‘Drowned? By who?’ Her eyes looked haunted. ‘By Marthe? By that horrid little man?’ She ignored her son as if he were no longer there. ‘The man in the photo?’
‘No. Not Didier Marthe.’ He was on shaky ground here, but since neither Marthe nor the family driver were alive to dispute what he said, it made little difference. ‘Nor the man in the photo.’ He looked closely at her, judging how much he could say, how much she might believe. ‘Your son’s driver, though, he was there.’ He waited, hoping she might connect the dots.
‘Andre?’ The woman looked at Berbier, but he failed to meet her eyes. ‘But Andre… he worshipped Nathalie… he would have gone through hell for her…’ She stopped and grasped her son’s sleeve. ‘But wait. That night… Andre went out at about four in the morning… with you.’
‘Andre didn’t kill her,’ Rocco assured her. ‘He couldn’t have — he was with Didier Marthe all the time. He told me himself just before he died and Marthe confirmed it. There was only one other person present in the marais who could have.’ He kept his eyes on Berbier just long enough to make the point, and felt the atmosphere harden to a brittle texture. ‘Some people will do anything to preserve their reputation. Isn’t that right?’
Rocco left Bleriot to arrange the arrest, and walked downstairs. He needed some fresh air, away from the rotten sickness harboured within the building. He felt tired and drained and his ribs were hurting like hell. He was also frustrated, not least because there were still many questions to which he doubted they would ever find complete answers.
But they had enough to begin proceedings, of that he was certain. And Massin had turned out in the end to have the bite of a bulldog. According to Canet, who had called in while Rocco was being treated in hospital, the senior officer had surprised everyone by going out on a limb to get the investigation going and to prevent it being stifled by interference from Berbier’s powerful friends.
Massin. Rocco still wasn’t sure about him or his intentions. No doubt his star would be in the ascendant after this, with elevation further up the greasy pole of seniority. It was the way of things.
Quite where his own star might be going was another question. He knew too much about Massin’s past — and would any boss like to be in that position? Somehow he doubted it. Only time would tell.
Claude was waiting by the car, chatting to Bleriot’s driver and smoking. Rocco walked up and bummed a cigarette. He didn’t usually indulge, but he’d had enough fresh air; now he needed something to occupy his hands, even if it choked him.
‘All done?’ said Claude, holding a flame to his cigarette.
Rocco puffed tentatively, the smoke scorching his throat. Harsh but bearable. A bit like some forms of justice. He looked up into the sky, where pigeons were playing fighter planes over the expensive rooftops of Paris, and found himself wondering what the fruit rats were up to in his attic. Noisy little bastards.
‘All done,’ he confirmed, and flicked the cigarette into the gutter to join the dog shit.
‘I suppose you’ll be staying on here now, then.’ Claude gestured towards the north-east of the city, towards Clichy. His expression was bleak at the prospect. ‘Going back to fighting big-city gangsters.’
‘No.’ Rocco shook his head. After this lot hit the fan, he’d be about as welcome in the city as an attack of the plague. Not that he was bothered. ‘Big-city gangsters are predictable. I like a real challenge. Come on, let’s go solve some more crimes.’