Текст книги "Death on the Rive Nord"

Автор книги: Adrian Magson

Соавторы: Adrian Magson
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

The head of security got out of his car and spoke to the guard. They both turned and looked towards the road where the crash had occurred. A police light was flashing off the adjacent buildings and Rocco could almost read the body language of the guard as he explained what had happened. Then Lambert climbed back in his car, shaking his head, and drove through the barrier. For a brief second, as Lambert’s face was caught in the floodlights overhead, Rocco was sure the security man was looking towards the skip where he was hiding, but told himself it was a trick of the light. Seconds later, Lambert’s car disappeared from sight.

Rocco watched the security guard, waiting until the man decided it was safe to relax now the boss had gone inside. As soon as the man turned and walked back into his hut, his night-sight now compromised by the floodlights outside, Rocco lifted the tarpaulin and pulled himself over the side of the skip. He dropped to the ground, and half a dozen strides later he was standing by the rear door.

His initial plan had been to wait for someone to come out and slip inside for a look. But now he didn’t need to bother. He grasped the handle and tugged gently, feeling the door break free of the wooden surround. The strip of light widened, and he glanced towards the front corner of the building. The security cabin was now out of sight, but if the guard saw a spread of light as Rocco opened the door he might assume that it was a worker dumping waste.

He hesitated, straining for the sound of footsteps inside. Satisfied nobody was close by, he opened the door and slipped through, pulling it closed behind him. He waited for the sound of an alarm, ready to turn and run.

Nothing.

He was standing in a narrow corridor formed by twin stacks of cardboard boxes several feet high. High overhead, an array of lights threw an uneven glow over everything, creating a play of shadows large enough to hide a small car. He scanned the boxes, which were stamped with a meaningless jumble of letters and part numbers, and probably contained component parts for assembly. The walls above the stacks were dotted with power trunking and ventilation pipes, with what he could see of the lower walls dotted with electrical sockets and cables. The floor had been finished in a dark-red gloss, sectioned off in bays to one side by white lines with stencilled numbers. The ceiling was thirty feet above his head, with the beginnings of a mezzanine flooring being built around the edges. Beyond the boxes he could hear the hum of machinery and the stop-go whine of a forklift truck. Above the mechanical noises was a constant babble of voices, and occasionally, laughter. The air smelt of oil and a faint tang of burning, and he guessed it was part of the production process. Everything was fresh and new, with a clean, glossy appearance.

Footsteps sounded nearby and Rocco slid into a recess between two stacks of boxes. It seemed inconceivable that the security measures outside would come to a stop at the door; with contracts for government work, he assumed there would be precautions taken within the building as well, even if the open door he’d just come through gave lie to that.

The footsteps walked by. Moments later, he heard an oath and the rear door slammed shut. His exit route had just been shut off. But at least it would open again when needed. He eased his way among the boxes, gradually making a route through to the far side where he could observe what was happening on the main floor. With the building not yet fully operational, and the signs of so many power outlets on the walls, it was likely this part of the floor would soon be given over to more electrical equipment.

He nudged a box to one side, giving him a view of a line of benches. Several men sat at stools, each using screwdrivers and what looked like soldering irons, with faint coils of smoke drifting above their heads. In front of each man was an array of plastic boxes, which they reached into at regular intervals.

He moved further along the stack of boxes for a better view. It was more of the same: more benches, more stools, more assembly points. In all he counted thirty men, all hard at work. They were dressed in ordinary clothes, their skin glowing darkly under the strip lights hanging low above the benches. The air above their heads steamed with their rising body heat as it met the colder atmosphere higher up. They all looked like Algerians, but could just as easily have come from a variety of countries in the region.

A bell sounded from a casing on one wall. Everyone instantly downed tools and shuffled eagerly towards the far end of the factory, where an urn was steaming. It was a refreshment break.

One of the workers was clumsy. As he left his workplace, he caught his sleeve on a plastic box close to the edge of the assembly bench. The box teetered for a second, seemed certain to stay, then tipped off the bench and hit the floor with a loud crack. It burst open, sending a deluge of tiny objects scattering across the dark-red floor, the overhead lights giving them the appearance of thousands of silver minnows in a stream.

Amid the ensuing deathly silence, several of the objects skidded and tumbled between the stacks of boxes and fetched up around Rocco’s feet. He looked down. They were tiny silver screws. When he glanced up, everyone had turned and was looking towards the unfortunate man who had caused the spill.

Chief among them was Metz, the security guard who had confronted Rocco in the car park. And standing alongside him, sneering coldly at the worker’s plight, was another familiar figure.

Detective Alain Tourrain.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Metz paced slowly across the floor, the fallen screws crunching like gravel beneath his shoes. He stopped in front of the offender and stared at him. The man, a thin-faced individual in his fifties in a bright-red shirt, flinched and backed away.

‘Come here,’ Metz said quietly, and pointed to a spot in front of him. His intentions were made clear when he shook his other arm and something silver slid down his sleeve into his hand. A thin metal rod.

A soft groan came from the other men assembled at the far end of the factory. They had seen this before.

The worker said nothing, merely shaking his head in supplication.

‘I said, here,’ Metz repeated. This time softer, more menacing.

Behind him, Tourrain sniggered in anticipation.

The man shuffled forward, feet unsteady on the carpet of fallen screws. He twisted his hands together and looked round for support, but none came.

The moment he was within reach, Metz moved. His arm swept up from his side in a vicious swing, and the overhead lights flashed on the silver rod. There was a crack, and the worker screamed and fell to the floor, blood pumping from his shattered mouth. Metz struck again, using the full power of his shoulders. Then again. When he looked up, he singled out two men closest to him. ‘You two … clear up this filth.’

Rocco closed his eyes, sickened by the attack. The man on the floor looked dead. Nobody could survive blows like that to the head. Even Tourrain looked shocked, and had lost his expression of the eager onlooker.

‘Very useful, Metz. Wonderful way to manage a workforce. I hope you’ve got a replacement tucked away in your pocket.’ The familiar voice rang out across the factory and everyone stopped. It was Lambert. He stopped by the body and stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Metz. ‘We needed him, you idiot. Just as we need every man we can get our hands on. Why is it you can’t seem to get that?’ His voice was cutting and deadly, soft, yet even more menacing than Metz’s brutality. The workers recognised this and moved away, not daring to meet his eyes, focusing instead on putting space between them and him.

‘Get back to work,’ he said sharply. ‘Break time is over.’

The workers shuffled their feet, but did as they were told, moving back to their benches and picking up their tools.

Lambert looked directly at Tourrain. ‘How about you?’ he said, his voice carrying over the low hum of the men working. ‘Can you tell me where I’m going to get another worker? Your uniformed colleagues are playing havoc with our production schedules, do you know that?’

‘Hey, don’t blame me,’ said Tourrain, hands in his pockets. ‘I don’t ship them in … I just keep the cops off everyone’s backs as much as I can.’

‘So how is it you didn’t warn us that they were conducting another sweep tonight? Every time they run a search, we’re vulnerable and fall further behind schedule. This contract depends on low costs and regular production.’

‘But you’re protected. They’re not allowed on this site, you said.’

‘That’s correct. But if they suspect something illegal is going on, such as a mess like this, they’ll find a way of coming over the wire without asking permission first. I know how they work.’

Tourrain gave a shrug. ‘You worry too much. The brass here are gutless. They don’t wipe their arses without checking with the Ministry first.’

‘You’d better hope it stays that way. In the meantime, I’m down a worker.’

‘Hey, you’re the one who knocked off Gondrand, not me. He was your supplier.’

‘Pardon me?’ The voice became softer, more deadly, like the whisper of death, and Tourrain looked startled. He backed away, a hand held out in defence.

‘Christ, Lambert, don’t get heavy with me, OK? We’re all in this together. I didn’t say I couldn’t get others; it’ll take time, that’s all.’

‘We don’t have time!’ Lambert sounded furious, but controlled, as if he was holding himself in. ‘We have a tight schedule for this contract; if we don’t keep to it, we’ll have to hire more dayworkers – and they’re more expensive. I need another illegal to keep costs down.’

‘OK, OK.’ Tourrain scowled in thought. ‘I’ll have to draft one over from another factory. There’s a place I know that won’t mind losing a man. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do to get more workers in. Gondrand said the supply lines had gone dead and his contacts had disappeared. It might not be easy to get another one open.’

‘Not my problem,’ Lambert spat. ‘We paid you and your friend Gondrand to keep things running smoothly.’ He stopped and tipped his head to one side. ‘Unless you’re just trying to get more money out of us – is that it? You want us to pay you more?’

Tourrain looked surprised, then fearful. ‘No. Hell, no – I wouldn’t.’

‘That’s a wise decision.’ Lambert’s voice dropped. ‘Just remember what happened to Gondrand when he tried screwing us, too.’

Rocco had heard enough. He began to worm his way back to the rear door, angling between the boxes. One thing was certain: he doubted any of the workers here would be willing to talk to him about what was going on in this place, or what had just transpired. Surmounting the fact that they were illegals, they would be too terrified of what might happen to them if they dared speak out against Lambert, Metz or anyone else involved in this operation.

He stepped clear of the boxes and was almost to the door when a figure appeared around the corner, tailing a broom. Dark skin, dulled, terrified eyes, an air of resigned fatigue, a man assigned to sweep up the fallen screws.

It was too late for stealth. Rocco straightened up, walked past the startled man, and opened the door. He stepped through and pulled it closed behind him, his instinctive timer for unfolding disaster beginning its countdown. Odds-on the man would wonder who the tall stranger was. He might reason that a white employee was another one of the bosses here, and therefore of no concern to him. Or he might see an opportunity to win points by raising the alarm.

He chose the second option.

As Rocco stepped clear of the building, a shout came from inside, followed by a chorus of calls and the clang of an alarm bell.

Rocco measured the distance to the fence, judging the likelihood of scaling it before any of the guards appeared. No chance. He could already hear the sound of running footsteps approaching from the front. That would be the gate security guard. Given the right circumstances, he’d counted on using a spare pallet to boost himself over from this side. But that option was now dead. Instead, he turned and ran for the skip he’d used before and slipped underneath the tarpaulin. Squirming down beneath the layers of debris and construction cast-offs, he closed a hand over his nose against the swirl of dust rising to meet him and waited to see if his luck would hold.

A murmur of voices approached and moved past. Someone gave a cursory prod into the skip with a length of wood, then a shout from nearby distracted them.

The rope and grappling hook had been spotted.

Other voices issued orders until Lambert’s voice called for quiet and organised a sweep of the outside of the perimeter fence and along the canal. Rocco heard a rattle as the gate in the fence was unlocked and the voices faded as the guards moved away.

A vehicle approached the front of the building. It slowed momentarily, then came on and stopped. A car door slammed and the vehicle moved away. Then the hum of the heating system ceased and silence descended on the site.

They were listening for him. They knew he was still around.

But they hadn’t locked the gate behind them.

He felt the beginnings of cramp in his leg where his calf muscle was twisted. Stifling the desire to stay where he was, he eased himself upwards until he could see over the edge of the skip. He could just see the security guard sitting in his hut, but nobody else. They must be out of sight behind the building. As he moved to straighten his legs and get a clearer view, his shoulder brushed against something. It was a small strip of aluminium sheeting. Before he could stop it, it slid gracefully from his shoulder, paused on the edge of the skip, then fell to the ground with a sharp clatter.

A dog barked, the sound descending to a growl deep in the back of the animal’s throat, and Rocco felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. It was close, barely fifty metres away. Men he could handle; dogs, though, were altogether different.

And now they knew exactly where to look.

There was nothing for it. With the guards now fully alert, he would have to make a run for it and take his chances. But he needed an edge. He felt around his feet and came up with a short length of aluminium piping. It would have to do. Taking a deep breath and lifting the tarpaulin, he heaved himself over the edge of the skip. He hit the ground at an angle and grunted with pain as his shoulder collided with a short stack of wooden pallets.

He turned and ran towards the fence.

Shouts came from behind him, and a torch beam flicked across the ground between him and the fence. It wavered for a moment, then came back. Suddenly his own shadow was in front of him, stretching out to touch the wire before he did.

Then came another bark and a snick-snick sound. It was the dog chasing him across the tarmac.

There was no time for finesse. More voices were joining in, and he could see movement in his peripheral vision as someone angled across to intercept him. He charged through the gate, slamming it shut behind him just as the dog jumped. It crashed against the mesh with a yelp and snarled in frustration, flicks of spittle touching Rocco’s face.

He took the pipe and pushed it through the mesh of the gate, then leant his full weight against it, bending it round the upright and forcing it into the mesh on the outside. They would get it free eventually, but not before he’d got a good way along the canal.

He jogged away, listening for sounds of pursuit, but there were none.

He came to the lock and moved quickly across the top of the gates and down the other side. Stopped dead.

Two men were on the towpath, blocking his way.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

The nearest man was Metz, idly swinging the length of steel he’d used on the unfortunate worker in the factory. The other man was further back, indistinct and slight. Then he moved and Rocco recognised the slim figure of Detective Tourrain.

They had deliberately let him think he was free and clear; that he’d fooled them all. Then they had come out here and waited for him to show up.

‘Well, well,’ said Metz. ‘Looks like we’ve found our intruder. Let’s see who you are, shall we?’

Rocco studied the ground the men were standing on. They were on a broad patch of flat grass by the side of the lock basin, too narrow for him to force his way past. The canal lay on the right, the level three to four metres below the edge, the rush of water muffled by the deep stone walls. To Rocco’s left was a thick hedge, then a slope with an indistinct tangle of bushes and undergrowth offering no clear way through.

If the two men came to him, where the ground was narrower, they would eventually hamper each other. Unless they opted for guns. Somehow he didn’t think they would; guns were noisy and they were too close to town, and he was sure they had orders to dispose of any intruders without trace.

He heard a metallic snick from behind Metz. Tourrain, holding a long-bladed knife. It gleamed dully, polished and deadly.

Rocco felt a coldness wash over him. So this was their plan. No attempt to argue against what he had seen, no ducking behind the certificate they had used so far to give them the protection of the Ministry of Defence. He had witnessed too much and there was only one way for this to end.

He studied Metz, the more dangerous of the two men. He was a brawler, with little finesse or style about him, and would rely on strength and brutality to carry him through, just as he had when dealing with the illegal worker. For him, doling out punishment would be a pleasure, as automatic as breathing.

Tourrain, though, was different. He was a policeman caught in a bad situation, but carrying a weapon made purely for killing. And judging by the way his body was moving and flexing excitedly in the gloom, he was desperate to use it. As a cop facing exposure and arrest, he would see only one way out of this situation: to kill the intruder and dispose of the body.

As both men moved towards him, unwittingly giving up the advantage of a flatter, wider ground, the breath hissed between Rocco’s teeth. He reached for his gun … and felt his gut go cold. It wasn’t there. He must have dropped it going over the wire or climbing in and out of the skip. He waited until Metz had moving further ahead of Tourrain, then moved forward to meet him. Metz stopped instantly, on the defensive. Tourrain did the same, although he stayed back slightly instead of drawing level with his colleague.

‘You’re under arrest, Metz,’ said Rocco. ‘And you, Tourrain. There’s no way out of this for you.’

The sound of his voice seemed to throw both men off their stride. They were probably accustomed to their victims pleading with them, he decided, or shouting abuse in desperation or anger. Not talking to them in calm, confident tones. Or, for that matter, walking towards them without the slightest display of anxiety.

‘Jesus … Rocco?’ Tourrain had finally recognised who he was facing. ‘What the fuck—?’ He cast around, looking first at Metz, then turning to check behind him as if help lay out there in the dark. ‘It was you in the factory?’ He didn’t wait for a reply but added, ‘Hey – we can sort this out, right? There’s no need for it to go any higher.’

It was a desperate gamble by a man who should have known he was finished. But Rocco sensed Tourrain hadn’t got the intelligence to realise that whatever game he had been mixed up in with Gondrand and Lambert, it was now over.

For a moment the threat of action from the two men was frozen, suspended by the expectation of a deal. For Tourrain it was a way out. For men like Metz it was the way of the world; one crooked cop meant others had their price, too. All it came down to was how much. He remained immobile, head turning to cast a look at Tourrain, while the detective stepped from foot to foot, undecided on his next move.

Tourrain was the first to break.

‘Metz … come on …!’ Suddenly he was turning and running along the towpath, leaving the guard to fend for himself.

Metz snarled in disgust and slashed at Rocco’s head, the metal rod hissing through the air. Rocco swayed out of reach, wary of the uneven ground beneath his feet. A detached part of his brain was telling him this was not how he would have chosen to go, given a choice: being felled by a brutal sliver of cold metal in the hands of a murderous thug, followed by blackness.

He stepped forward, shutting out the thought with clinical detachment, and waited for another wild slash before executing a hard snap kick to Metz’s midriff. This was something Metz, in his brutal enthusiasm, had overlooked: Rocco had the leg reach and power. The point of impact was the leather-shod ball of Rocco’s foot against the other man’s diaphragm. It didn’t require great body weight behind it, simply speed and momentum.

The shock of impact clouded Metz’s eyes, draining his face of blood. He stood still for a moment as pain blossomed throughout his body, then slashed again, but with little effect. And Rocco waited, calmly watching the man’s system beginning to shut down.

Metz made a sound – a word, perhaps, maybe a cough – as he fought to regain his breathing. He spat to one side and appeared to stagger, then waved the steel rod in front of him. But it was a token, a show of aggression with no real power or focus.

‘Give it up,’ said Rocco.

But Metz wasn’t finished. He reached into his pocket, groaning with the effort, and dragged out a gun.

Rocco reacted instinctively. He stepped in close and smacked Metz’s gun hand away with his right palm, then half turned away and rammed his elbow backwards into the man’s chest. A split second later he struck again, this time to Metz’s nose, driving his head back under the impact, the cartilage crushed.

And suddenly Metz was gone, tottering briefly on the lip of the lock basin before tumbling into the black water with a muffled splash.

The steel rod was lying on the ground. Rocco put his toe underneath it and flicked it over the edge. He retrieved the gun and did the same thing.

But he didn’t hear the soft rush of footsteps on the grass behind him, or the grunt of someone breathing. All he knew was a sharp pain in the back of his head.

Then darkness.