Rocco nodded. He didn’t really care about the magistrate who had signed the release; he would keep for later. But if Nathalie Bayer-Berbier was who he thought she was, then she certainly wasn’t just anyone.
‘I need to go to Paris,’ he said. He climbed in the car and motioned to Claude to get in. It was time to trust this man. ‘But not in this.’
‘You could go by train from Amiens. Hey – you’ve got a radio! I didn’t notice before.’ Claude began spinning the dials like a kid in a toy shop. ‘Is this police issue?’
‘No. I had to buy it. The Bayer-Berbier place is close to my old stamping grounds; there’s too much of a chance someone will recognise my car.’
‘Ah.’ Claude nodded in approval as the soft tones of Françoise Hardy filled the car, interspersed with a hiss of static. ‘Beautiful girl, lovely voice. I take it you’re not going to ask anyone’s permission, is that it?’
‘Yes. I wouldn’t want to disturb them.’ It might be awkward if one of his former colleagues spotted him and word got out. Quite apart from treading on toes – maybe even those of his old department – he’d probably find his way blocked by politics, the shutters brought down tight. A favour called in, like the early release papers signed so efficiently by a senior magistrate, and the entire story would disappear under the rug. At least going in fast now, he might get some information before that could happen. He considered calling Massin, then dismissed the idea. It would be seen as calling in a favour from a big gun, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
He drove back to Claude’s house while Claude continued playing with the radio, sweeping the airwaves in search of some music, muttering at the stations playing rock by British and American imports. He was relieved when they arrived back at the house. Parked outside was a grey 2CV Fourgonnette, like the baker’s car and a million others on the roads of France.
‘Yours?’ said Rocco.
‘Of course. The best transport for my job – when I’m not using my bike, anyway. Of course, it would be even better with one of these radios.’
‘Is that how you got to the marais – by bike?’
‘Don’t worry – I’ll pick it up some other time.’ He jutted his chin at the 2CV. ‘How about it? Take us no time at all to Paris.’
‘In that? I’d break something … or suffocate.’ Rocco tried to imagine himself squeezing into the driving seat, and couldn’t. It was built for midgets, not men of his build – and it had as much speed as a donkey.
‘Why not?’ Claude shrugged. He got out and jerked a thumb at a rack on the roof. ‘There are thousands of them in Paris. Put a ladder on top and nobody will look twice.’ He grinned. ‘Especially if I drive. She’s a bit temperamental, you see.’
It had its merits, Rocco had to admit. But there was a major drawback. ‘Have you ever driven in Paris? It’s not like the roads here.’
Claude’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I had a life, too, you know, before coming here. I was a cab driver for a while … in Paris and other places.’ He looked triumphant at Rocco’s surprised reaction. ‘I had my share of big-name clients. In fact,’ he tapped Rocco on the chest, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I knew the street where that poor woman lived better than you do.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rocco? A safe pair of hands. Hard but safe. Is he coming back?
Sous-Brigadier Etienne Stauff – Anti-drugs Initiative – Nice district
The street was silent apart from the chirruping of house martins, with that deserted ambiance found only in exclusive neighbourhoods in the middle of a working afternoon. The kerbs either side were peppered with a democratic selection of dog turds and expensive cars, the former awaiting the unwary, the bumpers of the latter kissing gently in true Parisian fashion.
‘You sure this is a wise move?’ said Claude, not for the first time. ‘Berbier’s a powerful man. You could end up with your balls in a vice at the drop of a phone call.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Go through channels. Amiens. Massin. I know you don’t like him, but he could clear the way for you – maybe get the locals in Paris to approach Berbier instead. That would take the heat off you.’
‘It would also take days while they’re all bending over touching their toes. Whoever killed Nathalie Berbier is getting further away. The more time we lose, the harder it will be to nail them.’
Claude was right, though: he was taking a risk coming here. Not checking in with the local préfecture first was a no-no, a breach of rules and etiquette. Even approaching the Bayer-Berbier family direct could have all manner of repercussions. But he figured he had the element of surprise on his side and that would be to his advantage, where going through channels would not. If he left it to the locals, they wouldn’t even get this far: the Bayer-Berbier name alone would be sufficient to put the block on any questions, the matter consigned for ever upstairs amid a welter of obstructive paperwork.
He climbed out and walked along the street. He wasn’t expecting any obstacles, but his dark coat and air of confidence would help him pass muster from anyone watching the area. If that failed, he might have to use more direct means. He scanned the house numbers set in blue plaques on the gateposts as he went, eyeing the interior of the courtyards where gleaming limousines stood waiting to whisk their owners on the next journey into the capital. The traffic noise from a nearby intersection was a muted buzz over the rooftops, a comforting reminder of activity after the rural quiet of Poissons-les-Marais.
He glanced back at the end of the street. He’d told Claude to stay on the move. Any longer than ten minutes in the same spot and a local patrol would be along to give the driver the once-over. With no rational explanation for being in the area, it would be inconvenient for both of them if they were pulled in.
He found the number and a bell push alongside an entryphone. There were no identifying marks but he would soon find out if he’d got the right place.
‘Yes?’ an elderly woman’s voice squawked from the speaker grill.
‘Monsieur Berbier, please.’ A phone call twenty minutes ago had elicited the fact that Philippe Bayer-Berbier, industrialist, war hero, diplomat and friend of politicians throughout the land, was at home. The small lie about who the call was from had been easy, made simpler by cutting it short mid-sentence. Phone lines were occasionally unreliable in Paris, even in these exclusive quarters, and nobody gave an interrupted call much thought.
‘Who wants him?’
The sharp response wasn’t quite what Rocco had expected, but he guessed it might have something to do with the death of a daughter of the house. Some normally mild-mannered people dropped completely out of character when faced with the death of a loved one.
‘Police.’
The entryphone beeped once and there was a click as the gate locks disengaged.
He stepped into a courtyard paved with cobbles. In the centre stood a dried-up fountain with a bronze cherub pointing a chubby finger towards the sky. A thin veil of green mould covered everything as if the sun rarely shone here, and the overall effect was sombre and melancholy. The only relief was a gleaming Citroën DS sitting low at rest on the far side of the fountain. A stocky young man in a dark suit was rubbing the rear window with a duster, his other hand hovering by the front of his jacket. He watched Rocco cross the yard but made no move to intercept him.
Rocco spotted a recess leading into the building. Nothing so common as a front door, he thought, and wondered what had led to this architectural oddity. As he walked towards it, an elderly woman emerged. She was grey and stick-thin and looked as if a light breeze would pick her up and send her spinning away over the rooftops like a discarded paper tissue. Her skin was sickly white and mottled with age spots, her hair done in an elaborate perm which he was ready to bet was done once a week in an expensive salon off Boulevard Haussmann.