He breathed deeply, feeling his heartbeat gradually settle. Even if the young neighbour knew anything, had picked up some idle chatter from his daughter, it was unlikely she would be a problem all the way across the Atlantic. But he would still have rested easier being reassured that Rocco would not be able to get to her.
He wondered about the dead photographer. Ishmael Poudric, his contact had said. The name meant nothing to Berbier; names from that period were fading with the years, along with the faces. But the man’s former address during the war — Poitiers — had touched something deep inside him, awakening unwelcome echoes of the past and bringing back memories of dark nights, cold, wet weather and the ever present danger of discovery or betrayal. The more he thought about it the more he recalled seeing a man with a camera with one particular group of Resistance fighters. He himself had always instinctively avoided having his picture taken. But the others had been arrogant and stupid, encouraging the man to follow them. In the end it had made no difference: they had paid for their carelessness with their lives.
All except one.
Berbier winced at that, wondering how he could have been so utterly foolish, so naive as to have trusted his future to one man. Better he should have taken out his knife and dealt with the little ditch rat there and then. Instead, he’d tied himself to the treacherous cretin for life, an unholy alliance forged by his own greed.
He turned to his desk and looked at a sheet of paper containing a list of the police personnel in the Amiens prefecture. He’d had it sent over by his man in the Interior Ministry. It was a chance request prompted by an instinctive desire to know more about what and who he was dealing with.
Right at the top was a familiar name.
Francois Massin, district commissaire.
He picked up the telephone on his desk and toyed with the wire, studying the name and wondering. He and Massin had met once at the military academy, when Berbier was a visiting lecturer on intelligence and guerrilla tactics. He barely remembered the man, only that he had been thin, ascetic and lacking any sense of brotherhood, to most members an essential part of the officer corps. To Berbier’s mind, not having it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing: too much military thinking was tied up in mindless tradition, anyway. But what he did recall about Massin was first, his observance of the rule book, and second, that he had since received a stain on his record from his time in Indochina. More than anything, for someone who doubtless wanted to reach the top of his profession before it was too late, that made Massin malleable. And taking advantage of a man’s weaknesses was something Berbier understood only too well.
He read the prefecture telephone number off the sheet and was about to dial when there was a knock at the door. It was his driver.
‘What is it?’
‘An update from the Ministry, sir. The duty operator in Amiens says a woman has disappeared in Poissons-les-Marais. A local shopkeeper.’
‘So?’ Berbier’s mind was still on Massin, deciding what approach to take. Senior policemen could be arrogant and unpredictable, especially those with something to prove. He had little regard for the man, but he would still have to be careful not to overplay his hand.
His driver shuffled his feet and continued, ‘The investigator Rocco was present when the call came in and left the office the moment he heard. He seemed unusually concerned, they said.’
Berbier put down the phone, a ripple of tension fluttering through him. He would call Massin later. For now, this took precedence. He had arranged for an intercept of information passing through the Amiens office for this very possibility. If Rocco was on the move, he wanted to know about it. Why the inspector should be unduly concerned about a shopkeeper disappearing he couldn’t fathom, and nor should it matter. But anything related to Poissons-les-Marais or his daughter’s death had been flagged for his attention. And Rocco was undeniably part of that.
He made a quick decision. Things were coming to a head; he could feel it in his bones. ‘Get some men over there and find out what’s going on. You know who to look for.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The man nodded and left.
Berbier sat down behind his desk and steepled his hands in thought. There was still time, if he played it right, to derail Rocco’s further interference. He set about mentally composing his phone call to Massin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Rocco skidded the Citroen into the marais at speed, the tyres throwing up dirt and gravel and sending up a mad scramble of birds from the trees as the engine blasted the silence apart. Alongside him, Claude closed his eyes and held on tight, muttering what might have been a prayer to the god of all travellers.
In spite of telling himself that Francine’s absence might be purely innocent, a part of Rocco’s brain was telling him that there was only one place where she might be — and not entirely of her own free will.
He felt the front wheels skating on soft earth as they approached the main lodge along the narrow track. With just a few centimetres of solid ground on either side, he had little room for error. But now was not the time for caution. If his fears were correct, everything depended on getting to the lodge as fast as possible. He felt the steering wheel twitch as the ground tried to suck in the front offside tyre, and a flurry of black mud sprayed into the air and plastered itself across the windscreen. He switched on the wipers but they merely smeared the mixture across the glass, rendering the ground ahead barely visible. Rocco thrust his head out of the window and watched the ground by the front wheel, conscious that at this speed, if he made a mistake and hit wet soil, they would plough right off the track and into the nearest stretch of unforgiving ooze.
Then they were into the turning circle in front of the lodge. Rocco stamped on the brakes, sending the heavy car into a sideways drift and spraying debris across the front of the building. They finally lurched to a stop within arm’s reach of the veranda.
He turned off the engine and leapt from the car. He was carrying the axe from Francine’s garage. The front door was locked and solid, as before, and he already knew by the feel that the axe would make little impression. He hurried round the side of the building, checking the shutters for weaknesses, signalling Claude to do the same the other way.
They met at the rear of the building.
A familiar blue crate of groceries lay spilt on the ground near the back door.
When Rocco last saw it in the co-op, it had been nearly full. But not now. A box of sugar lumps lay on the ground, with a line of ants helping themselves to the contents through a tear in the soft cardboard. Flies and wasps were feasting on a ripped bag of apples and a bunch of grapes, the fruit already turning soft and brown in the heat, and a carton of milk had ballooned and burst open. A furious army of smaller insects was taking full advantage of the bounty, a moving carpet of black dots in the spreading yellow film.
He prodded at the back door. It was shuttered, like the front, but seemed less solid. Taking a step back, he swung the axe, putting the full weight of his shoulders behind it, and felt the blade bite deep into the wood of the shutter. Glass burst and tinkled to the floor. He swung again immediately, aiming at where the lock should be, and felt the blade hit metal. Another swing and the shutter sagged in the middle. When he ripped the axe free again, one corner came away, bits of paint flaking off like confetti. A final blow and the shutter disintegrated, showering them both with wood splinters.