that?’ She glanced over his shoulder at Rocco, mouthing a silent thank you, the tears finally coursing down her cheeks as reality began to hit home.
Rocco walked over to check the body. Not that he had any fears that Tasker was alive; no man could have withstood that volley of shot. He flicked back the dead man’s jacket with the barrel of the Walther and checked for more weapons. Nothing. If Tasker had carried anything besides the sawn-off, he’d discarded it along the way.
He looked across the lane where the 2CV had ploughed into the verge, spilling the straw bale and its cargo of chickens in a heap across the bonnet. The driver was already out of the car, clearly unhurt, but staring back at Rocco, Claude and Tasker’s body with open disbelief.
A powerful car engine sounded, approaching at speed. Godard and his men, most likely. They would have had a distant, if grandstand view of what had happened from along the lane, and would be coming to secure the scene. And no doubt the villagers would be here soon, eager to see what the cop in their midst had dragged into their serene rural world.
Mme Denis was the first. She came out of her gate and walked up to him, and checked him over, fastening an eye on the shoulder of his coat, where a stray shotgun pellet had opened up the fabric.
‘You should learn to look after your clothes more,’ she said pragmatically, pointedly ignoring the body on the ground. ‘I can repair that, if you like.’ She brushed at some pieces of straw on his sleeve. ‘And it’s your new one.’
‘You don’t have to-’ he began. But she shushed him and tugged at the lapel.
‘Yes, I do. Can’t have you walking around looking like a tramp, can we?’
Rocco nodded and eased it off. If he didn’t give in gracefully now, he’d only have to do it later. She took the garment and put it over her arm, smoothing down the fabric.
‘Nasty business,’ she commented. ‘Is that it, then?’
‘Almost,’ he said, and thought about what he had to do next. ‘Just some tidying up to do.’
Mme Denis walked over to Alix and took her hand, and led her away towards her house.
Claude watched them go, then broke the shotgun and took out the two spent shells. ‘I only meant to fire one,’ he said shakily. ‘But I was so scared for her…’ He gestured at the trigger and coughed, blinking hard. ‘Do you want me for anything else, Lucas?’
Rocco thought about it. He needed someone. But Claude should stay here. There were plenty of others he could call on. ‘No. This is your turf. They’ll need to see you in charge. And you should be around for Alix. She’s been through a lot.’
Claude nodded. ‘Of course. Thank you. And… thank you.’ He lifted a hand, then marched along the lane to turn away a group of villagers coming towards them.
Godard’s vehicle appeared, and Desmoulins was the first out, followed by Captain Canet, who began issuing instructions.
‘You’ve done it again,’ Desmoulins complained, glancing at Tasker’s body. ‘All the fun and I was miles away — Jesus, what the hell happened to him?’
‘He got what he wanted.’
Canet came over and nodded. ‘Good work.’
‘Officer Lamotte ended it,’ said Rocco. ‘Is Massin coming?’ He needed to speak to the commissaire urgently.
‘No. He’s fielding calls from the Ministry, the security agencies and every minister with a telephone, wanting to know what happened and where exactly is Pont Noir and Poissons-les-Marais. Sooner him than me, is all I can say.’
‘It was hardly his fault any of this happened.’
‘I know. But they’ll still want to know why the area wasn’t secured for the visit. You know what they’re like: a bunch of self-interested pen-pushers looking for someone to blame.’
‘It was unscheduled. Nobody knew about it until the last minute.’ Only someone who shouldn’t have, he thought; someone who had slipped under the net.
Canet tilted his head. ‘Well, somebody clearly did; the man driving the truck for one.’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘I’d wear a thick collar for a few days, if I were you. I know I will.’ He turned and walked away to continue organising his men.
Rocco looked at Desmoulins. There was nothing more he could do here. ‘How do you feel like taking a chance with your career and pension?’
Desmoulins grinned. ‘Hellfire, you’re going to close this down, aren’t you? What do you want me to do?’
Rocco wasn’t sure how things would go in the next hour or so, but he needed someone close to corroborate what he was about to do. ‘Stick close and listen. It could be interesting.’ He glanced at Godard’s vehicle. ‘I need a lift to my car near the cafe, then a fast drive to Amiens.’
Desmoulins was already moving. ‘Fast it is,’ he said. ‘Can we radio ahead?’
Rocco had thought of that. ‘No,’ he said. ‘What I want to do, we don’t want to broadcast.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
In Amiens, Commissaire Massin put down the phone from talking to Captain Santer and drew a deep breath. He had a sudden urge to be sick.
The story Santer had just told him had confirmed his wildest fears, and put him in the worst kind of dilemma. He was now in possession of numerous anecdotes, suppositions and allegations, all pointing towards a conspiracy inside the presidential security apparatus. A conspiracy to assassinate France’s head of state.
He could barely believe it. Yet it was all so simple. And most of what he had heard would be sufficient for any ordinary man to find impossible to explain away, such was the collection of facts.
But Colonel Jean-Philippe Saint-Cloud was about as far from being an ordinary man as a person could get. He had the ear of the president and his colleagues, he was in the confidence of the highest men in the Ministry of the Interior, he worked hand in glove with the most influential members of the country’s security apparatus. His word carried weight and authority that was almost unrivalled anywhere.
In a word, he was untouchable.
Or was he?
Massin weighed up the risk of doing nothing; of sitting here and accepting that he had insufficient hard evidence to take action; that Saint-Cloud’s word and position and background trumped anything and everything he had heard so far. Sitting here would be easy. Forgetting what he’d heard would soon go away, brushed beneath the carpet of quiet convenience protecting the state apparatus.
But he knew that he wouldn’t forget, and neither would Rocco. And instinct told him that everything he’d heard was true and that his conclusions could not be faulted: Colonel Saint-Cloud, the president’s chief security officer, had conspired out of a sense of fury and resentment to kill de Gaulle, using a disparate chain of disenchanted ex-soldiers, OAS killers, English gangsters and men hired by the Paris gang lord, Patrice Delarue.
It sounded crazy, even now. Yet impossible to ignore. But there was something else driving Massin; something almost intangible that would never find its way into any court of law, because it would be viewed with ridicule and derision. Except by him.
He would never be able to forget the insults Saint-Cloud had thrown at him as long as the man walked free.
The telephone rang, the harsh jangle unsettling his nerves. He ignored it. Most likely the Ministry or one of any number of people with a drum to beat.
Massin stood up and straightened his uniform. Picked up his revolver and went to the door. Pulled it open.
Colonel Saint-Cloud was standing outside.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
