‘Mmm. Late thirties, something like that.’ Rizzotti touched the man’s bare chest, finger resting just beneath a three-centimetre stab wound. The skin was puckered and open like a pair of lips. ‘No scars that I can see apart from this wound.’ He lifted one of the hands. ‘As to what he was, a manual worker, I’d say; strong, blunt fingers and broken nails suggests agricultural — at least, was recently.’
‘Not a factory hand?’ There were several manufacturing plants in the area employing casual, unskilled workers. If any one of them were missing a member of the workforce, it would be a quick step closer to solving the case.
Rizzotti ruled it out. ‘No. There are three types of production around here: metal-working, which produces oil and swarf — sharp metal coils to you — which cut and stain the skin; assembly-line operations which leave the hands roughened but clean; and tyre factories which leave traces of rubber under the nails. I’d say this man’s been nowhere near any of those.’ He hesitated, which made Rocco look up.
‘There’s a but?’
‘The knife that killed him. I’m not really experienced enough to tell, but it was probably a double-sided, narrow blade with a good point.’
‘A hunting knife?’
‘Could be. But definitely not a kitchen knife, which would have a single-sided blade.’ He pointed at the wound. ‘This has been sliced on both sides.’
‘A dagger?’
‘Possibly. It narrows the field, but that’s all I can tell you. Sorry.’
Rocco accepted his summation. Rizzotti had come a long way since they had first met. Initially defensive and reluctant to admit his lack of experience, being merely a local practitioner on loan to the police, he had slowly come to accept Rocco’s experience and suggestions and was now more forthcoming with his own views, right or wrong.
‘Fair enough,’ said Rocco. ‘Can you check the inside of the clothing?’
‘Of course.’
‘I mean inside the material. Slice it open; check for hidden papers.’
‘Am I looking for something specific?’
‘I’m only guessing, but if he came from further south, he might have papers hidden on him. It’s a trick common among illegals to prevent theft of personal documents.’
‘Good point. I’ll see to it.’
‘Anything else?’ Rocco was frustrated by the lack of clues. This man had died because of — what? An argument? Robbery? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Maybe that was a stretch, but he’d seen too many similar cases before in busy cities where, for want of turning a different corner, of taking an alternative route home, someone’s life might not have been cut short.
Except that the canal near Poissons wasn’t a crowded city. How random could it be in such a quiet location?
Rizzotti turned towards a side table and picked up a bundle of wet cloth which turned out to be the man’s trousers. They were dark green, with a rough weave and badly finished hems, and a cheap, woven leather belt. Rizzotti pointed to a ragged tear in one leg. ‘This piece of the trouser leg is missing.’ He tugged at some long strands of cloth. ‘The cloth wasn’t cut away — it was ripped by considerable force. It’s cheap material but tough and not easy to tear. It could have been recent, that’s all I’m saying.’ He looked apologetic, as if the lack of clear evidence was his failure and his alone.
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ Rocco stood cogitating for a moment, running the facts through his mind but coming to no clear conclusion. ‘Do we run to a decent camera here?’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘Can you take some photos of our mystery man? Headshots will do. I need a batch printed up for distribution.’
Rizzotti glanced at the body. ‘I can do that, no problem. I’ll see if I can tidy up the face a little first.’
‘Good work, Doctor.’
CHAPTER NINE
He arrived back home in Poissons to find Claude waiting for him, pacing up and down impatiently, eager for the chase. Mme Denis, his immediate neighbour, elderly and grey-haired, was keeping watch from her garden. She waved cheerily, signalling all was well, but scowled at Claude. Rocco returned the smile, aware that petty rivalries here were a way of life and had to be managed carefully.
‘I think I know where our swimmer may have entered the water,’ the garde champetre announced urgently, ignoring Mme Denis’s look. He jumped in the passenger seat before Rocco could kill the engine and stretched, showing an expanse of hairy belly. While Rocco was in Amiens talking to Rizzotti, he had instructed Claude to check the canal all the way back as far as the last lock on the other side of Poissons. If the dead man had been tipped in approximately where the barge owner had first noticed his vessel misbehaving, there might be signs on the banks or the towpath. Even dragging a body a short distance left some marks behind. All one had to do was look closely.
‘Where?’
‘I’ll show you.’ He pointed back towards the village and gave Mme Denis a casual salute as they roared off. She frowned and stomped off into the house.
Ten minutes later, Rocco stopped his car where Claude indicated. They were on an empty stretch of road bordering the canal, with fields undulating away on either side, empty save for a few cows chewing disconsolately on meagre tufts of grass. Claude got out and led the way through a wooden gate to a parapet which acted as a footbridge over the water. He pointed at a metal railing embedded in the concrete. Brownish stains showed on the metal and rough brickwork, and further down, a piece of cloth had been caught on a protruding bolt head.
‘I saw it by chance,’ Claude admitted. ‘If you were to tip a body over here,’ he demonstrated heaving a heavy load over the parapet just above the bolt head, ‘it might catch as it went down.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, it might be nothing to do with the poor unfortunate-’
‘It is,’ said Rocco. Even from here he could see it was a match for the material of the dead man’s trousers. ‘The weight would be enough to rip the material. Well spotted.’
While Rocco held him, Claude leant through the railing and managed to recover the scrap of cloth. Then Rocco went back to the car for his boots. They checked the canal for a hundred metres on both sides, studying the area close to the banks where reeds flourished and the current was at its most static. He was hoping to find something which might have been swept off the body as it moved along, but the water was too murky from the recent flow of rain running off from the fields. Whatever evidence might have been there had long gone, covered by a cloud of shifting silt. He returned to the area inside the gate, but found nothing of significance other than their own footprints in the soft ground. He was about to give up when he noticed a handful of torn grass stems lying to one side. Breaking a stick from the hedgerow, he bent and turned the grass over. There were brown stains on the underneath, where the rain had not penetrated and washed them clean.
Dried blood.
‘Somebody ripped this up to wipe their hands.’ He stood back and studied the immediate area, and saw a stake with a white triangle on top lying crushed into the earth at the bottom of a long depression.
‘Looks like a vehicle parked here,’ said Claude. ‘Heavy one, too, like yours.’ He nodded at Rocco’s black Citroen Traction, where the front tyre had sunk into the soft, water-soaked soil.
Rocco agreed. ‘Heavier, though. Bigger tyres, too. A truck.’ The tread of his car tyres had sunk by maybe six centimetres; this depression was considerably deeper and wider. He tugged at the stick, which had been broken in the middle and bore a faint zigzag pattern of a tyre across its surface. ‘Ever seen a marker like this before?’
Claude shook his head. ‘It’s not official, I know that. And I’m pretty sure none of the locals would use anything like it. You think it’s relevant?’
Rocco stood up. ‘Not sure. But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the years, if something looks out of place, it’s because it is. That makes it relevant.’
