Five

Despite its elegant name, Douligny-la-Rose was too small to qualify as a town, yet too sprawled for a village. Neither were there any roses in sight, thought Rocco, as he entered the community limits. Deserted and deathly quiet, it lay still as a lizard in the morning sun, a rambling array of houses and bungalows connected by a single street with a high centre curving down to dust-filled gutters. Apart from a few faded flyers on trees and telegraph poles advertising tag wrestling bouts and a visiting circus that had passed through a year ago, there was little colour to be seen, as if the locals had decided on a sepia life.

In other words, Rocco estimated, the place was bigger than Poissons but nowhere near as lively. The thought reminded him that he’d seen no sign of Mme Denis this morning. Usually up and doing with the skylark, the old lady’s shutters had still been closed when he’d left home. It was unlike her, but then so was last night’s abrupt behaviour. He made a mental note to check on her as soon as he could, wondering what he could have done to upset her. Maybe she was having problems with her back, which had been troubling her recently.

He looked across a nearby garden, spotting the tip of the gothic cathedral of Amiens just visible on the horizon between two houses and the rooftops. It was only about fifteen kilometres away, but might as well have been a hundred, for all the aspirations Douligny’s citizens seemed to harbour. Ancient and fort-like walled farmhouses, with double wooden doors wide enough to admit a horse and cart, were dotted around in a haphazard fashion. They were interspersed with with more recent buildings – meaning those less than two hundred years old – all huddled together. It seemed a community held together with reluctance, born of necessity. Only the stone church seemed above it all, standing on a slight mound at the end of a narrow track, a dark presence looming over the community.

Rocco parked his car in the shade of a large beech tree. The sight of the vehicle would undoubtedly arouse some interest, but then the black Citroën Traction was as hard to ignore as its driver. Rocco, too tall and sombrely-clothed to pass unnoticed in this rural area, had long given up trying to blend in. It hadn’t been so difficult in Paris, but out here he was taller than the average man and dressed in a way which guaranteed he would be noticed. He’d also resisted the suggestion by his superiors that he change the Citroën for something a little more innocuous and up-to-date. His counter was that it was reliable, solid and comfortable, so why bother?

Up ahead he could see where the street opened out into the inevitable village square, with the tall roof of the town hall, topped by a tricoleur hanging limply against the flagpole, untroubled by a hint of breeze.

He walked along the rutted pavement, passing a handful of houses with polished steps and shuttered windows, each wooden fascia closed to the street save for a hand-sized diamond cut-out in the top centre. Had Rocco been able to see inside, he knew he would have found a series of small front rooms, neat and little-used, darkened by the shutters to keep out any unwelcome heat. Most of the households would possess impressively sturdy furniture handed down by their forebears, would see no reason to spend money on new items.

Rocco stopped at the corner of the square and looked around. It was more of a lopsided triangle, formed by the main through-route and two short stretches of paved road no longer than a hundred metres on either side. A small war memorial stood at the top against the iron railings of the town hall, with fading ribbons hanging from the stonework. The handful of shops around the square comprised a co-op, a bakery, a garage with a single fuel pump and a crêperie which appeared to be closed. The only sign of life was a dog sprawled in the sun outside the co-op, a hind leg kicking as it dream-chased a cat.

Immediately to his left was a café with three small tables and a number of chairs arranged haphazardly along the narrow pavement outside. They seemed perilously close to the kerb, with a line of wooden posts on flat bases in the gutter, although whether in an effort to safeguard the customers or claim more territory wasn’t immediately obvious.

Only one customer was in evidence, a man in a smart suit sitting by the front door. He was studying a newspaper. Before him was a large, white cup and saucer and a box of sugar cubes, and he couldn’t have looked any more out of place in this sleepy village setting if he’d been stark naked and wearing a chef’s hat.

This had to be Dreycourt. Ministry of Interior suits had a look all of their own. Like peas in a pod only greyer.

Without looking up the man raised one hand and beckoned Rocco to join him. With the other he reached to one side and hammered on the café door. As Rocco went over, a shambling figure in a loose shirt and creased trousers stepped outside and flicked a stained tea towel at a couple of wasps buzzing around the awning. He nodded at Rocco then looked at his suited client.

‘Two coffees and a jug of milk,’ the man said, folding the paper and pushing it to one side. ‘Strong, preferably. The coffee, I mean.’ He squinted up at Rocco and made a gesture for him to take a seat. ‘I’ve been advised by my doctor to take milk with mine. Bit late in life to start worrying, but what can you do? Your work file suggests you have a liking for coffee. I take it that hasn’t changed?’

‘Not entirely.’ Rocco sat with his back to the wall. ‘Do they actually employ someone to do that – note our likes and dislikes, I mean? It’s a touch intrusive, isn’t it?’

‘I agree,’ said the man, ‘but that’s the Ministry for you. They see it as one of their strengths, having a finger on every pulse. They’ve got a file on me, too, God rot them, but that’s one of the penalties of government work. Marcel Dreycourt.’ He smiled dryly and held out a hand. His grip was firm but didn’t linger. Not a professional hand-shaker, thought Rocco, the kind who uses a greeting as an opportunity to show superiority or dominance. He had a direct expression, too, with no hint of guile, and the clean-shaven look of a man who took pride in his appearance without being obsessive. ‘Between you and me,’ Dreycourt continued, ‘I think it’s something they’ve copied from the Bundespolizei. I’m sure you know of the German passion for detail, even when it seems unnecessary.’

Rocco nodded but said nothing. If he’d learned one thing in his two careers as a soldier and policeman, you got more information by employing silence than speech. And right now, he wanted to know what this smartly-suited and booted man from the Interior Ministry wanted of him.

Dreycourt must have learned the same lesson, or maybe he was instinctively discreet when out in public. He smiled briefly, nodding towards the café door as an indication to wait for the owner to return with their coffees. Moments later, the large man appeared and placed the cups and a small jug of milk before them, then swatted at the wasps again before disappearing inside.

‘I’d like to clear up one small misconception you might have about me,’ Dreycourt said, stirring sugar into his coffee. ‘That I’m a Ministry employee. I’m not.’

‘Really?’ Rocco could do without the mystery; it was far too early and he had too much to do, too many case files to review to waste time sitting here. ‘So why the official letter?’

‘Because that was my instruction. I’m sorry – I couldn’t avoid it. I’m employed by the government in an advisory position, but that doesn’t mean I can ignore direct requests.’ Dreycourt sipped his coffee and pulled a face, although not at the taste. ‘I was on the payroll once, one of the worker drones, but they dispensed with my field of speciality as it was seen as too … special, I think one of them put it.’ He grinned sourly. ‘You know civil servants: getting rid of something when they don’t understand it is as natural as breathing.’ He broke off and looked down into his cup with an expression of surprise. ‘This is amazingly good coffee. I wasn’t sure with the first cup, but this confirms it. I might come here again. It’s always good to get out of the city when I can.’

‘What was your original job?’ Rocco tasted his coffee; Dreycourt was right – it was excellent. Maybe he’d give the man another few minutes before heading back to the office.

‘Was and still is: combatting art fraud, specifically forgery. I track down forgers passing off works of art as genuine.’

‘And it’s a full-time thing?’

‘It is when it leads to suicide, Inspector. Or murder.’