‘I think the body was taken straight out of the water after death before being kept… somewhere.’
At last. This was getting somewhere. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘The level of deterioration is more advanced than that of someone drowned and left for any length of time in the water. I worked with an aid agency in the Congo once, after a flood. Many of the bodies retrieved were wrapped in sheeting and stored awaiting identification. This had similar signs.’
Rocco lifted an eyebrow. ‘See? You do have expertise — you just didn’t know it.’ If Rizzotti was right, the body had been kept somewhere before being dumped in the cemetery. And to be still wet, it must have been wrapped in plastic or heavy canvas. It might explain the smell and the slimy film on the skin.
He wondered how far he could push the doctor. He had already shown himself to be malleable by allowing the release of the body, and by Rocco himself. He had nothing to lose by pressing him further.
‘I need names,’ he said.
‘Names? What names?’
‘Don’t piss me off,’ warned Rocco. ‘The names on the release papers; the name of the dead woman.’
‘I don’t know. How would I know who she was? I told you, there were no identification-’
‘Maybe not. But someone must have known. How else would they have got the release papers prepared? Or is someone going around claiming unknown bodies for fun?’
Rizzotti’s mouth opened and closed in confusion. He looked dazed, like a guppy in a tank, thought Rocco. But he thought he knew why: it was probably the one question the doctor had been dreading.
He said nothing, waiting for the doctor’s conscience to tell him what to do. It was one of those moments when intimidating silence was far more effective than open threats.
‘The papers have already been sent to the main office,’ Rizzotti muttered finally, his voice dull, ‘awaiting transfer onto microfiche. We don’t have the facilities to duplicate them here. I’ll… have to see if I can get them back.’ He shrugged and looked beyond Rocco as if wishing himself far away from this suddenly cramped office.
Rocco sighed. Short of frogmarching the man across the yard and into the main building, it was the best he could hope for. ‘All right. I’ll wait to hear from you.’ He scribbled Claude’s phone number on his card. ‘Call that number and leave a message. I’ll call back.’ By the time that happened, he hoped to have his own phone installed and ready to use.
‘I can’t promise…’ Rizzotti began, then saw the look on Rocco’s face and appeared to think better of it. ‘Right. I’ll call you.’
‘If you don’t,’ Rocco growled. ‘I’ll come back. And you’ll have more than your sandwiches to worry about, I promise.’
Rocco returned to the main office and asked to see their collection of telephone directories. A beefy man in a tight shirt silently waved a ham sandwich towards a cupboard against one wall. After a few false starts, he found Pheron et Fils listed at an office in Malakoff in the south of Paris. He took a quiet corner desk away from the other staff and dialled the number. No reply.
He called Michel Santer.
‘Christ, you’re still alive, then?’ his former boss greeted him. ‘I’ve been fielding calls about you ever since yesterday. What are you trying to do, Rocco — get an early ticket out?’
‘What kind of calls?’
‘High-level ones — the kind I can’t ignore. A divisional commissaire named Massin was the first up. He sounded thoroughly pissed. Then a Captain Canet was on, talking about you and a female body in a Nazi uniform. I thought maybe you’d got into some weird stuff out there among the buttercups, but he put me straight. He was OK, actually, just sounding you out. And this morning, as I was about to enjoy my first coffee, another senior shirt named Perronnet bent my ear. Sounds to me like you’ve gone in with both feet first, same as usual, and upset the big boys. What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you some other time.’
‘Oh. Right. You’ve got company.’
‘Yes. What did the two seniors want?’
‘Background stuff, mostly. Where you’d come from, what you’d done — the usual crap-shovelling when someone wants to stick it to you and needs a personal, non-official edge. I told them you were a royal pain in the neck and couldn’t find your arse in the dark with a sniffer dog, and I was bloody glad to have got rid of you. Did I do right, Lucas?’
Rocco smiled. Santer never called him Lucas unless he was taking the rise. He also knew his former boss wouldn’t have said anything detrimental, but neither would he have over-buttered the bread. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it. Now I need a favour.’
‘Of course you do. And I’d like a longer penis, but I doubt that’ll happen, either. Go on.’
Rocco explained briefly about the body in the cemetery, and the tag in the uniform. ‘The manufacturer’s name is Pheron et Fils, costumiers — probably on the theatrical side. Can you check them out for me?’
He heard the scratching of pencil on paper. ‘OK, will do. I’ll send your replacement. He finally turned up this morning like a spare wheel on a horse and cart. He’s already got lost twice, so this should be just up his street. Anything else?’
‘Yes. Can you make sure he stays zipped about it? No written notes.’
There was a long pause. ‘Any particular reason for that?’
‘I’m not sure. The body’s already been released.’
‘Jesus, that was quick. How come?’
‘Somebody had the right paperwork.’
‘Where from?’
Rocco smiled. Santer was right up there with him. For a body to be released so quickly and with no questions, only the best papers would have sufficed. And those could only come from one source. ‘Paris. I don’t know the details, but I hope to get them.’
‘Good luck on that one. Who was the dead Nazi — de Gaulle’s favourite niece?’
‘As soon as I find out I’ll let you know.’
‘Do that.’ Santer hesitated. When he spoke again, it was in a low voice. ‘Watch your back, big man. When the big fish start taking notice of minnows, it’s time to look for a handy rock to hide under. I don’t know what you’re getting into, but it could get messy.’
The phone clicked and Santer was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rocco? He’s a cop. Always will be.
When he’s not, he’s sweet.
By the time he got back to Poissons, it was too late to do anything useful, so he drove to the house and parked the car. The day’s heat blanketed the front garden, oppressive and still, and he stood for a moment, enjoying the tranquillity. It was something he’d rarely found in Paris, where he had always been too close to others and their lives, too concerned with the next case on his list or the ones he had been forced by the pressure of work or political imperatives to consign to the backlog files.
He reached the front door and found a cardboard box on the step. A note was tucked inside the flap.
A man should eat. I hope you cook better than you grow tulips. The man installed your telephone already. You must be a Very Important Policeman.
Mme Denis was looking after his welfare. He glanced towards the hedge separating the two properties and made a mental note to slip some money for the food through her letterbox. He took the box inside. It contained the basics of survival which even he could live on: milk, butter, cheese, eggs, a knot of fresh-cut herbs which he
