radio. ‘It’s just that I—’
‘I know what you were thinking. Stop worrying.’
Honourable. That wasn’t a word Rocco or any other cop heard too often. And he was pretty sure it didn’t apply to him. He’d bent the rules occasionally when it suited him, although usually to get closer to securing evidence and a conviction, never to implicate an innocent man. Not very long ago, days after Alix had joined the Amiens district, he’d deliberately disposed of a piece of evidence from a murder case. He’d done it knowing that an investigation would have achieved nothing, unless you called it nothing to track down and prosecute a terrified young mother fighting for her life and the life of her child. A conviction hadn’t been likely, anyway, in his view, even if they’d managed to find her.
Fortunately, she’d disappeared like smoke, probably out of the country, and Rocco had thrown away the one bit of evidence likely to have been used against her: the weapon she had used to defend herself.
Although Alix had been close when he’d disposed of the weapon in the canal, it had been too dark for her to have seen. But she had to have known what he’d done. She hadn’t spoken about it, then or since. The shared knowledge had bound them together, somehow, loosely knotted but unbreakable. Yet distant.
Audelet turned out to be larger than Poissons, but not by much. A collection of houses, a church, two cafés, a small garage and a crumbling chateau with a sad, neglected air and sheep grazing around the grounds. Rocco counted two cars and a tractor as they entered the village, and two pedestrians. And a horse walking along the road untended, minding its own business. Compared with Poissons, it was almost humming with activity.
He pulled into the inevitable square and parked in front of the church. It was neat and solid, the way of all churches in the region, and grimly austere. Or maybe it was just him.
He and Claude climbed out and walked up the path alongside the church to a small house with flowers around the door. At least that was a good sign.
Father Maurice was waiting for them. He poured coffee into thick brown cups and offered a box of sugar lumps and a metal jug of fresh milk, the kind children carried to the farm to fetch their daily quota, with a handle and a metal lid. After Clichy and its air of sophistication, where milk came from a store in a cold sealed container, it was like stepping back in time. But Rocco was getting used to it, like lots of things around here.
Such as a priest who wasn’t wearing a dog collar.
Father Maurice was dressed in baggy corduroys anda heavyweight knitted jumper. He was smoking a dark-brown cigarillo, waving away the smoke with a beefy hand, and looked more fisherman than cleric. In Clichy, Paris, priests wore their uniform like a badge, to give them an identity in a bustling, impatient world. Out here, not everyone conformed to type.
‘Pantoufle is a complex character,’ the priest said, pushing the filled cups across the table. ‘He’s war-damaged, like many others, and deserving of our understanding.’ He eyed Rocco keenly. ‘A man of your age and experience, I imagine you’ve been there, Inspector? War, I mean.’
Rocco said nothing. His war history was none of this man’s business. But he was prepared to let the priest get to the point, as long as it didn’t include a spot of God-fearing psychoanalysis along the way.
He made do with a shrug.
‘Of course, many men learn to live with it. But Pantoufle?’ Father Maurice flicked ash from his cigarillo. ‘Whatever happened to him left no visible scars … and no idea of who he used to be. Or maybe he chose to leave that person behind deliberately. A sad case but not unusual.’ He glanced at Rocco beneath bushy eyebrows. ‘You have some news about him?’
‘That’s what I’d like to establish,’ Rocco replied easily. They were back on the safe ground of earthly investigations. ‘We don’t have a
‘I know what you were thinking. Stop worrying.’
Honourable. That wasn’t a word Rocco or any other cop heard too often. And he was pretty sure it didn’t apply to him. He’d bent the rules occasionally when it suited him, although usually to get closer to securing evidence and a conviction, never to implicate an innocent man. Not very long ago, days after Alix had joined the Amiens district, he’d deliberately disposed of a piece of evidence from a murder case. He’d done it knowing that an investigation would have achieved nothing, unless you called it nothing to track down and prosecute a terrified young mother fighting for her life and the life of her child. A conviction hadn’t been likely, anyway, in his view, even if they’d managed to find her.
Fortunately, she’d disappeared like smoke, probably out of the country, and Rocco had thrown away the one bit of evidence likely to have been used against her: the weapon she had used to defend herself.
Although Alix had been close when he’d disposed of the weapon in the canal, it had been too dark for her to have seen. But she had to have known what he’d done. She hadn’t spoken about it, then or since. The shared knowledge had bound them together, somehow, loosely knotted but unbreakable. Yet distant.
Audelet turned out to be larger than Poissons, but not by much. A collection of houses, a church, two cafés, a small garage and a crumbling chateau with a sad, neglected air and sheep grazing around the grounds. Rocco counted two cars and a tractor as they entered the village, and two pedestrians. And a horse walking along the road untended, minding its own business. Compared with Poissons, it was almost humming with activity.
He pulled into the inevitable square and parked in front of the church. It was neat and solid, the way of all churches in the region, and grimly austere. Or maybe it was just him.
He and Claude climbed out and walked up the path alongside the church to a small house with flowers around the door. At least that was a good sign.
Father Maurice was waiting for them. He poured coffee into thick brown cups and offered a box of sugar lumps and a metal jug of fresh milk, the kind children carried to the farm to fetch their daily quota, with a handle and a metal lid. After Clichy and its air of sophistication, where milk came from a store in a cold sealed container, it was like stepping back in time. But Rocco was getting used to it, like lots of things around here.
Such as a priest who wasn’t wearing a dog collar.
Father Maurice was dressed in baggy corduroys anda heavyweight knitted jumper. He was smoking a dark-brown cigarillo, waving away the smoke with a beefy hand, and looked more fisherman than cleric. In Clichy, Paris, priests wore their uniform like a badge, to give them an identity in a bustling, impatient world. Out here, not everyone conformed to type.
‘Pantoufle is a complex character,’ the priest said, pushing the filled cups across the table. ‘He’s war-damaged, like many others, and deserving of our understanding.’ He eyed Rocco keenly. ‘A man of your age and experience, I imagine you’ve been there, Inspector? War, I mean.’
Rocco said nothing. His war history was none of this man’s business. But he was prepared to let the priest get to the point, as long as it didn’t include a spot of God-fearing psychoanalysis along the way.
He made do with a shrug.
‘Of course, many men learn to live with it. But Pantoufle?’ Father Maurice flicked ash from his cigarillo. ‘Whatever happened to him left no visible scars … and no idea of who he used to be. Or maybe he chose to leave that person behind deliberately. A sad case but not unusual.’ He glanced at Rocco beneath bushy eyebrows. ‘You have some news about him?’
‘That’s what I’d like to establish,’ Rocco replied easily. They were back on the safe ground of earthly investigations. ‘We don’t have a
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