Adrian Magson - Death on the Rive Nord

‘It’s been there a while,’ Rocco commented. The smell was immediate and rancid, driving the other men back more effectively than any police barrier might have done. Rocco, however, had seen it all before and was almost immune. Even so, he had to take a deep breath before making an examination. The body was bloated, straining against the clothing like an overstuffed andouille, the skin covered with a slimy film. He pulled a pair of orange rubber gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, a habit picked up from a member of the river police in Paris. Then he checked the pockets. He found a wallet in the jacket, empty save for a photo discoloured beyond recognition and a square of pulpy paper with faint traces of ink. It might have given a clue to the man’s origins, but fell apart as soon as he touched it.

He turned his attention to the dead man’s face. He estimated his age at somewhere between thirty and forty years, but it was difficult to be sure, given the conditions. Even with the swollen, discoloured skin, he looked swarthy, with thick, rough-cut hair. Definitely of North African or maybe Spanish origin, though. He flipped the jacket open, but there were no labels to indicate where it might have been bought.

It reminded him of another body that had been discovered near Poissons on his first day in the region. Then, it had been a young woman in the military cemetery outside Poissons, and equally difficult to age or identify.

‘He’s not local,’ said Claude emphatically.

‘You know that for sure?’

Claude pointed at the man’s other foot, which was encased in a heavy leather sandal with a thick sole. ‘It’s too cold here for that footwear. It’s the sort of thing you see in the flea markets down south. Or in North Africa.’

Rocco looked at him. He’d never thought of Claude having served overseas. On the other hand, conscription into the French army took men to strange places.

‘I did a tour there once,’ Claude explained. ‘Can’t say I was impressed.’ He flapped a hand in front of his face and cleared his throat. ‘What do we do with him? He’ll only get worse out here.’

‘Get a wagon out from Amiens. We’ll let Rizzotti take a look. I’ll follow it in.’ Rocco pulled off the gloves and dropped them by the body. He had a spare pair in the car.

‘And Capitaine Haddock?’ Claude nodded in the direction of the barge owner, who seemed to be sinking slowly into a gentle stupor and becoming detached from everything around him, even the cold.

‘Pour a couple of litres of coffee down his throat and take a statement. Then let him go.’

‘Shouldn’t we keep him around?’

‘He’s not going far in that thing, is he? And I doubt he ran the man down — not at speed, anyway.’

‘Stabbed to death. One thrust to the chest.’ Dr Rizzotti stepped back from the body on his examining table and coughed discreetly. In spite of the tang of chemicals in the room, even the doctor was looking slightly green around the eyes. ‘Dead when he went in, probably been that way for three to four days. The water in the canal would be very cold at this time of year, so it might have been longer.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘It’s a science. But for me, not a precise one, I’m afraid.’

‘Age?’ Rocco wanted more than his own guesswork, and wondered who had killed the man and when. At least Rizzotti’s conclusion ruled out a drunken tumble down the canal bank. Now all he had to do was find out who the man was, where he’d come from… and who had disliked him enough to stick a knife into his chest.

‘Mmm. Late thirties, something like that.’ Rizzotti touched the man’s bare chest, finger resting just beneath a three-centimetre stab wound. The skin was puckered and open like a pair of lips. ‘No scars that I can see apart from this wound.’ He lifted one of the hands. ‘As to what he was, a manual worker, I’d say; strong, blunt fingers and broken nails suggests agricultural — at least, was recently.’

‘Not a factory hand?’ There were several manufacturing plants in the area employing casual, unskilled workers. If any one of them were missing a member of the workforce, it would be a quick step closer to solving the case.

Rizzotti ruled it out. ‘No. There are three types of production around here: metal-working, which produces oil and swarf — sharp metal coils to you — which cut and stain the skin; assembly-line operations which leave the hands roughened but clean; and tyre factories which leave traces of rubber under the nails. I’d say this man’s been nowhere near any of those.’ He hesitated, which made Rocco look up.

‘There’s a but?’

‘The knife that killed him. I’m not really experienced enough to tell, but it was probably a double-sided, narrow blade with a good point.’

‘A hunting knife?’

‘Could be. But definitely not a kitchen knife, which would have a single-sided blade.’ He pointed at the wound. ‘This has been sliced on both sides.’

‘A dagger?’

‘Possibly. It narrows the field, but that’s all I can tell you. Sorry.’

Rocco accepted his summation. Rizzotti had come a long way since they had first met. Initially defensive and reluctant to admit his lack of experience, being merely a local practitioner on loan to the police, he had slowly come to accept Rocco’s experience and suggestions and was now more forthcoming with his own views, right or wrong.

‘Fair enough,’ said Rocco. ‘Can you check the inside of the clothing?’

‘Of course.’

‘I mean inside the material. Slice it open; check for hidden papers.’

‘Am I looking for something specific?’

‘I’m only guessing, but if he came from further south, he might have papers hidden on him. It’s a trick common among illegals to prevent theft of personal documents.’

‘Good point. I’ll see to it.’

‘Anything else?’ Rocco was frustrated by the lack of clues. This man had died because of — what? An argument? Robbery? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Maybe that was a stretch, but he’d seen too many similar cases before in busy cities where, for want of turning a different corner, of taking an alternative route home, someone’s life might not have been cut short.

Except that the canal near Poissons wasn’t a crowded city. How random could it be in such a quiet location?

Rizzotti turned towards a side table and picked up a bundle of wet cloth which turned out to be the man’s trousers. They were dark green, with a rough weave and badly finished hems, and a cheap, woven leather belt. Rizzotti pointed to a ragged tear in one leg. ‘This piece of the trouser leg is missing.’ He tugged at some long strands of cloth. ‘The cloth wasn’t cut away — it was ripped by considerable force. It’s cheap material but tough and not easy to tear. It could have been recent, that’s all I’m saying.’ He looked apologetic, as if the lack of clear evidence was his failure and his alone.

‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ Rocco stood cogitating for a moment, running the facts through his mind but coming to no clear conclusion. ‘Do we run to a decent camera here?’

‘Yes, we do.’

‘Can you take some photos of our mystery man? Headshots will do. I need a batch printed up for distribution.’

Rizzotti glanced at the body. ‘I can do that, no problem. I’ll see if I can tidy up the face a little first.’

‘Good work, Doctor.’

He arrived back home in Poissons to find Claude waiting for him, pacing up and down impatiently, eager for the chase. Mme Denis, his immediate neighbour, elderly and grey-haired, was keeping watch from her garden. She waved cheerily, signalling all was well, but scowled at Claude. Rocco returned the smile, aware that petty rivalries here were a way of life and had to be managed carefully.