‘Was also. She died.’ Claude flicked a glance at a photo of two adults and two small girls in a frame on the wall. They were all smiling, but the photo looked several years old. ‘And the kids … well, they waited ’til they were old enough and buggered off to the city.’

‘You see them?’

‘Not much. We talk now and then – when I can track them down. But it’s another language these days.’ He shrugged. ‘They’re good girls – just different.’

They sat and looked through each other for a few seconds, accompanied by the ticking of a clock.

When the telephone jangled, it startled them both.

Claude scowled. ‘It hardly ever does that,’ he announced. ‘Except for my sister in Nantes. She likes to remind me of her latest dress size and the birthday of every child in the family. She thinks I’m made of money.’

He picked up the hand-piece and listened, and Lucas watched as he turned slowly pale.

‘OK. At once,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll be there. Yes, of course directly.’ He put the phone down and adjusted its position on the table, then looked at Lucas with a grave expression.

‘Your sister?’ said Rocco.

‘I wish. What I said about not having much crime here? I spoke too soon. That was Monsieur Paulais, the stationmaster. There’s a British military cemetery about a kilometre outside the village, close to the station. It’s alongside a wood.’ He gave a small shiver and stood up, pointing at the map on the wall. ‘It’s a nice spot. Very … peaceful as you would expect, for that kind of place. The gardener – an Englishman named John Cooke – arrived for work today and found a body in the cemetery.’

Rocco resisted the temptation to ask where else would you find them. ‘A visitor had a heart attack?’ He knew that many old soldiers and their families made pilgrimages to the battlefields of the two world wars. Understandably, some of the older ones from the conflict in 1918 were not in the best of health. The journey out here often found weaknesses otherwise left undiscovered.

‘No.’ Claude reached for his jacket on the back of the chair. ‘Not this one.’ He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘We may have need of your investigative skills sooner than I thought.’

Rocco’s senses prickled. He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘Why?’

‘The deceased is a woman and she’s wearing a Gestapo officer’s uniform.’

CHAPTER SIX

Rocco? Unorthodox. If they don’t walk, he brings them in under his arm.

Lieut. Pierre Comorre – Custody & Records Office – Clichy-Nanterre district

The British War Graves cemetery of Poissons-les-Marais lay off the side of a dusty, rutted track which went on to bury itself in a stretch of thick woodland on the side of a hill. The cemetery consisted of a walled oblong roughly fifty metres by one hundred and fifty, dotted with military regularity by evergreens marking the boundary like silent sentinels. A long, low, brick-built construction in the style of a cloister stood at the near end, and a tall memorial cross pointing to the sky dominated the serried ranks of white marker stones which filled the cemetery grounds, surrounded by trimmed lawn and flower beds. A smaller brick structure stood in one corner, partially concealed by a privet hedge.

Rocco parked behind a grey Citroën 2CV van and climbed out of the car. The afternoon heat hung heavy over the wheat fields on either side of the track and a family of crows in the woods gave voice to the new arrivals, while a skylark sent out its call high in the air. Rocco tried to spot the small bird but gave up. He turned and flicked a practised eye over his surroundings. Vehicle access was bumpy but OK, so the mortuary wagon would be able to get up close. They were two hundred metres from the road, but since passing traffic was limited, there would be no problems with crowd control. Unlike the city, he reflected, where even a rumour of an unexplained death was sufficient to bring out the ghouls and freaks, eager to play their part in the drama.

Turning back towards the way they had come, he could just make out the church steeple in Poissons, rising above a range of trees surrounding a series of small lakes between the cemetery and the village. A line of poplars showed the location of the canal just north of the railway line, but there was no sign of boat traffic.

Following Claude’s directions, he had driven through the village and along a winding lane past an area called the marais – the marshlands – and down past the village railway station. This was little more than a small brick building on a raised platform. A simple striped barrier to stop traffic stood alongside the road, with a counterweight on one end to help the stationmaster lift and lower it.

To Rocco, more accustomed to city scenes, it was like another country. Narrow roads with no vehicles; clusters of houses but few people; cultivated land, clearly productive and well maintained, but no sign of workers.

Then he became aware of the smell.

‘God on a bicycle!’ Claude coughed as he joined Rocco by the front of the car. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘Death.’ To Rocco the aroma was all too familiar. Heavy and sickly, it hung in the air like a curtain, thick enough to taste. ‘Come on.’ He led the way into the cemetery and saw a man sitting at the far end of the cloister with his back against the wall. He looked unnaturally pale and was staring across the cemetery with a tight expression etched on his face. Probably trying not to breathe in, thought Rocco. It never works, no matter how hard you try.

‘John Cooke – the Englishman,’ whispered Claude, one hand clamped across his nose. ‘His French is so-so.’ He wagged his other hand in a see-saw fashion. ‘Actually, for an Englishman, not bad.’

Rocco strode along the walkway, his footsteps echoing around him, and watched as Cooke stood up to greet them. Up close, he was the quintessential Englishman: tall and thin, with blue-grey eyes and a neat moustache, fair hair. He wore dark-blue overall trousers and a check shirt, and had the wiry, sun-bronzed arms and face of an outdoor worker. Right now, however, the tan on his cheeks was struggling to stay in place.

‘Mister Cooke,’ Rocco said in English, and introduced himself. ‘Inspector Rocco. I understand you found a body.’

‘That’s right. Over there.’ Cooke looked surprised and relieved at hearing his own language. ‘Glad I don’t have to explain this in French. I could do it, of course, but … Anyway, come this way and I’ll show you.’ He set off out of the cloister and across the carefully tailored lawn, leaving the two policemen to follow. He walked like a soldier, Rocco noted, easy strides, back straight.

‘You speak English,’ muttered Claude, tapping Rocco’s arm. ‘You didn’t say.’

Rocco gave a ghost of a smile, remembering his surprise at finding Claude was the garde champêtre. ‘You didn’t ask.’

Cooke stopped alongside the giant stone cross set in the centre of the lawn. It had a stepped platform beneath an oblong base, and the main stone of the cross was inlaid with a bronze sword, the tip of which was running with verdigris.

Like green blood, Rocco thought sombrely.

Cooke gestured to the far side of the platform, and moved back to allow them to pass. ‘I hope you’ve got strong stomachs,’ he said. ‘It’s not pretty.’

Rocco stepped around the cross.

The woman was lying on the stone platform, arms flung wide, one leg bent beneath her. She had a dark, mottled tinge to her facial skin, which was bloated and pincushioned out of shape. Her pupils were milky-white, half-closed, and she could have been anywhere between twenty and sixty – it was impossible to be certain. Her hair was mousy, lank and crusted against her head in tangled snakes, and one cheek was pulled back in a cruel facsimile of a smile. But that was the only detail Rocco could determine immediately without a closer examination.