muddy detritus and nodding his thanks to the team leader. ‘And when we find her, Didier’s going to wish he’d never set eyes on this place.’
It was a short walk through the trees to the Blue Pool, and Rocco led the way, his long stride soon leaving Claude behind. They were followed all the way by the stink of mud and the sound of the recovery team packing up their gear. It was probably a waste of time, Rocco decided, as they arrived at the edge of the sparkling clear water. But he had to be sure. He had seen too many examples of the blindingly obvious being ignored, only to find that it was obvious for a very good reason.
But the pool reflected silently back at them, cool and clear and empty.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
‘Why are we still here?’ said Claude. The last of the recovery unit had left, along with the few onlookers from the village. It had plunged the marais back into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the occasional plop of fish jumping and the clatter of wings as a bird took flight through the trees. It would take some time for the wildlife to regain its normal composure after the crackling roar of the winch and the babble of voices. But it was just a matter of waiting, as Rocco knew only too well.
‘She’s still here, that’s why. Francine.’ Saying her name sounded odd, even intimate. Rocco had changed into his new boots, squeezing the muddy water from his socks and putting them back on. It was uncomfortable but bearable. Then he’d checked his pistol, slipping out the magazine and working the mechanism two or three times before replacing it with a satisfying click. He had also pocketed two spare clips from the boot of his car, instinct telling him that if he had to use the weapon today, it would not be at close quarters, nor would it be convenient to pop back and seek replacement ammunition.
Claude watched with worried eyes, then checked his own weapon.
They sat in the car with the doors open, waiting and watching. Gradually, like an audience at a concert growing increasingly comfortable with their surroundings, the birds began to find their voices again. A pair of crows appeared, hovering for a few moments in harsh disagreement before touching down in the treetops; a flight of pigeons clattered to a rough landing lower down, ungainly and noisy; smaller birds appeared, too, their singing faint at first, until they grew confident that Rocco and Claude were not going to erupt from the car and ruin their newly regained tranquillity.
A flight of mosquitoes found Claude’s side of the car and buzzed around his head, and he swiped at them in vague irritation.
‘They don’t bother you,’ he said, glancing at Rocco. ‘Why’s that?’
Rocco shrugged. He’d lived with mosquitoes as big as seagulls once, but they’d always left him alone. Others had not been so lucky, and he’d assumed it was down to bodily chemistry. ‘They know bad karma when they see it.’
‘Karma? What’s that?’
‘For them, mostly a rolled-up newspaper.’
‘I hope she’s OK,’ said Claude at one point, shifting in his seat. ‘Francine, I mean. She’s a nice woman.’ He glanced at Rocco. ‘But you know that.’
Rocco nodded. ‘Nice enough.’ He wondered where she was, and prayed that not giving way to irrational panic and running through the marais like a madman had been the right decision to adopt. Time would tell. ‘She told me about her husband being killed in a factory accident.’
Claude raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? I didn’t know she’d been married.’ He pursed his lower lips. ‘How did I miss that?’
‘About eighteen months ago, she said.’
Claude turned and stared at him. ‘No way.’
‘Why no way?’
‘She’s lived here for over two years, that’s why — and alone. You must have misheard her.’ He turned away with a meaningful chuckle. ‘Not that I blame you. She’s a fine-looking woman. I mean, enough to turn any man’s head to mush.’
After sitting in silence for a few more minutes, Rocco got out of the car. Something about what Claude had said was disturbing him, but he couldn’t work out what it was. It wasn’t necessarily the conflict in the detail — that could be easily explained away: people got dates and times wrong for all manner of reasons, grief being a major one. But there was something else tugging at his subconscious, a related thought, and he couldn’t pin it down. Maybe some action might dislodge it.
‘I want to see inside the other lodge.’
‘Why? You think she might be in there?’ Claude joined him, easing cramped limbs.
‘Maybe.’ He hadn’t forgotten that they had found the back door open the first time he had come down here. It didn’t necessarily mean Francine would be there, but it was another obvious place to check. It was easier than sitting around doing nothing.
Claude nodded. ‘I’ll get the axe.’
‘No.’ Rocco stopped him. ‘We’ll check it out quietly first.’ He locked the car, then led the way past the first lodge, skirting the lake and stopping every now and then to listen. The birds had ceased their activity only momentarily, then, reassured that neither man was about to start blasting holes in the trees, took it up again.
‘You do a lot of that,’ said Claude at one point, as Rocco stared upwards, ears cocked for any unusual sounds, sifting through the normal and looking for the out of place. ‘For a city man.’
‘Do what?’
‘Sniffing the air, listening to the trees. I could hire you out in the shooting season — we’d make a fortune.’
Rocco continued walking. He was aware that his habit of tuning in to his surroundings, a hangover from his army days, seemed odd to other people. It had been the same among his colleagues in Paris. Entering buildings, walking silently along darkened alleyways or listening for the slightest indication of something out of place, he’d been more gun dog than human, alert for anything that did not fit. The habit had saved his life on two occasions and he wasn’t about to give it up as a cranky idea just yet.
They arrived at the second lodge and found it locked tight, front and back. They did separate tours of the building, studying the ground carefully for footprints, but found nothing obvious. If anyone had been here recently, they had left no obvious trace. So who had locked the door again?
‘Didier’. Claude read his mind. ‘He’s always around here; I bet he couldn’t resist getting a key copied so he could nose around whenever he felt like it.’
Rocco nodded. It made sense. ‘How do we get to Didier’s house?’
‘Follow me.’ Claude set off through the trees. On the way, they passed the third building Claude had referred to earlier. It was like something out of a children’s spooky comic, Rocco observed. Dark and dank, it had a drunken porch, broken shutters, and if there had once been any paint on the clapboard sides, it had long gone, leaving raw wood deep with cracks. The window glass had gone and the roof had the sad, sway-backed look of a neglected pony.
They continued until they reached the banks of a stream, and the tree-trunk bridge Rocco had seen before. Didier’s house was just visible on the far side.
They crossed the bridge. Rocco remembered what Claude had told him, but figured that he wouldn’t have crossed if he still thought the bridge was booby-trapped.
The front door stood half-open at a drunken angle. Rocco kicked it open all the way and drew his gun, then held up a hand to Claude and listened. Nothing. No sounds, nobody scurrying for cover, no furtive scuff of movement on the stairs.
He stepped across the threshold. The place hadn’t been touched since he and Claude had last been inside. The cellar door, he noticed, was still locked and the shoe he’d kicked against it was still there exactly as he’d left it.
