Текст книги "Death on the Rive Nord"

Автор книги: Adrian Magson

Соавторы: Adrian Magson
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Rocco drove home to Poissons, thinking about this new development. Shootings like the one he’d just seen were rare among the middle classes. Occasional crimes of passion led to violence or even death, but never the death of both husband and wife. And somehow he had a feeling that the Farek thing was a separate issue. Close, perhaps, with Nicole having bought a car from the murdered men, but not connected.

No, somewhere along the road of his life, and Debussy the lawyer had implied volumes without putting anything into words, Michel Gondrand had cheated and lied and stolen … and someone had finally hit back.

But who?

Rocco stopped at the village co-op to collect a few groceries and a box of clean laundry. The new owner, Mme Drolet, turned as the bell sounded above the door. She fluttered her eyelashes at him and patted her hair, which was coiled and glistening like spun sugar.

‘Good thing you didn’t want any cakes, Inspector,’ she said, as if he was in the habit of eating a bucketful every day. ‘I just sold the last three.’ She smiled meaningfully, lifting one carefully drawn eyebrow. Rocco thought he recognised it as the look of a woman seeking to share in a secret without actually asking. But whatever it might have been was totally lost on him. He grunted and paid the bill. Maybe she was being flirtatious. Or maybe it was her way of trying to forge friendships among a clientele still suspicious after the previous owner, a young woman, had been imprisoned for murder, and the attempted murder of a local man – a scavenger of wartime ammunition and an exposed Resistance traitor. It was Rocco who’d been responsible for her arrest and the tracking down of the traitorous Marthe, so he knew a thing or two about being an outsider. The inhabitants of Poissons still hadn’t made up their minds about having a cop – a cop from Paris of all places – living in their midst, and apart from a few outward-looking souls, he was still treated with the caution of someone who might be carrying a nasty disease.

When he arrived home, he killed the engine and sat there for a few moments, enjoying the quiet. It was a welcome change after the day’s events, and he marvelled at how he had grown to relish life here out of the bustling city which he’d once thought was his life.

He got out of the car and picked up the laundry and box of provisions, and walked to the front door, juggling the packages to get his key.

The door was already open.

***

Rocco stepped to one side, dropping the bag of laundry and placing his provisions on the ground. He took out his MAB 38 and checked the safety.

The door shouldn’t be open. Mme Denis was the only person with a spare key, but she would never go inside without his permission. When she left eggs or vegetables, it was always on the front doorstep.

He listened for sounds of movement, but could hear nothing. He checked over his shoulder towards the lane. He would have noticed any strange cars parked out there, but it was possible anyone showing an undue interest in his home could have circumnavigated the village and approached over the fields.

He moved along the side of the house, stepping carefully on the soft ground rather than the stony path. An inviting front door was too easy a trap to walk into.

As he reached the rear corner of the house and peered round, he heard a click and a dark figure stepped out of the french windows into the back garden.

Rocco stepped wide of the corner, feet apart and holding his pistol in a two-handed grip. His heart was thumping and he automatically glanced to one side as another figure appeared, this time from behind a cherry tree in the middle of the lawn. This figure was very small.

A child?

‘What the hell—?’

The figure behind the house swung round with a shout of alarm, and the child called out and ran across the lawn, crying, ‘Maman!’

With a supreme effort of will, Rocco relaxed his finger on the trigger and lowered his arm, recognition flooding in as he saw Nicole’s face turned towards him. She looked pale with shock, her mouth open as she reached out a protective arm towards her son.

‘It’s OK … it’s me,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s Lucas.’ He thrust the gun into his coat pocket, thanking the stars that he hadn’t decided to shoot first and worry about consequences later. But it didn’t lessen the anger in his voice when he said, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Nicole, stepping away towards the house. ‘I’m so sorry – I came to find you, and your neighbour let me in. She said you would not object.’ She gathered her son towards her and looked as if she were about to flee. Rocco realised that his reaction had frightened her. ‘No. Please … it’s OK, you can stay.’ He held up both hands. ‘You took me by surprise, that’s all.’ When she showed no signs of relaxing, he nodded towards the french window. ‘Let’s get inside. It’s too cold out here.’

He led them indoors, where the wood burner was pumping out heat and a pleasant smell of something spicy was filling the air. It was the most comfortable atmosphere he’d experienced since coming here.

‘You’ve been busy,’ he said. Plates had been set out on the table, with glasses of water and hunks of crusty bread. ‘I hope you don’t mind. It was the least I could do. I had to see you … and I couldn’t stay in Amiens.’ She made sure Massi wasn’t in earshot and added sombrely, ‘Farek is coming. Sooner or later he will find me.’

‘I know.’ Rocco looked around, wondering how to discuss the subject without alarming the boy. They were, after all, discussing his father. He noticed a neat cardboard box on the table tied with coloured string.

Nicole saw him looking and blushed. ‘Oh, that was a small gift for descending on you like this.’ She tugged the string and the box opened to reveal three fruit tartelettes nestling inside. ‘And I bought some chicken, too. Your village shop is marvellous.’ She nodded towards a casserole bubbling on the wood burner. ‘Your lovely neighbour let us in and gave me some vegetables. She seemed suspicious at first but I think she only has your welfare in mind.’

‘I think you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘And I appreciate your efforts. I’ve got some wine to go with that somewhere.’ He looked at Massi, who was eyeing the cakes with big, round eyes. ‘Maybe we can talk afterwards.’

‘Yes, of course. Would you like to eat now? I’m sure we’re all hungry.’

Rocco found a bottle of vin de pays and poured two glasses. They ate in awkward silence, Rocco acutely aware that the place was a bachelor’s mess and wondering where this was leading. He was also conscious that sitting here enjoying an excellent casserole and a glass of wine with an attractive woman was in danger of being overshadowed by events gathering like a dark cloud in the corner of the room. Samir Farek would not stop until he had found his wife, and it was only a matter of time before he picked up her trail. Criminals, even more than the police, were adept at building networks of informers and contacts. Sooner or later, one of them would come forward with the information the Algerian gang boss was looking for.

He wondered how Caspar was doing and thought it a bad sign that he hadn’t yet heard from the former undercover cop. Maybe he’d asked too much of him.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Caspar was thinking the same thing and asking himself how he’d come to this point. More crucially, he was wondering how he was going to get out of the deepest shithole he’d ever stumbled into. It had been several hours since Farek and his men had left, and in all that time he’d heard nothing other than the distant sounds of traffic and kids playing. He’d tried getting free of his bonds, but without success. Whoever had tied him up knew what they were doing and had made the knots tight. Now the kids had gone and the traffic had decreased, and the bead of light through the shutter was fading with the approaching night. It was surely only a matter of time before the men returned and his worries would all be at an end.

He shook his head, which was a mistake. The pain since Youcef had knocked him out of the chair had been a constant, throbbing reminder of his plight, relieved only by his falling asleep with exhaustion after trying to work his way free. Now it was back with a vengeance. A remote part of his brain questioned vaguely if the police academy would be interested in running a course on escape techniques from rooms in deserted houses. The psychology experts he’d been encouraged to see recently would have a field day explaining the mental ramifications of that one.

He wondered what had caused Farek and his crew to decamp so quickly. At first he’d thought it might be a police raid, come to rescue him. But that was stupid; he was no longer answerable to anyone, so how could they know what he was doing? If they did, how would they even begin to look for one man in one of Europe’s busiest capitals?

He felt a stab of pain in his left gut and leant sideways in an attempt to ease it, the chair creaking loudly. He took a deep breath and hissed as the pain was repeated. Something must have got busted when he fell over. A rib, probably. Wrong angle, body twisting, normally strong bone giving way under intense pressure. He hadn’t noticed it before, with the headache pounding inside him, but now it was adding to his discomfort.

The chair creaked again as he sat back up. Fucking thing; the noise was going through his head like a badly tuned violin. How could wood make that kind of racket, high-pitched and relentless?

Then he laughed. In spite of the pain that brought, the action made him almost happy. Fuck, he really was way past his best, just like they’d said. Maybe it was time he retired, took up knitting or gardening, something which didn’t call for too much active brainpower.

He eased his bottom from side to side, his naked skin numb with cold. The movement set up a frantic squealing in the chair beneath him. Jesus and Mary, he’d been sitting here for hours now on a crappy piece of furniture that was literally falling apart, and he hadn’t even noticed!

He started rocking back and forth, tears running down his face. Then he changed direction, going left to right. Stop. Careful. Not too far left. If you’ve got a broken rib and land on it again, it’ll get worse and puncture something. Like your heart, you arse. He went right a bit, then forward and back, working on the joints in the chair, teasing them as hard as he dared, each move more forceful than the last. It was a normal wooden chair with three slats down the back and spindles running between each leg. Probably held together by cheap donkey glue that had dried out thirty years ago. How strong could it be, for Christ’s sake?

A noise intruded on the creaking. He stopped. A car engine somewhere close by. A door slammed, metallic and heavy. A big engine. Too powerful-sounding to be coincidental, too big to be a neighbourhood runaround.

Farek was back.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Caspar threw himself with desperation back into his rocking motion, jamming his body as hard as he could down against each joint of the chair, trying to force them apart almost by willpower. He heard voices, then a door opening and slamming back, the impact echoing through the house like a gunshot. He estimated that he was at the rear of the building, and had probably thirty seconds of useful life remaining before the men reached him. After that, all bets were off and he’d find out at first hand what Bouhassa’s reputation was built on.

With a supreme effort which made the veins of his forehead stand out, he heaved against his bonds and threw himself backwards, tipping the chair until it reached the point of no return. He crashed to the floor, the shock sending shooting pains through his shoulders, neck and head, making him want to throw up. But there wasn’t time. He shook himself, feeling something grinding painfully into his back. Then he rolled sideways, expecting the familiar restraint of his ropes … and continued rolling as the chair fell apart noisily beneath him.

He heard a shout, and heavy footsteps on bare boards. A man’s voice asking where they had left him, and another, indistinct, saying something about the back room. Doors slammed as they checked the other rooms first.

Caspar felt a surge of hope. If the men didn’t know where he was tied up, it couldn’t be Bouhassa or the mental giant. That meant ordinary gang members, sent here with a simple job to do. He twisted desperately, ignoring the pain in his side and flailing at the coils of rope which had now loosened around him but clung like strands of sticky weed. He eventually scrabbled free and hurled the rope away. It landed in one corner, loud on the bare floorboards. Too loud.

A man’s voice queried the noise. He was too close for comfort.

Now Caspar was acting purely on instinct. He bent and grabbed a loose spindle. It had split away from the joint, leaving a sharpened end, a spear of aged and hardened wood. He looked around, assessing his options. There was no other way out of the room except for the door, not now the men were here. A few minutes earlier and he’d have gone for the shuttered window, but that would take too long. He turned to the door.

It slammed back just as he reached it.

A heavyset man stood in the opening. He had a boxer’s broken nose and wore a cheap suit and thick-soled shoes. Built like a brick blockhouse, he held a knife in his hand and had a grin on his face as if he was about to have some fun.

‘Hey – Dede! Come look,’ he yelled. ‘We got a rat in a trap.’

Caspar didn’t have time for niceties. He drove the sharpened spindle into the man’s face, then snapped it down, knocking the knife out of his hand. The boxer screamed and clutched his eyes, blood flowing through his fingers. He staggered back and flailed his other arm, trying to grab hold of Caspar as he barged past.

Caspar turned instinctively to his right and kept moving. He was in a dank hallway with a haze of light at the end. Bare boards, no furniture, no carpet. Street lights throwing an unhealthy glow through the open front door. Enough to show three steps up to another level and then he’d be out in the open and away.

Then another figure stepped out of a doorway along the hall. He was pointing a gun at Caspar and grinning.

Caspar turned and ran. Forward was a no-go; that left back … but away from the room. If there was a front hallway, there must be one to allow access to the rear.

He heard a loud bang and something plucked at his jacket, throwing him off balance against the wall. He staggered and regained his footing, feeling light-headed but still capable of movement. A good sign. Saw a door ahead of him, top half frosted glass, bottom half wood panelling, distant light showing through the glass. A hand reached out from the room he’d just left as the boxer tried to stop him, his breath gusting in anger and pain, the smell of cheap cologne very close. The huge fingers fastened around the shoulder of Caspar’s jacket and his momentum dragged the man from the room. But he was already slowing, the boxer’s bulk too heavy to pull against.

There was another bang, louder this time and closer. The boxer coughed once, his hand sliding off Caspar’s shoulder.

Jesus – he’d been shot by his own man!

It was all the opportunity Caspar was going to get or need. He tore loose and ran straight down the hallway and crashed through the door, eyes tight shut and hands in front of his face, showering himself with bits of rotten wood and broken glass. He felt a stab of cold where his cheek was sliced through by a sliver of glass, but he ignored it. There was too much to lose now by stopping.

He was in an enclosed space smelling of damp and cats. Dark shapes showed up vaguely in the ambient light, a devil’s scrapyard containing an old bicycle, wooden boxes, bits of furniture, an ancient hip bath. The crap of a lifetime abandoned to the elements. He continued running for the end of the space like a forward going for a try. Every house like this had a small gate opening onto a cut-through at the back. It was standard layout in streets like this. Another shot followed him but went wide, spitting chunks of brick from the wall on his right.

Someone shouted.

By the time he reached a street with traffic, he was losing blood and coughing painfully. Then he saw a cop car cruising towards him. It was the best sight he could have wished for, and he staggered out into the middle of the road, only then remembering that he was half naked.

But free.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Rocco and Nicole talked long after the meal was over and Massi had been put to sleep in Rocco’s bedroom overlooking the rear garden. It was late for coffee but Rocco needed the boost of caffeine, so he put water on to boil and filled the percolator while Nicole checked on her son.

When she came back, she sat at the table watching him. She looked tired and he told her she should get some sleep.

‘I will,’ she said. ‘Soon enough.’ She nodded at the door to the attic. ‘What’s up there?’

‘Only the rats.’

‘Rats?’ She looked alarmed. ‘How horrible!’

‘Fruit rats.’

‘Ah. Les fouines. I’ve heard of them. Are they dangerous?’

‘Only if you get between them and their next piece of fruit.’

‘You’ve never cleared them out?’

‘Why should I? They were here before me. I’ve got used to them, anyway. They don’t argue back.’

She giggled and watched as he poured coffee and added a measure of cognac from a bottle he’d taken from a cupboard.

‘For medicinal purposes,’ he explained. ‘It’ll help you relax.’

She didn’t argue, but sipped the coffee and nodded approvingly. ‘My grandmother always drank brandy when she was feeling unwell. She said it never failed.’ She glanced around the room and picked up a heavy Pernod ashtray from a sideboard. ‘Please, smoke if you wish. I don’t mind.’ She placed it before him.

‘I don’t, much. But thanks.’

‘Really? I thought all policemen smoked incessantly.’

He shrugged. ‘I have one occasionally.’

She glanced at the brandy bottle. ‘You drink, instead?’

‘Every now and then; a good Brouilly or a whisky, maybe. To be honest, it doesn’t do that much for me.’

She looked at him over the rim of her cup. ‘So what does do that much for you?’ Then she blushed furiously and put her cup down in confusion. ‘I’m sorry – that was … rude.’

‘No need to apologise,’ he replied, and wondered why he felt so tongue-tied. ‘I seem to spend most of my time working, and I only drink when I’m really stressed and can fall over safely. Does that make me boring?’

She shook her head, eyes unblinking and deep. She said softly, ‘No. Not at all.’

‘How did you know to come here?’ Rocco felt a rush of heat to his face and wished he hadn’t asked such a dumb question. They had been this close all evening, but now, with just the two of them, the space seemed to have shrunk dramatically and he was acutely aware of her perfume.

She gave a shiver as if uncomfortable at being dragged back to reality. ‘I asked at the shop. I told the woman I needed a policeman and had heard there was one in the village. At first she told me about the garde champêtre but I said I needed the inspector. She sent me straight down here.’ She paused before adding, ‘I made sure there was no … family, before I came.’

Rocco nodded. A wife might have complicated matters, an attractive young woman and a child turning up out of the blue like that. It explained the bizarre attitude of Mme Drolet at the co-op earlier. Jesus, were they all in league and trying to marry him off?

‘Your neighbour was very sweet. She was a bit unsure at first, but with Massi in the car, she knew I wasn’t here to harm you. It must be nice to have people looking after you in this way.’

They stared at each other, both blinking at a skittering sound overhead. And suddenly, the moment, if there had been one, was gone.

‘Where is your car?’ He hadn’t seen the Peugeot outside; he’d have remembered it too easily.

‘In the first shed. It was just big enough. I thought … maybe it would be less embarrassing for you if I was discreet.’

The shed. One of two he never used. ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘So what made you come?’

She explained about the gossip she’d picked up, how the gangster known among the Algerian community as ‘Farek’ was on his way and looking for his runaway wife and child. How word would have gone out to look for a woman and boy travelling alone.

‘Someone will have already spoken, I’m certain,’ she explained. ‘Maybe even one of the men I travelled with. I couldn’t take the chance of staying with Amina and putting her in danger.’ She shrugged, turning her cup slowly on the tabletop. ‘Actually, I didn’t know where else to go. When we met up on the hill, you made this place sound so remote, so … safe.’

Rocco reached for the phone and dialled Claude’s number. Poissons might be safe normally, but he wasn’t betting on it remaining so for long. He’d known other fugitives who had tried hiding in remote locations, only to have a face appear like a long-forgotten bad memory and bring the past hurtling back at them.

‘It’s Lucas,’ he said when Claude answered. ‘I need your help.’

‘Of course. I’ll come now.’ Just like that. No questions, no arguments.

‘The local garde, Claude Lamotte,’ Rocco explained to Nicole. ‘He’s a good man. If a strange duck flies over the village, he’ll know immediately.’

They waited until the familiar clatter of a 2CV stopped outside, followed by the tinny slamming of a door. Rocco let him in.

‘Evening.’ Claude nodded at Nicole and shook hands. He seemed unsurprised to see her here and Rocco guessed that word had already got out. Rocco the resident cop has a female visitor. Watch this space.

‘Nicole Farek,’ said Rocco, ‘Claude Lamotte.’

‘Farek? Ah, of course.’ Claude demonstrating that he was a man of the world and knew what was what. He looked longingly at the percolator, so Rocco poured him a cup, adding a generous measure of cognac. Then he explained about Samir Farek’s journey from Oran and the likelihood that the gang leader would pitch up in the area before very long.

‘You really think he will find this place?’ Claude looked doubtful. ‘How?’

‘Because he has a network of people looking,’ said Nicole. ‘It is Samir’s way: he frightens simple people into doing what he says and they dare not disobey. Eventually, someone in the Algerian community will talk … about me, about Massi – about anyone they think is unusual. There are not too many single women with a small boy arriving in this area. I should have thought more carefully before coming here. I’m sorry.’

‘Forget it,’ said Rocco. ‘You didn’t have many options.’ He glanced at Claude and said, ‘Can you keep an eye out for unknown vehicles in the area? We might not get much warning of their arrival. It could mean long hours.’

Claude grinned. ‘Suits me. Anything’s better than housework.’ He finished his coffee and explained, ‘My daughter’s coming home for a visit. Well, one of them, anyway. She was married the last I heard, but,’ he puffed out his lips, ‘now she is not. So, I am making the house into a home again … or trying, anyway.’ He shrugged casually but Rocco sensed an undercurrent of excitement beneath the show of detachment. Claude, a widower, rarely spoke about his daughters, who had both left home to make their own lives.

Claude nodded at them both. ‘I’d better be going.’ Then made his way out.

The hum of a vehicle engine dragged Rocco out of a light sleep. He was in the back of the Citroën on the drive, wrapped in a blanket. After the warmth of the house and meal, it was like ducking under a cold shower. But there was too much to lose by assuming Farek wouldn’t come. If he didn’t turn up tonight he would do so tomorrow or the night after that.

He slid low in the seat as the side-wash of headlights brushed across the house, the sheds and the interior of the car, chasing shadows into the darkness. They were approaching from the square by the co-op. He peered at his watch. Two o’clock. Beyond his house lay nothing but fields for several kilometres until you hit the village of Danvillers. Who the hell drove from Poissons to Danvillers at this time of night?

He slid the MAB 38 from his pocket and waited for the car to slow. It was travelling at a measured pace, but that didn’t mean it was Farek. The engine sounded powerful. It drifted by without stopping, tyres crunching on soil washed off the slope across the road by the last rain. Rocco lifted his head and caught a glimpse of two men against the reflected aura of the headlights. Neither looked towards the house.

He ducked out of the car and quietly shut the door, then crouched down, waiting. If they had dropped a man further down the lane, he wouldn’t be long in coming for a closer look.

Fifteen minutes later he was still waiting and feeling foolish.

He stood up, bones protesting, and returned to the house, where Nicole was waiting at the kitchen table. She was barefoot and seemed unperturbed by the chill settling on the room now the fire had died down. Her coat was wrapped tightly around her, but he couldn’t help but imagine that she wore very little underneath.

It was an unsettling thought. He went up to the attic to join the fruit rats, closing the door firmly behind him.