‘And Gondrand?’
Desmoulins looked grim and pointed at what was left of the office building. ‘Victor’s in there. It’s still too hot to get him out. We haven’t been able to get hold of Michel.’
Rocco thought about the time. ‘Was Victor working early or late?’
‘He was a work freak. Stayed late, started early, didn’t have much in the way of hobbies or interests. They must have known he was in there, though. The lights would’ve been on.’
Lucas looked at the children and wondered if they had seen anything else useful. In his experience, kids often had better recall than adults, images sticking in their minds but lasting only a short while before the temptation to colour the facts began to take over. He walked over and stood looking down at them.
‘Which one of you saw it happen?’ he said. There were nine of them, ranging from a five-year-old to a girl in her early teens. They all stared at Rocco with wide eyes, and one of the little girls began to whimper.
Rocco sighed and sat down on the ground before them. He’d heard it diminished the threat of a grown-up and brought you down to their level, which they could deal with more easily.
‘I did.’ It was a small boy on the extreme edge of the group. He was shrouded in a large coat with big, blue buttons, and his skinny legs were sunk into an oversized pair of brown, suede ankle boots with a zip running up the front.
Rocco nodded. ‘That’s good. What’s your name?’
‘Remi.’
‘Remi. That’s a good name. My father’s name was Remi.’ It wasn’t, but Rocco was after quick results, not a comparison of family history.
The boy seemed unimpressed. He shivered in the cold and said in a rush, ‘Some men drove up in a black Peugeot and got out. They had a crate of bottles. Then one of the men lit matches and they started throwing the bottles at the cars.’ He sniffed loudly and added, ‘I won’t get into trouble telling you, will I?’
Rocco smiled. ‘No. You won’t get into trouble. You’re very good at noticing things. Can you tell me what any of the men looked like? Were they tall, short, thin, fat… stuff like that?’
‘They were Arabs,’ said the boy fiercely. Then he turned and ran across the road to a house with a green front door and disappeared inside. The door slammed shut.
Rocco looked at the rest of them. ‘Anyone else see the men like Remi did?’
They shook their heads and looked bored.
Rocco stood up and looked round for a uniformed officer. He needed someone to speak to Remi’s parents, and for men to canvass the houses for any other witnesses.
But first he needed to speak with Michel Gondrand.
He collected Desmoulins and got him to drive to Gondrand’s home address. It turned out to be an impressive three-storey house in a village several miles out of Amiens. The drive held a Mercedes and a trailer with a powerboat standing in front of a two-car garage. Behind the garage was a large greenhouse, and beyond that a wooden summer house with a large dovecote crowning the shingle roof. The garden was extensive and laid with flower beds and a selection of trees and bushes. Rocco couldn’t picture Michel as the gardening sort, but maybe he was doing the car dealer an injustice.
He walked up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. He tried the door. Locked tight.
He looked at Desmoulins. ‘Is Gondrand married?’ It was a family-size home, but you never could tell. Checked his watch. Still only seven-fifteen. It was early for a no-answer, especially with the car in the drive.
‘Married, yes. No kids, though.’ Desmoulins lifted an eyebrow. This didn’t look good.
They walked round the side of the house to a rear door. It was open and led into a kitchen and large utility room complete with every possible convenience. It seemed that whatever Mrs Gondrand might have lacked in a husband with little charm, she had everything else in her life.
Except life itself.
A blonde woman Rocco assumed was Mrs Michel Gondrand lay on her face in a pool of blood by the sink unit. She wore a blue dressing gown which was hitched up around slim thighs, as if she had been flung forward with some force. A blue slipper with a quilted motif hung from one foot, while its twin lay near the door to a hallway. Rocco bent and checked her pulse, but knew by the amount of blood on the floor that she was beyond help. He looked for the source of the blood and saw a hole in the back of her neck, beneath her hair. A small-calibre gunshot, but still deadly.
He stood back, reading the scene and picturing the sequence of events. The gunman had come through the back door. He’d surprised Mrs Gondrand and pushed her to the floor, then shot her once. Callous. Wasting no time.
Desmoulins went out of the door into the hallway. He was back moments later.
‘Through in the study,’ he said grimly. ‘Michel. Another head shot.’
Rocco went through and found himself in a room decorated like something out of a magazine editor’s idea of a man’s study, complete with leather chairs, a desk and lots of books. A drinks table near the door held an impressive array of bottles and crystal glasses, with a mixer flask and ice bucket.
Michel Gondrand was lying behind the desk in a foetal position, knees close to his chest and one arm curled round his head. An entry wound just behind his right ear was messy with blood and white bone matter. He was dressed in trousers and shoes and looked ready for work.
Rocco walked carefully around the room, checking out the furniture. Barring the bodies, everything looked normal, although he had no idea what normal was in this household. He pulled open the middle drawer of the desk and found an envelope full of money lying in clear view of anyone who might have been looking for cash. In addition, Gondrand still wore a Breitling watch on his wrist and some expensive-looking cufflinks.
He touched Gondrand’s neck. Cold. Death had occurred hours ago.
If robbery wasn’t the motive here, what was?
‘Get a team in here,’ said Rocco. He picked up a slim, leather address book and flicked through it while Desmoulins got on the phone. The book contained lots of addresses and telephone numbers, some business, others private. A few numbers, he noted, had neither names nor addresses, and were identified only by initials. He handed the book to Desmoulins. ‘Take a look through that when you get a moment, will you? See if you can identify anyone.’
Rocco left him to it and toured the house, checking the other rooms. The car business must have been doing well. The Gondrands had lived in some style, with no shortage of expensive furnishings and lots of gadgets. Michel evidently played golf, and with the powerboat out front, enjoyed his toys, too.
Everywhere was clean, tidy, and showed no signs of having been disturbed. Whoever had killed the Gondrands had come in, done what they had to do and left again. In, out, focused. No distractions. Professional. The word in this context depressed the hell out of him.
The bathroom held almost as many toiletries for men as it did for women: cologne, aftershave, hair oil and other creams Rocco had never seen before. Vanity, thy name was Michel Gondrand.
The master bedroom overlooked the garage. He looked outside, caught a glimpse through the window of the garage interior, and the gleaming wing of a car. It looked sporty. Another of Michel’s playthings or Mrs Gondrand’s runaround?
Then he turned and saw the safe.
It was sunk into the floor in the corner, half-hidden beneath a washing basket. He nudged the basket to one side and tried the handle of the safe. The door swung upwards, revealing a pile of documents and more cash in paper bands.
He skimmed through the documents. They were mostly deeds referring to three plots of land on the outskirts of Amiens. There were no details of the locations, just plot numbers and official references. He doubted they would yield much, but the family lawyer would no doubt make sense of them. There was, however, one unexpected item: a colour photograph. It showed a plot of muddy ground with what were the footings of a large development and piles of building materials scattered around. In the background a group of men were in conversation, either unaware or uninterested in the camera taking the photo.
On the back of the photograph someone had scribbled: Ecoboras SA.
Back downstairs, he found Desmoulins checking out the drawers in the kitchen.
The detective shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. Just family stuff. You find anything?’
