‘Lucas Rocco,’ murmured Claude, stretching out the words and pronouncing Lucas the American way, with the ‘s’. ‘You’re not from these parts, are you?’
‘I’m relieved you can tell.’ Rocco wondered how long the dissection would go on for. Probably days, given the fact that so little else seemed to happen here.
‘Easy. You don’t look shifty enough.’
‘What have people here got to be shifty about?’
‘Everything. Nothing. Living and dying, mostly.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘You’ll be looking for somewhere to doss down, I suppose?’
Rocco decided he might get to like this man — if he didn’t have to arrest him for something first.
‘I might. Are you the local psychic, or a letting agent?’
‘If I was either, I’d die of boredom. You’ve seen the cafe?’
‘I have. Not my thing.’ His recommended billet above the bar-tabac, where he’d just stopped to check out the facilities, was too public, and the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke too invasive, for his tastes; he’d lodged in too many similar fleapits over the years to look on them with affection. It was at best a stopgap until he found something better; somewhere he could call his own space while he considered what the hell he was supposed to be doing out here.
‘Go see Mme Denis, down Rue Danvillers.’ Claude tilted his head towards a lane running off at an angle from the village square. ‘Last but one on the left. She has the keys to an empty house down there. Plenty of room to park the cop machine, too.’ He grinned knowingly. ‘In your line of work, you’ll feel right at home.’
‘Why?’
‘A man was murdered there years ago.’
CHAPTER TWO
Rocco? Arrogant and disrespectful.