Текст книги "Death on the Rive Nord"

Автор книги: Adrian Magson

Соавторы: Adrian Magson
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CHAPTER FIFTY

You’re a popular guy,’ said the gunman, listening as the phone rang for the second time. He smirked at the two men now sitting where he’d ordered them on the floor by the bed. Their guns were across the other side of the room out of reach. He looked at Mme Denis, who was still sitting up on the bed glaring at him. ‘You. Old lady. Go bring me the telephone. And don’t say you can’t; I know it will stretch all the way in here.’

He made no attempt to help as Mme Denis eased herself with difficulty off the bed, wincing with pain. Still holding the mug of tisane, she shuffled slowly past him, favouring one hip and hissing something uncomplimentary in what Rocco was sure might be old Breton. The man sneered and moved aside just enough to keep her in his line of sight, but with one eye on the two policemen.

Rocco tensed himself ready to move, but the gunman was too careful. He looked like a professional, accustomed to what he was doing. And French, Rocco surmised, by his colouring and accent, drafted in for the job.

The gunman grinned maliciously at Rocco as Mme Denis reappeared in the doorway, holding the telephone.

‘You tangled with the wrong man, Rocco,’ he said. ‘Getting cosy with Farek’s wife was the worst thing you could have done. He’ll be here within thirty minutes, I guarantee. He’s going to have fun with you and your friends; him and his pet gorilla, Bouhassa.’ He looked at Mme Denis and gestured for her to pass him the telephone.

She thrust it at him. But before his fingers could take hold, she dropped it on his foot and hurled the cup of hot tisane in his face.

The man howled with pain and swung his gun wildly, trying to hit her and intimidate the two men into keeping still. But Mme Denis had moved quickly to one side, leaving the way clear for Rocco and Claude to do something.

Rocco was already moving. He didn’t waste time standing up, but rolled frantically across the room, pushing Claude away to add to his own momentum and to prevent the gunman having a sitting target. As soon as his fingers closed around the butt of his MAB 38, he rolled onto his back and aimed instinctively at the doorway, triggering two shots in quick succession. The bullets slammed into the gunman, throwing him back through the opening into the kitchen.

In the deathly silence that followed, as Rocco and Claude got to their feet, Mme Denis looked sombrely at the mug on the floor, now broken in several pieces.

‘I hope you’re not going to ask me to pay for that,’ she said.

***

By the time Rocco returned to Amiens, leaving a team to clear away the body of the gunman, it was close to noon. Massin had already launched a sweep for Farek and his men and sent urgent bulletins to neighbouring forces and the Interior Ministry, alerting them to the sequence of events. Rocco had been reluctant to leave Mme Denis, but she had shooed him away, showing remarkable tenacity in spite of her experiences. The last he had seen of her, she had Claude shadowing her every move and was getting ready to tell her story to her cronies in Poissons.

Massin met Rocco in the corridor outside the main office, where search teams were being directed by Captain Canet to go through the town visiting the known haunts of Algerians with criminal connections. Several pairs of eyes turned his way through the glass, some admiring, some curious, most expressing sympathy for a fellow officer who had just been forced to shoot a man dead.

Massin explained about the janitor, Yekhlef, and his role as a major leak of information from the station. ‘He’s in a cell and his family is in protective custody,’ he announced. ‘The truck driver, Maurat, too. There’s no saying who this man Farek won’t go after, from what I hear.’ He gestured towards his office, and when they were both inside, said, ‘Where is the woman and her child?’

Rocco hadn’t been looking forward to this; hiding the truth from Massin was a precautionary measure, but he was well aware that it would be looked on as insubordination at the very least if he refused to reveal Nicole’s whereabouts. But as proven already by the janitor’s arrest, any information shared around here was not guaranteed to remain secret.

‘I don’t know exactly,’ he said honestly. ‘She’s on the move with someone looking after her.’ He waited to see if Massin would insist on more information.

To his surprise, the commissaire nodded. ‘Fair enough. A good precaution to take, under the circumstances.’ He paused and looked slightly pained. ‘I have to ask this question, Inspector, simply because it will be asked of me by someone higher up the chain of command. And please consider your answer carefully. Are you having any kind of relationship with the Farek woman?’

‘No. I’m not.’ Rocco had expected the question, and was relieved at not having to lie. On top of everything else, it was a pressure he didn’t need.

Massin looked satisfied. ‘Well, that’s something. But tell me, is this really all about a man trying to get his wife back? My assumption is she will hardly be delighted to see him, in any case.’

‘No. She won’t,’ said Rocco. Massin behaved as if he had a broomstick up his backside a lot of the time, and seemed too concerned with not displeasing his bosses in the Interior Ministry, but he was no fool. Somehow he had managed to arrive at the same conclusion as Rocco himself: that there was something at the heart of the Farek business which was not entirely to do with a gangster chasing his runaway wife.

Massin reached into a folder on his desk and took out a slim leather booklet. Rocco recognised the address book he’d found in Michel Gondrand’s house.

‘While you were otherwise engaged yesterday, Desmoulins and some other officers went through this, checking for anything familiar which might tie in to anyone with a grudge against Michel Gondrand. They discovered nothing of significance until a reference was found to a bank deposit box here in Amiens.’ He took a piece of paper from the folder and slid it across the desk. It recorded all the recent visits made by Gondrand to the deposit box vault. He gave a wisp of a smile. ‘It seems Gondrand made an unusually high number of visits to the bank, sometimes twice a day. Fortunately, the manager was only too willing to help us in our enquiries, as Gondrand was a particularly unpleasant individual. His arrogance has not helped him, but it has helped us.’ He slid another piece of paper across to Rocco. ‘A record of regular payments made to someone you know.’

Rocco checked the paper, which listed account numbers, dates, sums of money … and the name of the recipient account holder.

Alain Tourrain.

It was damning – if as yet unexplained – evidence against a fellow police officer. To be receiving payments of any kind from a local businessman was bad enough; to be in receipt of payments from a car dealer who had lived an expensive lifestyle and who was now dead of a gunshot wound was a whole new level of suspicious behaviour.

‘You haven’t arrested him, have you?’ he asked.

‘Not yet. There hasn’t been time. But we will. Why do you ask?’

Rocco couldn’t quite explain even to himself, but now they had confirmation that the janitor hadn’t been the sole leak of information here, someone else had to be. And the prime candidate was Tourrain. The only question that puzzled him was that Yekhlef seemed to be in thrall solely to Farek – but Farek had only arrived in the past forty-eight hours. If Tourrain had been receiving payments from Gondrand for many, many months, was it possible he was also being paid by someone else? But payments for what? And from whom?

‘Can you let him run for a while?’ he replied. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

Massin huffed undecidedly for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘Very well. But I will hold you responsible if he goes missing. What is this idea of yours?’

‘Can we risk the anger of the mayor and everyone else, and announce another sweep for illegal workers? Only this time, instead of the whole town, we’ll let Tourrain know that it’s to two or three specific sites.’

Massin lifted an eyebrow. ‘I see. So if we find the named sites shut down, we’ll know it’s him. And what will you be doing?’ Then he sighed. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I do not know.’

‘Perhaps it would.’

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

It was clear by early afternoon that Farek and his men had gone to ground, no doubt waiting for the police activity to die down. One of his brother’s men, out scouting for provisions in the town, was picked up following a collision with a cement truck. Climbing from his car and waving a handgun, the man was set upon by the truck driver’s mate, who clubbed him to the ground with a large wrench used for releasing the chute at the back. Arrested by a patrol car crew, the gunman refused to reveal where his colleagues were hiding.

In the meanwhile, Massin convened a meeting of selected personnel to reveal a sweep of three factories in the town, suggesting there had been information received of illegal workers being trucked in to begin a shift that evening. Among the mild grumbles from officers facing another sleepless night, Rocco watched as Alain Tourrain took in the news without comment, then walked away to use a telephone down the corridor.

After the meeting broke up, Captain Canet beckoned Rocco and led the way to Massin’s office.

Inside, Massin stood stiff and controlled behind his desk. His deputy, Perronnet, stood to one side, and next to him was a young woman in the impressively starched uniform of a gardienne of the national police.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Massin, indicating the newcomer, ‘I would like to introduce you to Mlle Poulon, our new liaison officer. She is the first of perhaps many new recruits for specialist duties which it is hoped will complement the day-to-day activities of officers in this and other regions.’

The young woman nodded at each of the men in turn. She flushed slightly under their scrutiny, but did not appear ill at ease, Rocco noted. He shook hands with her and felt a firm grip with the briefest contact. Confident without being brash.

‘Initially,’ Massin continued, once introductions were over, ‘Miss Poulon will report to Captain Canet. He will brief all other personnel about her duties, but I would like you to ensure that she has everybody’s full cooperation at every stage.’

‘Doing what?’ said Rocco.

‘I’m glad you asked. Miss Poulon is fully versed in dealing with sensitive matters relating to the arrest and treatment of women and young offenders, and the liaison between ourselves and victims of rape, domestic violence and general crime. If a case has any of those elements, she is to be involved at the very earliest stages of the investigation. Understood?’ He looked round and received nods of assent, then added, ‘Inspector Rocco, in view of your most recent contact with a female and child immigrant, perhaps you could take Miss Poulon under your wing for the first couple of days. Show her around, bring her up to speed with your current case and so forth. See where she might be able to help.’ He gave a thin smile and nodded at the room in general. ‘For now, I think we all have duties to prepare for.’

Rocco stepped out into the corridor, biting back the urge to tell Massin where he could put this assignment. There was too much going on right now for him to be babysitting a new recruit. But maybe that was the response Massin was looking for. If so, it was trouble he didn’t need.

‘Well, Inspector,’ said a cool voice behind him, ‘that made me feel thoroughly welcome. Did you just suck on a lemon or did you get out of bed on the wrong side?’

He turned and looked at the new officer. She had short, auburn hair, a spray of faint freckles across her nose and startlingly grey eyes which were now looking up at him with a flinty confidence. Her mouth was set in a firm line, jaw clenched, confirming that she was no wallflower.

He felt a heat growing around his ears and shook his head abruptly. ‘Actually, Miss Poulon,’ he said curtly, ‘I didn’t sleep at all last night, and this morning, I shot a man dead. It tends to make me a bit scratchy. Would you like coffee?’ He turned without waiting for a reply, and led the way out of the station to a café at the end of the street. Much frequented by police, it was full of officers changing shifts; those coming on duty holding thick, brown cups of coffee, those going home brandishing stubby glasses of wine or Pernod. The ashtrays were piled high with cigarette ends and a dark-grey ash, and a heady fog hung in the air above their heads.

He and Poulon immediately became the focus of attention. But he figured the sooner they all got over the shock of seeing a female officer, the better. He deliberately chose a corner table and sat down, ordering coffees from the barman on the way past.

‘The name,’ Poulon said, sitting down across from him, ‘is Alix.’ She flinched as a burst of laughter came from some officers at the bar. ‘And I apologise. Did you really kill a man?’

‘Yes. It’s not something I joke about.’

‘What happened?’

‘It’s a long story. He was holding my neighbour at gunpoint. She’s a nice old lady.’

She looked surprised. ‘So how did you …?’

He explained how Mme Denis had thrown hot tisane in the man’s face. ‘I said she was old, I didn’t say she was conventional.’

‘I didn’t realise this area was the OK Corral.’

He looked at her for signs of sarcasm, but could have sworn she was suppressing a smile. Before he could respond, however, he was interrupted by a shadow looming over the table.

‘Hey, Inspector.’ A tough-looking sous-brigadier had moved away from the bar, a coffee cup in his hand. ‘Since when do investigators get their own secretaries? Especially good-looking ones?’ He winked at Rocco and gave a courteous bow to the newcomer, earning cheers and jeers from his colleagues. Then he emptied his cup and ordered everyone who was on duty back to work for a briefing. The rest he told to go home and sleep with their wives or girlfriends, or even both. Within seconds, the place was empty.

Rocco was relieved; he’d been given a soft ride by the men, along with many looks of approval, proof that news of the shooting had spread through the ranks.

He explained to Alix about the lead-up to the shooting, about Farek and his arrival in France on the heels of Nicole and Massi, and the news that the gang boss appeared to have simultaneously made a clean sweep of the clans in Paris and the north, establishing an empire for the taking. ‘Farek doesn’t mess around. He’s ruthless and has little respect for the law. He sent a man to watch us but he overstepped himself. We were lucky,’ he concluded.

‘His wife and child have been staying with you?’ The grey eyes were softer now, but the question was probing.

‘Just for last night. We got them out early this morning. They’re safe.’

‘They must be in shock after everything that has happened.’

He shrugged. ‘They’re holding up well. The boy thinks it’s a big adventure, although he’s very quiet. As for Nicole,’ he shrugged. ‘She’s just glad to be alive. I hope we can keep her that way.’

Alix sipped her coffee, wincing at the bitterness. ‘You like her.’

‘She’s in trouble and asked for my help. But I don’t need complications.’ He wondered how true that was and realised that the explanation had come without being forced, and therefore felt relieved. Nicole was pretty and strong and exotic, powerful attractions for most men. But she wasn’t part of this world – not his world, at any rate. She belonged somewhere else, in a life far away from daily reminders of violence and danger.

‘So what is this sweep tonight? Captain Canet mentioned that I might be needed if they pick up any women workers.’

‘It’s a feint,’ he explained. ‘Not a real operation.’ He told her about the leak of information about the last raids, and that the suspect might be a serving officer. ‘If we’re right, and the raids come up empty at the specific factories named, it will flush him out.’

‘Will we be in on the raid?’

‘Not if I can help it.’ Rocco had another agenda in mind altogether, but that had already been thrown into disarray by Alix’s presence. He wondered how he might get her involved with one of the sweep units without Massin questioning his actions.

‘Am I in the way?’ Alix asked perceptively. ‘I know I’m not a real cop … not as far as most of you are concerned, anyway. But I do have a job to do and I can’t do it standing on the sidelines.’

He nodded, appreciating her honesty, and studied her face. He didn’t have time to mess around with long-winded explanations just to get her off his back. He was going to have to trust her to keep her mouth shut.

‘I need you to lose yourself for a few hours this evening,’ he said finally, and hoped he wasn’t about to drop himself into a career-ending hole. ‘I have something to do which I wouldn’t want you involved in.’

‘Something illegal?’

‘No. But it could get messy. I wouldn’t want you to get caught in the bureaucratic crossfire.’

‘So it’s something Commissaire Massin wouldn’t approve of.’ She had a faint smile at the corners of her mouth and he couldn’t quite make out whether she was laughing at his caution or amused out of a sense of co-conspiracy.

‘Probably not.’ She was quick, he had to give her that. Too quick, maybe. He was going to have to trust her. ‘I’m going to break into a factory where a man died.’

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

It was a rerun of the other night. Cold and misty, damp underfoot and no night to be out walking by the canal, Rocco pulled up his collar and turned to check that he was alone. The water slid by on his right, silent and black, throwing off faint, yellow glints where a distant light was reflected off the oily surface.

He trod carefully, checking off the outlines of familiar landmarks as they loomed up in the dark, and wondered how the raids were going. Alix had questioned his plan and the dangers involved of going alone, but hadn’t argued with his suggestion that she find herself a team to attach herself to in order to cover herself if anything went wrong.

‘It’s illegal, what you are planning,’ she warned him. ‘If they catch you, being a cop won’t protect you. The Defence Ministry trumps the Interior Ministry on these matters. They’ll just throw you into a cell and forget you ever existed.’

‘You sound as if you know a bit about it.’

‘I do. I was a PA in a branch of Defence Security before I applied to join the police. Anything involving the military and breaches of security surmounts all other matters.’ She shrugged. ‘We are a nation of paramilitaries.’

Fortunately, she had agreed to keep quiet and let him go. If he’d made a mistake by taking her into his confidence, he would soon find out.

He passed through the cutting and came to the building fronting the canal where the geese were housed. Slowing to ensure he made no sound that might rouse them, he stepped carefully on the hummocks of grass between the remnants of the towpath’s ancient surface. Once past the building, he stopped and waited, tuning into the night and reacquainting himself with the sounds of water gurgling, the hum of distant traffic and the rustling of night creatures going about their business. From here on, he was entering the danger zone, where any foot traffic was probably confined to illicit workers and their guides, and anyone not expected here would be regarded as a problem to be disposed of. A loud splash occurred up ahead and he eased to the ground, relaxing when he heard the protesting honk of a coot or moorhen disturbed from its sleep.

After a few moments he carried on until he reached the lock, where he stepped carefully across the gates and jumped down the other side. Moments later he reached the slope and the fence surrounding the Ecoboras site and hunkered down again, watching for movement in the shadows behind the factory. Satisfied that nobody lay in wait, he moved along the slope, then took off his coat and uncoiled a thick rope from around his shoulder with a grappling hook attached. He replaced his coat and, using it as cover, checked his watch with a brief flick of the flashlight.

Three minutes to go. He’d cut it fine.

The remaining seconds ticked away while he sat listening to the noises from inside the factory: the ring of metal, the murmur of voices and the high-pitched hum of a forklift. Outside the building he picked up other sounds: of vehicles passing along the road at the front, the occasional car horn, and a police siren. Flashing lights reflected through the mist, but nothing came close enough to worry those inside the factory.

At least, not yet.

The crash, when it came, was loud. A squeal of brakes was followed by a solid thump and the smashing of glass, and a car horn added to the drama. With no time to lose, Rocco stepped up to the fence and tossed the grappling hook arcing over the top, then threw his weight on the rope to make sure it was going to hold him. Satisfied he wasn’t going to be dumped on his arse, he pulled himself up hand over hand and swung his legs up, hauling himself past the downward-facing points in the fence and resting on the top.

This was the time of maximum exposure; he wasn’t yet fully committed, but there was really no going back. He could already hear shouting in the distance, and the sound of running feet, and picture the scene unfolding in front of the factory gates. The guard, alerted by the accident just metres away, would automatically come out of his hut to investigate, and would now be deliberating on whether he should go through the gates to help.

Rocco rolled across the curved top, trying to see the ground below. The guard would be weighing civic responsibility, of which he probably had little, against the danger of upsetting Lambert, his boss, by leaving his post. If he had any sense he’d ignore the crash, although basic human curiosity would make him at least take a look.

Moving to the edge of the fence, he pushed forward into the dark, falling for a brief second before landing on the ground with a faint grunt. Then he was up and running across the open space where a wide shadow fell between two sets of floodlights.

He reached the building and looked back. He could just about see the rope and hook but only because he knew where to look. Hopefully, anyone else coming past here would be too focused on looking for movement inside the wire, not outside.

At the front of the building, the wail of a police siren split the night and a wash of blue light showed faintly through the darkness.

He grinned. When he’d outlined his plan to René Desmoulins earlier that afternoon, the detective had jumped at the chance to help. It had required close timing, but all he had to do was crash the car, an abandoned vehicle which had never been reclaimed, then make himself scarce before the police arrived. With the number of officers and cars out that night, it would not take long. Desmoulins had also supplied the rope and grappling hook, borrowed from a friend in the police training section.

Rocco slipped along the building until he came to the skip he’d hidden in the other night. It held the same smell of plastic and paint thinner, and was still covered by a tarpaulin. He hauled himself over the lip and settled down to wait for his moment. He checked his watch. The raids should now be well under way and occupying the attention of everyone involved.

A door opened close by, and the hollow sound of laughter echoed briefly into the night, followed by footsteps. Something heavy clattered into an adjacent skip and a man muttered an oath in a language Rocco didn’t recognise. He peered over the lip of his skip in time to see a figure disappearing through the rear door. A flare of light flooded the area briefly before being cut off. But he could now see a yellow gap down the edge where the door hadn’t quite clicked shut.

He relaxed. He now had a way in.

A car engine approached, and a horn beeped once. He made his way carefully to the front of the skip and checked his field of view. The security guard was standing by the barrier, muffled in a heavy coat and hat. He’d just raised the pole to admit a pale-coloured Citroën DS 19.

Lambert.