Death at the Clos du Lac (19 page)

‘Yes.’ Delombre picked up his phone and listened. The call was from his man in Amiens. He’d been ordered to stick close but not be seen under pain of death. Rocco was on the move again.

Christ, what was it this time? He couldn’t be interested in tracking down the other former inmates of the sanitarium; the gangster was a legitimate state witness and the two embassy people were in state care for their own health. With Devrye-Martin taken care of and unable to talk, that took the skids from under the idiot cop’s feet.

‘He went to a restaurant? So what? I said anything important, you fool, not his lunch appointments.’ He was about to slam down the phone when his man mentioned a familiar name.

‘
Who?
’

‘Jacqueline Roget. I know it was her because I used to work in the same section of the building. She was waiting
for him and they had coffee. Looked very cosy, too, at the end.’

‘Give me a minute.’ Delombre turned and stared through the window. Roget. She was a gofer, a junior officer attached to ISD, but with no direct-action responsibilities. He knew Levignier had had his eye on her for a while. The man had a weakness for young women in the department. It would be the ruination of him one day. But what the hell was Roget doing meeting with Rocco? Then it came to him: Levignier’s idiot plan to incriminate the cop in an allegation of rape: he’d gone all secretive about who he was planning to use. It had to have been the Roget woman. And that plan had failed.

Now she was turning round to bite him.

He spoke into the phone. ‘Stay with Rocco, you hear? Keep me informed of his movements. If you get seen, I’ll come and shoot you myself.’

‘Yes, sir. Should I advise Levignier?’

‘No. You don’t advise anyone, least of all him. This stays with us.’ All his instincts were telling him that Rocco, the country cop, the one he’d misjudged, was on the verge of kicking all their lives to hell and back. What an idiot he’d been. The bloody man was like a shark, sniffing out his prey from miles away, then zeroing in.

But it was too late for recriminations. He was going to have to make a decision that should have been made several days ago. And if Levignier didn’t like it, that was too bad.

But first, he needed to see what this interfering cop looked like.

‘Give me a place where we can meet,’ he told the watcher, and made a quick note of a café in the centre of Amiens,
near the cathedral. ‘Fine. Three p.m. Be there or leave a note if you have to move.’

He dropped the phone back on its rest and swore long and fluently. Then he dialled Levignier. He needed to find out what was happening.

‘Has the bulletin gone out yet?’ he asked him. He was referring to the official intelligence bulletin from the Ministry, alerting selected police districts to the possibility of the kidnappers having moved their way.

‘An hour ago. It should be reaching the stations anytime now, having gone through several different hands. Why? Problem?’

‘Not at all. I was just checking to see where we were on this.’

‘You agreed to it, Delombre. I hope nothing goes wrong.’ Levignier’s words were calm enough but laced with accusation. The tone suggested that while the real servants of the state were above being judged, men like Delombre stood to lose a great deal in the event of failure.

Delombre fought to keep his temper. He had no doubts that if the ball went out of the park, as one of his past commanding officers had been fond of saying, he would very quickly find himself shouldering the burden of blame. The idea of having to go underground for a long time didn’t bother him particularly, but he knew what the final consequences would be: having a man just like himself, trained and motivated to do one thing and do it well, coming after him. It could only ever end one way.

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ he said calmly. ‘We just need to keep the police distracted for a while, that’s all. If they’re looking for her elsewhere, they won’t bother searching
here, will they?’ What he really wanted to say was that it would keep Rocco distracted, but that would be to admit that the damned man was getting too close. And after all his assurances to Levignier and Girovsky that it wasn’t going to happen, he couldn’t afford to put himself in that kind of danger. If Levignier didn’t take direct action, he knew that Girovsky eventually would.

‘If you say so. Our man is almost there, but it just needs a little while longer – and a reminder.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, I’ve been thinking, perhaps a word from our “guest” to show that all is still well might give him the impetus he needs. A sort of lovey-dovey connection, if you wish.’

‘What kind of word?’ God, Levignier and his mind games. The man was obsessed with convoluted plans to achieve his ends. Delombre favoured more direct methods – such as the kind he’d used with Devrye-Martin.

‘A message containing a personal detail, to prove she’s still … viable. I believe it should tip the balance of his judgement in our favour.’

‘You want me to prepare her?’

‘If you would. But don’t hurt her; we need her alive and able to talk, not damaged or dead.’

‘How long do you want this to go on? What if talking doesn’t work?’

‘Then she’s no longer of any use to us, is she? Before you do that, though, I suggest you acquaint yourself with the search team as soon as possible. They’re in the Pantin area – you’ll get their location from central command. Find out what they’re doing and put them off digging
further. The intelligence bulletin should help. It would be embarrassing if they happened to stumble upon our two furniture removers, wouldn’t it?’

‘Very well. What if they’re close?’

‘In that case, cut to the chase and deal with the removers. You’ve got the address?’

‘I have. Any specific orders?’

‘They need to be retired.’

‘Oh, goody.’

Rocco walked back to the office, his mind in a whirl. At one point he stopped and turned. He’d got the odd feeling of something in the air, as if he were being watched. It gave him an itchy feeling in his shoulders. It wouldn’t be the first time in his career that he’d been under surveillance, nor the last. But there was nobody obvious in sight.

What had just happened? He was confused. Had he just been played by an expert, or had Jacqueline Roget genuinely wanted to apologise to a target she’d never met before the other evening? And had the reference to her aunt’s house been an invitation – or had he mistakenly taken it as such and blundered over the line of acceptable behaviour?

He was still trying to figure it out when he was met at the door by René Desmoulins waving a sheet of paper. It looked like one of the Urgent Response bulletins issued by the intelligence section of the Interior Ministry when they wished to poke the entire country’s police force into a buzz
of activity. Behind Desmoulins the building was a rush of voices and hurrying feet.

‘There’s a flap on,’ said the detective. ‘All hands on deck. Godard’s been ordered to call in all his men.’

‘Not being invaded again, are we?’

‘Even worse. The Interior Minister has gone public about a recent kidnap victim. All regions are on full alert for signs of her, but we’re the hot spot.’

‘Do we have the victim’s name yet?’ News reports over the past couple of days had been long on drama but short on detail. No doubt the authorities had been anxious to keep the victim’s name out of the limelight for fear of a reprisal killing or instigating copycat crimes, but it probably wouldn’t have made much difference in the end. It rarely did.

‘Véronique Bessine, wife of the aircraft manufacturer, Robert Bessine.’ He read from the bulletin as they walked into the main office. ‘She was lifted after leaving a high-end beauty salon in Paris several days ago. Nothing’s been heard since, but they believe she’s been taken out of the city and they’ve got three addresses in our region where they think she might be being held.’

Rocco recalled two kidnaps being mentioned by Santer; a junior diplomat and an industrialist’s wife. It seemed a lifetime ago. Evidently Mme Bessine rated a higher degree of official concern than a junior diplomat playing footsie with an army officer’s niece.

‘The Minister and Bessine were at university together,’ said Desmoulins, interpreting his thoughts. ‘I read it somewhere. I suppose that would account for the response level.’

‘Why wait so long to tell us?’

‘It says the decision was made in the best interests of the victim and her family, but now they’ve decided they can’t wait any longer and all efforts must go to getting her back. Their words, not mine.’

‘If she’s still breathing.’ As Rocco was well aware, kidnap victims rarely lasted more than a couple of days before they became a liability, or the kidnappers panicked and decided to cut their losses. Anyone held this long and still alive would be very lucky indeed.

‘So who are we up against – Sicilians?’

‘They haven’t released that information.’

‘Probably means they don’t know.’ He reached into his desk drawer for a spare shoulder holster. He hated the things, but there were times when they were useful. He strapped it on beneath his coat and checked his MAB. Full magazine and spare. If they found the woman and he needed more ammunition than this, they’d be in the middle of a bloodbath.

He noticed Desmoulins was holding a slim, buff folder with an official stamp on the front. ‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, yes. Nearly forgot.’ Desmoulins flipped the folder open. Inside was a sheet of paper. ‘Brest sent this over. It’s a summary of André Paulus’s record – or at least the bits that aren’t a naval secret. He was a cop, like you said – actually a navy provost under the
Gendarmerie Maritime.
The file wasn’t much help so I wangled my way through to the operations office in Brest and spoke to a former colleague.’

‘Go on.’

‘Paulus was a career man. Single, confirmed bachelor, no ties or family – ideal for that life, by the sounds of it. Good
at his job, according to his friend, but not a high-flyer. Liked to be mates too much, although not a party-goer. He served all over, liked to move around, volunteered for anything with some action, knew his way around the block. Then suddenly, he gave it all up.’

‘Why?’

‘For love, apparently. Met a woman and fell like a lovesick calf. She moved away from Brest and persuaded him to follow. His mates tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. He dropped out and the last they heard he’d got a job in security through the military employment office. They arrange jobs and training for ex-service personnel.’

‘And the woman’s name?’ Rocco knew already, but needed confirmation.

‘A navy nurse named Dion. When I say she moved, she was transferred onshore to what barrack-room gossip called “special duties”.’

‘The Clos du Lac.’

‘I’d say, yes.’

Damn, thought Rocco. Wheels within wheels.

He was interrupted from further thought by
Sous-Brigadier
Godard striding into the room, followed by two of his men, one of them the tall and dangerous-looking Patrice, who grinned in acknowledgement. All were dressed in black and fully armed. Godard held a slip of paper in his fist.

‘We’ve had a briefing from the Ministry via
Commissaire
Massin,’ he said, and waved the paper. ‘There are three places we’ve been told to hit, in the following order.’ He walked over to the wall map and studied it briefly, then took three coloured pins and stuck them in the fabric. Roye, 25 kilometres east of Amiens. Doullens, less than
20 kilometres to the north. And Neufchâtel-en-Bray, 30 kilometres to the south-west.

Rocco studied the pins and their locations. It was like a three-spoke wheel, with Amiens at the hub.

‘Where did these addresses come from?’

Godard shrugged. ‘The criminal intelligence section in the Interior Ministry. They’ve been keeping an eye on likely suspects and seen them move out here at various times. They believe things might have got a little too hot for them in Paris, so they’ve come out looking for somewhere quiet to hide.’

‘Here. Around Amiens?’

‘Yes. Why?’

He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to question the likelihood of kidnappers choosing the Somme and Pas de Calais region to hide their victims. But something about this didn’t ring true. Most kidnappers prepared their hideout well before the event and stayed put while they waited for the ransom to be dropped and collected. Moving a victim around too much was risky: there was always someone on the lookout, whether a nosy neighbour, a local cop on the alert or a kid with an active imagination and too much time on his hands. To ship a victim out of Paris this long after the kidnap meant they had been disturbed or the nature of the game had changed in some way.

‘Why can’t we hit them simultaneously?’

‘I suggested that, but they said it would be too noticeable all going off at once and might make the kidnappers jump the gun.’ Godard raised his shoulders. ‘I tried but they wouldn’t listen.’

‘Are they sending any men out to help?’

‘No. They said we should handle it ourselves. Same with other regions, apparently.’

In other words, Rocco thought cynically, let the regions take the flak if the victim ended up being killed in the process. The only credit to be gained would be if Mme Bessine was recovered alive and well, in which case it would reflect well on the Ministry’s ‘hand’s off’ approach and their confidence in the local police. Some things never changed.

‘Right, where’s the first one?’

‘The nearest is Doullens. The location is a small farm just outside the town. Been abandoned for two years, according to the locals, but rented recently by a transport business in Paris. No other details, though. Ideal for keeping someone quiet, I’d have thought. We can be there in twenty minutes. I’ve sent a couple of men out to take a quiet look. They won’t be seen. If that turns up blank, then I figured Roye, followed by Neufchâtel.’

‘You’ve got men out there, too?’

‘Yes. They’ll call in if they look good.’

‘Fine. Let’s get on with it.’

Rocco followed them out to the cars, making a mental note that he needed to speak once more to Inès Dion. He had a feeling that she might have an interesting story to tell.