Merle: A French murder mystery (A Jacques Forêt Mystery Book 2) Read online

  “And is all of that possible without leaving a trace on system?”

  “There is always a trace left on system, Jacques, always. Think about it. You work on a file and save it. The next time you open it, as it loads up it shows when it was last edited. Most people don’t notice because they are busy and just want to get on with their work. But if that file had been accessed between you last saving it and you next working on it, it would be obvious and you could and should report it as a security breach. In reality, it never happens.”

  Jacques stared out of the window as he formed his next question. “So, if I were to give you a list of tender documents that Alain and myself believe have been leaked, could you undertake the same sort of audit trail that you did for the letter to Nicolas Durand?”

  “Sure. But my team are still working on the fallout from the cyber-attack, so anything else will have to wait until we know what happened. Just get me the list, and we’ll look at it as soon as we can.”

  “Thanks, I’ll email that over.” Jacques got up and paused. A question was lurking at the back of his mind but he wasn’t quite sure exactly what it was he wanted to know, and he couldn’t seem to encourage his mind to let the question move into his conscious.

  “Is there something else, Jacques?” Philippe was about to head for the door.

  “I’m not sure, but if it is possible to access the network and install software to collect data, then it must also be possible to copy everything any one person does on their PC?”

  “Subject to gaining access to the actual PC, yes.” Philippe smiled and led the way out of the room.

  “And what about the cyber-attack?”

  “Still not resolved, as I said, but we have found some spurious code and we are examining that now. We’re still not entirely sure how they got past our security but I will let you know what we find.”

  Jacques left Philippe and took the stairs to return to his own office.

  ***

  In Paris, a plane touched down and taxied to its terminal in the dullness of a late grey afternoon. As soon as he saw the lighted instruction to remove his seatbelt, Richard Laurent Delacroix unbuckled his and stood. The six-and-a-half-hour non-stop flight from Québec City was about as much as he could tolerate.

  Unlike his father and uncle, he was tall, broad-shouldered and muscled. There was also a swank about him that had definitely got one of the air hostesses interested, and he fully intended to make the most of the opportunity. He had planned a forty-eight hour stop-over in Paris, but that could be extended. He could catch the shuttle to Le Puy-en-Velay on Monday or Tuesday and re-scheduling would just be the price of the administration fee. The last place he really wanted to be was in some backwater of a village sitting half way up a mountain.

  He smoothed his thick silver grey hair back and opened the locker above his seat. He always travelled light, a single suitcase in the hold and his carry-on luggage was one small case, his black winter coat and a matching fedora.

  “My card,” he said to the blonde air hostess. “I’m in Paris by myself for the weekend. Call me anytime.” Then he gave her his well-practiced winning smile and a flash of his sparkling blue eyes and stepped off the plane.

  Immigration and luggage retrieval took almost an hour but, once out on the concourse, he was able to get a taxi straight away. It took two attempts for the driver to understand his Canadian French request to take him to his hotel in Opéra, the 9th arrondissement. The ensuing conversation with the driver was stilted and Ricky had to remind himself that claiming Québécois ancestry wouldn’t work when he finally arrived in his uncle’s village of Messandrierre. They would know that his ancestry only stretched as far back as his father rather than the original settlers from the seventeenth century. But the lie worked well with clients, and he had no intention of abandoning it permanently. He recognised he would just need to be careful for the next few weeks or however long it would take to sort out his uncle’s estate. Not that he was expecting great things. But a farm meant land and land meant cash – his sole interest. And there was that name, Messandrierre. He made a mental note to ensure he got the pronunciation just right, and just French.

  ***

  The bar in the village was noisy and full following the Maire’s municipality meeting. Gaston and Marianne were busy with orders for drinks.

  Jacques, sat at a table by the window, pushed his chair a little further back and took a slug of beer from his glass.

  “Fermier Pamier, how is business going for you?”

  “Well, I’m away a lot at the moment, but business is good, Jacques.” The farmer looked around the room.

  “And Madame Pamier…how is she coping with you being away so much?” Jacques remained relaxed but he watched the farmer closely.

  Pamier shrugged. “She knows the cattle; she knows what she’s doing.”

  “And she’s not finding it difficult without the help you used to have?”

  Pamier thumped his almost empty beer glass on the table. “What’s that supposed to mean?” His weathered round cheeks flushed and he glared at Jacques.

  “Juan de Silva, the help you used to have. What happened to him?”

  Pamier looked away.

  “We questioned your wife about his disappearance a few months ago. Did she tell you?”

  Pamier remained silent.

  “You were away at the time, I seem to remember.” Jacques still waited for a response, but Pamier looked into his beer glass and drained the last few drops.

  “You see, we have some new information.” The farmer looked straight at him. Jacques felt Pamier’s eyes boring into him.

  “You’re no longer on the force, Monsieur Forêt.” He stood and pushed his chair back under the table with a sharp grating noise on the tiled floor. “I don’t have to answer your questions because you are not a policeman and this is not an official police enquiry.”

  “I can soon make it one!” Jacques stood and moved to block Pamier’s path. “Gendarme Clergue is just over there,” he said shifting his gaze towards the corner of the bar and nodding. “We can invite him over here and make this conversation official.”

  “What new evidence?” Pamier stood his ground.

  “A letter from his family containing some interesting information they have been given by someone who knew Juan.”

  Pamier stared at him and then, taking a step back, he let out a dry, hollow laugh. “You’re bluffing,” he said and moved quickly to the other side of the bar.

  Jacques re-positioned his chair so that he could watch the whole of the room. Pamier ordered another beer and then leaned against the counter waiting. A few moments later, he and Gaston were in conversation, and shortly after that they both went into the small office at the far corner of the room.

  Fermier Rouselle got up and began collecting the empty glasses from the table.

  “What’s happening about the compensation for your cattle, Rouselle?” asked one of the three other men drinking at his table

  “Nothing!” Retorted Rouselle. “It’s red tape. It could take months.” He made a move towards the bar and then stopped and turned to his companions. “But you know what, I’m looking after Delacroix’s herd until his nephew arrives and when he does, he might just find that it’s two less than he thought!” He let out a forced roar of a laugh and made his way to the bar to give Marianne an order for the round of drinks.

  “Ah Rouselle, even Canadians can count, you know.” The three other men erupted into laughter.

  “He’s Québécois!” shouted Rouselle from the bar. “He’s a city man! What does he know?” After a short conversation with Marianne, Rouselle carried three beers back to the table and left them. Returning to the bar, he picked up his own glass, took a gulp and walked over to Gaston’s office, entered and closed the door behind him.

  Jacques picked up his empty glass and joined Clergue and the Maire at the bar.

  “Another beer, Jacques?” The Maire was already beckoning Marianne across to him
before Jacques could answer and whether he wanted one or not, a clean glass was filled and placed on a mat in front of him.

  “I’ve just rattled Pamier,” he said in a low voice. “He’s in the office with Gaston and Rouselle.”

  “Gaston?” Clergue folded his arms across his chest. “Gaston can’t possibly have anything to do with de Silva’s disappearance, can he?”

  “I hope not,” said Jacques, “but you may want to follow up with some enquiries of your own in a couple of days. Pamier thinks we’ve got new evidence.”

  “Is that true?

  Jacques shook his head.

  The Maire raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t hear that last comment, Jacques.” He took his whisky and gently set it swirling around the bottom of the glass. “The lumber for the new fencing around the campsite will be arriving tomorrow. Gaston is going to need some help to get the fencing erected over the next week. If you both could lend a hand I would appreciate it.” He looked from one to other.

  “I have some time on Saturday,” said Jacques, “but I expect Gaston will need both of us on Sunday, Thibault, as he and Marianne will be busy in the restaurant.” A nod from each sealed the deal.

  friday, october 23rd, 2.25am

  Fermier Rouselle drove his tractor across his north pasture to the corner of the field that butted up against Delacroix’s land and the boundary of a now long-abandoned farm that sat at the far eastern edge of the village. In the head lights, he could see the dark figures of Gaston and Fermier Pamier by the large pine tree at the corner of the pasture. He stopped the tractor and cut the engine. From the trailer at the back, he brought out spades, wiring, stakes, a hammer and Tilley lamps.

  “Right, what Delacroix’s nephew doesn’t know about is only my business,” he said. “I want this boundary back where it should be and where it is on my deeds, and that’s a metre and half down this slope.” He dropped the coil of wire and returned to bring the stakes.

  Gaston stubbed out his cigarette. “It’s going to be obvious what we’ve done, Rouselle, in daylight. Anyone who comes up here regularly will see what we’ve done straight away.”

  Rouselle attacked the rickety fencing already in place and pulled it out of the ground in seconds. “I want my land back,” he shouted, “and I’m going to get it before that nephew arrives and interferes.”

  Gaston and Pamier exchanged a glance. “And you’re sure it’s a metre and a half down the slope?”

  Rouselle hefted a stake into place by the tree and began hammering it into the earth. “I’m certain.” The stake steady, he dropped his hammer into a pocket of his overalls and took one and a half strides. “To here and up there in a straight line; this side of that outcrop of boulders to the corner of my fencing. My land.” The farmer picked up another stake and set to work.

  “You get the wire, and I’ll dismantle the rest of Delacroix’s old fence,” said Pamier. “We’ll stay well back.”

  Gaston moved the coil of wire and began attaching it to the first stake. “I don’t like this.”

  “Be quiet and let Rouselle get ahead. And whatever happens, keep your mouth shut. I don’t think we have anything to fear. Just get on with the work and stay well back. OK?”

  The three men worked on in almost complete silence for the next hour. The sky was clear and the moon bright. The Tilley lamps only required to provide a little supplementary lighting when Rouselle was digging holes for the stakes to be slotted into.

  Rouselle was right below the boulders. Stabbing his spade into the ground, he felt it slice through the gelatinousness of what he thought felt like peat, only to feel the tool come up against something akin to the friable hardness of limestone. It stopped him dead. He called to Pamier for extra light. Gaston remained where he was.

  Under the light from the Tilley lamp, Rouselle scraped the topsoil away by hand, and recoiled at what he had unearthed. “We need Jacques,” he shouted after stepping a few paces back. “Phone him and get him up here right now.”

  ***

  “I want an explanation, and none of you are leaving here until I get one.” Jacques, unshaven from having being woken so early, and dressed in a pair of creased jeans and a jumper, paced back and forth in the bar as he waited for someone to respond. “This find has to be called in. There is no question of that. But you will have to explain what you were doing up in the north pastures at four in the morning. It’s a very odd time to be mending fences, Rouselle.” His tone hardened. “What were you doing?” He stopped and looked each one of the men in the eye in turn. “Rouselle?” he prompted.

  Rouselle shifted in his chair and looked away. Gaston and Pamier glanced at each other but said nothing.

  “Right.” Jacques pulled out his phone. “You leave me no option, and the charges I will be suggesting to my old colleagues in Mende will be trespass, concealment of a body and obstruction of a police investigation. I’m sure I can think of a couple more, but those will suffice for now.” He began to dial.

  “Tell him, Rouselle.” It was Gaston who broke the silence. “Damn well tell him, man.”

  Jacques pulled up a chair from a nearby table, pulled his notebook from the back pocket of his jeans and sat down. “Any chance of some coffee?”

  “Of course,” said Gaston. He got up and moved behind the bar.

  “It’s not trespass, Jacques.” Rouselle blustered. “I was taking back what was mine.” He sat upright, his hands placed on his thighs, defiance in his eyes. “I was taking back my land.”

  “And do you have documentary proof of where the boundary between your land and Delacroix’s actually sits?”

  “Yes!”

  “So, if I was to ask for those documents so that I could pass them on to a surveyor, he will be able to tell me that your new fence is in exactly the right place. Is that correct?” Jacques watched the farmer’s face as a smidgen of colour suffused his cheeks.

  “I’m just a simple farming man, Jacques,” he said, his tone more moderate and respectful. “I understand cattle and the land. How do I know what a surveyor will find?” He shrugged off his evident lie.

  Jacques tapped his notebook with his pen. “And why did this…reclaim of your land have to be undertaken now? It’s 4.37am; it’s still dark. Moving fences is not the sort of job that I would normally expect to be done at this time in the morning.” He accepted the coffee that Gaston handed to him and sat back in his chair, left ankle resting on his knee.

  “I’ve a very busy day today and I wanted to get the job done and out of the way early.” Rouselle placed the coffee he was handed on the table next to him.

  “I see. You have such a busy day today that you can afford to keep lying to me, can you? No-one is leaving until I get to the truth, Fermier Rouselle. The whole truth.”

  “Delacroix owes me,” he shouted. “And I’m not giving up on my land. I’m doing my bit for the community by taking care of his cattle, as requested by Monsieur le Maire, even though the compensation for those two beasts of mine that he injured and Clergue killed is still outstanding. I want my land back.” He stared at Jacques.

  “Then do it legally, Rouselle. And after the funeral. What you’ve been doing here tonight is disrespectful and highly suspicious. I have no doubt that your new fence will be more or less in the right place, Fermier Rouselle. But, more or less is still not exact and still not legal.”

  Before the farmer could remonstrate more, he turned his attention to Gaston. “And your involvement is what?”

  “I was just helping out a fellow villager, that’s all, Jacques.” Gaston finished his coffee and took out his cigarettes and lighter.

  “Fermier Pamier, your reason for being there?”

  “The same as Gaston.” The both exchanged a look.

  Jacques drained his cup and placed it on the table behind him. “And what about the body. Do any of you know who it is?”

  “No,” the three of them chorused.

  “Is that so?” Jacques stood and began to pace, his instincts sharpened by t
heir response.

  “So, none of you knew the body was there before you found it?”

  “No.” Another unified response.

  “You don’t seem very surprised that there is a body on what you claim to be your land, Fermier Rouselle?”

  Rouselle opened his mouth to speak but paused and closed it again.

  “Nothing to say, Fermier Rouselle?” Jacques waited. “That’s not like you, is it? Always voluble. Always to be relied upon for an appropriate opinion. But today, when a body is found on your land, you say nothing.”

  Rouselle stood. “And you’re not a gendarme any longer, this isn’t Paris, and you have no right to interrogate me.”

  Jacques turned to face him and shouted. “That may be so, but you sent for me, so sit down. You’ve involved me in this very suspicious escapade that you three are undertaking and I have to be absolutely certain that I am not implicated in any way. My reputation as a gendarme and investigator is at stake and you three seem to think that you can just brush that aside behind a wall of silence.” Hands on his hips he towered over them. “I’m calling this in, I expect it will be Magistrate Pelletier who is assigned to this enquiry and I expect the three of you to be absolutely open and honest with him as you seem to be incapable of being truthful with me.”

  Leaving his notebook on the table, he marched out of the bar, phone in his hand, and dialled.

  “The body has been removed and I’ve left the crime scene officers to do their job. It looks as though he was in the ground for some time.” Pelletier followed Jacques through to the kitchen of Beth’s chalet.

  “Any evidence of cause of death?” Jacques spooned coffee into the pot and set it on the hob.

  “Gunshot wound to the side of the face. Identification may be a little difficult.” Pelletier took the stool indicated and sat down.

  “Murder, then. A contract killing, do you think? The Devereux clan from Marseille still have connections in Mende and St-Etienne.”