Текст книги "Death on the Rive Nord"

Автор книги: Adrian Magson

Соавторы: Adrian Magson
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CHAPTER THIRTY

Back in Amiens the following morning, Rocco walked across the car park to the neighbouring building which housed the forensics department, and knocked on Dr Rizzotti’s door.

‘Ah, Inspector,’ the doctor greeted him. He reached into a drawer and produced a slip of card inside a plastic envelope. ‘I checked the clothing of that poor unfortunate you brought in from the canal.’ He dropped the envelope on the desk and angled his desk light so that Rocco could see the contents. ‘Not much, as you can see, but interesting. It looks like a map.’

Rocco studied it carefully. Rizzotti was right. It was a simple drawing done by what looked like ballpoint pen. The card was water damaged and stained, and the image slightly blurred. But it showed two parallel wavy lines, with a short line bisecting them at the right-hand end and an arrow pointing left. In between the wavy lines at the left-hand end was a drawing of what looked like a bullet with a cross alongside it.

‘Does it make any sense, Inspector?’

Rocco nodded. It made absolute sense. The drawing represented the canal and parapet, with directions for the carriers to follow, and the bullet shape was the barge where they were to stop. Simple graphics, no need for language. Clever.

‘Thanks, Doctor,’ he said. ‘You’d better keep that in the evidence box. The dead man’s a North African illegal. That’s all I know at the moment.’

‘Very well.’ Rizzotti put the envelope and card in his work tray, then noticed Rocco hadn’t moved. ‘Is there something else?’

‘Yes. Apart from death, what would happen if a gun fitted with a silencer was pushed down a man’s throat and the trigger pulled?’

Rizzotti’s mouth dropped open. ‘Inspector, I think you are seriously in need of a holiday.’ He sat back, however, and considered the question, pursing his lips and humming faintly.

‘The short answer would be best,’ Rocco prompted him, worried that the medical man was about to launch into a lengthy exposition on the various parts of the human body, most of which would go completely over his head.

‘Ah. I see. Very well, then. I suppose if the silencer was, say, in the region of at least fifteen centimetres, extending that from the gun barrel – a pistol, I take it?’ Rocco nodded. ‘Well, that would certainly be enough to place the end of the silencer down near the larynx. The trachea, or windpipe as you might know it, is a tube. It leads to the vital organs in the chest cavity. Quite simply, any normal gunshot would not only vaporise all the soft tissue through burning and the ripple effect of the gases, but depending on the angle of the gun barrel, the bullet would pass through one or more of the most vital organs and out through the body – probably the back.’ He looked at Rocco and lifted his eyebrows. ‘I presume you don’t want me to list the organs affected? There are rather a lot.’

‘Thanks. No need. What if it wasn’t a normal gunshot?’ He explained about the low propellant charge and the doctored hollow point shell allegedly preferred by Bouhassa.

Rizzotti shifted in his seat. ‘My God – that’s … incredible. Well, let me see. You’d still get the same burning, although a lower degree of blast and ripple. As for the bullet …’ He shrugged. ‘If it breaks up to the degree you suggest, then there’s every chance that the fragments would stay inside the body.’

‘So the cause of death wouldn’t be immediately obvious.’

‘Probably not. But there would be extensive …’ he searched for a word, and looked slightly apologetic ‘… let’s call it a blowback of blood and tissue. Some would undoubtedly escape as a fine mist, even over the person making the kill. But yes, it’s possible that a cursory or hasty examination would miss the cause of death, especially if the exterior evidence was cleaned up.’ He frowned at the idea of a fellow professional making such an error. ‘I could do you a schematic, if you like.’

‘Thanks, Doctor. I’ll let you know if I need it.’ He thanked Rizzotti for taking the photographs of the dead man, then made his escape. Back in the main office, he rang Caspar, and was surprised when the former undercover cop answered immediately.

‘Sorry about last night,’ said Caspar. ‘I had stuff to do.’

‘Not a problem. I think Farek’s here and he’s heading north.’ He explained about the initial results from the examination of the two dead criminals.

There was a lengthy silence, with a pinging noise on the line. Then Caspar said, ‘That’s … not good. What do you need from me?’

‘Can you ask around your contacts among the immigrés? That’s where news will travel fastest. Find out if anyone’s seen him yet.’ It was a huge thing to ask but he was short of options. No longer on the force and not in the best frame of mind, from what Santer had said, Caspar wasn’t really geared up to get involved in this kind of thing anymore. But Rocco needed to know where the Algerian gang boss was, and this was the only man who could plug into the community network and reach that information.

To his surprise, Caspar agreed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But don’t raise your hopes – it could lead to nothing.’ In spite of this caveat, he sounded almost cheerful, and Rocco wondered if it signalled a kind of desperation to stay in the game. A man like Caspar, working and living two lives – often simultaneously – was the type to devote himself exclusively to his work. He must have found letting go almost impossible to bear.

‘I won’t. And thanks.’ He hoped he wasn’t going to regret this.

‘What I said before about Farek,’ Caspar added. ‘Watch your back. If he sets his sights on you for any reason at all, you’d better find a deep hole to climb into. Because he won’t let up.’

By noon Rocco was walking along the north side of the canal with Claude, heading away from the ruined barge where Nicole and the other illegals had been kept. With no definite leads to go on, and with his plans stalled while waiting for Massin to get clearance for a trawl of the factories in the area for illegal workers, he had decided to check for himself the ground where the men might have trodden. As he had learnt through long experience, leave no stone unturned when it came to checking detail.

‘Doesn’t look like anyone walked along here for a good while,’ said Claude after they had been walking for nearly thirty minutes. They had covered a couple of kilometres and were close to the point where the body had been dragged out of the water. So far all they had seen underfoot was debris from wind-damaged trees and heavy clumps of couch grass concealing what had once been a clear towpath. Claude stopped periodically to examine the ground, peeling aside the grass and lifting debris. But each time he stood up and shook his head.

Rocco stopped and looked around. They were well away from the road here, as they had been since crossing the parapet, and there had been nowhere to go back across – and wouldn’t be, according to Claude – until they reached the first lock. Penetrating the bordering belt of trees and scrub on the side of the canal would lead only to open farmland, with no access to any decent roads.

‘They couldn’t do it in daylight, in any case,’ he added. ‘They’d stand out like undertakers at a white wedding.’

Rocco agreed. From what Nicole had said the men weren’t in any great shape to go for a lengthy overland trek, and their choice of route after leaving the barge had been strictly limited. ‘It had to have been by water,’ he said, and stared into the canal. It looked glassy and still, and earlier that morning – as it would have been for days now – would have been a degree or two short of having an icy gloss on the surface, especially against the banks where the current was at its weakest. Wading across wouldn’t have been an option even in summer, let alone now and by men ill prepared for this kind of exposure.

He turned and led the way back to the barge, examining the bank on either side. It was Claude who spotted the first signs.

‘Looks like someone tied up here.’ He pointed down at the edge of the canal, where a clump of grass had been torn out of the bank and a heavy dent made in the waterlogged soil. ‘A boat nosed in hard.’

He was right. The impression in the bank was too big to have been made by a man.

Rocco stood and let the scenario play out through his mind. A boat, maybe a barge, but more likely something smaller and more manoeuvrable, had come along here and stopped at this point. It would have taken just a couple of minutes for the men to scramble off the old barge and on board their new transport. Then it would have been on its way back along the canal. He studied the impression carefully. It had been made by a boat coming from the direction of Amiens. Had it been from the Poissons direction, the dent would have been the other way round.

So simple. And helped by being done on an almost deserted stretch of water which hardly anybody used.

Claude dug his toe in the damaged bank. ‘This woman,’ he said conversationally. ‘You said she has a husband.’

Rocco decided it was time to tell Claude everything he knew about Nicole; he had certainly earned the right. ‘His name’s Samir Farek, a gangster from Oran. He kills people who displease him. She believes she’s next on his list.’ He explained about Nicole’s lack of a passport and her furtive exit from Algeria, pursued by a vengeful husband.

Claude puffed his cheeks. ‘Risky way to travel. She must be a tough lady.’

‘Yes. She is. Is there a record kept of who uses the canal?’

‘Not really. I mean, people who live close to it would notice who goes up and down on a regular basis. But there are plenty of boats which come through and nobody knows who they are.’

‘Does it split off anywhere?’

‘No. There are a couple of cut-offs for boats to stop for running repairs and short stays, but they don’t go further than a hundred metres. Other than that, it’s a straight run through Amiens and all the way to Abbeville.’

Amiens. Rocco recalled how the canal passed close by the Ecoboras factory. He was probably jumping to conclusions, but anyone wishing to gain easy access to the factory complex had only to jump off a boat and scramble up the bank. It would be easy enough to work their way round the fence and reach the other factories in the area, with nobody the wiser.

Unless by arrangement …

Rocco returned to the office to see whether Massin had received the go-ahead from the Interior Ministry to trawl the factories for illegals.

But the senior officer shook his head from behind a mass of paperwork. ‘As I said before,’ he murmured, ‘this whole business of Algerian workers is a delicate issue. Nobody wants to be the first to crack down on these people, not after what happened before.’ He dropped his eyes, shying away from another confrontation on the subject. ‘If handled badly, it would have repercussions across the entire country. And nobody, especially the Ministry, wants unrest in the car plants and manufacturing industries where a lot of these people are employed. It would be political suicide and socially divisive.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Have you done anything about the man Maurat? We can’t keep him here indefinitely … It’s not a hotel. I spoke to Saint-Quentin and explained that he was in our jurisdiction when he was apprehended. You’d better make sure Maurat understands that that is how it happened.’

Rocco nodded. Damn. He’d almost forgotten about the driver. Clearly Massin hadn’t. ‘I know. Thanks for the backup. Can we hold him a little longer? It’s for his own protection.’

‘Yes, but not for days. I suggest you speak to him. We don’t want him standing on his rights and making a fuss.’

Rocco nodded. He was about to leave when Massin’s phone rang. The senior officer listened in silence, then frowned and put the phone down with a delicate touch. When he looked up, it was with bleak eyes.

Christ, what now? Rocco felt a sense of dread. This wasn’t going to be good.

‘You’ll have to speak to Maurat a little sooner than you think. That was the Saint-Quentin police. Maurat’s mother returned to her house last night. She spoke briefly to a neighbour and said she was back to collect some things. This morning the door was wide open. The neighbour went inside to investigate.’

‘Go on.’

‘Mrs Maurat was still there. Somebody had snapped her neck.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Rocco went downstairs to break the news to Maurat. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d carried the death message more times than he cared to remember, and like most cops, had developed a skill of blurring the details, even when pressed. Most family members instinctively wanted to know the how and where, usually only later asking about the why. He’d never had to pass on the news of an old woman with a broken neck before, and wasn’t sure how to describe it without lacking in sensitivity.

The driver was lying on a bunk, reading a newspaper. He barely looked up when Rocco appeared, and seemed almost comfortable in his isolation.

‘You come to beat me senseless, have you?’ he murmured. ‘Let me finish this bit first.’

Rocco pulled up a chair and sat down, waving the custody officer away. ‘No. Nothing like that.’

Something in his voice made Maurat lower his paper. His eyes scanned Rocco’s face. ‘What, then?’

Rocco told him what had happened without embellishment. It didn’t take long. For a long few seconds, Maurat said nothing; made no sign that he understood. Then he threw the paper to one side and swung his legs off the bunk. He stood and walked across to the table, took the other chair and sat down with a sigh.

‘She had cancer,’ he explained after a while, his voice dull. He fluttered a hand towards his stomach. ‘Something to do with the gut. She didn’t have long, according to the doctors, but she wouldn’t admit it. Carried on as if she was still young and healthy. Probably the best thing.’ He looked at Rocco with sad eyes and said softly, ‘How did she go?’

‘It was instantaneous, according to the local cops,’ said Rocco. ‘That’s all I can tell you. She wouldn’t have known anything.’

Maurat didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. ‘Thanks for telling me.’ His eyes watered momentarily, then he said, ‘This is down to me, isn’t it? If I’d never got into this mess, she’d likely still be alive. Salauds!’ He punched the table with a clenched fist, his anger aimed at whoever had killed his mother but plainly blaming himself.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rocco and meant it. ‘We’ll send you home with an escort to make the arrangements once the local cops have finished with their examination.’

‘Fine. Anything.’ Maurat sighed raggedly and appeared to come to a decision. ‘You got a form for me to fill out?’

‘Form?’ Rocco was puzzled.

‘A statement. I’ll make a full statement. Everything I know. Dates, people, descriptions – I don’t care. Let the bastards swing.’

‘Any names?’

Maurat chewed his lip, a sudden glint in his eyes. ‘I might have. But I need something in return.’

Rocco nodded. Maurat wasn’t so upset by his mother’s death that he’d forgotten the art of negotiation. But it was a breakthrough of sorts. It might lead nowhere but in the white heat of anger and loss, some details might emerge which would have otherwise remained hidden.

‘I’ll arrange it.’ He pushed back from the table. ‘Can I get you anything?’

A shake of the head. ‘No.’

When he returned upstairs, he found a uniformed officer waiting for him. A swarthy individual was slumped in a chair in the corridor, looking dejected and frightened.

‘Inspector Rocco?’ The officer gestured at the man and said, ‘Detective Desmoulins said you might be interested in this one. I found him in the town centre, begging for food. He hasn’t got any papers.’

Rocco nodded and led the way into a plain interview room with a wooden table. The man looked North African. There was a slim chance that he might have travelled with Nicole and the others, a chance he couldn’t ignore. ‘Does he speak French?’

‘He pretends not to, but I’m not so sure. I asked him where he comes from but he either couldn’t or wouldn’t say.’

The man sat down on a hard chair with the officer standing behind him, and stared up at Rocco with fearful eyes. He was in his fifties, Rocco judged, wiry and of medium height, badly in need of a shave and dressed in a worn jacket and baggy trousers. He had on a pair of scuffed shoes at least two sizes too big and no socks. He muttered something in a guttural tongue and licked his lips.

‘I don’t understand,’ Rocco told him softly. ‘Do you speak French?’ He sat down on the other side of the table, reducing his height and any sense of threat. ‘Where are you from?’

The man blinked but said nothing.

‘Algeria? Morocco? Tunisia? Where?’

No answer and no reaction.

Rocco looked at the officer. ‘Do we have anyone here with North African languages?’

‘Only a janitor, but he hasn’t been cleared. We tried to recruit a translator, I think, but nobody came forward.’

‘OK.’ He turned and gestured to the man to stay where he was, then said to the officer, ‘Get him a soft drink, will you? I’ll be back in a minute.’ He stood up and went along the corridor to a phone, where he dug out the number Nicole had given him. It rang several times before being picked up.

‘Amina?’

‘Yes. Who is this?’ The voice was soft, like silk, but wary. Nervous.

‘My name is Rocco. I need to speak to Nicole.’

‘Wait, please.’ A clunk as the telephone was put down, then footsteps fading. After a few moments, Nicole came on. She sounded breathless.

‘Sorry – I was in the yard with Massi.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘You’ve heard something.’

‘No, it’s not about that.’ He told her about the man found wandering the streets. ‘I’m trying to pin down where the men who were with you went to. This man might know something, but he doesn’t speak French.’

She caught on fast. ‘Of course … you want me to talk to him for you?’

‘Yes, please. Give me a moment.’ He went back to the interview room and beckoned for the officer to bring his charge, who was sipping at a small bottle of Pschitt lemonade. He handed the phone to the man and said out loud, ‘He’s on. Can you ask him his name and where he comes from?’

He waited, hearing a burst of short questions from Nicole on the other end. At first the man didn’t respond, merely staring at the wall with a blank expression. Then he said one word.

Rocco took the phone from him. ‘What did he say?’

‘He’s from Algiers. At first he wouldn’t answer, until I tried a dialect. Then he told me. Algiers. It’s a big place.’

Rocco thought about it. If Nicole could get the man talking, they might find out a lot more about how he had arrived here. This method of questioning wasn’t ideal, but he couldn’t expose Nicole to the risk of coming in to the police station to act as interpreter. If Farek or his people were in the area, every second she spent on the street would be dangerous.

‘If I tell you what to ask him, could you translate for me?’ He caught his reflection in the glass door panel and realised he was smiling. It was the sound of her voice. He stopped before the officer noticed. Becoming interested in an illegal was bad enough; an illegal who was married to a dangerous gangster would be suicidal on more than one front.

‘Lucas?’ Her voice prompted him. ‘What shall I ask?’

He ran through some basic questions, then handed the phone to the man.

A few minutes later the man handed it back. He had chattered readily enough, but it was impossible for Rocco to judge if he had been telling the truth or not.

‘His name,’ said Nicole, ‘is Farid Demai. He is from a small place near Algiers, he is married with three sons, and came here to get work. He does not have papers because he was arrested by the French army in a security sweep for FLN gunmen in his village three years ago. He was not part of the FLN and was released without charge, but he was refused permission to travel. He arrived by a similar route to me … by truck and then to the old boat on the canal. I asked him how he got to the town and he said he was brought here one night on a smaller boat with a cabin and dropped off near a factory building. Men were waiting who took him and his fellow travellers to a place where they were stripped of everything they had and given fresh clothes.’

‘Did he say why he was wandering in the town?’

Nicole’s voice became sombre. ‘He said they were badly treated and one of the men disappeared. He thinks he was killed for refusing to work. After that he was too frightened to stay so he ran away. He has not eaten for two days.’

Rocco thought it through. Demai could be just the man he wanted – as long as he was willing to talk. But to get him to do that he’d have to promise him something in return. And there was only one thing an illegal immigrant wanted more than anything else in the world.

‘Can you wait by the telephone? I’ll call you back.’

‘Of course.’

He hurried upstairs to Massin’s office and knocked on the door. He explained about the man Demai. Then he made his proposal.

Massin looked as if he’d been stung by a bee. ‘I cannot promise that – and neither can you. It would be illegal and highly improper.’

‘But not impossible,’ countered Rocco. ‘If it gets us to the people using the illegals, we can close down this end of the operation with a minimum of fuss. No accusation of jackboot policing, no CRS, no trouble on the streets. The locals would get the jobs if the factories wanted to stay in business, and we’d clear up the use of illegal work gangs. All it would cost is a recommendation of permission to stay for one man.’ One man and his extended family maybe, he should have added. But he didn’t want to cloud the issue any more than it was.

Massin thought it over, staring out of the window. Eventually, he nodded. ‘Let me think about it. If we can keep this as quiet as possible, then it could be to everyone’s advantage.’

Rocco went back downstairs and rang Nicole with the news. ‘Tell Mr Demai that if he helps us out, we will recommend that he be allowed to stay. We can’t promise anything but it’s all we can offer at the moment. And thank you for your help, by the way. You did well to remember everything he said.’

‘It is my pleasure. I have always been able to remember everything I hear.’

She spoke to Demai, who turned and looked at Rocco with an expression of disbelief. And a glimmer of hope. ‘I know,’ said Rocco, although the man didn’t understand him. Maybe the relaxed tone would work. ‘Cops aren’t supposed to do this kind of thing.’

Demai almost smiled, then nodded and spoke briefly to Nicole again, before handing the phone back to Rocco.

‘He asks what do you want him to do?’