The metallic aroma, coupled with the sunlight  through the trees, the thick, green carpet of reeds and the enforced silence after the clicking of the shotgun, reminded him of a long time ago. The close atmosphere of the jungle rushed in on him like a train, filling his head with images of the thick canopy, the narrow trails with their booby traps and their brightly coloured flowers, the darting flight of small birds and the sudden heave of soil and greenery as someone stepped on a mine or snagged a tripwire.

‘You all right?’ Claude broke the gun and stepped towards him. ‘You look like shit, if you don’t mind me saying.’

Rocco shook his head. ‘I’m fine. Had a bad night, that’s all.’

‘You should try walking instead of running in the morning.’ He grinned at Rocco’s look of surprise.

‘Someone saw me?’ He could have sworn there had been nobody about. So much for a cop’s eyesight.

‘Someone will always see you. It’s the way things are around here. You in training for anything special?’

‘No. I got used to it in the army, then at the police academy. It helps me think. That’s the theory, anyway. I should do it more often.’ He gestured towards the poster on the upright. It was advertising a tag wrestling match two weeks ago. ‘I thought this stuff had gone out of fashion.’ He watched Claude out of the corner of his eye, his hand still on his gun.

‘In Paris, maybe. Out here, though, they still have a taste for dramatic combat and the occasional spot of blood. Modern-day gladiators minus the lions.’ The poster showed a ludicrously muscular man in a flowing cape, wrestling costume and a full head mask, eyes glinting through holes cut in the black fabric. He appeared to be snarling at the camera, but might easily have been yawning. ‘Him especially. Shadow Angel … man of mystery.’ He read out the banner line in a dramatic hiss and smiled, eyes crinkling around the edges. ‘That’s what they’re already calling you in the village: Shadow Angel.’

‘Why?’

‘You dress like an undertaker, you’re built like a brick shithouse and nobody knows who the hell you are … only that you look as if you’re about to give them a kicking.’ He shrugged. ‘Not their fault – they’ve seen too many bad flic flicks.’

‘In that case, I’ll try not to disappoint them.’ Rocco nodded at the house. ‘Who’s the owner?’

‘No idea. The mayor might know: he collects the local taxes. I heard it’s a businessman from Paris, uses it for fishing and hunting parties at weekends. Brings his friends down to show what fun we ignorant peasants have in the marais.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Beats me why they come here, though. Hardly St Tropez, is it?’

‘There aren’t any photographers here scouting for Bardot skinny-dipping, that’s why. Much more private.’

‘I suppose. It’s closer to Paris than the Med, too. And people around here mind their own business. Most of the time.’

Weekend parties, thought Rocco. A brief rush of excitement for the idle rich with too much time on their hands and not enough ways to fill it. Hell, why not? They paid their taxes, they were entitled. The same thing happened in reverse in Paris: people drifted in for a weekend of fun and frolics away from the faces they knew back home. Nobody got hurt, nobody knew. Well, mostly. Unless you bumped into your next-door neighbour doing the same thing.

Claude was watching him closely. ‘You think the dead woman was here?’

‘Most likely. She wasn’t local, was she?’

‘No. She wasn’t. How do we find out who she was?’

‘No idea. Not yet. But we will, sooner or later.’ He related what Rizzotti had told him, then stepped away from the lodge and gestured at the marais. ‘Can anyone fish here?’

‘Sure. If they have a permit.’

‘And do they?’

‘Mostly, yes. Apart from a few kids.’

‘Are there other places like this?’

‘Sure. Come on, I’ll show you. Watch where you walk, though, in those shoes. Tread where I tread.’

Claude set off past the lake, heading further into the trees. Rocco found the going difficult, his soles slipping on the reeds and grassy undergrowth. It was possible to imagine someone hurrying through here and stumbling. It would be so easy to skid off the track and into the nearest stretch of water.

Why did he imagine someone hurrying? The thought bothered him, but instinct told him he was right. Whatever had occurred hadn’t been right here, but maybe not far off. All he had to do was find the place. Then the rest would become clear.

His coattails snagged on a cluster of thorns and he stopped to work them loose. He felt the soft ground shift underfoot as he twisted his body, the heavy air settling around him, with only the squelch of Claude’s footsteps to break the silence. He was reminded of the other oppressive landscape. Back then, though, he’d been dressed appropriately, because the landscape and those who lived in it had learnt to fight back with lethal force.

He shook off the thoughts and watched Claude, dressed in semi-hunting gear, in his element and easing through the vegetation with barely a whisper. He needed to get some appropriate clothing of his own, if he was to stay here any length of time.

Shadow Angel. Christ, if Santer ever found out, he’d wet himself.

Skirting more reeds around a second, smaller lake, and watching for Claude’s indications about soft ground and patches of dark mud, Rocco spotted another lodge. This was smaller than the first, but built in the same style. It was also locked and shuttered and weather-worn, standing on a smaller patch of ground, but plainly designed for the same function.

‘Does the same person own this?’

‘I don’t think so – I believe it’s a dentist from Lille, but I’ve never seen him.’

Claude wandered off and inspected the front door, then disappeared round to the rear. Seconds later he was back, gesturing to Rocco to follow.

Rocco went after him and rounded the corner of the building. The back door stood open, and a clear trail of damp footprints showed just inside the door.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rocco? Relentless … doesn’t give up.

Sgt R Desbordes – Contreband Task Force – Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur

‘Not mine,’ Claude said. ‘Recent, though.’ He lifted one boot to show Rocco the sole. It was heavily moulded with a zigzag design, whereas the footprints on the floor were smooth with no discernible pattern.

Rocco moved past him and listened. If someone was inside, they were keeping very quiet. A random intruder from the village, come to see what they could lift? Or the owner, spooked by hearing their voices? If so, how had they got here? There were no signs of transport other than Rocco’s Citroën, nowhere else to park nearby.

He pulled out his gun and motioned for Claude to stay where he was.

Searching the place didn’t take long. The downstairs was one big room, with a tiny enclosed lobby at the front door. The main room had a kitchen area at one end, with a basic sink and drainer, a two-hob Calor gas cooker and a bar for serving or preparing food. The room was clean and tidy, although well beyond the first flush of newness, and the air held a faint tang of bleach. Rocco checked a pedal bin near the sink; it was empty. An open stairway ran up the rear wall and disappeared into a large hatchway in the ceiling. It was difficult to see much detail because of the shutters, but Rocco got the general layout.

He exchanged a look with Claude, then walked up the stairs, making no effort to hide his progress, but treading warily. By now, anyone here would know of their presence. If a startled owner was about to erupt out of a cupboard brandishing a lump of firewood, he wanted them to know he was coming.

Like the downstairs, the upper level was one large area, with two single beds and two bunks. Two wardrobes and a mirror completed the furnishings. There was a bit more light here from a round porthole window at one end, just enough to see that there were no hiding places and everywhere looked clean.