‘Pathologist?’ Light glinted on Massin’s glasses. ‘This office doesn’t have that luxury. Not yet, anyway. I plan to change that.’ He nodded sideways. ‘The department, as such, is next door. I haven’t seen it myself yet.’ He closed the folder, his finger marking the page, and sat back. ‘You should do well to remember something, Inspector. There are ways of operating out here that do not translate well from the city.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Rocco had never liked the official use of cryptic talk when a direct order would work much better.

‘It means you cannot go round cracking heads or throwing people into meat wagons out here.’ Massin tapped the folder in his hand, and Rocco realised it was his personnel file, passed on from Clichy. ‘Your record seems to indicate you have form when it comes to using harsh methods.’

Rocco sighed. He’d had just two complaints about excessive use of force in his career, both unsubstantiated. One against a child molester with a good lawyer, the other a pimp fond of using a razor on his girls’ faces. Neither charge had made it to court, but the rumour had clearly remained on his record like toxic mud. Massin must be aware of that.

‘I’ll try to mend my ways,’ he said flatly.

‘See you do.’ Massin winced slightly. ‘As I understand the situation, the “initiative” which put you out here places you in a unique position, Inspector Rocco. You have what amounts to a free hand in conducting investigations, no longer tied to the normal chains of command. That has not gone down well in certain parts of the justice system or the police. I hope you realise that.’

‘I didn’t ask for it.’

‘Maybe so. But you’ve got it. Just make sure you don’t get too freewheeling in your methods. Keep me informed of your findings.’ Massin went back to his papers, a deliberately curt dismissal.

Rocco turned and left, annoyed by the man’s arrogance but relieved to be out of his way. He had the feeling it was as close as he was going to get to being given the nod to carry on.

He walked across to a grey, single-storey block next door, where whatever passed for the pathology and forensics team did their work. He took the opportunity to take a few deep breaths: the combination of cleaners, chemicals and death in the busy Paris mortuaries was a smell he had never entirely got used to, and he doubted it would be any different here.

A sign hanging on the door advised callers that it was closed for lunch. No difference there, then. Rocco toed the door open and flipped the sign over. Lunch could bloody wait.

He was in a small corridor with doors leading off. All were closed, except for the first one spilling light and the rustling of paper, followed by a thumping noise. Rocco stopped in the doorway and waited.

The room was a small, cluttered office, holding a single desk, some filing cabinets and several wallcharts. A man in a white coat was working at the desk, desultorily marshalling a few scraps of paper and imprinting them with a rubber stamp. The air was surprisingly fresh, with only the faintest smell of chemicals to indicate what went on in the building.

‘We’re closed, can’t you read?’ the man said without looking up. He had a wisp of mousy hair, thin wire spectacles and looked far too pale, as if he spent too much time here among the corpses and chemicals. A plate of sandwiches sat at his elbow.

‘You’ve just opened again,’ said Rocco, and flipped his calling card onto the desk. ‘Are you the pathology person?’

The man read the card without touching it, then looked up at his visitor. He didn’t appear surprised, although he looked faintly startled by Rocco’s height. Rocco got the feeling someone in the detective office had buzzed ahead of his arrival.

‘I’m a doctor, actually. Bernard Rizzotti.’ The man stood up and lifted his chin, but without offering his hand. ‘We don’t run to a pathologist; I’m on attachment only. However, I can tell you that I completed a preliminary examination of your … um … deceased. Interesting case, from the point of view of the uniform, but pleasantly straightforward, I’m relieved to say.’

‘Glad you approve,’ said Rocco dryly. ‘Cause of death?’

‘Drowning.’

‘That’s it?’ Rocco had been certain there would be something else. A drowning seemed too mundane, especially with the body left in the military cemetery.

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’ Rizzotti’s forehead developed a ripple of dismay. ‘You have other facts I should know about?’ The way he put the question suggested it was unlikely.

Rocco explained about the bruise on the neck. ‘I know the body had been immersed in water, but I didn’t expect drowning to be the primary cause.’

‘Why not?’

‘Let’s call it instinct.’

The doctor’s lip curled. ‘Really? Ah, you mean that vague, inexplicable sense you people refer to as “gut feel”, which takes precedence over the precision of modern science? The intuitive ability to make leaps of the imagination which the most advanced laboratories cannot match? Maybe it works every once in a while where you come from in Paris, and in those ridiculous films from America. But not in this building. Not with me.’ He sat down and folded his hands in his lap, then flapped them open and smiled condescendingly as if to ask, So what now, clever Dick?

Rocco moved to the side of the desk and leant over the doctor until his face was close enough to make Rizzotti flinch. ‘I’m sorry “people” like me don’t share your entirely scientific view of the world,’ he said softly. ‘But that’s the way we are. Now, I’d like to see the body, Doctor.’ He was holding himself in with difficulty. What he really wanted to do was to dangle this little prick by his throat and shake him until his teeth fell out. He’d seen too many deaths before, many from a variety of causes that were not immediately obvious, and the last thing he needed was some self-satisfied, corner-cutting medic playing a game of trump-you with blind science.

Rizzotti went pale and blinked, trying to squirm away sideways in his chair. ‘That’s not possible.’

‘Why not?’ Rocco thought about calling Perronnet, but decided against it. It would be momentarily satisfying to see this white-coated jerk taken down a peg or two, but ultimately it would serve no purpose. And being in a senior officer’s debt didn’t appeal, either. He picked up the plate of sandwiches and balanced it in his hand as if he were about to hurl it across the room. ‘Are you going to show it to me or do I have to tear the place apart?’

‘You can’t – it won’t do you any good.’ Rizzotti swallowed hard and stared at the sandwiches, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a fishing float on a line.

‘Tell me!’ Rocco muttered, and made as if to tip the plate into the waste bin by the desk.

It was enough. Rizzotti finally gave in.

‘The body has gone.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rocco? Impatient … eager … jumps in with both feet sometimes, but no fool.

Sous-Brigadier Gilles Nevalles – École Nationale de Police – Clermont-Ferrand

Rocco put the plate down. ‘Gone where? We haven’t finished the investigation …’

Rizzotti stuck out a hand and reclaimed his sandwiches before Rocco could pick them up again. ‘I’m aware of that, Inspector. But you’ll have to take it up with your superiors. The body was claimed by a representative of the family first thing this morning. They had a release signed by a magistrate in Paris and countersigned by Central Administration.’ He opened his hands again. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

‘You’re kidding. How could anyone get a release signed so quickly?’ Rocco felt as if the ground had been swept from beneath his feet. Nobody but nobody moved this fast to take a body out of the system before a full investigation had been made. Not unless the examining pathologist – in this case a pretend pathologist – was either negligent or easily leant on. He decided to do a bit of leaning himself, pressing over Rizzotti until the medic back-pedalled in his chair like a kid on a toy bike.