‘Claude Lamotte. The garde champêtre.’

‘Christ. Claude? How do you know him?’

‘He’s my father.’

Rocco stared at her, trying to find a likeness. But there was none, save a faint familiar something around the eyes. The rest, he thought, was nothing like Claude’s solid figure, which was fortunate for her. If she had anything like the same character, though, she’d make a good cop. It prompted a thought.

‘Does he know?’

‘About me joining up?’ She shook her head. ‘I wanted to surprise him. If I’d told him what I was planning, then failed, he’d have been doubly disappointed.’ She shrugged. ‘A failed marriage is bad enough in a daughter, don’t you think?’

‘He’ll be pleased to see you. He’s been getting the house ready.’

Alix went to the locker room to get her things while Rocco waited. She came out again and he drove to Poissons. On the way, he stopped at the side of the road and turned off the engine. Sat there in the dark, thinking.

Alix looked at him. ‘You’re not going to get all romantic on me, are you?’

‘I have something to do,’ he said. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

She nodded. ‘OK.’ She didn’t ask what, simply reached out and turned on the car radio.

He liked that.

Rocco climbed out of the car, leaving behind the sombre tones of Georges Brassens singing about lovers on public benches.

The air outside was a shock after the warmth of the car, the atmosphere icier than ever as the coming winter began to drape itself over the landscape. Quiet, too, with that unique winter hush that never happens in the city, no matter what time of day or night.

He climbed over the gate and walked onto the parapet over the canal, feeling his way. He didn’t need a flashlight out here, just his normal senses. He stood for a moment, listening to the faint gurgle of water against the banks, the flapping of reeds caught in the shifting current, a splash as some unseen night creature hurried away. Then he took the cloth bundle out of his coat pocket, unwrapped the familiar shape, careful of the sharp point.

A French commando dagger with a black finish. Lethal, deliberately sinister, a tool of a specialist’s trade. Nicole said Farek had brought one home, one he’d got from the army. It made sense. Farek hadn’t been in the commandos, but as an armourer he’d have had access to such weapons, most likely to sell on the black market.

He held it for a moment, feeling the delicate balance. A precision piece. Why had she left it behind?

Maybe because she no longer needed it.

He thought about it for a moment, the kind of circumstances that would make a thing like this necessary. Then he made a decision. He flicked it away, sending it spinning out over the water, round and round, unseen. He waited, heard a faint splash as it was swallowed by the night and the cold, cold water.

Then silence.

He turned and walked back to the car.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

My grateful thanks to Sarah Sheehan, BA, solicitor at Keystone Law, for her assistance on French law. Any mistakes are mine through not paying attention.

By Adrian Magson

Death on the Marais

Death on the Rive Nord

Copyright

Allison & Busby Limited

13 Charlotte Mews

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www.allisonandbusby.com

Copyright © 2011 by A

DRIAN

M

AGSON

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Hardback published in Great Britain in 201.

This ebook edition first published in 2011.

All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental. 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978–0–7490–4029–1