Rocco felt a rush of relief. He might never get to use them if the Ministry closed him down, but it was proof of some kind of connection. ‘Thank you. Could you send them to Amiens?’
‘Will do. What are you going to do now?’
‘Talk to the artist and connect all the links.’
First, he tried calling Caspar. He didn’t expect to find him at home and there was no answer.
He called Cezard’s number but that, too, rang and rang. He put the phone down and sat back in his chair. He felt exhausted and he knew he had very little time left to work this case before the Ministry pulled the plug and demanded a report. Right now, that report would play into their hands because it would contain nothing but suspicion and speculation, an absence of solid evidence the like of which had sunk many a case over the years.
Dr Rizzotti appeared, clutching a sheaf of papers. Dressed in a white coat, the pathologist stopped by Rocco’s desk and peered at him as if studying a piece of evidence in his laboratory. ‘I had a corpse come in this morning,’ he said casually. ‘Drunk as a skunk moped rider in his seventies. He was kicked out of a café in the town centre for calling into question the morals of the owner’s wife. He went off the road straight into the canal. Got his foot tangled in the pedal and was dragged down. Hell of a way to go. Still, he probably didn’t know much about it. I suppose being that drunk has its benefits.’
Rocco tried a smile. ‘Your point being?’
‘You look worse than he does.’
‘Thanks.’
‘In fact, if I put you into a drawer alongside him, the undertaker would probably take the wrong body. Go home, for God’s sake. You’ve been pushing it a bit, haven’t you?’ He leaned forward. ‘It’s that Bourdelet thing, isn’t it?’
Rocco nodded. ‘That and a couple of others.’
Rizzotti shook his head. ‘You can’t solve them all, you know – especially with the Ministry on your back.’ He pointed meaningfully towards the door, then walked away saying, ‘Doctor’s orders. Rest and recuperation.’
Rizzotti was right, Rocco thought. He needed sleep. In his present state he was worse than useless. Pushing himself to his feet, he left the office and drove home. As he walked into the house, his phone started ringing. He scooped it up. It was Claude.
‘Lucas. Glad I got hold of you.’
‘Why, what’s up?’ Rocco drank a glass of water, the cool liquid doing nothing to revitalise him. Bed and sleep, that was what he needed.
‘I got a call from Georges Maillard down at the café. He said some feller’s been in asking where you live.’
‘A feller?’
‘He wouldn’t give his full name, but said he was a friend of yours. Georges didn’t like the look of him so he rang me. Considering he’s the most miserable man in the village, he’s acting like your biggest fan.’
‘It’s a long story. So, who was the man asking questions?’
‘Do you know anyone called Caspar?’
Rocco put the glass down, the tiredness flushing away in an instant. Caspar was here in Poissons? He must have something important to tell to come all this way. Caspar must have been trying to get hold of him, but he’d been so careful to keep a low profile he’d forgotten to check for calls with the duty operator in Amiens.
‘Where is he now?’ he asked.
‘Waiting down by the café. Georges is keeping an eye on him. Delsaire, too, in case he tries to slip away. I’m on my way to see Georges, anyway, so if this Caspar’s a friend of yours I’ll show him the way, if that’s all right?’
Rocco thanked him and said he’d wait. He smiled at the knowledge that the village telegraph was working on his behalf, instinctively closing ranks against suspicious outsiders. Even more amazing given it was no time at all since he’d been an outsider himself – and here they were treating him as one of their own.
He tidied up and set about gathering the makings of a quick meal. He had eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and ham, and some wine to wash it down. Rough and ready, but at short notice it was the best he could do.
He heard the sound of cars outside and went to the door. Claude waved and drove away, and Caspar got out of his vehicle and walked up the path.
‘I didn’t realise I was going to run into a reception committee,’ said Caspar, grinning and jerking a thumb in the direction of the departing car. ‘Suspicious lot, aren’t they? Claude didn’t say but I got the feeling he’s a cop, or was one.’
Rocco nodded. ‘Still is. He’s a good man. Maillard runs the café and Delsaire’s the local plumber. You were lucky you didn’t run into the local priest; he’d probably have put a curse on you, though it wouldn’t have been for my benefit.’
‘Must be nice having them looking out for you. Doesn’t happen in the city.’
Rocco led him inside and was about to close the door when he saw Mme Denis pottering up the path. She was carrying another cloth-covered dish.
‘I see you’ve got company,’ she said. ‘It’s good timing because I’ve made another pie. Chicken this time.’ She thrust it at him. ‘I hope you like it. There’s easily enough for two.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Are you trying to fatten me up? Not that I’m complaining. The other one was delicious. I’ll let you have the dish back tomorrow.’
‘No rush. Anyway, it’s a pleasure to cook for someone after all this time.’ She gave him a sideways look. ‘So, what’s the latest on the Bourdelet case, then?’
‘You know about that?’
She gave a mock frown. ‘I read the newspapers. You’re quite the local hero now. Next thing you know they’ll be putting up a plaque for you on the wall of the mairie. Come on, share.’
‘Well, it’s getting there, but slow going. There are two other cases as well, not so high-profile, and that’s making it more complicated.’ He added softly, ‘My sources say there’s possible gang land involvement – but don’t tell anyone.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘Really? My goodness, you work fast, don’t you?’ She peered past him and whispered, ‘Who’s the young fella – one of your informants come to give you the latest underworld gossip?’
‘Damn,’ he said mildly. ‘You guessed. Well, that’s his cover blown. I’ll have to shoot him and bury him in the garden.’
She disappeared down the path, chuckling to herself. When he turned to go back in, he found a grinning Caspar watching him.
‘Not just the village heavies looking after your back, then? Little old ladies, too.’
‘Don’t be misled by appearances,’ Rocco said. ‘She’s tougher than the rest of them put together.’
‘Like I said, must be nice. I hope Lucille and I can find somewhere like it when we move out of Paris.’
‘I’m sure you will. How is she by the way?’
‘Great, thanks. She’s at her niece’s near Dreux for a couple of days, helping with a new baby.’
Rocco put the pie down on the table and removed the cloth. ‘I hope you’re hungry because this pie needs eating now.’
‘Famished. Show me the cutlery and plates and I’ll lay the table.’
‘And perhaps you’ll tell me what you’ve turned up.’
‘How did you guess?’
‘You wouldn’t have come all this way otherwise. And you’re grinning like a dog with a new bone.’ He poured two glasses of wine. ‘There’s a spare bed next door. If you don’t mind the fruit rats in the roof, you’re welcome to stay the night.’
Caspar raised his glass and they touched rims. ‘To good friends and fruit rats. And down with cop-hating lawyers.’
Thirty minutes later, chicken pie eaten and glasses emptied, Caspar finished telling Rocco what he’d discovered in Serban’s backyard. ‘I thought I’d blown my chances,’ he admitted, ‘but the photos and letters make a good case, don’t they?’
‘They’ll certainly help stack up the evidence,’ Rocco admitted. ‘It would help if we could get Peretz the driver to testify against his boss.’
Caspar pursed his lips. ‘He might, if he thinks he’ll get away without following Serban to jail. If he goes down as well, he won’t last five minutes inside. Serban will see to that.’
‘Maybe we can use that.’ Rocco related what Fontenal had told him about Serban’s circle of friends. Peretz was unlikely to want to face up to that kind of retribution in a general prison. But given a guarantee that charges against him would be dropped for giving evidence, he’d probably opt for a new start a long way from Paris.
Caspar nodded. ‘Actually, from what I know of him, I think you’d be better going after Vauquelin. He’d do anything to get a reduced sentence once the others start talking. Jail is the last place he’ll want to be, even if he makes the mistake of thinking he’s among friends who’ll protect him. They’d skin him alive just for the laugh.’
‘Good point. Thanks for doing this, Caspar. It’s been a big help. I hope Lucille won’t hold it against me.’
Caspar grinned. ‘No chance. To tell you the truth, I enjoyed it.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Sure. I had a moment back there when I had a bit of a wobble, but it made me realise that I haven’t totally lost my nerve. It made me appreciate what I’ve got now even more. Maybe I need a spark of electricity once in a while, to get the adrenalin flowing.’
‘As long as it’s only in a while.’ Rocco lifted his glass.
‘I’ll drink to that. But don’t forget to call me next time you need help.’
‘Will do.’
They clinked glasses. ‘Santé,’ said Caspar.
‘Santé.’