Death at the Clos du Lac (2 page)

‘I’m sorry. Really. But you have to understand—’

‘What’s going on here?’

Rocco turned. A short, stocky man had entered the kitchen and bustled up to the table with an air of fussy self-importance. ‘This is a private facility and you should not be talking to my staff without authorisation.’ He emphasised this by shooting a hard look at Dion, as if she were at fault, his gaze lingering on the drink glasses. ‘Gilles Drucker. Director of this establishment.’

Rocco said nothing. He sipped the last of his coffee and counted to five. Then he stood up.

In any room, standing at two metres tall and dressed all in black, Rocco looked down on most people. To this man he must have appeared like a giant. With his impressive width of shoulders and short scrub of black hair, Rocco knew he was no baby face.

‘That’s good, Mr Drucker,’ he said, and watched as the
man swallowed hard and moved back a step. Drucker was a dandy, wearing a smart suit and highly polished shoes, and a handkerchief poking out of his right jacket sleeve. And where his imperious manner clearly worked here most of the time, it looked like suffering a sudden failure. ‘Have you seen the reason I’m here?’

‘I … no. Not yet.’ Drucker flapped a hand. ‘Inès – uh, Dion told me about it.’

‘Good. Follow me.’ Rocco turned and walked away, but not without making sure that Drucker didn’t say anything to the nurse. He led the man at a fast pace through the main building and across to the pool, where Claude was tying off a makeshift string barrier to prevent anyone walking inside. Just before they entered the pool house, a car’s headlights swept across the entrance and a vehicle stopped in the car park area.

‘That must be Alix,’ said Claude.

Rocco said to Drucker, ‘Wait here.’ Then walked over to meet Alix as she stepped from the car.

‘What can I do to help?’ she said. She was wearing a freshly pressed uniform and looked surprisingly alert for the time of morning.

Rocco gave her directions to the kitchen. ‘A nurse named Inès Dion found a body in the pool. Sit with her, draw out anything you can. She’s been told to button it by the short-arse in the suit behind me, but before I get heavy, see what you can find out. In particular, I’d like to know where the security guard, André Paulus, beds down when he’s not here. I want to talk to him, find out where he’s been.’

Alix raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘So I get to talk to the nurse. Women’s work, is it?’

‘Actually, yes. Didn’t you know some of the best interrogators throughout history have been women? You’re not going to let the side down, are you?’

He nearly laughed at the tightening of her lips. No doubt she would get her own back soon enough.

He walked back to the pool entrance and led Drucker inside.

‘Stay between the string lines,’ he instructed him, ‘and don’t go too close to the edge. Tell me what you see.’

Drucker cleared his throat and took out his handkerchief as a line of perspiration sprang up across his forehead. He mopped his brow, then stepped forward as if walking across a minefield, and moved closer to the pool’s edge.

While waiting for Drucker to react, Rocco looked at Claude. ‘You never trained as a diver, I suppose?’

‘Me? Hell, no. Dry land is hard enough. Why?’

‘Because sooner or later we’re going to have to get someone to go in there and cut the body free of those chains.’

Claude nodded. ‘Couldn’t we drain the pool?’

‘No.’ Drucker had heard them. ‘It takes approximately seven hours to drain completely. The pipes are a very small bore. Besides, we would get complaints from the locals because it drains into the canal.’ He shrugged. ‘Fishermen don’t like the chemicals in the water.’

‘I know a man who’d go in there,’ Claude suggested. ‘He’d do it easy.’ He knew all manner of strange people, some with slightly shady backgrounds.

‘Friend of yours?’

‘Well, not a friend, exactly. Local lad. Got lungs like a porpoise. He can stay underwater after most people have passed out.’ He sniffed. ‘He’s good with locks, too.’

‘Get him in here but don’t tell him why.’

Claude nodded and disappeared to make a phone call.

‘Well?’ Rocco looked at Drucker. The director was standing by the pool trying not to look sick. He was flapping his handkerchief around as if attempting to dispel the aura of death, but Rocco sensed it was something of an act.

‘He’s one of our residents. I can’t believe this. Why would he do it?’

‘You think it was suicide?’ Rocco stared at him. The man was in denial.

‘I don’t know. I thought maybe …’ He flapped his hand again towards the water and up at the pulley.

‘He was murdered,’ Rocco said bluntly. ‘Somebody put him in that contraption and dropped him in the water with the milk churn chained to his legs. As it filled with water it pulled him down. No way back up from that. Odd item to have handy, though – a milk churn.’

‘There are two or three about the place,’ Drucker murmured vaguely. ‘They’re purely ornamental, left by the previous owners.’

‘So who is the dead man?’

‘We don’t have many residents, you understand,’ Drucker continued as if he hadn’t heard the question. ‘That’s why we don’t need many staff, especially at night. It’s a small facility, but effective. Too big and we wouldn’t be able to give each one the care they need.’

‘How many exactly?’

‘Five at the moment. Never more than six.’

‘How do they get here?’

‘They’re referred.’

‘By whom?’

Drucker shrugged. ‘By a specialist … or a doctor, often working with a magistrate or judge. The usual thing.’

‘What kind of specialist?’

‘I can’t tell you that. It would violate the terms of privacy.’

Rocco kept his calm. Sooner or later this man would run out of rules to hide behind. ‘All right. What about this particular patient? Who referred him?’

‘I still can’t tell you.’

‘Why not? He’s dead.’

‘If I tell you what kind of specialist, it would indicate the nature of the patient’s problem.’ Drucker looked affronted at the very idea. ‘That would be unethical.’

‘So would me throwing you in the pool alongside him with weights tied to your ankles,’ Rocco growled. ‘So don’t tempt me.’ He leant towards Drucker, and the director nearly toppled back into the pool. ‘I’m investigating a murder, not discussing ethics or your patients’ medical ailments. Now. Give. Me. A. Name.’

‘
All right
. Wait. Wait.’ Drucker took a small card from his pocket and scrabbled for a pen. He wrote down a number and a name, and gave the card to Rocco. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but that’s all I can give you.’ He slid past Rocco and headed for the door at a near trot.

Rocco glanced at the card. Drucker had written down a Paris telephone number and a name. Marcel Levignier.

‘Wait.’ Rocco turned. ‘Is this the dead man?’

Drucker stopped immediately, skidding slightly on the tiles. ‘No. It’s a number we call if there are problems,’ he muttered. ‘But that’s all I’m allowed to tell you. In any case, you won’t have to call Levignier; he’s already on his way. He’ll be an hour – perhaps a little longer.’

‘You called this in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Before coming here?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes. It’s standard operational procedure.’ He turned and scurried away, his back rigid.

Rocco watched him go. The man was behaving like a frightened rabbit. But a rabbit with a big and scary older brother.

Standard operational procedure
. The words had an unmistakably official air. He wondered why he found that so sinister.

‘Inspector Rocco?’ A tall, lean man in a dark-blue suit stepped out from a Citroën DS and walked across the car park. Above their heads a flock of small birds was in full song, lending the scene a surreal air. Two other men followed at a distance, scanning the inner courtyard of the Clos du Lac and staring at the birds as if they were intruders. They had the hallmarks of policemen, only much better dressed.

Rocco nodded. He’d been alerted to their arrival by Claude, on station in the small lobby at the front door. Claude was holding his shotgun in the crook of his arm, the over-under barrels pointing down and gleaming in the morning light.

‘Marcel Levignier,’ said the new arrival, eyeing Rocco carefully and shaking his hand. He had deeply tanned skin and dark hair peppered with hints of grey at the temples. He looked fit and his handshake was firm; to Rocco the signs of a former military man.

‘Welcome to paradise,’ said Rocco. ‘You have a rank?’

Levignier looked surprised. ‘Why do you assume that?’

‘I rang the number Drucker gave me. Your department is located within the Interior Ministry. In my experience, there are people in the Ministry who value rank over title. And you don’t look like a civilian.’

Levignier smiled without humour. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. But you read it well. I was a
commandant
, although I don’t have cause to use it much now.’ He glanced sideways at Claude, standing a couple of paces away. ‘Does he have a permit for that thing?’

‘Of course. It goes with the job.’

‘All the same, I’d prefer to have it locked away. Would you—’

‘On what grounds?’ Rocco interrupted him. This wasn’t going to go well if Levignier was intent on establishing pissing rights.

‘On the grounds, Inspector, that this building is under the control of the Interior Ministry, and we are assuming command of events here. That includes who carries a weapon … and who does not.’ He nodded at one of his men, who stepped forward and reached down to take Claude’s gun.

Claude responded by tilting the weapon so that the tip of the barrel nestled firmly into the man’s crotch. The man froze, as did his companion.

Claude smiled. ‘I can hit a sparrow on the wing at two hundred metres every time. You honestly think I’d miss your tiny
couilles
at this range?’

‘He’s a cop,’ explained Rocco to Levignier. ‘Like me, he only gives up his gun to a direct superior.’

Levignier hesitated, then flicked a hand for his men to back off. ‘Very well. But you had better call
your
superior because you are now off this investigation. Good day, Inspector.’

‘Well, in that case, good luck,’ Rocco told him. ‘I hope your men are experienced in underwater recovery. Will you take the dead man all the way back to Paris in your DS?’

Levignier brushed past him without a word and walked into the main building, followed by his men. Drucker was waiting just inside the door, feet shifting nervously on the tiled floor of the foyer.

Rocco glanced at Claude. ‘Wait here in case Rizzotti shows up. I won’t be long.’

He walked across to the pool house and picked up the telephone on the desk. It clicked automatically onto an outside line. He dialled the office number in Amiens and asked for
Commissaire
Massin. It was just after seven-thirty, but the senior officer was an early starter.

‘What is it, Inspector?’ Massin’s voice was crisp and faintly suspicious in tone. But then, with Rocco it usually was. The two shared a history going back to the war in Indochina, when Massin had suffered a crisis of confidence in the battlefield, and Rocco had been forced to escort him to safety. Finding on arrival in the Amiens region that Massin was his new boss had not been welcome news for either man. But they were working on it.

Rocco gave him a summary of events. When he mentioned the name Levignier and the Ministry, he felt a chill come down the line.

‘You had better do what he says, then.’ Massin’s decision was as speedy as it was predictable. He rarely stood up to
the Ministry attack dogs, preferring to let others take the heat, another point of contention between them.

‘But it’s a murder,’ said Rocco. ‘It’s our job, not theirs.’

‘I hear what you say, of course. And I agree. But you won’t win on this one. Levignier is very established within the Ministry. He will have the backing of senior figures and his brief gives him considerable power.’

‘You know him?’

‘I know of him, but only by reference and reputation.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He runs the Internal Security Directorate. That is all I know. All I need to know.’

Rocco sighed. He’d heard of them. No wonder Massin was jumpy. The vast and multi-layered Ministry of the Interior based in central Paris was responsible for internal security in France, and the ISD was its internal police watchdog, plugging holes and rooting out problems wherever they existed. Working separately from the normal security and intelligence departments, Levignier’s team worked on finding rats in the woodpile and isolating threats to the stability of the government and the status quo. It gave them great reach and power, but rarely made them any friends.

‘Why would they be interested in a death in a sanitarium?’

‘I have no idea, Inspector. Levignier’s work spans the police, intelligence, the military and other departments. Best leave it alone, I think. One death, even as odd as this one, is not worth fighting over. Get your man Lamotte out of there and leave it to Levignier to sort out, if that’s what he insists on doing.’

Rocco put the phone down and walked across to the
poolside to take a last look at the body. He was reluctant to let this matter go, but he could recognise when a fight wasn’t worth having. Yet …

‘Who put pussy in the well, d’you think?’

Rocco spun round. A man in a bathrobe and slippers was standing behind him, staring into the water. He was in his fifties, fat and balding, with deathly pale skin and liver spots across his head. He looked half asleep, his eyes crinkled at the edges, and yawned. ‘Dear me, poor old Simon. What’s he doing in there? He couldn’t swim, you know. He told me. Hated water. Don’t know what made him use that bloody device. I wouldn’t, if you paid me.’

‘Simon?’ Rocco heard voices approaching outside. ‘Simon who?’

‘Simon Ardois. At least, that’s the name he used. Can’t rely on that here, though. It’s the house of smoke and mirrors, know what I mean?’

‘Not really. Tell me.’

He gave Rocco a sideways look, like a big child about to tell a lie. ‘Well, nothing is what it seems here. Same with the people.’ He leant forward and whispered, ‘Lots of secrets in this place, let me tell you. But I’ve got a few of them tucked away.’ He winked conspiratorially and laid a finger along the side of his nose, the dramatic co-conspirator. Then he yawned again and looked about as if surprised to find himself here. His eyelids drooped suddenly, and he shook his head.

‘Where did you come from?’ Rocco asked him.

‘From my room. I was looking for the kitchen. I need coffee. I woke up, but had trouble getting out of bed.’ He squinted. ‘What was all the shouting about? Lights
on everywhere, too. Bloody place is usually so quiet. Too quiet, in fact. Not last night, though. Couldn’t have been Simon, though, could it? Sounded more like a woman’s voice.’ He nodded at the dead man. ‘He’d have blown a few bubbles but not much else, eh?’ He giggled, his jowls wobbling. ‘Sorry – that’s in bad taste. These damned drugs are terrible; destroy everything in the end, including one’s sense of decorum.’

‘You’re on drugs?’

‘Yes. To help me sleep, they say. We’re all on them. Don’t know which way is up most of the time. And don’t get me started on the physical side effects. Some nights I can’t even pee in a straight line.’ As he scratched at his chest, his bathrobe moved aside slightly, revealing a small tattoo of a tiger between his neck and shoulder. It was a style Rocco had seen before, in backstreet tattoo parlours in Paris, and further back, in Indochina during the war. This man didn’t look like any soldier, however.

‘What’s your name?’ Rocco asked. The voices were closer now, just outside the building. Someone – it sounded like Drucker – was arguing about security.

‘I can’t tell you!’ The man looked shocked, if slightly stupefied. He smiled coyly. ‘You’ll get me into trouble, asking me questions like that. Naughty man.’

‘But you do have a name.’

‘Of course I do. Tell you what, you can call me Stefan – only don’t tell the Gestapo I said that, otherwise I’ll get into trouble.’ He giggled again and suddenly seemed to realise what Rocco looked like. ‘Christ on a bike, you’re big, aren’t you? Oops – see? Told you.’ He looked mock-sheepish and smiled dreamily. ‘What’s your name, then?’

The voices had entered the building. Rocco took Stefan by the arm and said softly, ‘I’m Lucas Rocco. Tell you what, let’s not tell anyone we spoke.’

Stefan winked and patted Rocco’s hand. ‘Good idea. Very decent of you. Pity about poor Rotenbourg, though, eh?’

‘Rotenbourg?’

‘Yes. Him in the water.’

‘You said his name was Ardois.’

The man looked confused. ‘Did I?’

‘Earlier, you called him Simon Ardois; now you just called him Rotenbourg. Which is it?’

‘I didn’t. We don’t know each other’s names. You must have misheard me. I—’

He was prevented from saying anything more by Drucker bustling through the door, followed by Levignier and one of his men. They saw Rocco and stopped.

‘You need to keep a closer eye on your patients,’ Rocco said sternly. ‘This one was looking for coffee and nearly went for a swim instead.’ He left Stefan with them and walked back to join Claude, wondering what kind of drugs they pumped into people like Stefan to keep them docile and rendering them stupefied at the same time.

Alix was with her father, looking flustered.

‘One of those men told me to get lost,’ she muttered. ‘Claude, too. Can they do that?’

‘Looks like they just did. Claude, call your diving friend. He won’t be needed just yet. Alix, did you get an address for Paulus?’

Alix nodded. ‘He rents a small place about seven kilometres from here.’ She handed him a page from her
notebook with an address written down. ‘I think they might have a thing going, her and the guard.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘She got a bit defensive when I asked her about him. I told her I just wanted to make sure he was all right. She reckoned it’s out of character for him to disappear like that, and in any case, Drucker can check on his work throughout the night.’

‘How?’

‘Paulus carries a time-stamp register. He has to insert a key from a series of boxes around the building every hour. The register stamps the time on a card, and Drucker checks them religiously every morning. She doesn’t like Drucker. Calls him a lapdog.’ She smiled. ‘That was the polite expression.’

‘Good work.’ He was already harbouring thoughts about Paulus. His disappearance halfway through a shift could mean one of two things: either he had deliberately gone missing to allow someone free rein to enter and do his business undisturbed … or Paulus himself was the killer. But he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. ‘Anything else?’

‘She trained in the General Military Hospital in Brest.’ She paused. ‘Actually, the way she said it, I don’t think she ever left.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was the way she talked, as if she’s still attached to the military in some way. Paulus, too – she mentioned something about Drucker being the only civilian in the place apart from the patients. Why would that be?’

Rocco thought about it. He could think of one or two reasons, but he needed to make sure, whatever Levignier’s instructions had been. ‘Why indeed?’