He turned and studied the one photograph he had decided to put up in his office. It showed him in police uniform, proud and determined following his award of a distinguished pass mark at the academy. It had not, over the years, led to the higher echelons of the service as he had envisaged, but he had not completely given up on progressing higher. There was still time.

He had another photograph, this one kept buried in his desk drawer. Also of him in uniform, this time in the distinctive Lizard pattern camouflage, and taken shortly after his arrival in Indochina aboard a French military flight. He’d been empowered with a single brief: to pursue action against the communist Viet Minh with all urgency and aggression. It had been his last photocall in military uniform and the memory of it still caused him moments of pain and humiliation. A humiliation renewed each and every time he saw or heard of Lucas Rocco.

It still surprised him that the former sergeant had given no indication of their shared history, either by expression or deed. Could he have forgotten that day on the front line? A day etched in Massin’s own mind as though with acid? He doubted it: men like Rocco did not forget easily. He shook his head, angrily dislodging the thoughts that brought shame to him in the still night hours and plagued many of his daytime moments, too. He turned instead to the investigation Rocco was pursuing.

Maybe, just maybe, if he could keep Rocco on a tight enough rein, a move higher up the ladder might be achieved riding on the back of a successful murder investigation. On the other hand, he recognised, it would be he who might end up with egg on his face if Rocco performed as usual, barging his way through people’s lives without due thought to the consequences. People like Philippe Bayer-Berbier, for example, he thought wryly, suppressing a shudder. God forbid that he should let Rocco go anywhere near that man again: Berbier possessed too many friends in high places and, no doubt, too many favours he could call in if he really wanted to kill somebody’s career stone dead, merely by lifting a telephone.

He swung back as his secretary poked her head round the door. He was going to allow Rocco a bit more rope. By all accounts the Rouen police were highly impressed by the unselfish help he had given them, and that could only reflect – had already reflected, via Bertrand’s commanding officer – on himself. Maybe this could serve his own needs after all. Especially if the case involved bringing in someone of note, which would run through the halls of the Ministry like wildfire and enhance everyone associated with it.

‘Sir?’ his secretary prompted him urgently, waving a hand. ‘Important call from Paris. Line one.’

Massin tried to remain calm. Most calls from Paris were important; they usually came from higher up the chain of command and required a sharp mind and sharper reactions to whatever news they brought. The only question was, would it be good news or bad?

‘Who is it?’ It had to be one of at least three senior staff members.

‘A Philippe Bayer-Berbier, sir. Shall I put him through?’

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

‘We’ve got company,’ said Rocco. He stepped away from the lodge, instantly on the alert, glancing towards where he had left the car.

‘How do you know that?’

Rocco pointed upwards. ‘Hear that?’ Everything was silent: the trees, the lakes, the undergrowth; even the breeze seemed to have shut down its whisper, leaving the air muggy and still.

Claude nodded. ‘Damn. I hadn’t noticed. I’m getting slow.’ He followed Rocco’s glance. ‘What do we do?’

‘We go and see who it is.’ Rocco walked back along the path. It could be nothing, maybe a local come to fish. If so, no problem. If it was anyone else, he wanted to see them before they saw him.

As they neared the final bend in the path before reaching the main lodge, they heard a rumble of male voices filtering through the trees, followed by a short, sharp whistle. Then silence.

Rocco felt his scalp move. Whoever the new arrivals were, they had a communication system going. At a guess, they’d arrived at the front of the lodge and found his car. The whistle had been a warning to keep their eyes open.

That automatically left out anyone from the village or the police.

When the lodge came into view, Rocco knelt down behind some reeds and motioned for Claude to do the same. The voices had stopped, but the men must still be close by.

A man appeared at the rear corner of the building. He was heavily built, with cropped, black hair and wore a dark suit, white shirt and tie, and was carrying a gun. He moved cautiously, sticking close to the wall of the lodge as if listening for noises inside. He tried the rear door and found it open, then flattened himself against the wall. He gave a low whistle. Moments later he was joined by a second man from the other side of the lodge, similarly dressed and also armed. They communicated in a series of hand signals before slipping inside. A bark of laughter from the front of the building indicated at least two more men present.

Rocco recognised the tactic: the men at the front were a distraction while the other two checked the place out.

‘Are they cops?’ whispered Claude.

‘Not the kind I’m used to,’ said Rocco. ‘Cops would go straight in.’

‘So who, then?’

‘City boys looking for Didier is my guess. Come on.’ He eased away, leading Claude back down the path deeper into the marais.

Rocco didn’t like the odds.

An unknown number of men, two of them armed and acting as if they had been trained in the military. If they were after Didier as he suspected and looking to settle a score, all well and good. He probably deserved everything he had coming. But there was still no sign of Francine, and if the men were up to no good and stumbled on them here in the marais, they might not be keen on having any witnesses to their activities.

He and Claude reached the second lodge and waited behind its cover. The minutes ticked by, the silence hanging like a blanket around them, stuffy and threatening. Then a stick cracked not far away, followed by a faint splash and a man swearing. Rocco eased back. It confirmed what he’d thought: clumsy feet in this environment meant city folk not used to walking on soft, unforgiving ground. One of the men had stepped on a branch, then off the path into water.

A white oval appeared above the undergrowth. A man’s face. He was standing on the path thirty metres away, studying the smaller lodge. He had one hand held out, warning those behind him to hold back.

For Rocco it was enough. They couldn’t stay here. The men were constrained by the single path, and evidently cautious about moving forward too quickly. They had probably been briefed about Didier’s background and prickly nature, but would soon move forward.

He and Claude retreated further along the path to the ruined building. Once over the bridge leading to Didier’s house and the village, they could get to a phone and summon reinforcements. Facing one armed man, maybe even two, might have been feasible for him and Claude, given that they were familiar with the area. Going up against four would be idiotic, and Rocco had no desire to go down in the annals of police history as a brave but dead fool.

As they slipped past the ruined lodge and headed for the bridge, Rocco heard a noise. He stopped, a hand on Claude’s shoulder. A cat? Kids squealing? It sounded ghostly, a half-cry out of keeping with the surroundings.

Claude had heard it, too. ‘Christ, what is that?’ he whispered.

‘It’s coming from in there.’ Rocco pointed towards the ruin. Did they have time to investigate or would the four men bypass the second lodge and come pounding along the path? He shook off his concerns. It didn’t matter; they were here to find Francine, and this was the one place they hadn’t yet looked.