‘Why not?’
‘Let’s call it instinct.’
The doctor’s lip curled. ‘Really? Ah, you mean that vague, inexplicable sense you people refer to as “gut feel”, which takes precedence over the precision of modern science? The intuitive ability to make leaps of the imagination which the most advanced laboratories cannot match? Maybe it works every once in a while where you come from in Paris, and in those ridiculous films from America. But not in this building. Not with me.’ He sat down and folded his hands in his lap, then flapped them open and smiled condescendingly as if to ask, So what now, clever Dick?
Rocco moved to the side of the desk and leant over the doctor until his face was close enough to make Rizzotti flinch. ‘I’m sorry “people” like me don’t share your entirely scientific view of the world,’ he said softly. ‘But that’s the way we are. Now, I’d like to see the body, Doctor.’ He was holding himself in with difficulty. What he really wanted to do was to dangle this little prick by his throat and shake him until his teeth fell out. He’d seen too many deaths before, many from a variety of causes that were not immediately obvious, and the last thing he needed was some self-satisfied, corner-cutting medic playing a game of trump-you with blind science.
Rizzotti went pale and blinked, trying to squirm away sideways in his chair. ‘That’s not possible.’
‘Why not?’ Rocco thought about calling Perronnet, but decided against it. It would be momentarily satisfying to see this white-coated jerk taken down a peg or two, but ultimately it would serve no purpose. And being in a senior officer’s debt didn’t appeal, either. He picked up the plate of sandwiches and balanced it in his hand as if he were about to hurl it across the room. ‘Are you going to show it to me or do I have to tear the place apart?’
‘You can’t — it won’t do you any good.’ Rizzotti swallowed hard and stared at the sandwiches, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a fishing float on a line.
‘Tell me!’ Rocco muttered, and made as if to tip the plate into the waste bin by the desk.
It was enough. Rizzotti finally gave in.
‘The body has gone.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rocco? Impatient… eager… jumps in with both feet sometimes, but no fool.
Rocco put the plate down. ‘Gone where? We haven’t finished the investigation…’
Rizzotti stuck out a hand and reclaimed his sandwiches before Rocco could pick them up again. ‘I’m aware of that, Inspector. But you’ll have to take it up with your superiors. The body was claimed by a representative of the family first thing this morning. They had a release signed by a magistrate in Paris and countersigned by Central Administration.’ He opened his hands again. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’
‘You’re kidding. How could anyone get a release signed so quickly?’ Rocco felt as if the ground had been swept from beneath his feet. Nobody but nobody moved this fast to take a body out of the system before a full investigation had been made. Not unless the examining pathologist — in this case a pretend pathologist — was either negligent or easily leant on. He decided to do a bit of leaning himself, pressing over Rizzotti until the medic back-pedalled in his chair like a kid on a toy bike.
‘I can’t help you, Inspector,’ he gabbled. ‘It came in, I made a preliminary inspection, it went out again. I deal in facts, and the fact is simply that the woman drowned.’ He reached out for the papers on his desk as if grasping a lifebelt and held up a single sheet. It showed an outline diagram of the human body, with notations at various points, presumably marks or cuts that Rocco hadn’t been able to see. ‘This was my initial inspection copy. As you can see, I found several marks — mostly small cuts or abrasions — but nothing specific or suspicious. Some mud around the face, which is usual in these cases, where the body may have become inverted in the water. There was a bruise on her neck, here’ — a cross had been placed on one side of the neck consistent with where Rocco had seen the mark — ‘but it was not serious enough to have killed her. At least,’ he smiled thinly and without humour, ‘not unless the person who administered it gave her the kiss of death.’
‘What?’
‘A love bite, Inspector. Not a bruise in the way you mean.’ He sat back, his features softening slightly. ‘I’m sorry you have had this taken away from you. I sympathise, really I do. What I can tell you is that the woman had a large amount of fresh water in her lungs and a considerable amount of alcohol in her stomach — possibly Martini, whisky — a mixture, anyway. There were also traces of drugs, but I have not yet had the results back.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘In my opinion, she got drunk, fell into some water and was unable to extricate herself. It happens all the time.’
‘What kind of drugs?’
‘Well, I’m pretty certain we’re not talking about headache pills.’ He stood up and shot his cuffs self- importantly. ‘I think you need to find out where she was just prior to her death, Inspector. That will answer a lot more of your questions than any scientific evidence.’
‘Really? I thought science could provide all the answers.’ Rocco turned and walked out, then turned back. Something he’d forgotten: the clothing. ‘What about her uniform?’
‘Ah, yes. That we have retained. What about it?’
‘Did you check the label?’
The surgeon blinked. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘The tailor’s label. Every piece of clothing has one, even the cheapest backstreet T-shirt. It’s a trick we unscientific plods use to tell us where the clothes came from.’
‘I see. Of course — excuse me.’ Rizzotti sidestepped Rocco and left his office in a rush. He was gone several minutes. When he came back, he seemed rattled. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but you were correct. There is one label, in an inside pocket. But not that of a tailor. It is Louis Pheron et Fils. Costumiers.’ He held out a piece of paper with the details written on. ‘I confess we… I… had not thought to check that. It was sewn inside a jacket pocket. We checked the clothes first thing for identification papers and personal items, of course, but found nothing.’
Rocco nodded and let Rizzotti stew. It might do him good. Pheron et Fils. He’d never heard of the name, but it told him something else about the dead woman: she had not been a member of a revivalist Gestapo club, come back to hoist a contemptuous finger at French sensitivities. Nor had hers been a genuine German body buried and preserved for the past 20 years and uncovered as part of some sick neo-Nazi plot. She had simply been a woman in fancy dress, probably attending a party where she had picked up the love bite. Tasteless, perhaps, even sick, given that particular uniform. But not a crime and not the first he had come across.
‘Was there anything else about the clothes that you did manage to notice?’
Rizzotti bristled, on the defensive, but Rocco was beyond caring. The man had been careless. ‘Such as?’
The hat, for one, he wanted to say. It was dry. How come, if she fell into water? But he decided to keep that to himself. ‘Anything in the pockets? Any marks on the clothing? Come on, you know what we “people” look for.’
Rizzotti’s eyes dulled as he trawled his memory. ‘There were no obvious tears or rips, if that’s what you mean. The fabric was worn around the hems and wrists, but that’s quite common. The pockets were empty.’ He shrugged. ‘There were some chalk marks here and there, but again, nothing especially helpful. The area in this region is full of chalk — she could have picked it up sitting on the ground or falling down a riverbank.’
Nothing helpful, then. Now all Rocco had to do was find out where she had been and how come she had been spirited away from this place so quickly and easily. If he did that, he might discover her identity.
‘How long has she been dead? Do you know that much?’
‘Not for certain. There are signs, but I am not skilled enough to tell for sure; it is not my area of expertise. They are making swift advances in scientific circles… in America and Germany — the British police, too. But without access to funds and better facilities…’ He stopped as if aware of sounding too critical.
‘So guess. You’re a doctor. One day, a week, a month?’
Rizzotti lifted his shoulders. ‘A guess? Three days, not more. There are…’ He hesitated.
‘Go on.’
