Free Death on the Marais by Adrian Magson Page A

monument. There was no sign of John Cooke, and all traces of the body and the crime scene markers had been cleared away.
    He wasn’t expecting to discover anything new, but he sometimes found that going back to the scene once all the evidence had been cleared away opened up new lines of thought and insight. But not this time. If there was something there, he wasn’t seeing it.
    He walked up through the cemetery to where it abutted the wood, and hopped over the wall. Stepping cautiously into the trees, he negotiated a straggly wire fence half-buried in the undergrowth, recalling what Claude had said about the deadly contents of this place. He felt a shiver run up his legs at what might be lying in wait beneath his feet, and stoodfor a moment, absorbing the atmosphere, tuning in to the scenery around him. The breeze was lighter than yesterday, but there was still the rustling in the leaves, like whispering gossips, their words sibilant and foreign.
    No images today, though; no clamminess.
    He breathed easily and studied the ground. He was standing roughly where he had seen Didier Marthe yesterday. Over to his right, a patch of nettles lay crushed and bent. Further on, a section of ground cover had been disturbed, in clear contrast to the area immediately around it. Marthe had walked across here, trying to stay on open ground, where his traces would be less likely to show. No doubt the poacher he had once been … or maybe was still.
    Rocco followed the trail, stepping carefully in Marthe’s footsteps, not deviating from the route by a centimetre. Although much heavier than the scrap man, he figured he was reducing his odds of setting off anything if he trod the same path.
    At the edge of the wood, he found a large patch of what he thought looked like bluebell leaves, bent and broken, long past their prime. Nearby, on some disturbed soil, was a faint zigzag pattern too regular to be made by nature, and a thin line of flattened plants leading away towards the track.
    Bicycle tyres.
    He followed the marks out onto the track and walked down past the cemetery. There, the signs ran out.
    * * *
    By midday he was in Amiens, working his way through various levels of administration at the station, showing his credentials and transfer papers and trying to commit to memory the names of those he met. Most of the officers and civilian staff were cordial, with a few wary greetings, mostly among the other detectives manning their desks. He guessed that they had heard about him from Canet, who was out on a job, and were suspicious about his presence, a spy come to haunt them and report on their work. The air around them was a thick fug of cigarette smoke, reminding him of the office in Paris, except that the atmosphere here was quieter, less frenetic, less an air of tension and more of passive duty.
    He saw Perronnet in the first-floor corridor. The senior officer nodded cordially but made no comment, merely indicating a door further along. Rocco took the hint and went to the door. Knocked and entered.
    Massin was seated behind a large desk perusing the contents of a buff folder. The office was sparsely furnished: no certificates on the walls, no cups or medals, no testimonials or glitter from a successful career. Rocco gave him the benefit of the doubt: maybe he hadn’t had time to put them up yet. Still busy getting his feet under the desk and arse-kicking, as Canet had called it.
    ‘Can I help you?’ Massin stopped reading and stared at him. ‘You have any developments in your investigation?’
    Developments, thought Rocco irritably. We’ve barely begun, he wanted to say, but settled for a vague,‘Nothing yet. I’m checking in, that’s all. Keeping the paper shufflers happy. And I want to see what the pathologist says about the body.’
    ‘Pathologist?’ Light glinted on Massin’s glasses. ‘This office doesn’t have that luxury. Not yet, anyway. I plan to change that.’ He nodded sideways. ‘The department, as such, is next