Adrian Magson - Death on the Marais

The cavalry. Lights, but no sirens. Someone, he thought vaguely, knew what he was doing. Sirens often spooked criminals into precipitate action, doing things they hadn’t planned. A restrained but obvious approach in force, however, looked far more sinister and inevitable.

He breathed a sigh of relief and rested his head on his forearms. Then he heard the rustle of someone moving away through the trees.

Didier.

He slid out from his position and moved up the slope towards the man he’d shot at, and found him covered by a fallen tree. His upper body was shredded and bloody, and it was impossible to tell if any of Rocco’s shots had hit home first. The sharpened stake had pierced his inner thigh, although it hadn’t killed him. What had done the damage was the enormous shotgun wound in his side, exposing ribs and belly, where Didier had caught him side-on. He moved past the body to check on the other man.

The last gunman was staring up at him from the edge of a crater in the bed of sweet nettles, eyes wide in shock. His lips moved soundlessly, the words unformed. Both legs were gone just below the knees and he was losing blood fast from the femoral arteries. Rocco knelt by his side, careful not to put too much weight on any one spot. He used the tip of his gun barrel to flick the man’s jacket open and check for secondary weapons. There were none. As he dropped the jacket back, the man whispered something.

‘Help… me!’

It was Berbier’s driver.

Down the track, the approaching vehicles switched on their sirens to muddy the air and intimidate. The ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ moment, some cop drivers called it. They must have seen or heard the explosions and decided that the time for subtlety was past.

Rocco hadn’t got much time. Even if this man didn’t die of shock in the next few minutes, he would soon be beyond reach of anyone, sheltered by a screen of medical and judicial barriers. Either that or he would simply disappear, spirited away where he wouldn’t be able to answer awkward questions.

‘We need to talk,’ said Rocco, and slapped the man twice on the cheek to draw him out of his shock. It wasn’t likely to meet any approved police interrogation standards, but if the man had had his way, Rocco would now be dead or dying in his place. He needed answers. And this was the only man who could provide them.

A trolley clanked somewhere along the corridor of Amiens central hospital, and footsteps squeaked as a nurse hurried by in rubber-soled shoes. A telephone rang and a man’s voice rose in query followed by laughter. Someone coughed noisily.

The usual noises. Unusual circumstances.

Rocco lay back on a bed and breathed deeply while a nurse applied a dressing to his ribs with cool hands. He wanted to sleep, but knew that was delayed shock. Sleep was a luxury for later.

‘You were lucky,’ the nurse commented cheerfully. ‘It took off a chunk of flesh and nicked a couple of ribs. A bit to the side and we’d have been laying you out downstairs alongside the others.’

He grunted but said nothing. He hadn’t realised he’d been shot, mistaking the pain in his side for having collided with something solid. His mother had been right after all: no pain, no sense.

Berbier’s driver hadn’t been so lucky; he had talked long enough, but died just as help arrived. With two of his friends also dead and the man Rocco had shot at missing in the marais, it had been a costly exercise for whoever had sent them.

Maybe the fourth man would surface one day, Rocco mused, a nasty surprise for some unlucky fisherman sitting quietly by the lakeside.

There was no sign of Didier, although one of the cops who was a hunter had found traces of blood on the far edge of the wood. It didn’t prove Didier had been seriously wounded but it might be enough to slow him down and come to someone’s attention. Rocco wasn’t going to hold his breath on that one.

He had called out a warning when help had arrived, knowing he could easily end up the innocent casualty of a trigger-happy cop if he wasn’t careful. He waited for them to come to him, feeling their way carefully over the ground, checking for more traps and lethal ordnance. It had taken twenty minutes, and he’d used the time to rest and lay still, studying the canopy overhead and thinking about what the driver, named Andre, had told him. He’d felt unaccountably tired, as if he’d run a marathon, and had closed his eyes for a moment.

Sensing movement after what seemed a long time later, he’d looked round to find Captain Canet staring down at him.

‘You did all this?’ Canet looked aghast at the carnage all around. ‘It’s a war zone!’

‘Sweet Jesus.’ It was Rene Desmoulins, peering over the officer’s shoulder and holding his pistol in a meaty fist. He looked disappointed. ‘You couldn’t find it in you to wait for us, then?’

As soon as he was able to convince them to let him go, Rocco drove back to Poissons to find Claude, who told him that Francine was in Amiens hospital.

‘She’s in a mess — suffering from shock,’ he said, eyeing Rocco’s ruined clothing and bloodied face. ‘When we got across the bridge into the village, I asked her what had happened but she became hysterical. I couldn’t get a word out of her. Luckily Thierry’s wife used to be a midwife, so she was able to calm her down with something. Thierry took her off to Amiens. You must have just missed her. You OK? You look like shit.’ The words came out in a gabble, propelled by a mix of shock and relief.

Rocco nodded. ‘Thanks for the encouragement.’ He felt as if he’d been trampled by an elephant, but at least he was still on his feet.

‘Sounds like you might have some questions to answer,’ said Claude, when Rocco filled him in on what had happened. ‘The big kepis don’t like unexplained massacres, especially when the press gets to hear about it. It makes them nervous, having to explain why some hotshot investigator from Paris blows up half the countryside. It’s bad for the tourist industry.’

‘I didn’t know there was one.’ Rocco was busy thinking about Francine and her incarceration. She must have surprised Didier at the lodge while delivering the groceries, and he’d panicked and locked her away where she wouldn’t be found. At least he hadn’t buried her in one of the marshes or dumped her inside her car in the lake.

Claude shook his head and sniffed. ‘That’s the problem with newcomers — they always bring their shit with them.’

Rocco drove home, where he washed and changed into fresh clothes. News about the source of the explosions, which had been heard all over the village, had filtered through the community, and Mme Denis fussed around, scooping up Rocco’s coat, shirt and trousers and pronouncing the first two salvageable, but the trousers beyond all help.

He waited for her to brush the coat into a semblance of something civilised, then asked Claude to take him back to Amiens.

Claude looked doubtful. ‘Are you up to it? It’s late. Where are we going?’

‘I want to interview Francine.’

‘Interview? After what she’s been through?’

Rocco tossed him the keys. ‘Don’t ask.’

It was already dark by the time they arrived at the hospital. The press had received a briefing from Massin about the explosions in Poissons, and although it was deliberately short on detail, it contained enough salient facts for them to put out an early story the following day. Unfortunately, it hadn’t kept them away for long, and they were already back clamouring at the entrance for late developments and the identities of the dead gunmen.

As the two policemen walked through the shadows across the car park, Rocco drew Claude to a stop before they reached the door. Something was niggling at his mind like a bad itch.