‘He’s a rural cop. Bit like the rangers in the USA, only without the bears — and he probably rides a bicycle. But keep him happy and he’ll look after you. And just remember that he’s all that keeps the peasants from marching on this city with pitchforks and tar barrels and wheeling out Madame Guillotine.’
‘Jesus, there’s a thought.’
Rocco cut the call and got through to the PTT service centre. He explained to three people in turn that he needed a telephone fitted urgently, and each time he was told to wait before being passed on. ‘It’s for official police business,’ he explained to the bored-sounding clerk who finally agreed to take some notes. He gave the man his new address.
‘There’s a cop in Poissons-les-Marais?’ The clerk sounded sceptical. ‘Mother of God. I was born near there. What have they done — decided to join the twentieth century?’
‘They’re working on it. How quickly can you do it?’
‘ Pfffff… You’ve no chance. You’ll have to join the queue like everyone else.’
Rocco bit down on a surge of impatience. Dealing with petty bureaucrats like this was the one thing guaranteed to spoil his day. ‘Let me speak to your supervisor,’ he snarled. ‘This is urgent!’
‘I am the supervisor,’ replied the man tersely. ‘And you’ll still have to join the queue like everyone else. If I let every person who claimed to be a cop jump the queue, we’d have rioting in the streets.’
‘Wha-? I am a cop, you imbecile!’
There was a click as the connection was cut.
Rocco slammed the phone down, nearly dislodging it from the wall. He swore at length, roundly calling into question the man’s family history, sexual proclivities and the likelihood of his ever fathering anything but deformed goats.
When he turned round, he found several customers — farm workers by the look of them — gathered in the bar behind him, listening in silent awe to his tirade.
‘Government business,’ he growled. ‘We talk in code.’ He strode from the bar, wondering just how much they’d heard and wondering how easy it would be to get them to take up pitchforks and tar barrels and march on the PTT offices.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rocco? Pushy… dogmatic… intuitive. He gets results.
Rocco climbed in his Citroen and headed along the main street to the eastern end of the village, where the landlord of the bar had told him the garde champetre had a cottage. He had no guarantee of a warm reception, since the man might resent a city detective landing on his doorstep without warning, viewing him as a threat or an informer, possibly both. But as Michel Santer had suggested, it would be the simplest way of getting to grips with his new territory, and he wasn’t about to ignore good advice.
He reached the village boundary and found a rambling but tidy daub-and-wattle bungalow on a large plot of land. Most of the garden was laid to vegetables, the exception being a bed of dark-red roses in the front. At the side of the property stood a lean-to garage and a large chicken house, with vine creepers snaking everywhere, unchecked and gnarled with age.
He got out of the car and knocked on the front door. The noise echoed around the garden and filtered off into the fields, while back in the village, the church bell sounded thin and suitably soulful. He’d seen no sign of a priest yet, and hoped that would remain the case.
The door opened and Claude Lamotte smiled out at him.
‘I’m looking for the-’ Rocco began, before noticing Claude’s uniform trousers and shirt, complete with shoulder badges. ‘You’re the garde champetre? You didn’t say.’
‘You didn’t ask.’
Rocco felt a ruffle of irritation, sensing he’d lost a point or two. Instead of coming here and opening up relations on a genial, if slightly superior note, given his rank as an inspector, he realised this rural policeman had gently played him.
Claude peered past Rocco’s shoulder at the big black Citroen. ‘Yours or the department’s?’
‘Mine.’
‘Good choice. Discreet, underplayed — blends in well with the scenery.’ He grinned.
‘It’s a car,’ Rocco countered tersely. He had to concede, though, that the man was probably right. Back in Clichy, it wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow; out here, it was as subtle as a hearse at a wedding. Still, he wasn’t going to give in without a fight. ‘It does the job it was built for.’
‘Fair enough. Come in.’ Claude led the way into a smart but sparsely furnished living room, with a small kitchen off to one side. ‘You want coffee?’ A percolator was bubbling steadily on a small stove, filling the air with a heady aroma.
Rocco looked around the room, absorbing the atmosphere. There was a large dresser, a sideboard, a dining table and two leather armchairs. Few ornaments and no softness. A man’s room, he thought. No woman’s influence here, although there had been, once, evidenced by a piece of crochet-work in a frame on the wall. A large plastic- covered map of the area was tacked to another wall, and below it, on the sideboard, a pile of books and folders which Lucas recognised as the official detritus of a serving police officer.
‘Why not?’ His stomach rumbled, a leftover, he was sure, from Mme Denis’s brand of paint stripper. But since he was intent on getting to grips with the locals, including this man, who was to all intents a colleague, he could stand another cup.
Claude filled two cups and pushed sugar across the table. ‘Help yourself.’ He sat down and picked up his coffee. ‘So what can I do for you, Lucas?’
Rocco sat across from him and tasted his coffee. It was very good. ‘For a start, thank you for the information about Mme Denis. I’m now the tenant of the end house in Rue Danvillers. It doesn’t seem to have a name or number.’
Claude smiled. ‘It doesn’t need one. It’s already being called the cop house.’
‘No kidding.’ He noticed a black telephone sitting on a small side table. ‘I need a phone, though. There are too many big ears flapping at the cafe. Any ideas?’
Claude reached across and scooped up the handset and dialled a number from memory.
‘Dede? It’s Claude. I need a phone fitted yesterday. Police, yes. Hang on.’ He covered the mouthpiece and looked at Lucas. ‘My cousin, Dede. Can you run to a decent bottle of Armagnac?’
‘If they sell it at the co-op.’
‘They do.’ He gestured at the telephone and said softly, ‘Sorry — it’s the way things work here, but we don’t make the rules, right?’
Rocco suppressed a smile. Out in the middle of nowhere and he got a phone fitted with one call. In Clichy, it would have taken weeks, and threats of physical harm — and even then the job would have been botched.
‘Thank you,’ he said and sipped his coffee. ‘When can he do it?’
Claude went back to the phone. ‘No problem, Dede. When can-? Really? That’s superb, my friend. See you soon.’
He put down the phone and smiled triumphantly. ‘Tomorrow. He’s in the area. If you leave your door unlocked, he’ll do it on his way through. Leave a chalk mark on the floor where you want it fitted.’
‘I owe you one.’
‘Yes, you do,’ Claude agreed. He leant back in his chair. ‘So, to what do we owe the pleasure of this posting?’ He was clearly referring to Rocco’s presence in the area and saw the favour as having earned information in return.
‘Musical chairs,’ Rocco explained. ‘There’s been a shake-up of various departments and regions, and I’ve been sent out here as part of an exchange initiative. Someone else is sitting in my chair, another is sitting in his
