much, then recovered. ‘We do not live in each other’s pockets, Inspector Rocco. She is young, pursuing her own career… her own life.’
‘Of course. May I ask what she does?’
‘She works in fashion.’ Berbier’s eyes glittered, and Rocco felt the balance tip in the air like a tangible force, as if a decision had been reached. ‘Tell me, on whose authority are you here, Inspector?’
‘My own.’ Rocco stared back steadily. He’d faced men like this before. They were powerful, confident and usually arrogant. They could, in the usual order of things, break a man like him with a simple phone call. ‘I’m investigating the death of a woman in a village called Poissons-les-Marais, in Picardie. Her body was discovered in a military cemetery and was taken to the station in Amiens, where it was released on the orders of a senior magistrate.’
‘And how does that affect me?’
‘The body was released to this address.’
The sound of firm footsteps echoed from the bottom of the stairs. The chauffeur, Rocco was willing to bet, coming in response to some unseen signal. Berbier said nothing, his face blank. Then he took Rocco’s card from his pocket and studied it again. ‘This does not give your prefecture. If you are asking questions about some place in — Picardie, was it? — you do not have any jurisdiction in Paris.’
‘I have jurisdiction wherever a crime has been committed,’ Rocco replied softly, ‘and wherever my investigations may lead.’ He was treading on thin ice and knew it; like stepping without care in the marais. But thin ice had never stopped him in the past.
Berbier indicated the stairway. ‘You have made a mistake. Please leave.’
‘A mistake? Are you saying your daughter was not reported dead and her body shipped back here?’
‘She couldn’t have been. I spoke to my daughter only last night.’
‘But you said earlier that you’d last seen her a week ago.’
If he’d been caught out in a lie, it didn’t faze Berbier one bit. He nodded. ‘I was being precise, Inspector. I last saw her a week ago. But I spoke to her last night.’ He waved a thin hand. ‘It was only a minute or two… just a brief hello and goodnight.’
He’s lying. Rocco was stunned by the ease of Berbier’s words. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Don’t be impertinent.’ Berbier looked as if he could spit fire. ‘I will be reporting this matter immediately to the highest authority. How dare you come here with this ridiculous story? You will be lucky if you escape with your job and your freedom.’ With that, he turned and walked back up the stairs, ramrod straight.
If that’s his idea of grief, thought Rocco, left with no option but to make his way back down to ground level, thank God I’m not part of this family.
The chauffeur had stepped back outside and was waiting for him. The duster was gone and the man was standing squarely in his way, hands loosely clasped in front of him. He looked solid and tanned. Resolute. A man not to trifle with. Probably ex-para and full of spit, thought Rocco. Thinks himself unbeatable.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said softly, advancing on the chauffeur without hesitation. ‘You’ll end up breathing through a tube.’
The chauffeur wavered… then stepped aside at the last second.
As Rocco stepped through the gate onto the street, he came face-to-face with two men. They were dressed in smart suits and had just stepped out of a black Citroen DS. Neither looked as tough as the chauffeur, but one was holding up an Interior Ministry badge, which trumped toughness any day.
‘Inspector Rocco?’ the man said.
‘Yes,’ Rocco replied. ‘What do you want?’ He knew what they were here for; Berbier must have called them the moment he’d shown up.
The man ignored the question and held out his hand palm upward. Rocco took out his wallet and showed him his badge. ‘You realise,’ said the man stiffly, giving it a careful examination, ‘that you are outside your jurisdiction?’
‘That’s what Berbier thought, too,’ said Rocco. ‘I’m investigating a possible murder in Picardie. The victim lived here. That gives me jurisdiction.’
‘That’s not reason enough. There are channels, as you well know. Procedures. If we had every policeman running all over the country on a whim, there would be chaos.’
‘And,’ put in the second man with a show of teeth, ‘we can’t have that.’
Rocco took a deep breath. They were taking the piss, daring him to tell them where to go. The frightening thing was, he could see that they were absolutely serious. Official machines.
‘You should read your latest bulletins,’ he suggested. ‘I’ve been given a roaming brief as part of a nationwide policing plan. Are you saying the Interior Ministry doesn’t like the idea?’ He kept his voice level: losing his temper with these men would be like fighting fog. Best try and use their own regulations and decisions against them.
‘Enough.’ The man handed back Rocco’s wallet with a sour look. ‘You say “possible” murder. Does that mean you’re not sure? Do you have any proof which you can bring before a magistrate?’
Rocco sighed. The fight against bureaucracy was all about detail.
‘You want to see my case notes?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘I have no proof. Yet.’
‘Really? Yet you thought you could waste time by driving all the way here from — where is it you’re from?’
‘Poissons-les-Marais. It’s a nice place, full of people who pay your wages. I doubt you’d know it.’
‘You’re right. I don’t. Wherever it is, you’d best get back there. You’re wasting your time here. Police time.’ The man looked superior. ‘I suggest you find something important to occupy your life, Rocco. Trying to catch the eye of people above your pay grade is not for the likes of you.’
The man was being deliberately insulting. Rocco contemplated wiping that supercilious expression off his face, but a grain of sense held him back. It was probably what they were hoping for: drive Rocco into a confrontation and it would give them an ideal excuse to rope him in and take him off the street. These two had not happened along here by accident; they were following orders. There could only be one reason for that: to derail his investigation.
A movement out of the corner of his eye broke his concentration. Another car had turned into the street and ghosted to a stop twenty metres away. Three stocky men in dark-blue kit and jump boots climbed out and stood watching. He recognised the uniforms. They were members of the CRS — Compagnies Republicaines de Securite — the unit charged with crowd control and head banging. One of them was spinning a short wooden baton into the air and catching it without looking, the smack of wood against flesh a clear warning.
Rocco turned back to the man in the suit. ‘You’re quite an offensive little prick, aren’t you?’ he said amiably. ‘You must love telling your kids what you do when you get home at night. Must give you a real sense of pride, following orders from people like Berbier. Thank Christ you’re not a real cop: you’d make me ashamed to share the same badge.’
He stepped round the two men and walked down the street. The three CRS men stood their ground, then one of them looked past Rocco and his eyes flickered in disappointment.
Rocco felt just as disappointed when they stepped aside.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Berbier was standing at the window of his study trying to stifle a rising sense of panic when the door opened. It was the two men he had summoned from the Interior Ministry to deal with Rocco.
‘Well?’ He did not bother turning, intent on staring at the rooftops across the way, where pigeons were conducting their daily courting rituals. Flying rats, many people called them, but he found them amusing. Watching their pointless antics helped take his mind off the clouds he felt gathering overhead. Clouds he’d thought were long past being able to bother him.
‘We warned him off, sir,’ said the first man. ‘But I don’t know for how long.’
