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.’