The moped held a second pannier, this one containing a collapsible net and rod, and a box of bait. But he was no fisherman; they were props, simple distractions in the unlikely event that he was stopped by a patrolling policeman or spotted by a farmer with insomnia. Fishing without a permit was easily excused, given the right amount of reasoning and charm and a willingness to apologise. As he knew all too well, the success of a mission was in the preparation, not simply the execution.
He smiled at the play on words. Tonight’s job had been just that — an execution. And it had gone as planned, if a little convoluted at the end. But he didn’t mind that; it added to the frisson he still gained from a task done well. Tomorrow was the next phase, and undoubtedly the most important part of the plan. However, that was for others to deal with. His skills lay more in the role of a troubleshooter — a fixer of problems.
He replaced the flask and checked his watch using a flick of a flashlight. The glass over the face showed a tracery of fine scratches. Plenty of time to get clear. He had to be back on his way to Paris before sunrise. Seconds later he was wheeling the moped out of the barn and along the lane, heading for a route deep into the countryside that connected eventually with a back road out of the area, and his car.
Once he was certain he was well beyond earshot of the Clos du Lac, he jumped on and pedalled at a steady pace, travelling a full half-kilometre before engaging the engine.
He smiled to himself and placed his feet together on the central rest, enjoying the quirky feeling of using such a bizarre mode of transport away from a killing.
CHAPTER TWO
Inspector Lucas Rocco studied the dead man in the pool. His gaze lingered for a moment on the chain around the ankles, before following the wire upwards just as Claude Lamotte had done, running from the water to the overhead cable, then to each end of the pool house where the supporting cable was fastened to the walls by strong steel brackets.
‘One day I’ll get a dry one,’ he murmured, looking back at the body. ‘Someone who just curled up in a bed and died normally. No water, no canal, no ponds or lakes. Just a layer of dust and a spider or two for company.’ Water, it seemed to him, had been an overriding feature of sudden deaths around here ever since his posting from Clichy, in Paris, the year before, and he was wondering if the region possessed some kind of deathly affinity with the stuff.
‘What is this place?’ he asked Claude. He’d seen the building at a distance, but there was nothing at the front to inform outsiders, no signs advertising its services, no indication of a specific function, save for an air of tranquillity and quiet purpose. It was simply a large stone mansion with an outbuilding housing this pool, set inside high stone walls covered in ivy, located down a narrow lane in the Picardie countryside.
Claude moved closer. ‘They call it a sanitarium,’ he replied softly, as though wary of disturbing the dead man. ‘Used to be owned by a local landowner with fingers in shipping. He decided to make it into some kind of health retreat for his rich friends, but sold it before the war. Nobody knows who owns it now.’ He pulled a face. ‘They don’t answer questions, only employ outsiders and never get involved in the village save for the odd visit by one of the staff. Even the lane outside is marked private, although it’s not really; it’s to discourage visitors.’
‘How did you get here so quickly?’
‘Stroke of luck. I was on the trail of a poacher along the canal and came up here to get a better view. This is on high ground, and you can see down the slope all the way to the canal and the lake beyond if you stand in the right place. Anyway, as I came through the gate, I heard a scream and saw her running out of the house, yelling her head off at me. Bloody scary at the dead of night, I can tell you.’
‘You should try Clichy,’ said Rocco. ‘Happens all the time there.’ Clichy in north-west Paris had been his base until he was posted to this rural region. He still missed its vibrant air of activity and tension, although less and less the longer he was here. He sometimes wondered if he was being sucked into the atmosphere of country living, having his edge slowly rubbed away.
He gathered up the tails of his long, black coat and squatted by the edge of the pool. The water was a pleasant shade of light blue, destined, no doubt, to draw people in and make them feel relaxed. But the glow of the underwater lights caught a trace of pink hanging around the dead man’s hand like fine strands of hair. Bending closer, he saw traces of torn flesh on the fingers and palm. The dead man had been fighting frantically to pull himself out.
Difficult to do with two hands, he decided; impossible with the other hand tied by rope to the chain around his lower legs.
He’d never seen anything quite this inventive in Clichy.
‘I left word for Dr Rizzotti,’ he said softly. ‘Nobody comes in here until he’s had a look.’
Claude nodded. He was already carrying a coil of rough string to tie off an approach to the body. Rocco and the doctor had established a clear understanding between them that a crime scene should not be tainted by unnecessary traffic, and everyone was clear on the procedure.
Rocco looked up at the cable structure holding the dead man upright. ‘What the hell is that thing?’
‘I asked the nurse earlier. She said it was invented by the original owner to help his daughters to swim, but they learnt like most kids by jumping in the lake. Since then it’s been used for helping residents who don’t have the strength to keep themselves buoyant. Therapy, they call it. Didn’t help this poor soul much, did it? Can’t we use it to pull him out?’
‘Not with that milk churn tied to his feet.’ Rocco stood up. ‘And he wouldn’t notice the difference now, anyway. I need to speak to the nurse and whoever runs this place.’ He looked around, puzzled by the quiet. ‘Where is everybody?’
‘No idea. It was like this when I arrived. The nurse can probably tell you. She’s in the kitchen in the main building.’ Claude gave him directions. ‘Her name’s Dion. I didn’t ask her first name. She’s a bit fragile.’
Rocco smiled grimly. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t use a rubber hose on her unless she becomes difficult.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘Is Alix at home?’
‘Yes. You want me to call her?’ Alix was Claude’s daughter, and a recent addition to the local police as a gardienne. In a burst of policing initiatives across the country, one of which had led to Rocco being transferred here, she had been recruited to help with sensitive cases involving women and children. Rocco had a feeling her skills might be needed before the night was out.
‘Yes, please.’
He left Claude and walked out of the pool house across the yard to the main building. Through the entrance, which was open, he passed through an impressive foyer with marble columns and hung with elegant chandeliers. The walls were panelled with dark wood, no doubt courtesy of its original designer and unchanged by the current owners. The kitchen occupied a section of the lower floor at the rear of the mansion, and was furnished with a range of professional equipment in stainless steel. The room was cold and lacking in character, and he reflected that in his short time in Poissons, he’d seen milking parlours with more warmth.
A woman in nursing whites was sitting at a large wooden table, staring into a glass of amber liquid. She was attractive, with strong features and dark hair tied in a bun. No wedding ring.