‘I can’t help you, Inspector,’ he gabbled. ‘It came in, I made a preliminary inspection, it went out again. I deal in facts, and the fact is simply that the woman drowned.’ He reached out for the papers on his desk as if grasping a lifebelt and held up a single sheet. It showed an outline diagram of the human body, with notations at various points, presumably marks or cuts that Rocco hadn’t been able to see. ‘This was my initial inspection copy. As you can see, I found several marks – mostly small cuts or abrasions – but nothing specific or suspicious. Some mud around the face, which is usual in these cases, where the body may have become inverted in the water. There was a bruise on her neck, here’ – a cross had been placed on one side of the neck consistent with where Rocco had seen the mark – ‘but it was not serious enough to have killed her. At least,’ he smiled thinly and without humour, ‘not unless the person who administered it gave her the kiss of death.’

‘What?’

‘A love bite, Inspector. Not a bruise in the way you mean.’ He sat back, his features softening slightly. ‘I’m sorry you have had this taken away from you. I sympathise, really I do. What I can tell you is that the woman had a large amount of fresh water in her lungs and a considerable amount of alcohol in her stomach – possibly Martini, whisky – a mixture, anyway. There were also traces of drugs, but I have not yet had the results back.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘In my opinion, she got drunk, fell into some water and was unable to extricate herself. It happens all the time.’

‘What kind of drugs?’

‘Well, I’m pretty certain we’re not talking about headache pills.’ He stood up and shot his cuffs self-importantly. ‘I think you need to find out where she was just prior to her death, Inspector. That will answer a lot more of your questions than any scientific evidence.’

‘Really? I thought science could provide all the answers.’ Rocco turned and walked out, then turned back. Something he’d forgotten: the clothing. ‘What about her uniform?’

‘Ah, yes. That we have retained. What about it?’

‘Did you check the label?’

The surgeon blinked. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘The tailor’s label. Every piece of clothing has one, even the cheapest backstreet T-shirt. It’s a trick we unscientific plods use to tell us where the clothes came from.’

‘I see. Of course – excuse me.’ Rizzotti sidestepped Rocco and left his office in a rush. He was gone several minutes. When he came back, he seemed rattled. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but you were correct. There is one label, in an inside pocket. But not that of a tailor. It is Louis Pheron et Fils. Costumiers.’ He held out a piece of paper with the details written on. ‘I confess we … I … had not thought to check that. It was sewn inside a jacket pocket. We checked the clothes first thing for identification papers and personal items, of course, but found nothing.’

Rocco nodded and let Rizzotti stew. It might do him good. Pheron et Fils. He’d never heard of the name, but it told him something else about the dead woman: she had not been a member of a revivalist Gestapo club, come back to hoist a contemptuous finger at French sensitivities. Nor had hers been a genuine German body buried and preserved for the past 20 years and uncovered as part of some sick neo-Nazi plot. She had simply been a woman in fancy dress, probably attending a party where she had picked up the love bite. Tasteless, perhaps, even sick, given that particular uniform. But not a crime and not the first he had come across.

‘Was there anything else about the clothes that you did manage to notice?’

Rizzotti bristled, on the defensive, but Rocco was beyond caring. The man had been careless. ‘Such as?’

The hat, for one, he wanted to say. It was dry. How come, if she fell into water? But he decided to keep that to himself. ‘Anything in the pockets? Any marks on the clothing? Come on, you know what we “people” look for.’

Rizzotti’s eyes dulled as he trawled his memory. ‘There were no obvious tears or rips, if that’s what you mean. The fabric was worn around the hems and wrists, but that’s quite common. The pockets were empty.’ He shrugged. ‘There were some chalk marks here and there, but again, nothing especially helpful. The area in this region is full of chalk – she could have picked it up sitting on the ground or falling down a riverbank.’

Nothing helpful, then. Now all Rocco had to do was find out where she had been and how come she had been spirited away from this place so quickly and easily. If he did that, he might discover her identity.

‘How long has she been dead? Do you know that much?’

‘Not for certain. There are signs, but I am not skilled enough to tell for sure; it is not my area of expertise. They are making swift advances in scientific circles … in America and Germany – the British police, too. But without access to funds and better facilities …’ He stopped as if aware of sounding too critical.

‘So guess. You’re a doctor. One day, a week, a month?’

Rizzotti lifted his shoulders. ‘A guess? Three days, not more. There are …’ He hesitated.

‘Go on.’

‘I think the body was taken straight out of the water after death before being kept … somewhere.’

At last. This was getting somewhere. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘The level of deterioration is more advanced than that of someone drowned and left for any length of time in the water. I worked with an aid agency in the Congo once, after a flood. Many of the bodies retrieved were wrapped in sheeting and stored awaiting identification. This had similar signs.’

Rocco lifted an eyebrow. ‘See? You do have expertise – you just didn’t know it.’ If Rizzotti was right, the body had been kept somewhere before being dumped in the cemetery. And to be still wet, it must have been wrapped in plastic or heavy canvas. It might explain the smell and the slimy film on the skin.

He wondered how far he could push the doctor. He had already shown himself to be malleable by allowing the release of the body, and by Rocco himself. He had nothing to lose by pressing him further.

‘I need names,’ he said.

‘Names? What names?’

‘Don’t piss me off,’ warned Rocco. ‘The names on the release papers; the name of the dead woman.’

‘I don’t know. How would I know who she was? I told you, there were no identification—’

‘Maybe not. But someone must have known. How else would they have got the release papers prepared? Or is someone going around claiming unknown bodies for fun?’

Rizzotti’s mouth opened and closed in confusion. He looked dazed, like a guppy in a tank, thought Rocco. But he thought he knew why: it was probably the one question the doctor had been dreading.

He said nothing, waiting for the doctor’s conscience to tell him what to do. It was one of those moments when intimidating silence was far more effective than open threats.

‘The papers have already been sent to the main office,’ Rizzotti muttered finally, his voice dull, ‘awaiting transfer onto microfiche. We don’t have the facilities to duplicate them here. I’ll … have to see if I can get them back.’ He shrugged and looked beyond Rocco as if wishing himself far away from this suddenly cramped office.

Rocco sighed. Short of frogmarching the man across the yard and into the main building, it was the best he could hope for. ‘All right. I’ll wait to hear from you.’ He scribbled Claude’s phone number on his card. ‘Call that number and leave a message. I’ll call back.’ By the time that happened, he hoped to have his own phone installed and ready to use.

‘I can’t promise …’ Rizzotti began, then saw the look on Rocco’s face and appeared to think better of it. ‘Right. I’ll call you.’

‘If you don’t,’ Rocco growled. ‘I’ll come back. And you’ll have more than your sandwiches to worry about, I promise.’

Rocco returned to the main office and asked to see their collection of telephone directories. A beefy man in a tight shirt silently waved a ham sandwich towards a cupboard against one wall. After a few false starts, he found Pheron et Fils listed at an office in Malakoff in the south of Paris. He took a quiet corner desk away from the other staff and dialled the number. No reply.