Rocco gave him a quick summary of everything he knew so far, including Berbier’s attempt to gloss over the death of his daughter, his call for helpers from the Interior Ministry and the information from Sophie Richert.

 Santer shrugged, playing devil’s advocate. ‘Fair enough. Maybe he’s an overprotective father. Heavy-handed, even. You can understand him being miffed about her getting knocked up – any father would be. He has a reputation to protect.’ He grinned. ‘Something you or I will never have to worry about.’

Rocco grunted. ‘True enough. Even so, there’s something there that bothers me. He was taking a hell of a chance getting her body away from the Amiens morgue – and I still don’t know how he found out she was there. It could have easily blown up in his face, interfering with procedure like that.’

Santer was sceptical. ‘That I doubt. Believe me, Lucas, I’ve seen a lot of these people and the way they operate. They have friends everywhere … and where they don’t, they call on contacts who do. People like Berbier also believe in their untouchable status – like the old aristos and royals. They don’t get into trouble because they simply don’t believe they can. And that belief breeds arrogance. It’s as if they think they can walk through walls. I’ve seen people like Berbier walk away from charges that would have had you and me locked up in a second.’ He shook his head. ‘If you think he’s hiding something in connection with his daughter’s death, you won’t find it out in the open.’

Rocco saw the sense in what Santer was saying, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily. ‘He’s a rich businessman. Men like that have secrets.’

‘True. They also know people: people who can make nasty things happen.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning if you don’t watch your back, you could end up seeing the dark end of a muddy ditch.’

Rocco stared at him, looking for a sign that he was teasing. ‘You think?’

‘No question.’ Santer moved his plate away and leant closer. ‘I checked with a mate who used to work in a division dealing with financial crime. A couple of years ago, one of Berbier’s factories near Toulouse was hit by a strike. It was serious stuff, union men coming in from miles away and threats on both sides. Dangerous practices were being encouraged inside, according to the workers, and a couple of assembly line people had been killed. Anyway, the strike for better equipment and conditions began to spread to other factories and looked like going national. Then two of the ringleaders travelling along a clear, open road down near Bordeaux died in a crash.’

‘It happens. So?’

‘A military fuel tanker ran over their car in broad daylight. The tanker driver claimed the car swerved across the road in front of him, and a half-empty bottle of pastis was found in the front of the car. It was written down as a drunk in charge. Without its two main leaders, and with an under-the-table pay-off, the strike folded.’

‘And the tanker driver?’

‘He died ten days later in a shooting incident while on manoeuvres.’ Santer shrugged eloquently. ‘End of story.’

Rocco sat back, frustrated but hardly surprised. If it was true and Berbier had instigated the accident, it proved he was capable of using strong-arm tactics when it suited him. That made him no different from a handful of other business leaders who had cut corners and slipped into criminal territory to get what they wanted. It still didn’t take him any closer to finding out why Berbier was so coy about his daughter’s death. Reputation and scandal were polar opposites, and sufficient reason for anyone to want to hide unpalatable truths. But times were changing fast, in France as well as everywhere else. The Sixties were ushering in more than just a passion for long-haired youth and loud music, the Beatles and Johnny Hallyday. Moral outrage was no longer the potent force it had once been, and a man like Berbier would be able to weather the scandal of a pregnant, unmarried daughter easier than most.

There had to be something else. ‘That’s it?’ he asked.

‘It’s all I have. If I get anything else, I’ll let you know.’

‘Inspector Rocco?’ It was a man’s voice, gruff with authority, cigarettes or too many late nights.

‘Speaking.’ Rocco hadn’t been back from his meeting with Santer more than ten minutes and was fast becoming disenchanted with his phone, wondering why it was that it rang so often early in the mornings or when he was just getting in. It had never been like this in Clichy, with an office to work in. If he wanted to escape the calls, he simply went out to a crime scene for a while.

‘Detective Bertrand, Rouen commissariat,’ the man introduced himself. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you, Inspector, but I think you might be able to help me.’

‘I’ll try,’ he said cautiously, wondering if an old investigation had caught up with him. Some cases never let go, coming back to haunt you years after they had concluded, or were gathering dust in a pending tray.

‘You made a visit recently to an Ishmael Poudric in the Saint-Martin retirement village near Rouen. Is that right?’

‘Correct. Why?’

‘Before I answer that, could you tell me the purpose of your visit?’

Rocco stifled a groan. Surely he wasn’t about to have to apologise for stepping on someone else’s turf. Then he remembered, hadn’t Massin cleared this with the local office? ‘I was investigating an attempted murder involving a former member of the Resistance near Poitiers. There was a group photograph Poudric took during the war which we found during our investigation. I thought it might give us a lead. My visit was run past your office in advance by Commissaire Massin in Amiens.’

‘That’s not the problem, Inspector, don’t worry. I’m not that territorial.’ The captain’s voice contained an element of patience. ‘But I think you might want to come down here. We have a situation.’

‘Go on.’ Rocco felt the air around him go still. This was going to be more bad news. He knew it.

‘Poudric is dead. He was found in his study earlier today, stabbed through the heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Rocco arrived near Poudric’s house to find the expected posse of police vehicles and eager onlookers spread along the street. He negotiated the barriers and flipped his card to a uniform at the gate, and was nodded indoors. He found a tired-looking individual standing in the kitchen doorway, rubbing his eyes.

‘Rocco?’ The man stifled a yawn and put out a meaty hand. ‘Louis Bertrand. Sorry – I was up all last night chasing a bastard of an arsonist halfway round the city. Now this.’

Rocco shook his hand. ‘No problem. Did you get him?’

‘Yes. His dad’s a local councillor, would you believe? He had the cheek to deny it – and there was his little git of a son stinking of petrol and smoke right there in the living room.’ He shook his head at the thought. ‘I was tempted to flick a match near him: he’d have gone up like a Roman candle.’

‘What’s with the heat?’ said Rocco. The air was heavy and musty, as if the heating had been jacked up to its maximum temperature.

‘It was like this when we got here. We turned it down so we could work, but the place is well insulated.’ Bertrand bent his head towards the study. ‘We haven’t moved the body yet. Thought it best to let you take a peek first.’

Inside the study, two men were checking through the papers on the desk, having to work over the reclining form of Ishmael Poudric lying in his chair. His head was thrown back and his arms hung by his sides, as if he had simply fallen asleep, too tired to find a more comfortable position. His mouth was open, Rocco noted, but there was no shock or surprise on his features, no frozen expression of pain.

He moved round for a better look. A patch of blood no bigger than a small child’s hand showed on the front of Poudric’s jumper.