Rocco gave him a heavy look. He could do without this kind of annoyance. ‘Cut the attitude, Doc,’ he growled. ‘We brought him in, that’s all you need to know.’

The doctor looked wary and stepped back a pace. ‘My apologies. Only, is the man insane or what?’

‘He picked up a grenade,’ Claude huffed. ‘It happens.’

‘Quite often, according to what he told me. He dismantles explosive devices for a living – usually much bigger ordnance than grenades. He said this one went off before he could unscrew the fuse.’

Claude leant forward. ‘The stuff is unstable. He probably hit it too hard.’

‘Undoubtedly. But doesn’t he know he’s supposed to report finding things like that?’

‘How’s he doing?’ Rocco cut in. ‘Will he live?’

‘Yes. But he won’t be playing cards for a while. And if he gets anywhere near another bomb with a hammer, I’d leave the immediate vicinity, if I were you, because he’s not going to be doing it with any precision.’ He started to walk away, then paused and glanced at Claude. ‘You’ll have to wait, incidentally – your colleagues are on their way here. They’ll want a statement. But I guess you’d know that, wouldn’t you?’

‘We’re well aware of the procedure,’ said Rocco. ‘What’ve you got there?’

The doctor didn’t even look at what he was holding. ‘It’s for the police.’ He gave Claude another look. ‘The proper ones. No need for you to concern yourself.’

Rocco sighed and held up his badge. ‘I am the police, so enough with the crap. What is it?’

‘Oh. You should have said.’ The doctor held up the bag. ‘This item was embedded in his forearm; probably blown there by the force of the explosion. Do you know what it is?’ It was clear by his expression that he did.

Rocco studied the object inside the bag. It was the thickness of a pencil and made of pale metal, like aluminium. It had a ragged end, as if it had been broken from a longer piece, and was blackened by scorch marks.

He nodded. ‘I know. What was Marthe’s explanation?’

‘He didn’t have one. He lost consciousness before I could ask him. If he’s using this technique for taking ordnance apart, Inspector, he needs locking up, for everyone else’s protection if not his own.’

The doctor walked away, calling for the next patient.

Moments later, they heard a car squeal to a stop outside and a police sous-brigadier marched into the foyer, young, fresh-faced, self-important and austerely immaculate, his képi under one arm. He was followed by another uniform who stationed himself by the door. The first man glanced briefly at Claude before disappearing down the corridor after the doctor, clearly familiar with the layout. When he emerged a few minutes later, his face was pale and unfriendly. He strode up to them, eyes inspecting Claude with an expression of distaste.

‘You’re Lamotte.’ he said accusingly. ‘We’ve seen this kind of lunacy before. What’s it this time – another idiot with a death wish looking for scrap?’

‘A grenade,’ Claude explained, stiffening under the man’s eye. ‘He picked up a grenade. I explained to the doctor.’

‘So he said.’ He turned to Rocco. ‘You’re the new inspector, aren’t you? Odd you should be involving yourself with these people.’

‘People?’ Rocco felt his temper rising. ‘What I do and who I get involved with is none of your business. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation and we brought in a man who’d had an accident.’

‘That’s as may be.’ The young man lifted his chin and Rocco guessed he didn’t need to shave often. By his badge of rank, he’d probably put in about a dozen years, but that still put him at not much more than thirty, possibly less. ‘But I have to report the facts of any explosions and related injuries. Further action may need to be considered.’

Rocco reached out and clamped a hand around the pompous officer’s neck in a pseudo-avuncular manner, but with just enough grip to stop him talking. ‘Great. That’s good. Glad to hear you’re so keen on the rule book. But listen to me, sonny. We don’t have time to get caught up in any of your official rubbish. If you think otherwise, why don’t you have a word with Commissaire Perronnet or Divisional Commissaire Massin. They’ll set you straight. Now, if you’ll excuse us.’ He patted the man on the shoulder and walked away before he could argue, leaving Claude to throw up a vague salute and follow.

‘What was that about?’ said Claude, as they got back in his car. ‘And what was in the bag?’

Rocco sat there, mind racing. What the doctor had found was something that no scrap man, no matter how unconventional, idiotic or desperate he might be, should have had access to. It was inconceivable that Didier Marthe was using it to break down grenades or shells. The idea was ludicrous, although he hadn’t said as much to the doctor.

‘What did Didier say when you first got to him?’

‘I couldn’t be sure. He was rambling on about something being covered with mud. Why?’

‘Because whatever took his hand off wasn’t just a dodgy grenade. It was part of a detonator. The kind used with plastic explosives.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Claude stared at him. ‘He was using plastique? That’s madness.’

‘Didier wasn’t. But somebody was. It wasn’t mud he saw on the grenade, either; it was explosive moulded and coloured to look like it. The question is, why would someone with access to that kind of equipment want to kill Didier Marthe?’

He told Claude to return to Poissons, and more specifically, Didier Marthe’s house. Although unnerving to experience the other man’s driving – and him a former taxi driver – it allowed him time to mull over what they had just learnt.

Plastic explosive, otherwise known as C3 or C4, was the current tool of choice for demolition work, bomb disposal … and guerrilla warfare. It was easy to hide, mould and place, and could be disguised to blend into almost any background. It had the added benefit that, with the right timers or detonators, it could be set off remotely.

Rocco had never used the stuff, but he’d seen it in action, employed by engineers to destroy traps in the jungle and bridges used by the Viet Minh. It was very effective in the right hands but, as he knew all too well, the right hands weren’t the only ones capable of getting hold of it.

What he couldn’t get his head round was the idea that someone had laid a booby trap for Didier Marthe. Whoever it was must have been watching him, and was aware of his movements and the methods he used in his insanely dangerous line of work. The only question was, what had Marthe done to warrant such an attack? From the little he had seen of him so far, he was quick-tempered and unpleasant, and could undoubtedly do with a bath or two, but that was insufficient reason to try blowing him to bits.

By the time Claude pulled into the yard of Didier’s house, Rocco had worked his way through various possible scenarios, but without reaching one specific conclusion.

He got out of the car and walked over to the bloodstained sandbags. The area of the blast was easy to identify, with the focal point between the two arms of the ‘V’ formed by the bags. At the sharp end of the ‘V’ was a gap, big enough for a hand and arm to fit through. Although he had no way of verifying it until Didier himself came back, he guessed that the scrap man had somehow realised what he was holding and had thrust his hand between the sandbags to shield himself from the blast. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been quick enough.

But where had he got the grenade from? Picking it up in the fields or woods would have been too random: there was no way the person who’d planned this could have known what he would do. That meant it had to have been left here for him to find – or handed to him by the intended killer.

He turned and surveyed the area for clues, but quickly dismissed it as a waste of time. The ground was a mishmash of footprints where everyone had gathered around Didier, and any trace left by whoever had been here before the explosion had long been obliterated.