‘But you said earlier that you’d last seen her a week ago.’

If he’d been caught out in a lie, it didn’t faze Berbier one bit. He nodded. ‘I was being precise, Inspector. I last saw her a week ago. But I spoke to her last night.’ He waved a thin hand. ‘It was only a minute or two … just a brief hello and goodnight.’

He’s lying. Rocco was stunned by the ease of Berbier’s words. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Don’t be impertinent.’ Berbier looked as if he could spit fire. ‘I will be reporting this matter immediately to the highest authority. How dare you come here with this ridiculous story? You will be lucky if you escape with your job and your freedom.’ With that, he turned and walked back up the stairs, ramrod straight.

If that’s his idea of grief, thought Rocco, left with no option but to make his way back down to ground level, thank God I’m not part of this family.

The chauffeur had stepped back outside and was waiting for him. The duster was gone and the man was standing squarely in his way, hands loosely clasped in front of him. He looked solid and tanned. Resolute. A man not to trifle with. Probably ex-para and full of spit, thought Rocco. Thinks himself unbeatable.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said softly, advancing on the chauffeur without hesitation. ‘You’ll end up breathing through a tube.’

The chauffeur wavered … then stepped aside at the last second.

As Rocco stepped through the gate onto the street, he came face-to-face with two men. They were dressed in smart suits and had just stepped out of a black Citroën DS. Neither looked as tough as the chauffeur, but one was holding up an Interior Ministry badge, which trumped toughness any day.

‘Inspector Rocco?’ the man said.

‘Yes,’ Rocco replied. ‘What do you want?’ He knew what they were here for; Berbier must have called them the moment he’d shown up.

The man ignored the question and held out his hand palm upward. Rocco took out his wallet and showed him his badge. ‘You realise,’ said the man stiffly, giving it a careful examination, ‘that you are outside your jurisdiction?’

‘That’s what Berbier thought, too,’ said Rocco. ‘I’m investigating a possible murder in Picardie. The victim lived here. That gives me jurisdiction.’

‘That’s not reason enough. There are channels, as you well know. Procedures. If we had every policeman running all over the country on a whim, there would be chaos.’

‘And,’ put in the second man with a show of teeth, ‘we can’t have that.’

Rocco took a deep breath. They were taking the piss, daring him to tell them where to go. The frightening thing was, he could see that they were absolutely serious. Official machines.

‘You should read your latest bulletins,’ he suggested. ‘I’ve been given a roaming brief as part of a nationwide policing plan. Are you saying the Interior Ministry doesn’t like the idea?’ He kept his voice level: losing his temper with these men would be like fighting fog. Best try and use their own regulations and decisions against them.

‘Enough.’ The man handed back Rocco’s wallet with a sour look. ‘You say “possible” murder. Does that mean you’re not sure? Do you have any proof which you can bring before a magistrate?’

Rocco sighed. The fight against bureaucracy was all about detail.

‘You want to see my case notes?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘I have no proof. Yet.’

‘Really? Yet you thought you could waste time by driving all the way here from – where is it you’re from?’

‘Poissons-les-Marais. It’s a nice place, full of people who pay your wages. I doubt you’d know it.’

‘You’re right. I don’t. Wherever it is, you’d best get back there. You’re wasting your time here. Police time.’ The man looked superior. ‘I suggest you find something important to occupy your life, Rocco. Trying to catch the eye of people above your pay grade is not for the likes of you.’

The man was being deliberately insulting. Rocco contemplated wiping that supercilious expression off his face, but a grain of sense held him back. It was probably what they were hoping for: drive Rocco into a confrontation and it would give them an ideal excuse to rope him in and take him off the street. These two had not happened along here by accident; they were following orders. There could only be one reason for that: to derail his investigation.

A movement out of the corner of his eye broke his concentration. Another car had turned into the street and ghosted to a stop twenty metres away. Three stocky men in dark-blue kit and jump boots climbed out and stood watching. He recognised the uniforms. They were members of the CRS – Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité – the unit charged with crowd control and head banging. One of them was spinning a short wooden baton into the air and catching it without looking, the smack of wood against flesh a clear warning.

Rocco turned back to the man in the suit. ‘You’re quite an offensive little prick, aren’t you?’ he said amiably. ‘You must love telling your kids what you do when you get home at night. Must give you a real sense of pride, following orders from people like Berbier. Thank Christ you’re not a real cop: you’d make me ashamed to share the same badge.’

He stepped round the two men and walked down the street. The three CRS men stood their ground, then one of them looked past Rocco and his eyes flickered in disappointment.

Rocco felt just as disappointed when they stepped aside.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Berbier was standing at the window of his study trying to stifle a rising sense of panic when the door opened. It was the two men he had summoned from the Interior Ministry to deal with Rocco.

‘Well?’ He did not bother turning, intent on staring at the rooftops across the way, where pigeons were conducting their daily courting rituals. Flying rats, many people called them, but he found them amusing. Watching their pointless antics helped take his mind off the clouds he felt gathering overhead. Clouds he’d thought were long past being able to bother him.

‘We warned him off, sir,’ said the first man. ‘But I don’t know for how long.’

Berbier spun round. ‘What? He’s a plodding country bumpkin, for heaven’s sake! This is intolerable. My daughter is dead, my family is grieving … and this nobody …’ His hand made an angry, chopping motion in the air, the action replacing words.

‘Problem is, he’s not just a country cop,’ said the second man. ‘He’s an experienced investigator with a tough record. He was transferred out of Paris not more than a week ago.’

‘Really?’ Berbier pounced on the information. ‘Discipline problems?’ That was the usual reason cops were sent into the back of beyond, where they could quietly wither and die. Maybe it was an opening he could use to his benefit. But the other man dumped cold water on the idea.

‘He was moved as part of a national crime-fighting initiative to put seasoned investigators into rural divisions. They get a free hand to conduct their own affairs. It’s a trial run.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘Rocco’s got a reputation for being a hard-nose. We tried to get him to kick off but he wouldn’t play.’

‘Kick off?’

‘Cut up rough. Even cops get themselves locked up for that.’

‘It would have taken him out of circulation for a while,’ explained the first man smoothly, with a warning look at his colleague. ‘Unfortunately, it didn’t work.’

Berbier looked from one to the other, his nose pinched and his cheeks pale. He sighed impatiently, trying to remain calm. ‘In that case, I will need your assistance further. My daughter had a flat in the Fifteenth, near Félix Faure. Rocco now knows about it.’

‘We know the place. What do you want us to do?’

‘Get round there and remove any papers. Anything, you understand? Take my driver and get others if you need them.’