evil embrace.
‘We’d best call the gendarmes,’ Monsieur Thierry called out anxiously. ‘Before it goes off and flattens the village.’ He looked in a state of shock, staring in awe at the spot where his shovel had hit the casing with some force. A silvery scar was clearly visible where the rust had been chipped away.
‘What?’ Didier spun round in horror, and Rocco could guess why. The fire brigade was the first force called on in emergencies, but the local brigade probably wasn’t equipped to deal with explosives. The gendarmes, while less popular — and likely viewed by cynics as expendable — would keep whatever they dealt with as evidence. ‘Why let those thieving maggots get their hands on it?’ Didier turned back to Rocco, including him in his contempt and huffing out a fresh wave of halitosis.
Rocco fought to hold on to his breakfast. The idea that this man might take a hammer to the thing simply to prevent the police from confiscating it was frightening. But short of surrounding it with armed guards or decking him, he couldn’t think of any way of preventing it.
‘What do you say, Inspector?’ The question came from Thierry, looking to officialdom for support — probably a rarity in these parts, Rocco guessed. Anyone representing the government or its agencies would clearly be viewed with hostility and caution.
He shrugged, wondering what made them think he was an expert on bomb disposal. Then it hit him: if anything went wrong, blame the flic. It was probably an English bomb, made in Coventry or some such hellhole, and since the English were probably no more popular in these parts than the police, what could be more fitting? Barely twenty years since the end of the last global conflict centred on France, the debris of two wars was just as fresh in people’s minds as it was in the ground beneath their feet.
He was about to suggest evacuating the immediate area and calling in the gendarmes, as Monsieur Thierry had suggested, when a man pushed through the crowd. He was dressed in filthy overalls and carried a canvas tool bag.
‘Philippe Delsaire,’ Claude informed Rocco helpfully. ‘He’s what passes as a plumber in these parts. Also farms a small plot outside the village. Gambler, too.’ He rubbed his fingertips together. ‘Not a bad plumber or farmer, but lousy at cards.’ He grinned knowingly.
Everyone watched as Delsaire stared hard at the object. Then he stepped forward with a large wrench, and without warning, gave the hexagon nut a resounding thwack.
In spite of his doubts about the object being a bomb, Rocco felt his testicles shrink and witnessed fleeting images of his past life go by at speed. A collective groan testified to others sharing this same life-death experience. Even the mad bomb-basher, Didier, looked fleetingly alarmed, while Thierry crossed himself and muttered something obscene.
The newcomer struck the object again. But instead of the expected flash and monumental explosion that should have sent Poissons-les-Marais into orbit like a space rocket, the nut simply fell off, and out onto the grass glugged a stream of rust-coloured water.
Delsaire smiled and tossed the wrench into his tool bag.
‘Water container,’ he said simply. ‘A prototype. Only seen a couple of them in my time. The design never caught on.’ He pointed to where the water was bubbling out. ‘With only one hole you can’t get a steady flow, see? Probably fell off a lorry and got buried.’
As Delsaire walked away, whistling, Didier glared around, daring anyone to say a word. Then he calmly scuttled forward and claimed the container as his property.
The crowd left him to it, some looking almost disappointed that a discarded water tank wasn’t about to reduce them and their village to microscopic dust particles.
Rocco was about to return to his car when Claude stopped him.
‘So what’s a city detective doing out here?’ he asked. ‘We’re just a pimple on a cow’s arse. It’s not like there’s any real crime — nobody’s got anything worth stealing. And certainly nothing to trouble an inspecteur.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Rocco truthfully. ‘They haven’t told me.’ Captain Santer, his boss, had merely presented him with his new orders, an accommodation warrant and directions, and told him to go and investigate cowpats until further notice. All part of a new nationwide initiative, he had explained vaguely, a small grinding of a very large wheel in the Fifth Republic’s efforts to modernise its police force. So far, Rocco judged, going by what he’d seen, as initiatives went, it was a case of wait and see.
‘There must be a reason, though.’ Claude was gently insistent, like a friendly dog with a bone, teasing out the goodness.
‘Why?’
‘There’s a reason for everything.’
‘Ah. You’re a philosopher as well as a psychic.’
‘No. Just that I know how the official mind works.’
‘Lucky you. When you’ve got a minute, perhaps you can fill me in.’ He nodded. ‘Thanks for the tip about the house.’
CHAPTER THREE
Rouen, Haute-Normandie
Ishmael Poudric rubbed his eyes and glanced along the hallway towards the front of his house. Someone was at the door. Lowering the large pendulum eyeglass which old age and too many hours spent poring over photographs had rendered necessary, he checked the clock on the wall of his study. Nine o’clock. Who could be calling at this hour? Time was no longer a medium he allowed to control his life the way it once had, but at his age it was a commodity too valuable to waste. A glance at the window confirmed that darkness had fallen without him noticing.
The knock was repeated. It sounded urgent. Maybe his son, Etienne
… a problem with the business. No. He would have called first.
He stood up with a grimace, bones protesting, and eased away from a desk cluttered with the results of years of his work: the negatives, slippery and undisciplined, like small children; the cardboard mounts for slides; the photo prints in black and white, some aged and fading, others bright and new.
He opened the front door and was surprised to find a woman smiling at him. She was dressed smartly and conventionally enough, even if, to Poudric, she looked a little plainer than any woman should do. Pallid, almost, as if illness or circumstance had drained all the colour from her skin. She appeared to be in her middle years, although he had long ceased to be any kind of judge when it came to the ages of women.
‘Can I help you?’ he queried politely. After a lifetime of service behind a camera and a shop counter, it was a difficult habit to break.
The woman held out a cutting from a magazine. He recognised it immediately. It was from a history journal about the building of an archive for a university library, by one Ishmael Poudric, photographer, once of Poitiers in Aquitaine, now retired to Saint-Martin just outside Rouen.
‘I read about you,’ the woman said. ‘You’re building a photo library about the Resistance movement.’
‘That’s correct, madam — but it’s very late…’
‘I know — and I apologise for the discourtesy,’ the woman said hurriedly. ‘My name is Agnes. Agnes Carre. I’m a student of Modern History, and was wondering if you could help me?’ She delved into a pocket and produced a slim envelope. ‘I will pay you for your time.’
‘To do what?’ Poudric was surprised. There were not many offers of money these days, now he had given up his photography business — well, other than favours for a few friends now and then. And this project he was working on was out of love, not financial gain. With younger photographers out there, armed with the latest technology and new ideas, his skills as a snapper were fast becoming outmoded.
‘I’m looking for some photos for a thesis I’m writing.’ Agnes smiled tiredly and brushed back a stray hair. ‘Can I come in and explain?’
Ten minutes later, his curiosity satisfied and the envelope containing the money lying invitingly on his desk, Poudric was delving through a long photo file box, flicking aside index cards and humming, a habit he had never quite managed to lose. His visitor was sitting quietly, nursing a cup of tea he had prepared for her.
