‘If it went missing down there, tell her to try the Korean restaurant at the end. What about my replacement?’
‘Hah! He didn’t turn up, did he? Seems the turnip got on the wrong train and ended up in Toulouse. I’ve told them they can keep him. Anyone who can’t navigate their way round this city is as much use to me as tits on a pigeon.’
Rocco laughed. ‘Not a good start, then.’ Like all ‘initiatives’ this one had begun with a shuffle of bodies all around the board, from the Med to the Channel ports, with movements in manpower creating gaps everywhere, not all of which could be filled quickly enough. A bureaucratic charade, in other words, a result of the Fifth Republic trying to prove it had more balls than the recently lamented Fourth had ever done by introducing new policing methods.
‘What about the new emperor?’ He was referring to the impending arrival of the new divisional commissaire. The officer classes were also part of the elaborate game of musical chairs.
‘Not yet here.’ Santer laughed. ‘It wasn’t personal, you know, moving you. I doubt someone saw your name pop up on a report and thought: I know – let’s have some fun and move that awkward bastard, Rocco, out to the sticks. It might mean disturbing the entire French police establishment, but what the hell – it’ll be worth it just to piss him off.’
‘You know that has the disturbing ring of truth.’
‘I already told you, it was a nationwide plan; our new boss was hauled out of Bordeaux and dumped on us just like you’ve been dumped on those lucky country folk in Picardie and so on along the line. When the top men at his level get moved, it sets off a ripple effect throughout the ranks. You and every other bugger who was moved got caught up in it like flies on dog shit.’
‘That’s all it was?’
‘That’s all. It’s about sharing services across the whole police network. We loan inspectors to the regions, they let us have some of their big farm boys when we need a bit of fresh muscle for the CRS, we all cooperate on forensic and cross-border issues, blah, blah, blah. It’s called “integration”.’
‘Sounds too good to be true.’
‘Amen to that. It’s the latest thing, probably copied from America, so don’t go and cock it all up by being awkward. You should think yourself lucky and enjoy the holiday. Oh, and don’t forget, you’re responsible to the local station, nobody else. No magistrates, no mayors – you go straight to the local commissaire.’
Rocco felt his spirits plummet. Reporting to the uniforms? That’s all he needed, being told what to do by brass buttons. Still, it might be an interesting departure from the norm. Initiatives came and went, whatever their names and aims. As for the high-level commissaire being hauled out of a distant regional office and slipped into an outer Paris district, that was a clear indication of impending elevation to a more senior post. All the grey beards at the top of the command structure were doing was making sure the incomer was sufficiently groomed and had the straw picked out of his ears before being allowed to mix with the nobs in the Ministry of the Interior. In the meanwhile, everyone else shuffled across the board like chess pieces, just to show they were cooperating.
He told Santer about his move to a house on the outskirts of the village, and that he would collect messages from the café until he got a phone fitted.
‘What’s wrong with the café?’ Santer demanded. ‘Christ, I’d love to be billeted in a café for a few weeks: drinks on tap, bar billiards to play every evening and out from under my wife’s reach? You don’t know when you’re lucky, you big ape!’
‘Yes, and everyone listening to every word I say,’ countered Rocco. ‘They already know more about me than I do. I want to keep some distance.’
‘Fair enough. Be a misery guts. Oh, a bit of advice: touch base with the local garde champêtre as soon as you can. It’s a minor courtesy but worth doing. He’ll be your best source of information, in case you need it.’
‘What exactly does a garde champêtre do? I’ve never met one.’
‘He’s a rural cop. Bit like the rangers in the USA, only without the bears – and he probably rides a bicycle. But keep him happy and he’ll look after you. And just remember that he’s all that keeps the peasants from marching on this city with pitchforks and tar barrels and wheeling out Madame Guillotine.’
‘Jesus, there’s a thought.’
Rocco cut the call and got through to the PTT service centre. He explained to three people in turn that he needed a telephone fitted urgently, and each time he was told to wait before being passed on. ‘It’s for official police business,’ he explained to the bored-sounding clerk who finally agreed to take some notes. He gave the man his new address.
‘There’s a cop in Poissons-les-Marais?’ The clerk sounded sceptical. ‘Mother of God. I was born near there. What have they done – decided to join the twentieth century?’
‘They’re working on it. How quickly can you do it?’
‘Pfffff … You’ve no chance. You’ll have to join the queue like everyone else.’
Rocco bit down on a surge of impatience. Dealing with petty bureaucrats like this was the one thing guaranteed to spoil his day. ‘Let me speak to your supervisor,’ he snarled. ‘This is urgent!’
‘I am the supervisor,’ replied the man tersely. ‘And you’ll still have to join the queue like everyone else. If I let every person who claimed to be a cop jump the queue, we’d have rioting in the streets.’
‘Wha—? I am a cop, you imbecile!’
There was a click as the connection was cut.
Rocco slammed the phone down, nearly dislodging it from the wall. He swore at length, roundly calling into question the man’s family history, sexual proclivities and the likelihood of his ever fathering anything but deformed goats.
When he turned round, he found several customers – farm workers by the look of them – gathered in the bar behind him, listening in silent awe to his tirade.
‘Government business,’ he growled. ‘We talk in code.’ He strode from the bar, wondering just how much they’d heard and wondering how easy it would be to get them to take up pitchforks and tar barrels and march on the PTT offices.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rocco? Pushy … dogmatic … intuitive. He gets results.
Capt. Michel Santer – Clichy-Nanterre district
Rocco climbed in his Citroën and headed along the main street to the eastern end of the village, where the landlord of the bar had told him the garde champêtre had a cottage. He had no guarantee of a warm reception, since the man might resent a city detective landing on his doorstep without warning, viewing him as a threat or an informer, possibly both. But as Michel Santer had suggested, it would be the simplest way of getting to grips with his new territory, and he wasn’t about to ignore good advice.
He reached the village boundary and found a rambling but tidy daub-and-wattle bungalow on a large plot of land. Most of the garden was laid to vegetables, the exception being a bed of dark-red roses in the front. At the side of the property stood a lean-to garage and a large chicken house, with vine creepers snaking everywhere, unchecked and gnarled with age.
He got out of the car and knocked on the front door. The noise echoed around the garden and filtered off into the fields, while back in the village, the church bell sounded thin and suitably soulful. He’d seen no sign of a priest yet, and hoped that would remain the case.
The door opened and Claude Lamotte smiled out at him.
‘I’m looking for the—’ Rocco began, before noticing Claude’s uniform trousers and shirt, complete with shoulder badges. ‘You’re the garde champêtre? You didn’t say.’