‘I’m sorry, but that’s impossible,’ said the manager. ‘We receive our instructions via a private holding company and have no means of checking ownership. In any case, we have no reason to do so. If, however, you’re suggesting there’s a criminal connection—’

‘I’m not,’ said Rocco, frustrated by yet more officious smoke being blown in his face. ‘Not yet, anyway. If I need to, I’ll be in touch.’

He dropped the phone on its rest. Evidently Berbier wasn’t the only person with something to hide. It was possible the owner of the lodge was shielding himself for tax reasons – something of a field sport in France – or to avoid the property falling into the clutches of a disenchanted marital partner. Either way, it wasn’t helping his investigation.

He grabbed his coat and decided to go for a walk. He hadn’t yet had an opportunity to explore the village, but now seemed a good time to do so. It might blow some fresh air through his brain as well as acquainting him with his new surroundings. On the way, he’d drop off his laundry at the co-op. Before leaving, he took out the photo of Didier and the Resistance group and placed it on the table, slipping one corner under the directory. He hadn’t yet figured out its place in the scheme of things, or even if it was simply a distraction. But as the only copy, it wasn’t something he wanted to misplace or get damaged. Looking at it later with a fresh eye might unlock an idea or two.

The lane into the village was deserted, as was the square. A flash of black swirled in the doorway to the church. A priest, short and well fed, scowling at Rocco as if he represented a challenge to his authority. Then he was gone, the heavy door slamming behind him with ominous finality.

No sign of Thierry, the gardener, Rocco noted, but perhaps the shock of finding what he thought was a bomb had been too much for him. He saw the odd curtain twitching as he walked along the main street, but ignored them. He was still an outsider and a cop, a double jeopardy in this environment. It was no surprise if people were reluctant to speak to him. But he did spot the plumber, Delsaire, coming out of the co-op and climbing into a battered Renault. He waved him to a stop.

‘Inspector,’ said Delsaire, ‘found out who owns that old water tank yet?’ He chuckled wryly at his own humour.

‘Working on it, but nothing yet,’ Rocco replied, falling in with the joke. ‘I might have to call in help from HQ.’ Then, before Delsaire could trump him with another one, he added, ‘Do you know who owns the big lodge down on the marais?’

Delsaire shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. I did some emergency work there once, but that was arranged via some property company. Lille, I think it was. Why?’

‘What sort of work?’

‘A blockage in the bath. The floor got flooded when a guest turned the tap on and went for a walk. Probably pissed if you ask me. The place had that kind of feel to it, know what I mean?’

‘Not really.’ At Delsaire’s quizzical look, he added, ‘In Paris, I’d know what you meant. But not out here.’

‘Ah, I see. Well, you know … secluded location, comfortable furniture, lots of alcohol about the place. Expensive stuff, too: whisky, vodka, rum, old Armagnac … all way above my budget. Looks a bit of a dump on the outside, but much nicer inside. Whoever owns the place spent money on it. None of it local, though. I never got a look in, apart from that one job. Everything done there comes in from outside.’ He pulled a face. ‘Maybe they think we country turnips can’t tell a copper pipe from a cow’s arse.’

‘True. One other thing: do you know of anyone locally named Brouté?’

‘Brouté?’ Delsaire frowned. ‘Unusual name. Certainly not one I’ve come across. Sorry.’ He paused and gave Rocco a sideways look. ‘As to anyone knowing about the lodges, you should try Didier Marthe. He spends enough time wandering around down there.’

Rocco thanked him for his time and watched him drive away. Delsaire had been too relaxed to be telling anything but the truth, and there could hardly be a man who knew more about the village and its inhabitants than the local plumber. That left out most other people around here. Except maybe Didier, who wasn’t being any help at all.

He walked across to the co-op and went inside. Francine was assembling a large blue plastic crate of groceries, packing them carefully and ticking off each item against a list. She smiled in greeting and stopped what she was doing.

‘Hello again, Inspector. Settling in all right?’ She stepped through a gap in the glass-topped counter and shook his hand. ‘And eating well, I hope?’

‘Getting there with both,’ he replied. ‘It’s Lucas.’

She lifted her eyebrows. ‘Is that Lucas Rocco or Rocco Lucas?’ Her smile was impish and Rocco felt himself flush. He had a feeling she knew perfectly well the order of his name, and was teasing.

‘Lucas is my first name,’ he confirmed gruffly, and looked around to cover his confusion. What the hell was a pretty woman like her doing in a place like this anyway? ‘Um … I gather I should leave my laundry here.’

She nodded and took the bag from him; picked up a ticket and pen from the counter, quickly scribbled down his name and pinned the ticket to the bag. ‘There. In the system. They collect tomorrow and bring it back in two or three days, depending on the workload. Capes and masks are extra, though.’ She giggled and blushed self-consciously. ‘Sorry – couldn’t resist it. We’re a long way from civilisation here. Simple minds and all that. You must find it unsophisticated … after Paris.’

‘Well, it has its attractions.’ He coughed, aware that it had sounded like the lamest of chat-up lines. ‘Sorry … that didn’t quite come out …’ He stopped. She was grinning at him, her eyes dancing, and he wondered if she was like this with everyone who came calling.

‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked. ‘I was just going to stop for lunch.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He nodded, unable to think of a reason to say no. ‘Tea would be nice. Thanks.’

She nodded towards the rear of the shop. ‘Come through. Don’t worry, I won’t kidnap you and subject you to some fiendishly barbaric sacrificial ceremony in the backyard.’

‘I’m sure you won’t,’ he replied, and thought maybe he wouldn’t object too much if she did.

She invited him to take a chair in the kitchen at the back and made tea, then sat down across from him with a packet of biscuits.

‘I should be a better hostess,’ she said, ‘and offer you sandwiches, but my mother always said that was going too far on a first meeting.’ She held out the packet and Rocco took one.

‘Your mother was a wise woman. What if I come back this time tomorrow?’

She lifted an eyebrow. ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’

He smiled at this and sipped his tea. It was Earl Grey, which had always seemed too fragrant for his tastes. Refreshing, though, after all the coffee he’d been drinking. He wondered what to talk about. ‘You run this place by yourself?’

‘Yes. Business is too slow to allow me to take on any help. With the young people moving towards the cities, the population’s not exactly thriving.’ She shrugged. ‘It wasn’t my chosen line of employment, but my husband died in a factory accident eighteen months ago and I had to do something. I heard about this place closing, so I decided to give it a go. I get by.’

‘I’m sorry. About your husband, I mean.’

‘Thank you. It was a shock, but I’m learning to cope.’ She looked at him directly. ‘How about you? Can we expect to see a Rocco family moving in down the road? I can offer good rates for regular customers.’

‘No. No family.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t …’ This time it was her turn to look embarrassed.

The silence lengthened until he grasped another topic of conversation. ‘I see you deliver groceries, too.’ He was referring to the crate she had been preparing in the shop, and wondered whether Mme Denis would be put out if he got his deliveries directly from the source. He suspected she’d take out a hex on him.