‘Or two.’

Rocco shook his head. He’d discounted that possibility, although with no rational explanation other than simple gut feel. ‘Two men would have left more traces: heavier treads, more difficult to conceal. This was one man being very careful.’

‘So why take her to the cemetery? He could have dumped her in one of the lakes or buried her in the marsh. She’d have been gone for good.’

‘Because burying a body would have taken time. He might have been seen. And bodies have a nasty habit of reappearing. Dumping it elsewhere also took the connection away from the marais.’

‘And the lodges.’

‘And the lodges.’ He turned and looked in the direction of the big lodge, hidden by the trees.

‘Doesn’t seem right, does it?’ breathed Claude, as they walked back to their cars. ‘Not in this place.’

‘It never does,’ Rocco said calmly. It was always the seemingly innocuous which carried the greatest threat. He’d learnt that very quickly in Indochina, a country of beauty and innocence masking horrible dangers. Only this time it wasn’t some exotic and harmless-looking jungle clearing hiding unseen traps: sharpened stakes tipped with excreta to infect anyone who stepped on them. This was the equivalent to home territory, greenery just like that familiar from his boyhood. There were no poisonous dangers lurking here other than the occasional rabbit snare, no mines waiting for a careless footfall, no trained killers waiting in the greenery with AK47s set on rapid fire.

Just a clear, blue pond where nobody dared swim.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Rocco walked back into the house after saying goodbye to Claude and was greeted by the phone ringing. He sat down to take the call, then noticed the Resistance photo lying on the floor.

‘Lucas? Hello … are you there?’ It was Viviane.

‘Yes. Sorry – I was just checking something.’ He bent and picked up the photo, and looked around the room, the hairs on his neck rising. Everything looked normal, untouched, as he had left it … yet he was certain he’d wedged the snap under the phone directory.

‘You wanted to speak to Sophie Richert,’ Viviane continued, ‘in number 10 … across the hall from that young Berbier woman.’

‘I did?’ Rocco had to stop and think, separating in his mind the murder of Nathalie Berbier from the attempted murder of Didier Marthe. He’d found in the past that working cases in tandem like this caused moments of confusion, but never quite the way it was just now. Perhaps because these two had occurred in the same small corner of France, rather than in unconnected streets in the capital, often as distinct as foreign countries in appearance, atmosphere and population. ‘I do, you’re right.’

‘Well, you’d better hurry. She’s on her way to America for several months. She wasn’t keen on being involved, but Nathalie was a friend and I said she could trust you. She’ll be at the airport this evening at six. Can you meet her there?’

He looked at his watch. The airport meant Orly, on the other side of Paris. It would be a bastard of a drive but he could make it – just – as long as there were no delays. There was no guarantee that the young woman would have anything useful to add to his meagre stock of information on the background of Nathalie Berbier, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to talk to her – especially as she seemed to be instigating it herself. In any case, once she was in the States, she might just as well be in another world and beyond his reach.

‘Tell her I’ll meet her in the bar near check-in,’ he told Viviane. He remembered the small bar, usually crowded and smoke filled, the final watering hole for nervous flyers and, in his experience, criminals fleeing overseas one step ahead of the law. It wasn’t the ideal place to conduct a murder interview, but it was the only familiar spot he could think of at short notice. ‘Thanks. I owe you.’

He dropped the phone back on the stand and changed his muddied clothes for clean slacks and a dark shirt. As he grabbed his coat ready to head out to the car, his attention was drawn to the French window looking out over the rear garden.

A corner of the net curtain was jammed in the frame.

Orly Airport was a busy rush of travellers, meeters and greeters when Rocco dumped his car in a convenient slot and hurried into the main terminal building. It was just on six o’clock.

He entered the bar across from check-in. The atmosphere was as he recalled, heavy with smoke and chatter, the floor around the tables littered with luggage. A young woman was sitting by herself in one corner, glancing at her watch. She wore a short, red dress printed in an interlocking triangular pattern, and knee-high white boots which Rocco thought might be plastic. He assumed she was what young fashion workers thought of as stylish and cutting-edge. As he got close, he saw she was studiously ignoring the attentions of two men at the next table who were trying inelegantly to chat her up. Neither had luggage or looked remotely like travellers and he pegged them as professional airport lizards, trawling for an easy mark.

‘Miss Richert?’ He smiled at her and saw her react with a mixture of wariness and relief. ‘Lucas Rocco.’ He didn’t want to use his title unless absolutely necessary.

One of the two men leant over and said loudly, ‘Hey – granddad. Try your own age range, why don’t you?’

Rocco turned and looked down at the men, then nodded his head towards the exit. If he was right about who and what they were, they would read the signs and move on. It took a moment or two, but they finally got the message, stood up and walked away without looking back.

‘That was neat,’ Sophie murmured. He wasn’t sure if it was meant as a compliment until she added, ‘The times I’ve wished I was with a guy who could do that.’

‘It doesn’t always work,’ he said with a smile. ‘Sometimes I have to start throwing furniture. Can I get you a drink?’

‘If you want. Whisky.’ She had the lazy confidence of someone older, although he guessed she was no more than twenty-five. Maybe that was what going to America did for you: gave you years beyond your years. He couldn’t recall what he’d been like at twenty-five, only that he’d probably been full of vim and holding a gun, which lends confidence of a different kind.

He caught the eye of a waiter and ordered two whiskies, then sat down across from her with a view of the concourse where the two men had gone. He didn’t usually drink while working, but since he was – technically, at least in terms of time – off duty, he decided to relax the rule.

‘Thank you for agreeing to speak to me, Miss Richert. How much time do you have?’

She checked her watch, an expensive gold timepiece, and shrugged with near condescension. ‘Less than thirty minutes. How can I help?’

He paused while the waiter served their drinks, then said, ‘You know what happened to Nathalie?’ He decided to cut straight to the chase: there was neither time nor reason to be circumspect.

She nodded and sipped her whisky. ‘She drowned in some river. I still can’t believe it. She was such … fun. It’s horrible.’ She shivered and tossed her head. ‘I’m glad I’m going away. Is that unkind, wanting to put it all behind me?’

‘No. It’s normal. How well did you know her?’

‘Pretty well, actually. We were friends, I suppose.’

‘So you moved in the same circles.’

‘You mean did I know her other friends?’ Sophie was quick to catch on and her reply was cautious. ‘We had a lot of the same friends and acquaintances here in town, but we didn’t live in each other’s pockets.’ She toyed with the glass and Rocco guessed she really didn’t like whisky, that ordering it had been for show … or because of nerves.

He beckoned the waiter over and asked him to bring a glass of white wine. The man nodded and wheeled away, returning moments later with the order. He shifted the other whisky to Rocco’s side of the table.