They arrived at the second lodge and found it locked tight, front and back. They did separate tours of the building, studying the ground carefully for footprints, but found nothing obvious. If anyone had been here recently, they had left no obvious trace. So who had locked the door again?

‘Didier’. Claude read his mind. ‘He’s always around here; I bet he couldn’t resist getting a key copied so he could nose around whenever he felt like it.’

Rocco nodded. It made sense. ‘How do we get to Didier’s house?’

‘Follow me.’ Claude set off through the trees. On the way, they passed the third building Claude had referred to earlier. It was like something out of a children’s spooky comic, Rocco observed. Dark and dank, it had a drunken porch, broken shutters, and if there had once been any paint on the clapboard sides, it had long gone, leaving raw wood deep with cracks. The window glass had gone and the roof had the sad, sway-backed look of a neglected pony.

They continued until they reached the banks of a stream, and the tree-trunk bridge Rocco had seen before. Didier’s house was just visible on the far side.

They crossed the bridge. Rocco remembered what Claude had told him, but figured that he wouldn’t have crossed if he still thought the bridge was booby-trapped.

The front door stood half-open at a drunken angle. Rocco kicked it open all the way and drew his gun, then held up a hand to Claude and listened. Nothing. No sounds, nobody scurrying for cover, no furtive scuff of movement on the stairs.

He stepped across the threshold. The place hadn’t been touched since he and Claude had last been inside. The cellar door, he noticed, was still locked and the shoe he’d kicked against it was still there exactly as he’d left it.

He went through the kitchen drawers, looking for keys. Most were full of rubbish, crumpled bills, receipts and cuttings from newspapers jammed in on top of odd tools, random items of cutlery and endless tangles of string and wire.

Claude joined in. Moments later, as he moved an old coffee tin on a shelf to check behind it, they heard the dull rattle of metal. Claude upended the tin and a cluster of keys fell out.

Rocco grunted but said nothing. He was busy looking at some of the newspaper cuttings he’d found and very nearly ignored. They were dated over a number of years, culled from various papers or magazines. All were on the same subject.

Philippe Bayer-Berbier.

Most portrayed him in business mode, buying a company here, sealing a merger, appearing at a function with other business leaders and politicians, the urbane, charismatic and confident industrialist, comfortable among his kind. There seemed to be no specific reason for the cuttings and Rocco surmised that Didier, for reasons of his own, had been keeping a close eye on Berbier, watching his progress over the years. It was as much an unsettling light into Didier’s world as it was to Berbier’s, and he marvelled at the way two such different men had been joined over the years by their shared history right through to the present day.

Claude joined him and held up the keys from the coffee tin. They were shiny and well used. ‘None of these fit the cellar. In fact, they don’t look like they’d fit anything here.’

Rocco nodded and dropped the papers in the drawer. They told him only that Didier had an obsessive interest in Berbier. And that’s how it would look to a magistrate. It wasn’t a crime, nor did it prove that the men even knew each other. But to Rocco, it confirmed that there was still a connection, even after all this time. And that was enough to be going on with for the moment.

‘Let’s go.’ He led the way outside, with Claude scrambling to catch up with him.

‘What about the cellar? Francine—’

‘She’s not down there.’ He put his gun away.

‘How do you know? We haven’t even tried.’

‘I know, believe me.’ He didn’t bother explaining about the shoe. Right now, all he wanted to do was get back to searching for Francine before it was too late.

The second lodge was a smaller, rougher version of the big one, and looked to be more of a genuine weekend place than its neighbour. Claude went through the keys and eventually found one that worked. They slipped inside.

The search took even less time than the other lodge. No signs of expensive alcohol or dubious films, no toys or magazines, much less any kind of sound system. And no Francine. It seemed to be what it was built for, nothing more, nothing less.

Rocco stepped outside once they had searched the place thoroughly, and looked across the nearby lake with a feeling of increasing desperation, not helped by the apparent normality of the scenery around them. It was tranquil and motionless apart from a kingfisher flitting about on the far side, and one or two moorhens and coots stalking over the lily pads in search of bugs. Higher up in the branches, the smaller birds carried on their singing as usual, aware of, but more immune to, the events down at ground level.

Elsewhere, life carried on as usual. A droning noise sounded in the distance, probably a tractor, and a child’s cry drifted through the trees from the direction of the village. A cow bellowed, a cockerel hawed faintly. Normal noises in a normal world.

Then the droning noise stopped.

Moments later, so did the birdsong.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Commissaire Massin was in his office reading a report from one of his detectives and feeling a gradual surge of apprehension building in his gut. He’d just spoken to a Detective Bertrand in Rouen, following a briefing from Desmoulins, and was trying to work out what Rocco was up to. Desmoulins was either unaware or not saying, and Rocco himself was conveniently out of touch somewhere in Poissons, looking for a missing woman. Her disappearance was apparently out of character, but possibly tied in with a missing patient from Amiens hospital being sought for assault on a cleaner. Desmoulins had told him that Rocco had been sufficiently concerned as to leave immediately, briefing him on his way out to his car.

Desmoulins had also advised that the murdered photographer near Rouen was the same man who had taken the photo of the Resistance people during the war – the former owner of APP – and that the entire group had subsequently died at the hands of the Nazis in the camp known as Natzweiler-Struthof. Included in their number was one Didier Marthe … the same man now being sought for the assault and theft at the hospital.

Even more intriguing – not to say worrying – was that Rocco had identified another person photographed among the group shortly prior to their demise: a French SOE officer. If he was correct, then that man was also very much alive, and now known throughout France as a pillar of the establishment.

Philippe Bayer-Berbier.

Massin sat back and fingered his chin. He was aware of the concentration camp and its grim history, and how few, if any, Resistance people had come out alive. He wasn’t sure precisely how Berbier’s survival was connected with the murder of his daughter, Nathalie, but no doubt that would become clear in due course. If Rocco was allowed to take his investigation that far.

What he was struggling with was the request Rocco had passed to him via Desmoulins: to find out the nature of Berbier’s history with the SOE. Privately, he reckoned it would be a non-starter. Men like Berbier, even those who were known to have had a background in wartime subversion and sabotage, were rarely keen to allow those records to be made a matter of public detail. And a man like Berbier, who was acknowledged even by his supporters to have a somewhat shadowy history from the period immediately following the war, would be even less likely to allow it.

Rocco. The man was like a rough-trained bulldog: let him loose and he attacked anything and everything, secure in the knowledge that he was doing his job, no matter where it took him. It was useful at times, having a man like that, but it also generated enmity and bad feeling for those caught in any fallout. Like himself.