‘Sorry. Just making sure. What’s his story, then? Is he married?’

Claude puffed out his cheeks and inspected a small cannon shell lying on the table. ‘Not married, no. What sane woman would have him, with this lot? He arrived here about five years back, from somewhere further south. He’s openly communist and proud of it, but he’s no political brain. The only factor preventing him being a Trotskyite is he probably can’t spell it. He hates fascists, priests, Americans, the British, industrialists and Parisians … but not necessarily in that order. If he’s got any real friends, I’ve never met one, although he got pally for a while with a neighbour along the street. All in all, he keeps to himself, even when he’s in the café.’

‘No kidding.’ Rocco remembered the man’s bad breath. He studied the two artillery shells. ‘I bet he doesn’t get too many repeat visitors.’

‘Probably not.’ Claude put the cannon shell down with utmost care and looked at Rocco across the bench. ‘You think he’s involved in that woman’s death?’

Rocco shook his head. ‘I’m a detective, not a medium. I just wanted to see where he lived, that’s all. A man’s home can tell you all manner of things, if you know how to look. Most of all, though, I’d still like to know what he was doing in the wood behind the cemetery.’

‘Coincidence?’

Rocco turned and walked towards the stream and stared out at the trees. ‘Coincidence is a lame defence. You’d be amazed how often it crops up, though. What’s over there?’

‘The marais. The lakes. Take a straight line from here and it’s a short walk. We passed them on the way back, although they’re not easily visible from the road.’

‘Handy.’ Rocco walked along the stream to where a huge weathered tree trunk had been laid to form a rough footbridge across the stream. The top surface had been chopped flat, the axe marks clearly visible, and wide cracks ran the length of the trunk. He bent down and inspected the dirt at the end of the trunk.

Claude said, ‘I wouldn’t step on there if I were you.’

Something in his tone caught Rocco’s attention.

‘Why?’

Claude looked faintly embarrassed. ‘I don’t know if it’s true, but four years ago, not long after he arrived, some boys coming back from fishing in the marais saw Didier putting something in those cracks. They used this as an unofficial short cut home.’

‘And?’

‘He told them the bridge was booby-trapped. Anyone stepping on it would be blown to bits. They swore he wasn’t joking.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Me?’ Claude shrugged. ‘I looked into it, of course, him being a stranger still. But I couldn’t find anything. I thought he was having them on … you know, playing the mad, bad bastard just to keep them off his property.’

‘And was he?’

‘Not sure. About a month later, there was a hell of a bang in the middle of the night. When we got down here, we expected to find Didier in bits around the yard. Instead we found a young wild boar spread all over the bridge, blood and guts everywhere.’

‘What did Didier say?’

‘He claimed it must have picked up a grenade he’d been working on. I couldn’t prove otherwise, so had to let it drop. Since then, nobody’s been near the place.’

Clever, thought Rocco. An effective way of Didier ensuring his privacy – unless he was as mad as a snake.

As they walked back to the car, Claude waved a hand around at the yard. ‘So what does this tell you?’ he asked, as if clues were jumping off the ground to be counted. ‘Anything?’

‘Not much. Not yet.’ Rocco slid behind the wheel, eyes on the house. No movement, no sounds. Too quiet, though. ‘One thing I do know: he’s in there, watching us.’

‘What? But how? We came directly here.’ Claude looked ready to get out and go and beat on the door, but Rocco put out a restraining hand.

‘Bicycle. There are tracks leading off and on to the footbridge, and a half-smoked Gitanes – fairly fresh, if that’s not a contradiction. He came straight across from the road to the station, cutting out the loop. He must have just beat us.’ He started the engine. ‘Never mind. Now I know a bit more about him than I did ten minutes ago.’

‘Such as?’

‘He has a back way into the marais, and whatever he was doing in the woods, he wasn’t out looking for shells.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sgt Rocco? Solid … professional. Pity he hates officers. But hey, who doesn’t?

Capt. Antoine Caspard – Gang Task Force – Paris Central

As tired as he was after his busy introduction to Poissons, Rocco’s first night in his new lodgings was disturbed by a series of skittering and rolling noises in the attic above his head, and with tangled thoughts of Colonel François Massin, now divisional commissaire of police. The other tenants Mme Denis had warned him about were plainly unperturbed by the new arrival, and seemed to be playing football from one side of the attic to the other. It was only when he eventually leapt out of bed and charged up a narrow flight of steps into the loft space that he discovered the floor littered with dry walnuts. Of the fruit rats, there was no sign.

He went back to bed, where Massin intruded against an unwelcome backdrop of shattered trees, ruptured earth and the cries of the wounded and dying. He turned on his face, trying to blot out the memory of that final battle, but the images remained crisp and vivid, leaving him bathed in perspiration, the sheets tangled around his body like snakes.

Massin. The commanding officer had come up to the forward positions against orders, trailing two nervous adjutants, hands on their guns and alert for the first Viet Minh to hurl himself over the earthworks. Rocco, from his position near one of the guns, had watched the officer strutting about the lines in his immaculate uniform, by turn snapping at battle-weary troops like a teacher controlling recalcitrant children, then reassuring them about reinforcements and a change of tactics that they all knew would never come. Already all but surrounded by enemy forces, they were too exhausted to be astonished at the stupid self-importance of the man, most turning their backs as he approached, to avoid the embarrassment of eye contact.

Seeing what he perceived as a gap in the defences, Massin had ordered more men forward, ignoring the more experienced NCOs who had seen it for what it was – a killing zone. Low down, with only one way in and one way out, it was overlooked by enemy positions, whose snipers had already notched up too many unwary sentries.

An hour later, after a blizzard of fire, just three men came struggling back. The others had fallen victim to a heavy machine gun on a distant hill, no doubt smuggled into position under cover of a previous barrage.

Shortly afterwards, they heard the opening barrage coming in as the Viet Minh began their final assault. The ground shook as the shells rained down on the inadequate dugouts housing the worn-out mix of French, Vietnamese and legionnaire defenders. Plumes of earth, bodies and material seemed to float in the air, each explosion creating another gap, another hole in the line. More men lost.

Turning to help a mortar team which had lost a man to a sniper, Rocco saw Colonel Massin stumble out of a dugout, face white and uniform dishevelled, staring around as if he could not understand the events that were unfolding. His mouth was working, but in the noise and confusion, his words went unheard. Another barrage came in, and Massin fell into a foxhole, where he lay screaming and kicking his legs, hands over his ears, his cries finally shrill enough to find a gap in the furore and reach the ears of the men on the defences. One of the nearest had turned his head and looked at him with mild detachment, then spat on the ground in disgust before turning to resume firing.