‘Mademoiselle Dion?’ Rocco felt he was looming over her; it wasn’t difficult with his height and broad shoulders, so he sat down across from her. She didn’t stir or acknowledge his presence, and he guessed she was in shock. There was probably a professional as well as a normal humane cause for concern in what she had discovered, but he had to establish a connection with her before she shut down completely.
‘If you’ve got any coffee and another one of those,’ he said softly, nodding at the glass, ‘I’ve had a long night.’ It reminded him to check his watch. With the previous case he’d been to — a bizarre case of suicide, or so it seemed — he’d lost track of time. It was coming up to five in the morning and a spring light was already showing through the windows over the fields at the back.
The nurse seemed to shake herself. She stood up. ‘Of course. I’m sorry …’
‘Lucas Rocco,’ he said. ‘Inspector of police. I’m here to help.’
She nodded and turned away, picked up a percolator and poured him a cup of black coffee. Then she fetched a glass and poured a shot of cognac. She placed both on the table in front of him, gesturing at a box of sugar cubes and a small jug of milk.
Rocco picked up a newspaper from the table. Etienne Maintenant, the foreign minister, was shown boarding a flight to Peking and waving to the cameras like a film star. The headline was stark:
France confirms diplomatic relations by sending foreign minister and trade delegation to China!
The dawn of a new era for French trade?
Minister Maintenant, Rocco thought dryly, looked a little uneasy at the top of the steps leading to the aircraft door, as if he thought he might be on a one-way trip and desperately wanted to change his mind at the last moment.
‘Quite a development,’ said the nurse, nodding at the newspaper and sitting back down.
‘We live in interesting times,’ Rocco agreed, scanning the faces but seeing nobody he recognised. Nurse Dion showed no sign of having recognised his paraphrasing of the alleged Chinese curse.
He picked up the glass. It was both too late and too early for it, but he showed willing by taking a sip. It was better quality than he’d expected; maybe they kept it for staff emergencies. He poured the rest into his coffee. His relaxed approach worked, and Dion took a sip from her own glass, wincing as she swallowed.
‘So tell me,’ he said, ‘who did you call?’
She frowned. ‘Call?’
‘Yes. You’re a professional, I can tell. In a place like this, there must be standing orders to call someone in case of emergencies. Who was that?’
‘Director Drucker. I called him. He should be here soon.’ She looked nervous and he wondered why. With help coming from various quarters, she should have been feeling reassured.
‘Where did you train?’ he asked. It was a distraction question only, but might prove useful. She looked about forty, at a guess, which meant she would have been old enough to be involved in the war, had she wanted to be. If so, she would be tougher than she seemed right now.
‘In Brest,’ she said vaguely. ‘Other places, too. Wherever I could get work.’
‘Places like this?’
‘Hospitals, mostly. Why are you so interested in me?’ She looked pale but somehow in control, as if a core of durability lay beneath, sustaining her. She was tough all right.
‘I’m interested in everybody and anybody,’ he replied, and sipped his coffee. ‘I’m also interested in why nobody else is around. As I understand from Officer Lamotte, you screamed loudly enough when you discovered the body to have attracted a lot of attention.’
‘Scream?’ She looked defensive. ‘I did not. I was calling out.’
‘Of course. Who for?’
She stared levelly at him. ‘For anyone … for help — I saw a man entering the driveway and didn’t know he was a policeman until he told me. I was probably panicking a little. Shouldn’t you be getting the man out of that pool?’ She brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, her starched uniform rustling crisply in the silence.
‘We will, soon enough.’ He changed tack. ‘What’s the dead man’s name?’
There was a lengthy silence, then she said, ‘I can’t talk about that.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. I have instructions. You’ll have to speak to Director Drucker.’
‘I will, of course. But let me tell you something, Mademoiselle: in the matter of a murder investigation, my instructions supersede any that you might have.’ He breathed easily. ‘Let me start again. Why is there nobody else here, and who is the dead man? Two very simple questions. Take them in any order you wish.’
Dion said nothing for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I am the only one on duty tonight. There was … there’s nobody else. A relief nurse when required, and two cleaners on rota — but that’s it.’
Rocco jumped on the hesitation. ‘You were going to say something else. What was it?’
‘Nothing.’ She twisted her fingers together, then appeared to relent. ‘We have a security man, but I don’t know where he is. He arrived for his shift yesterday evening, but I haven’t seen him since. I called, but he didn’t come.’
‘And his name? Or is that something else you can’t tell me?’
‘André Paulus.’
At last. ‘Good. Now, how many patients do you have here?’ Rocco was amazed at the lack of activity. Surely someone else had heard the commotion? And could a man have been overpowered and chained up like this, then manhandled into the harness and dropped into the water without arousing attention?
She shook her head. ‘I can’t discuss that, either.’
‘Are they sedated? Is that it?’
Her eyes flickered in alarm. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘It’s a fair assumption, isn’t it? A sanitarium in the middle of the night, a murder and a scream — pardon me — a shout. And no reaction from the other residents. What other reason would there be? Unless they’re locked in their rooms.’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘Really?’
He let the silence build. Now he’d got her talking and knew she wasn’t going to fall apart in front of him, he could apply some pressure. Yet something told him it wasn’t going to be that easy. She acted as if she was scared of someone. But it clearly wasn’t him, or the police.
So who, then?
CHAPTER THREE
‘I’m sorry. Really. But you have to understand—’
‘What’s going on here?’
Rocco turned. A short, stocky man had entered the kitchen and bustled up to the table with an air of fussy self-importance. ‘This is a private facility and you should not be talking to my staff without authorisation.’ He emphasised this by shooting a hard look at Dion, as if she were at fault, his gaze lingering on the drink glasses. ‘Gilles Drucker. Director of this establishment.’
Rocco said nothing. He sipped the last of his coffee and counted to five. Then he stood up.
In any room, standing at two metres tall and dressed all in black, Rocco looked down on most people. To this man he must have appeared like a giant. With his impressive width of shoulders and short scrub of black hair, Rocco knew he was no baby face.
‘That’s good, Mr Drucker,’ he said, and watched as the man swallowed hard and moved back a step. Drucker was a dandy, wearing a smart suit and highly polished shoes, and a handkerchief poking out of his right jacket sleeve. And where his imperious manner clearly worked here most of the time, it looked like suffering a sudden failure. ‘Have you seen the reason I’m here?’
‘I … no. Not yet.’ Drucker flapped a hand. ‘Inès — uh, Dion told me about it.’
‘Good. Follow me.’ Rocco turned and walked away, but not without making sure that Drucker didn’t say anything to the nurse. He led the man at a fast pace through the main building and across to the pool, where Claude was tying off a makeshift string barrier to prevent anyone walking inside. Just before they entered the pool house, a car’s headlights swept across the entrance and a vehicle stopped in the car park area.