She looked him in the eye for the first time, and he found the directness of her gaze oddly disturbing. It was almost as if she was trying to probe his mind. Then she sighed and turned her head away.
‘So why me? Why do you think he attacked me? Kept me prisoner?’
He wasn’t surprised by the questions, but found himself fastening on her tone of voice. He’d dealt with crime victims more times than he could recalclass="underline" the targets of burglaries, assaults, even two kidnaps. They often asked the same question: ‘ Why me? ’, as if trying to understand if there was a personal element to what had happened. Nearly always they had been fearful, resentful, even angry, as if they’d been plucked out of the crowd with deliberate intent.
Yet Francine sounded almost detached. Analytical. Calm, even.
He was tempted to tell her that no, it had been purely random, the act of a desperate man. She’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But something stopped him. ‘Why do you think he did it?’
She spun her head to look at him again, then frowned.
‘What do you mean? I told you, I asked him but he never said. How would I know what it was?’ Her skin flushed and he held her gaze, watching her eyes. She turned away again.
Rocco stood up, gently patted her arm. ‘OK, I’ll leave it for now. We’ll talk again later, when you feel rested.’ He paused, sensing she was waiting for him to leave. Then he said, ‘One more question, though, for the press outside. They know you’re in here; they’re looking for background details. Is Thorin your family or married name?’
‘My family name.’ Her voice was a whisper, the response automatic.
He left her.
On the way outside he waved to Claude, who was busy chatting to a pretty nurse, then used the telephone on reception to call the office. He asked to speak to Rene Desmoulins and gave him another job to do. This one, he said, was urgent.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Rocco got Claude to drop him at the office, then went in search of Massin.
Word had gone ahead and the senior officer was waiting for him in the corridor. He waved Rocco to a room just down from his office and spun the blinds to blank out passing foot traffic.
‘You did good work,’ Massin began, taking a tour of the room. It was an impersonal space with a long table and a few chairs. A police radio loudspeaker extension was located at the end of the room. Massin walked over and switched it on, and a flow of voices interspersed with static filled the air. He returned to face Rocco and sat down at the table. ‘Nearly got yourself killed in the process, though. You enjoy living on the edge like that?’
‘No. It was the way it worked out.’
‘Pity you didn’t bring back any live ones.’ Massin tapped the table with a bony fingertip. ‘It would have been useful finding out who employed those men.’
Rocco wondered if Massin was playing at being obtuse or merely cautious. ‘Did you trace the car registration?’
‘Of course. That was easy. It was one of several stolen in the Paris region over the past five or six months. All Citroen DS, all official in appearance. It was probably kept in a lock-up until it was needed.’ He snapped his fingers, struggling for a phrase. ‘What’s the underworld description for such vehicles?’
‘Use, abuse and lose.’ It was also the term employed by crime squad members in Paris for cars used in armed robberies and bullion heists. The driver would be in a police uniform and the car plus the cap would be enough to fool the target long enough to gain access and carry out the job. After the job, the cars were dumped or torched, often both. He wasn’t surprised by the revelation, merely disappointed. It would have been useful to have a line going back to the owner.
‘Appropriate. You’ve spoken to the kidnap victim?’
Rocco nodded. ‘She didn’t see a face, though.’ He went quickly through his chat with Francine, but he could see that Massin wasn’t really listening. He wondered what was on the officer’s mind. He soon found out.
‘I tried to find out some of the information you requested,’ Massin said, and waved a finger pointedly at the ceiling and walls. ‘I got nowhere. In fact,’ he straightened his tie, ‘I was told in no uncertain terms to leave it alone. I may not care to be told that, as a professional policeman, but I have to recognise that there are certain… lines of questioning that it would be foolish for anyone to pursue without a clear and solid reason.’
‘But what if those lines are connected to a murder investigation and another one of attempted murder?’
‘You don’t know that for sure. Thinking it does not prove it. Surmising something is not enough — you know that.’
Rocco reined himself in. He’d virtually resigned himself to thinking that Massin would not have tried too hard to find out about Berbier’s past, not if it meant pushing his nose into official files. Yet by Massin’s elaborate finger signals just now, was he actually suggesting the room might be bugged? If so, this put things on an entirely different level. He answered equally enigmatically. ‘I understand. At the moment, I have lines of enquiry to follow, but nothing concrete.’
‘Pity.’ Massin looked disappointed, even pained. ‘Exactly what information do you have on the… subject in question?’
The radio had fallen silent while they were talking, and was now emitting a faint hiss of static. Rocco walked over to it and moved the dial until a renewed welter of chatter came back. He turned up the volume, then returned to sit next to Massin. It was time to put what information he had down on the table.
He spoke quickly. ‘I know Philippe Bayer-Berbier passed through the Poitiers area during the war sometime in 1944. He was on a re-supply trip, delivering essential funds and other material to Resistance groups in the region. He figures in the photo I mentioned — the one with the APP logo on the back.’
‘But not recognisably.’
‘Not in that one, no. But there is another, full face, taken at the same time. It’s definitely him.’
‘Go on.’
‘According to the photographer, Poudric, shortly after the photos were taken, the entire group was caught while holding a meeting one night. The meeting had been called by the SOE agent.’
‘The one you say was Berbier.’
‘Yes. The entire group was shipped to Natzweiler-Struthof. They never came out.’ He paused, then added, ‘Except for Didier Marthe and Philippe Berbier.’
Massin looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘If I read you right, that’s quite an allegation. You’re saying… what, exactly?’
‘Either Berbier and Marthe must have known what was going to happen and stayed away, or they managed to talk their way out. Since neither of them was ever seen in the area again, and I’ve never heard of the Germans doing deals, I’m leaning towards the former. They simply stayed away and moved on. It’s the only explanation.’
‘But why?’ Massin looked perplexed. ‘What would bring two men like this together? They had nothing in common except for the fight against the Germans. That alone might bring them into contact on the battlefield, but nothing more. Do you have an ounce of proof to back this up, such as a meeting or an exchange of correspondence?’
Rocco took a deep breath. The only proof he had was currently on the run, wounded, resentful and unlikely to give him the spit off his tongue, let alone information. He had a theory, but he was still working on it. Neither would be enough for Massin to take this any further forward.
Massin read his face. ‘I see. So what do you have?’
‘I’m waiting for a piece of information which I think will tie it all together.’ A domino effect, he wanted to add, but wasn’t sure Massin would believe him. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself.
Massin opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. He stood up and opened it to find Desmoulins standing there holding a piece of paper and trying to hold back a grin.