Adrian Magson - Death on the Marais

‘Who? Did you recognise him?’

‘No. I… no, I didn’t see his face. It was too quick.’ She shook her head, her hair falling across one side of her head. ‘Just too quick.’ A tear slid out of her eye and down her cheek. ‘I never saw him.’

Rocco had to resist the temptation to brush the hair away. ‘Not even when he tied you up? Not a glimpse… nothing?’

‘I told you. No.’ Her voice dropped to a murmur. ‘He told me to look away or he’d drop me in the marais, where nobody would ever find me. He kept talking about the Blue Pool.’ She shuddered and looked at him. ‘Did you hear about it?’

Rocco nodded. ‘I did. But it’s not true — it’s just a geological oddity.’ He wasn’t sure about that but he wanted Francine to feel safe. Secure.

‘If you say so.’

‘Did he at any time say what he was going to do? Why he was keeping you there?’

‘No. He said he had… things to do. Things to finish. I was his laissez-passer, he said. I didn’t know what that meant. I kept asking him why but he didn’t seem to have any idea. I thought I was going… to die.’ She gulped and a tremor went through her shoulders.

‘Pity you didn’t recognise his voice.’ Rocco kept his tone matter-of-fact, yet probing. The art of suggestion often accomplished what direct questions could not.

‘I suppose.’ She still wouldn’t look at him, but he could see her eyes were wet, red-rimmed. ‘I heard a nurse say earlier that there had been explosions and several men killed. What happened?’

‘Some men followed the man who kidnapped you into the woods. They trod on some abandoned ammunition from the wars. They’re all dead.’

‘What about the man? What happened to him?’

Rocco paused, stuck for an answer. If he told her Didier was dead, and no longer a threat, the truth would soon come out; he’d be a liar and for what reason? If he told her Didier was still out there, she might retreat into a shell and not come out again. Then something hit him like a cold shower.

She hadn’t asked about the dead men. She was only interested in Didier. Who wouldn’t show at least some curiosity about who the dead men were? Was that because she already knew?

He forced himself to push on and said, ‘He got away but he’s badly injured. Don’t worry — we don’t think he’ll be back.’

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 recall: 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.

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.