‘What happened to them?’ Rocco could guess the answer, but had to ask.
‘They were shipped directly into Le Struthof for questioning.’ He shook his head in sadness. ‘Like most who went to that place, they never came out again.’
Rocco drove back to Poissons, feeling as if he had stumbled into one of those moments when time seemed to collapse in on itself. In spite of knowing Poudric was wrong – couldn’t possibly be right unless his own eyes had deceived him – hearing the blunt news about the fate of the faces in the photograph was like a body blow.
He’d heard of Le Struthof. Natzweiler-Struthof, as it was known, was a Nazi concentration camp in the Vosges mountains, specialising in taking captured Resistance fighters from across northern Europe. Such was Hitler’s malevolence towards spies and saboteurs, many went into the camp and were never seen again, victims of its infamous gas oven, their brutal fate forever denied public knowledge by the camp’s poor record-keeping.
He thought about what Poudric had told him. Many members of the Resistance fell into German hands, either by carelessness, chance or betrayal, and the stories and suspicions surrounding their fate were often open to rumour, some true, some entirely false, depending on perspective. The fact was, though, that whole groups had been broken up and killed, their numbers and organisations scattered to the winds.
Was Agnès Carre, the mystery woman who had called on Poudric, a genuine student, anxious to redress some kind of balance, or was she someone with a far deeper agenda?
And what was the explanation for Didier Marthe’s face appearing in this particular group photograph? Was it merely some luckless, now dead soul who happened to bear a passing resemblance – maybe even a family member? Or was it Marthe who, by an astounding twist of luck or circumstance, had escaped being scooped up by the Germans? There could be, Rocco reasoned, a darker explanation. If it was Didier in the photo, and not just a lookalike, then it could come down to one thing: someone had learnt of his escape and, for whatever reason they harboured, had finally caught up with him, seeking some kind of retribution. It would certainly explain the attempts on his life.
The only question was, who was after him?
It was gone five by the time Rocco arrived back in a deserted Poissons. The co-op was dark as he passed by, and when he got home, there was no sign of Mme Denis. He parked the car and climbed out, and was debating taking a long bath when the familiar rattle of a 2CV sounded in the lane. It was Claude, looking harassed.
‘Lucas,’ he called, clambering from his car and hurrying up the path. ‘I think Didier’s back.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘No. I went back to the Boutin house earlier to secure the shutter we broke, and heard a noise from Didier’s place. I didn’t think much of it at the time: put it down to birds or the wind. When I’d finished at Boutin’s cottage, I went round to take a look. The cupboard by the back door was open. One of the guns is gone.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Two days later, with no further sign of Didier and no closer to solving the mystery of Nathalie Berbier’s murder, Rocco was growing twitchy with impatience. Stop-and-detain bulletins had gone out on Didier Marthe, with warnings that he was armed and dangerous, but he wasn’t about to hold his breath. Such bulletins often relied on the stupidity of criminals doing something to bring them to the attention of the police, rather than a thinly spread police force spotting a face in a crowd.
He had twice driven down to the marais and sat staring at the lodge in impotent silence, aware that if he followed his instincts and broke in, he would probably have to suffer the consequences of discovering that Massin was no longer able to help him. Yet deep inside, he knew there was a connection somewhere that could propel the case forward, if only he could risk taking the plunge. Even so, he had driven away both times, aware that ending his career here through an act of impulse would solve nothing in the long run.
He had relied on Claude to trawl the village for any snippets of gossip about Didier, but that had also proved unhelpful. The man had hardly set out to make himself popular since his arrival a few years ago and cared nothing about public opinion.
In the end, out of a sense of frustration, he rang Michel Santer, seeking any information he could provide on Philippe Berbier. Santer had the nose of a true cop and picked up information almost by osmosis. If there was anything on the industrialist, he would surely know.
‘You kidding?’ Santer laughed. ‘You think I move in those exalted circles? The man’s a living legend … and a friend of the president. I bet if you asked them, the esteemed sewer workers of Paris will tell you even his shit’s squeaky clean. What are you looking for, anyway?’
Rocco didn’t entirely trust the phone system to talk too openly. It wouldn’t be unheard of for the Interior Ministry to have someone listening in, and he didn’t want to draw Santer into a mire by association.
‘Just curious,’ he said vaguely, hoping Santer would catch on.
Santer did. ‘Um … you ever been to Clermont? It’s on Route 16 out of Paris, about twenty kilometres east of Beauvais.’
‘I know it.’
‘Should take you about forty minutes to get there in that battle bus of yours,’ Santer continued. ‘I’m due some time off. Meet me outside the town hall at noon. You can buy lunch.’
Clermont was quiet when Rocco arrived and saw Michel Santer standing looking in the window of a fabric shop near the town hall. It was just on midday.
‘Thinking of taking up knitting?’ said Rocco as they shook hands.
Santer smiled lugubriously, his grip warm. ‘I’m saving that pleasure for when I retire. It’s about as far from police work as anything else I can think of.’ He nodded to a restaurant across the street. ‘It’s your treat, don’t forget. I should warn you, I’m hungry.’
Inside the restaurant, they sat and ordered lunch. While it was being prepared, they did the small-talk ritual over drinks, discussing who had moved where and when, who was up for promotion and who was on the way out. After the food was served and the waiter retreated, Santer raised the subject that had brought them there.
‘So,’ he said, chewing on a slice of bloody steak. ‘How are you settling down out in the sticks? Got to meet any of the local vermin yet?’
‘Only the fruit rats.’
Santer raised an eyebrow and Rocco explained about his housemates.
‘Jesus, how do you sleep at nights? That’s creepy.’
‘Actually, I’m growing used to them. They’re harmless.’
‘Well, good for you.’ Santer sat back and took a sip of wine. ‘So. Philippe Bayer-Berbier, rich bastard. What’s the deal with him?’
‘For a start, how did he get to be rich?’
‘You aren’t the first to ask that. The truth is, nobody knows for sure. He wasn’t born that way: his parents were medium-rank professionals by the name of Berbier; the Bayer bit came later – and not his wife’s, either. She’s deceased. You met the mother?’
‘Yes. Armour-plated and vicious.’
‘Also thought to be behind his social climbing. Mummy-knows-best kind of thing, I reckon.’
‘You saying he added the Bayer name?’ It wasn’t unknown for names to be hyphenated by wives seeking a specific identity in a marriage, but Rocco had never heard of a man adding a name of his own. Mother’s influence, no doubt.
‘Must have done. Maybe he thought it had a better ring to it for all his moving and shaking. Anyway, he started out dealing in reconditioned army trucks after the war, when the haulage industry was on its arse. Before long he was buying into other businesses. He has the Midas touch, apparently: can’t help making money.’ He shrugged. ‘If I was his accountant or bank manager I’d know more, but I don’t. Where’s all this coming from?’