itself, it would be brief, then gone.
As he walked down the slope, his senses seemed to come alive with greater clarity. The crunch of still-frozen grass stems beneath his shoes; the cold reaching through to the soles of his feet; rabbit droppings littered everywhere like sultanas sprinkled on icing sugar; the smell of a wood fire from Mme Denis’ chimney and the sharper tang of cows in the farm building along the lane, with its steaming manure heap in the middle of the yard picked over by chickens. A cockerel crowed, blissfully unmindful of the drama unfolding out here, and Rocco tried to recall if this was how suddenly acute the various sounds and smells had become each time he’d faced danger and death in the jungles of Indochina.
Right now all he could remember from then was the sticky feel of camouflage paint on his face, the reek of unwashed clothing and the absolute stunning silence all around.
He brushed those thoughts aside. He had to focus on the here and now. Nothing else mattered.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Commissaire Massin walked back down the corridor to his office with an itchy sensation in the middle of his back. He tried not to hurry, but to preserve a sense of calm in spite of feeling that he had just stumbled on something truly grotesque.
Back in his office, he closed the door and went straight to his desk. Sliding open a side drawer, he took out his service revolver and checked the cylinder. Then he sat and waited. And listened.
He switched on the police channel loudspeaker fixed to the wall just behind him. He liked to keep an ear on daily events out in the field, but few days had held as much importance as this one. A subdued babble was coming in as officers came on the line seeking information and instructions, or giving out reports on their location and activities.
‘… farm worker saw a car heading north at speed. Am investigating …’
‘Two-One, swing round and head towards Poissons. Reports of gunshots …’
Poissons. Massin’s ears pricked up. That was where Rocco lived.
‘… just heard the news … One Englishman dead! He got him … the inspector got him!’
Massin felt a jolt in his chest. The manhunt was closing in, and a man had been shot dead. ‘The inspector’ could only mean one person.
Rocco.
He desperately wanted more information, to get on the line and demand progress reports. But the channels needed to be kept clear so that the men could get on with the business in hand. He turned instead to the problem he had just discovered and thought about what to do. He was on the edge of feeling powerless, like some junior gardien on his first week in the job.
Should he ring the Ministry? If he did, how the hell could he even begin to explain what he suspected? They’d laugh him out of office and consign him to a mental ward down south, where he could be quietly forgotten, the crackpot commissaire who had finally found the job too much to handle.
What he needed was something concrete … some corroboration that wouldn’t be ignored. But how to get it?
‘… gunshots in Poissons … We’re getting everyone out. He’s in the village somewhere … armed with a shotgun. A civilian down but not seriously hurt. Rocco’s gone after the Englishman.’
Santer. Rocco’s former captain in Clichy. He would know. Massin was well aware that Rocco had regular contact with him, and that the two shared a close friendship.
‘… more shots. Can’t tell where, though. Bloody place is throwing echoes everywhere.’
‘Christ, I hope he leaves some for the rest of us.’
Massin turned down the radio, picked up the phone and asked the switchboard operator to put him through to Clichy. Keeping one ear on the corridor outside, he slid his revolver closer and waited while the phone rang.
‘Santer.’
‘Captain Santer,’ Massin said quietly, and introduced himself. ‘I want to advise you that I have ordered the suspension of Inspector Rocco to be lifted, following new evidence in his favour.’
‘That’s good news, sir,’ Santer replied. ‘Very good. I never doubted him. But … if you’ll excuse me asking, why are you telling me? Sir.’
Massin smiled at the caution in Santer’s voice, edged with just a hint of old-cop indifference to higher authority. Maybe Santer really was the right man to talk to.
‘Because I need your help, Captain. As does Inspector Rocco. And the very security of France could well hinge on anything you can tell me.’
Rocco weaved his