‘Four or five, I think. The first about three months ago, then every few weeks after that. Not many. She hated them in the end … but I don’t think she had much choice.’ Sophie stared into the distance, twisting her fingers together. Rocco finally let her go and watched her drag her way across the concourse, all ego and arrogance deflated like a burst tyre. He almost felt sorry for her.

It was going to be a long flight to New York.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

‘Lucas?’ It was the voice of Detective René Desmoulins echoing down the line and dragging Rocco from a troubled sleep. He threw back the covers and stood up, joints protesting after the long drive to Orly and back the previous evening. He checked the time. Eight-thirty. God, he’d slept late again. It was becoming a habit.

‘What have you got?’

‘Not much yet – and nothing from official records on a Tomas Brouté. It’s not an uncommon name, but not from this neck of the woods. Further south there are a few, and down on the Atlantic coast, but none called Tomas that I could find.’

‘OK, no matter.’ He rubbed at his scalp, feeling deflated. One pace forward and two back. Still, at least he had progressed slightly with the Berbier killing. Small mercies.

‘Before you go,’ Desmoulins said quickly, perhaps sensing his disappointment. ‘I ran a check on that phone number you gave me. It’s actually registered to a Jean-Paul Boutin at 3, Rue d’Albert in Poissons.’

The information brought Rocco fully awake. Where the hell was Rue d’Albert? He still hadn’t managed to get a clear view of the layout of Poissons-les-Marais, as simple as it was. It had one through road, a square and maybe two or three lanes, one of them Rue Danvillers where he lived. He’d have to check with Claude later. ‘Good work. See what you can find on that name, will you?’

‘I already did that through the local registry. It’s not much help, though.’

‘Try me.’

‘J-P Boutin died two years ago and the house has no current occupant listed.’

‘You sure about that?’ Rocco strode through to the kitchen area, dragging the telephone wire after him. ‘The records aren’t out of date?’ He knew that local files were notoriously unreliable in parts of the country, relying on overworked administrative clerks toiling with ancient paper-and-card systems to keep them updated. With tight budgets and untrained personnel, it was an uphill struggle which had caused many a police investigation to flounder, starved of current detail about people and their movements.

‘I double-checked. The only way to make sure is to go find the place and take a look. You want me to do it?’

‘No need. It’s just down the road from me. Anything from Massin on the photo shop?’

‘Nothing yet. I’ll chase him up.’

Rocco disconnected and dialled Claude’s number. ‘Boutin, Jean-Paul,’ he said without preamble. ‘3, Rue d’Albert. You know him?’

‘Jean-Po? Sure. He’s dead,’ said Claude. ‘He lived along the main street – that’s Rue d’Albert. You working beyond the grave now?’

‘You could be more right than you know. Meet me there in fifteen minutes.’

‘Make it twenty and I’ll bring coffee.’

Rocco put down the receiver and got dressed, grateful for Desmoulins and his desire to work, and Claude for his perception. The combination of helpers might make this job a whole lot easier.

He walked down to the village centre and along the main street. He saw Francine outside the co-op, arranging a display of fruit. She looked slim and lithe, dressed in a skirt and blouse. He waved when she looked up but received a cool look in return. He dropped his hand and walked on.

At least she hadn’t thrown rotten fruit at him.

There were few other people about and no traffic. A paper bag blew across in front of him, catching on a telegraph pole and fluttering in the breeze. It felt like a scene from a western movie, where the white hat walks towards certain death and dubious glory against the black hats at the other end of town.

Cue a cowboy’s lament.

Claude was standing by his car outside a ragged plaster-faced cottage with shuttered windows. Posters had been plastered all over the available surfaces, displaying everything from soft drinks to the latest appearance of the overmuscled Shadow Angel and his fellow wrestlers.

Claude handed Rocco a mug of coffee and gestured at the cottage. ‘This is it. Not much to look at, I’m afraid. Boutin left it to a daughter nobody’s been able to find yet. What’s the story?’

Rocco sipped his coffee, then told him what Desmoulins had found. Claude looked dumbfounded at the idea of the man who had lived here being connected in any way with Nathalie Berbier.

‘Jean-Po? You’re kidding me. I knew the man. He was a bit reserved, didn’t talk much, but he was just an ordinary man. No side, no attitude. Worked on the railways as an inspector and kept himself to himself.’

‘Yet he had a telephone. Not many people do, here.’

‘That’s a surprise, I’ll grant you. Could have been part of the job, though.’

Rocco tried the front door. The wood was weather-worn but solid, as if fastened firmly on the inside, with no play in it. Bolts, he guessed, top and bottom.

He stepped back and checked either way along the street. The cottage stood on the corner of the main street and the lane leading to Didier Marthe’s house. To his left the street curved over a slight rise towards Claude’s end of the village, while to his right a farm building and a few houses led back towards the co-op and the café, which was out of sight around a bend in the road. A telephone pole stood a few metres away, with a wire stretching across to the eaves of the Boutin cottage.

‘How did Boutin die?’

‘He tripped and fell on his way back from the café one night. They reckoned he’d had a heavy night at the bar. He was unsteady but otherwise OK. Someone thought they heard a car go by at about the same time but we never found any trace of one. He’d hit his head on a kerbstone, so it was written down as an accident while under the influence.’ Claude pulled a face. ‘Poor sod. A lonely life cut short.’

Rocco finished his coffee and handed the mug back. ‘I don’t suppose you have a crowbar in your car?’

‘Actually, I do. What for?’

‘I want to get inside. Find the phone.’

Claude looked doubtful. ‘Shouldn’t we check with the mayor first?’

‘Only if you want a lecture on town hall semantics. Is there a back way in?’

Claude went to his car and produced a large crowbar, then led Rocco down the adjacent lane to the back of the cottage. A wooden door gave way with a good push to a small back garden, overgrown with weeds and bordered at the end by a wattle-and-daub barn or storehouse.

‘That’s Didier’s barn,’ said Claude.

Rocco put his shoulder against the back door of the cottage. Like the front, it was solid and unyielding. He tried the shutters. They felt a little lighter with a fraction of give. He held out his hand for the crowbar, but Claude shook his head with a grin.

‘Hey, let me have some fun, why don’t you?’ He went to the nearest shutter and inserted the thin edge of the bar and threw his weight backwards. The wood cracked and gave way with a squeal, and the shutter popped open.

Rocco used his elbow to break the window and carefully slid his hand inside, feeling for the catch. Seconds later, he was in the darkened house and unbolting the back door to admit Claude.

If there had been any tidying up after Jean-Paul Boutin’s untimely death, it had been minimal. Probably a local worthy doing an act of charity, Rocco surmised, and expecting a family member to come along soon afterwards to finish the job. Except that nobody had come, leaving a home, sparsely furnished but with evidence of a daily existence, suspended in time, a museum piece. Newspapers spilt over from a chair in one corner, while pots and pans, battered and blackened with age and heat, were piled beside the kitchen sink amid a jumble of plates and cups. A pile of men’s clothing lay on another chair, stiff and crinkled, covered in a green mildew, and a pair of brown boots by the rear door were cracked and curled, the soles heavy with dried mud. Everything was layered in dust.