The one thing he was now certain of more than anything was that Nathalie Bayer-Berbier’s death had not been an accident. There was too much of an undercurrent for that. And although he had no reason for suspecting her father’s involvement, other than being a grieving parent with the ability to pull strings, he knew he hadn’t even begun to unravel that knot in the proceedings.

He remembered that he hadn’t yet tried the number from Nathalie Berbier’s flat. There was no time like the present. He picked up the phone and dialled.

No reply.

He let it ring a dozen times, then replaced the receiver. Somewhere in the village of Poissons-les-Marais – or close to it – a phone with a direct connection to the dead woman had just been ringing.

All he had to do was find it.

* * *

He was just pulling on a clean shirt when the phone rang. It was Claude.

‘Lucas? I’m at Didier’s place. You’d better get down here.’

‘What’s up?’

‘He’s blown himself up.’

‘I’ll be right there.’ Rocco snatched his coat off the chair where he’d dropped it last night and ran out to the car. Minutes later, he pulled up fifty metres short of the yard where Didier lived and parked his car facing back the way he had come. If the bang that had hurt Didier looked like spreading, he might need to get away fast.

Claude must have heard the Citroën. He met Rocco at the corner of the house. He looked flustered and was shaking his head.

‘What happened?’ Rocco queried. He didn’t want to think about what Didier might have been tinkering with, or how close he might have been standing to the two enormous shells either side of his front door.

‘Not sure,’ replied Claude. ‘When I got here he was muttering about something being covered with mud. Maybe it was a grenade.’

‘He’s alive, then?’

‘Yes. He’s a tough bastard, but we’d better get him to hospital quick. Delsaire was here first and bandaged his arm, but he’s losing a lot of blood. I figured you’d be a faster driver than anyone else.’

A few villagers stood in a cluster near the front door, and moved aside as Rocco approached. Beyond them, the house appeared to be without windows, grubby curtains flapping through the holes where the glass had been, the worn shutters hanging drunkenly from the brickwork and adding to the building’s sorry look of neglect.

He pushed between the onlookers and looked down at a body lying on the ground. Didier was dressed in dirty blue overalls several sizes too big, making him look even smaller and wirier than ever. To Rocco’s amazement, he was calmly smoking a yellowed Gitanes and smiling at the crowd as if he was sunbathing. His right hand had gone, along with a good portion of his forearm, and the rest was wrapped in a bloody rag. An empty brandy bottle lay nearby, which accounted for his apparent air of calm.

Near the front door was a small heap of wet sandbags. The fabric was shredded and scorched on one side, with sand spilling onto soil coloured a vivid red. It was clear that Didier had used them as an emergency blast wall. Unfortunately, he hadn’t let go of the grenade quickly enough.

Not surprisingly, there was no sign of the hand.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Rocco checked the bandage on the remains of Didier’s arm. It was rough and ready but doing the job. Didier was still bleeding heavily, but with gentle pressure he knew it could be contained. All they had to do now was get the scrap man to a hospital before he died of shock.

‘Bring your 2CV,’ he told Claude. ‘We can lay him in the back.’ He looked at Delsaire, the plumber. ‘Get something for him to lie on. Some old sacks from the barn.’

Delsaire nodded and hurried away, while Claude manoeuvred his 2CV into position. Once the sacks were in place, several men gathered round and lifted Didier into the rear of the car. It was far from ideal, but the patient was in no condition to voice an opinion.

Rocco drove as fast as he dared, with Claude keeping gentle pressure on the bandage. Nearly unconscious by now through shock and the effects of the brandy, Didier was rolling around in the back. Rocco figured it was a trade-off between some mild discomfort for Didier now, against the chance that he could die if they didn’t get him treated as quickly as possible.

It took twenty minutes to get to the hospital in Amiens, with Rocco urging the underpowered car along every bit of the way and barging through whatever traffic they encountered. Fortunately, nobody tried to argue, no doubt seeing the 2CV with its lights on and clearly being driven by a reckless madman as something to be avoided.

As Rocco hurtled round the final bend in the hospital grounds and slid to a stop before the emergency entrance, Claude grasped his elbow.

‘Best not say it was a grenade blew his arm off,’ he advised. ‘I’ll tell them it was a tractor.’

‘A tractor?’ Rocco stared at him. ‘Are you serious? What do you reckon they’ll think you run tractors on in Poissons – dynamite?’

‘It’s just that … hell, the paperwork. We’ll be tied up for hours.’ Claude looked embarrassed at the proposed lie. ‘Just a thought.’

He was right. Rocco weighed up the rights and wrongs. If the hospital called the police, as they were bound to do in cases involving explosives, there would be a full investigation, with the might of the authorities descending on them here and in Poissons. If that happened, he could say goodbye to his investigation.

He was saved from saying anything by the appearance of two hospital attendants rushing towards them with a wheeled stretcher. Claude heaved himself out of the car, before hurrying to the back to oversee the lifting of Didier from his resting place.

By the time Rocco parked the car and made his way inside, Claude was calmly drinking coffee and chatting away to a nurse on reception. There was no sign of Didier, although a number of other patients were waiting to be seen, sitting in a line of chairs against one wall. He assumed Didier’s injury was probably novel enough to have gained priority.

‘What did the doctors say?’ he asked Claude.

‘It’s not good,’ Claude murmured, frowning into his cup.

‘I’m sorry.’ Rocco was surprised they had been able to comment on the outcome so quickly. Didier wouldn’t have the use of his arm again, but he’d seen men with far worse injuries pull through. Shock, maybe, always a difficult matter to foresee, had probably taken its toll, along with the ride here and a gutful of brandy hammering through his system.

‘Oh, I don’t mean that,’ said Claude quickly. ‘The duty doctor has seen, you know, grenade injuries before. He served in Indochina. He’s already called the cops. I tried to get Didier to keep his mouth shut, but the imbecile was away with the birds and wouldn’t listen.’

Rocco swore silently. He’d been half-ready to back up Claude’s madcap story about a tractor, but with an experienced doctor able to tell explosive trauma from a tractor losing its big end, there was no way the story would float. If they knew anything about the locals, they would be aware that some occasionally did stupid things like attempting to dismantle the deadly remnants of two world wars.

He felt a measure of sympathy for Claude. As the local representative of the law, he might pick up some criticism for allowing such things to go on. But without patrolling every yard and garden in Poissons, he was powerless to stop it.

Approaching footsteps prevented further discussion. A tall man in a white coat appeared from a corridor. He was holding a small plastic bag in one hand and looked far from happy. He glanced at the receptionist, who pointed at Rocco and Claude.

‘You are friends of the grenade injury?’

‘Not friends,’ Claude said defensively. ‘Same village, though.’

‘I see.’ He eyed Claude’s uniform shirt, then glanced at Rocco with the hint of a sneer. ‘Doing your civic duty, I suppose. How noble. Are there many madmen like him where you come from?’