short distance away, it was a distinctly odd contrast.
‘Creepy, isn’t it?’ said Claude. He bent down and dug his fingers into the side of the pool just below the waterline. When he brought his hand back up, his fingers were covered in soft chalk, like cream cheese. ‘It’s something to do with the chalk and the chemicals in the soil. It never gets dirty except after a storm, when mud gets washed in, and always stays the same depth. And nobody ever goes swimming in here.’
‘Not even kids?’
‘Especially not kids.’ He pointed to the bottom. ‘See that small dark area right in the middle?’ He stood up and cast around until he found a short branch, heavy with mud. He dropped it into the water and hunkered down to watch. Within seconds, the branch, too heavy to float, began to slide down the curved side of the pool until it reached the centre.
Then it was gone.
Rocco couldn’t help it; he stepped back from the water’s edge with a start. ‘What the hell happened?’
Claude shrugged. ‘I think it’s a freshwater spring, like a fumarole. Anything near the neck of the inlet gets sucked down by some kind of back pressure.’ He stood up and pulled a face. ‘Actually, I don’t have a clue how it works, but that’s what a water authority inspector told me a while back.’ He bent and scooped up a handful of water and tasted it. ‘Try it. It’s as good as Evian.’
Rocco shook his head. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He tried not to think about what else might have got dragged down there over the years and left its traces behind. No wonder nobody swam in there: the very idea would give even strong men the jitters.
As they walked back to the car, he looked back at the first lodge, silent and anonymous, shuttered against prying eyes.
‘I’d like to take a look inside,’ he said quietly. ‘What are the chances?’
Claude stopped and pursed his lips. ‘I’ll see if anyone knows who owns it.’ He dipped a hand in his pocket and took out a slip of paper. ‘Damn — I forgot. I had a phone call this morning. Wouldn’t give me his name, said you wanted this urgently but he wants to be left out of it. He sounded a bit shifty.’
Rizzotti. Rocco studied the names Claude had transcribed onto the back of an old fishing permit. The first was the senior magistrate who had signed the release papers for the dead woman. The second was the name of the dead woman herself, followed by an address. He felt his gut tighten. It was near the Bois de Boulogne, an area he knew well. Big houses, expensive cars, entryphones on the gates and armed guards for those who found that kind of accessory a necessary part of life. Not the kind of place you went calling unless you had a solid reason for being there.
‘She’s not just anyone,’ said Claude. It wasn’t a question — he’d written down the name and evidently recognised it.
Rocco nodded. He didn’t really care about the magistrate who had signed the release; he would keep for later. But if Nathalie Bayer-Berbier was who he thought she was, then she certainly wasn’t just anyone.
‘I need to go to Paris,’ he said. He climbed in the car and motioned to Claude to get in. It was time to trust this man. ‘But not in this.’
‘You could go by train from Amiens. Hey — you’ve got a radio! I didn’t notice before.’ Claude began spinning the dials like a kid in a toy shop. ‘Is this police issue?’
‘No. I had to buy it. The Bayer-Berbier place is close to my old stamping grounds; there’s too much of a chance someone will recognise my car.’
‘Ah.’ Claude nodded in approval as the soft tones of Francoise Hardy filled the car, interspersed with a hiss of static. ‘Beautiful girl, lovely voice. I take it you’re not going to ask anyone’s permission, is that it?’
‘Yes. I wouldn’t want to disturb them.’ It might be awkward if one of his former colleagues spotted him and word got out. Quite apart from treading on toes — maybe even those of his old department — he’d probably find his way blocked by politics, the shutters brought down tight. A favour called in, like the early release papers signed so efficiently by a senior magistrate, and the entire story would disappear under the rug. At least going in fast now, he might get some information before that could happen. He considered calling Massin, then dismissed the idea. It would be seen as calling in a favour from a big gun, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
He drove back to Claude’s house while Claude continued playing with the radio, sweeping the airwaves in search of some music, muttering at the stations playing rock by British and American imports. He was relieved when they arrived back at the house. Parked outside was a grey 2CV Fourgonnette, like the baker’s car and a million others on the roads of France.
‘Yours?’ said Rocco.
‘Of course. The best transport for my job — when I’m not using my bike, anyway. Of course, it would be even better with one of these radios.’
‘Is that how you got to the marais — by bike?’
‘Don’t worry — I’ll pick it up some other time.’ He jutted his chin at the 2CV. ‘How about it? Take us no time at all to Paris.’
‘In that? I’d break something… or suffocate.’ Rocco tried to imagine himself squeezing into the driving seat, and couldn’t. It was built for midgets, not men of his build — and it had as much speed as a donkey.
‘Why not?’ Claude shrugged. He got out and jerked a thumb at a rack on the roof. ‘There are thousands of them in Paris. Put a ladder on top and nobody will look twice.’ He grinned. ‘Especially if I drive. She’s a bit temperamental, you see.’
It had its merits, Rocco had to admit. But there was a major drawback. ‘Have you ever driven in Paris? It’s not like the roads here.’
Claude’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I had a life, too, you know, before coming here. I was a cab driver for a while… in Paris and other places.’ He looked triumphant at Rocco’s surprised reaction. ‘I had my share of big-name clients. In fact,’ he tapped Rocco on the chest, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I knew the street where that poor woman lived better than you do.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rocco? A safe pair of hands. Hard but safe. Is he coming back?
The street was silent apart from the chirruping of house martins, with that deserted ambiance found only in exclusive neighbourhoods in the middle of a working afternoon. The kerbs either side were peppered with a democratic selection of dog turds and expensive cars, the former awaiting the unwary, the bumpers of the latter kissing gently in true Parisian fashion.
‘You sure this is a wise move?’ said Claude, not for the first time. ‘Berbier’s a powerful man. You could end up with your balls in a vice at the drop of a phone call.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Go through channels. Amiens. Massin. I know you don’t like him, but he could clear the way for you — maybe get the locals in Paris to approach Berbier instead. That would take the heat off you.’
‘It would also take days while they’re all bending over touching their toes. Whoever killed Nathalie Berbier is getting further away. The more time we lose, the harder it will be to nail them.’
Claude was right, though: he was taking a risk coming here. Not checking in with the local prefecture first was a no-no, a breach of rules and etiquette. Even approaching the Bayer-Berbier family direct could have all manner of repercussions. But he figured he had the element of surprise on his side and that would be to his advantage, where going through channels would not. If he left it to the locals, they wouldn’t even get this far: the Bayer-Berbier name alone would be sufficient to put the block on any questions, the matter consigned for ever upstairs amid a welter of obstructive paperwork.
He climbed out and walked along the street. He wasn’t expecting any obstacles, but his dark coat and air of
