‘Is it strong?’ Rocco peered at the mixture; it looked like treacle.

‘It’ll float a brick if you want it to. Help yourself.’

Cups full, Desmoulins led the way to an empty office and closed the door. ‘I’m supposed to be working on a petrol scam on the outskirts of the town,’ he explained, sitting down. ‘It’s a crap job which nobody else wanted, and I drew the short straw. If you’ve got something more interesting, for God’s sake let me in on it. I’m dying of boredom.’

Rocco smiled. At last, a potential accomplice.

‘Who do I clear it with?’

Desmoulins grabbed a phone and pushed it across the desk in front of Rocco. ‘You know Eric Canet?’ Rocco nodded. ‘Dial two hundred and forty-one; to you he’ll say yes.’

Rocco dialled the number and Canet answered. He quickly outlined what he needed and saw Desmoulins making notes on a pad. ‘It’s not much,’ he said, ‘but I need someone to trawl through the records. This could go all the way back to the war.’

‘Tell Desmoulins to get on with it,’ said Canet with a smile in his voice. ‘He’ll much prefer that to the smell of petrol.’ He cut the connection.

Rocco relayed Canet’s agreement. ‘You’ll also have Massin’s blessing if you need it.’

‘Yeah?’ Desmoulins looked impressed. ‘That’ll do me – I need all the blessings I can get. What have you got so far?’

Rocco showed him the photo of Didier and his fellow Maquisards. ‘Not much, I’m afraid. This man’s a local in Poissons, although he doesn’t originate from there. He just blew himself up with a grenade – don’t ask, it’s complicated.’

Desmoulins laughed. ‘Christ, we heard about him. Take one idiot with a hammer and a death wish – and boom. Why the interest?’

‘Because I don’t think the boom was an accident. Somebody’s trying to kill him. He calls himself Didier Marthe, but that might not be his real name. Run it past anyone you can think of: police, military, medical … I can’t narrow the photo down to a specific location, but it would have to be somewhere with Resistance groups operating during the war.’

‘Tall order. It could be anywhere.’

‘Not really. There were large parts of the country without any organised resistance. I’ve a feeling he’d have been part of a known group, most likely communist in leanings.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘He’s got a line in angry left-wing rhetoric that’s too practised to be put on. If you can find any historians or archivists working in the field of Resistance groups and their affiliations, they might be able to help you. Massin is chasing up the source of the photo, so that might narrow it down, too. Liaise with him via Canet if you need to.’ He handed the detective his card. ‘Call me when you get something.’

‘Will do.’ Desmoulins made more notes, then stood up. ‘Sounds a lot more fun than chasing down petrol crooks. Anything else I can do?’

Rocco suddenly remembered the telephone number he and Claude had found in Nathalie Berbier’s flat. He read it out and Desmoulins scribbled it down. ‘Get the PTT to run it through their records. I need an address for the subscriber. It could be a Tomas Brouté but I’ll take whatever they’ve got. And I need it fast.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Rocco left Desmoulins and drove back towards Poissons, stopping at an agricultural supplies depot on the way for some rubber boots. He had no intention of making them a regular part of his wardrobe, but neither did he imagine that his ventures so far into the great muddy outdoors would be his last.

Continuing his journey, he wondered if his burgeoning network of worker bees, which now included Massin, a turn of events which still struck him as deeply bizarre, would accomplish anything. Maybe he was chasing shadows over Didier Marthe, but he couldn’t sit back and do nothing; he had too deep-seated a feeling that there was something there worth following up. All he had to do was tease it out into the sunlight.

He turned his thoughts to Nathalie Berbier. It seemed unreal that her death could be so blatantly denied by her father, with what amounted to the collusion of the Interior Ministry. It was almost an insult to the poor woman’s name, no matter what her lifestyle. Whether she had died by her own hand, by accident or at the hand of another, the least he could do for her was get to the truth.

He stopped off at the marais on his way into the village, and parked in the turning circle near the first lodge. He climbed out and did a tour of the building, testing the doors and shutters for weakness. But it was locked tight, with none of the play usually found in wooden structures. Whoever had built this place had paid particular attention to security. Perhaps it was natural, being so isolated and open to random burglars when nobody was about. Or maybe, he reflected cynically, the owners had something worth hiding.

He debated going to take another look at the Blue Pool, but decided to come back later. Whatever was there could wait. Instead, he drove to the house, surprising himself by experiencing a feeling of homecoming. Over the years his lodgings had been merely another temporary home in a long list of places to lay his head. Some had been better than others, most were unmemorable. Yet this place was different. Or was it he who was changing?

As he climbed out of the car, he saw Mme Denis standing by the fence between the two properties. She was prodding at the ground with a stick, unaware of his presence. He waved to her but she seemed too intent on her garden. He shrugged. Maybe she’d discovered Colorado beetle in her potatoes.

His pleasure at coming home was soured slightly by finding a journalist’s business card tucked into the metal grill over the glass panel of the front door. It bore the logo of a regional newspaper. He tossed it aside, not surprised that they’d managed to find him. In a village this small, it would have taken just a few minutes to discover that a cop was living in their midst. And the presence of a former Paris investigator would have been a clarion call for a story.

Inside, he bagged up his laundry ready to take to the co-op, then made coffee. While it brewed, he rang Claude and asked him for the mayor’s phone number.

‘Is this about the ownership of the lodges?’ Claude queried.

‘That’s right. What’s his worship like?’

‘He’s a pompous arse, but good on paperwork. Used to be a teacher in Amiens before retiring out here. His name’s Poitrel.’

The mayor answered on the second ring and Claude’s summary was spot on. Poitrel’s tone and words would have been more suited to a university lecture hall than a tiny village, but Rocco had come across his sort before. He remained businesslike and explained what he wanted.

‘I wish I could help, Inspector,’ the mayor replied loftily. ‘But that property is leased through a commercial agency in Lille. If they wish to give you the information, that’s up to them. If you hold on one second, I can give you their name.’ A clunk as the phone was put down, and he was back within seconds. He read out the details.

‘Thank you,’ said Rocco. The mayor probably knew more than he was saying, but was happy to pass the buck.

‘No problem, I assure you. I’ve tried to ascertain the ownership before – for our administrative records, you understand – but to no avail. However, the owners pay – via the agency – all the taxes and fishing licences, and even paid for laying the track into the marais for the benefit of other visitors and locals. So I could hardly criticise them too strongly for wanting to retain their privacy.’ His tone suggested he would like nothing better if he could get away with it, preferably with a crack team of riot police to break down the doors of the lodge.

A bureaucrat through and through, thought Rocco. But at least he now had another name to follow up, an additional link in the chain. He thanked the mayor again and rang the letting agency.