Текст книги "Death on the Rive Nord"

Автор книги: Adrian Magson

Соавторы: Adrian Magson
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CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

‘If I didn’t know better, Inspector, I’d say you suffered from suicidal tendencies. Were you in the habit as a child of throwing yourself out of very tall trees?’

Doctor Rizzotti dabbed at a cut on Rocco’s forehead, spreading a yellow-orange stain of iodine across the skin, then stood back with a smile to admire his handiwork. ‘Not bad, though I say it myself,’ he commented. ‘Although I’ve seen healthier-looking corpses after a Saturday-night bar brawl.’ He handed Rocco some tablets and a glass of water. ‘Take two of these now, then two every four hours. They’ll help with the headaches but not with being beaten up.’

‘You finished?’ Rocco stood up, swallowed two of the tablets dry and made for the door. His clothes had been swapped for clean ones, but still consisted of dark slacks and a black shirt. His English brogues were at the bottom of the canal, but he’d replaced them with an older pair.

‘Yes, off you go.’ Rizzotti shook his head. ‘Do come back soon. I must say, it makes a change from examining corpses. Not as much fun, but at least they lie still.’

After surfacing out of the sinking boat, Rocco had walked to the nearest road and hitched a lift to Poissons, where he’d washed and changed out of his wet clothes. Then he’d got Claude to bring him to Amiens while a team had been called in to search the sunken barge and bring up the body of the factory worker. Lambert’s plan had been simple. Get rid of Rocco and the dead man by placing them both on the barge, then sink it in the deepest part of the canal and nobody would be any the wiser. If the bodies did surface later, it would be next to impossible to make a connection with the factory.

‘You should have called me,’ Claude had muttered, when he told him what had happened. ‘I would have helped. You think my work here takes all my time?’ He puffed his cheeks in mild exasperation. ‘Mother of God, you could have been killed twice over! Barbarians!’

‘You were looking after Nicole.’

‘Sure. But Jean-Mi kept telling me to get lost; said I was spoiling his fun and he could keep her perfectly safe without me hanging around like the angel of doom.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Some inlet off the canal the other side of Amiens. He wouldn’t tell me where exactly; said it was better that way. But I think I know where.’

‘Can you take me there? I need to speak to her.’

‘Sure, but only after you see a doctor.’ Claude eyed the cuts and bruises on his face. ‘You could be suffering from concussion.’

He’d resisted, but in the end, to stop Claude’s nagging, it had been easier to let Rizzotti take a look at him. Fortunately, it had proven to be superficial, with no serious damage.

He sat back while Claude drove out to the west of the town, where he negotiated a series of narrow roads until they arrived at the canal. A small inlet was concealed by a line of poplar trees, with Jean-Michel’s boat anchored at the far end. The former police officer saw them coming and waved. A shotgun was resting on the roof of the cabin.

Claude turned off the engine and looked at Rocco. ‘You don’t look happy. This has nothing to do with what happened last night, does it?’

‘No. It doesn’t. At least, not directly.’

‘She’s been through a lot, that one.’

‘I know. But there’s something I need to ask her.’ He’d considered getting Alix to come with him, but decided against it. The presence of another woman might inhibit Nicole in some way, and he needed to hear her story without fear of hidden details.

‘OK. You know best. I’ll watch the approaches.’ Claude got out of the car and turned to survey the main canal. Rocco walked towards the boat, and Jean-Michel nodded towards the rear door, then wandered away to join his friend.

‘I need to know what happened,’ said Rocco, sitting down in the cabin across from Nicole. Massi was asleep in a bunk, wrapped in a blanket. The cabin was snug, warmed by a small but efficient log stove. ‘On that truck.’

Nicole nodded, her hands clasped in front of her. She looked suddenly small, and no longer as physically confident. Yet there was a resolve about her, as if nothing was going to penetrate her armour. The soft murmur of Claude and Jean-Michel talking on the canal bank gave the boat an oddly leisurely atmosphere, yet Rocco felt anything but relaxed.

‘What happened to you?’ she asked, eyeing the patch of iodine and his bruised skin.

‘I fell in the canal.’

She nodded, accepting his businesslike approach. ‘Very well.’

They had slipped off the boat from Oran under cover of darkness, a line of figures scurrying across the narrow stretch of open ground between the quayside and the warehouses lining the dock. A crew member saw Nicole and whispered that they were now in France, and wished her well.

She swept up her son, Massi, clutching his slim shape to her, and hurried after the man in front, praying that it would not all end here, so close to freedom. She almost wept at the freshness of the sea air blowing across the dockside. She was shivering after being kept in the confined storage room below deck, where the pounding of the ship’s engines on the other side of the bulkhead had cooked the atmosphere and made the journey unbearably noisy and claustrophobic.

Freedom. It represented different things to so many people. To these men with her, it was an opportunity to start a new life, to earn money to send home, a chance to avoid the grinding poverty that embraced them in their homeland.

To her it was the opportunity to hold on to life itself, to keep her son and watch him grow; to free him from the threat of death and brutality and the cruelty which would be his lot if they stayed in Oran.

And to prevent him growing in the image of Samir Farek.

Ever since she had slipped on board the boat named the Calypsoa, a rusting, old cargo boat which stank of diesel and dirty seawater, and rattled with every surge of its engines, she had been aware of the men watching her. Uncomfortably close to them, she had felt intimidated at first, by their presence and their haunted eyes, by their expressions of desperation, of exhaustion. By their curiosity, too, about her and what she was doing here. As disturbing as it was, though, as they had chugged out of the Vieux Port, the rattle of winches and chains pounding through the boat’s hull, she had heaved a sigh of relief. This was only the first stage of her journey, but she was content to be at least this far ahead of the fate which had been her due had she stayed.

‘A woman should not travel alone like this,’ said one man, whose name she later learnt was Slimane. ‘Especially a mother.’ He was of medium height, slim but strongly built, and boasted of being a slaughterman, one who could open the throat of a full-grown bull with the same ease as he kissed a whore. As if to prove the point, he produced a wicked-looking knife which he claimed was the tool of his trade, and stared intensely at Massi, who was watching from behind his mother’s back, eyes huge and round.

‘Are you married?’ he asked later in the journey, nodding at Massi. ‘Or are you just a whore with a paid-for bastard?’

She did not respond, flinching at the harsh words and the brutal tone, and looked to the others for support. But they all looked away, some not wanting to hear that she was running from a husband, others embarrassed by the possibility that she was a woman of low repute.

Slimane kept needling her at regular intervals, pulling out his knife for no good reason and testing the blade. All the time he would watch her, until she felt his eyes were boring into her soul.

‘I have seen you before,’ he said, as the boat slowed after the second day, and wallowed in a cross-current. She could hear the sounds of a motor some distance away, but enclosed in the storage room, none of them could see out, their next destination known only by the men who were transporting them.

She said nothing to Slimane, knowing that would encourage him.

‘Yes, I’ve definitely seen you before,’ he repeated. ‘But not in any whorehouse.’

That night they were dropped off at an unnamed port, and taken through a warehouse and hurried on board a truck, secreted among a cargo of rope. It had been uncomfortable and smelly, the air filled with dust and fibres, and the driver had given them containers of fresh water and a handkerchief for Massi to tie around his mouth to stop him coughing. Coughing, he had told them, would mean discovery and a return trip across the Mediterranean.

By morning, they were in a large shed awaiting the next stage of their journey. Outside there were vineyards, said one man, and open countryside. He had been excited yet fearful, and when Slimane told him to shut up, he had sat down quickly, afraid.

That night they climbed onto another truck, this one filled with boxes and the smell of plastic. One of the men had told her in a whisper that the boxes were full of car parts.

That night, Slimane had tried to rape her.

CHAPTER SIXTY

She smelt him first. He’d been in the far corner of the truck, having secured himself some extra space away from the others. Nobody had tried to encroach on it, fearful of the knife and unable to see in the dark. He had remained apart, a brooding presence.

Then he began moving towards her.

Massi was fast asleep, exhausted by the journey and the lack of good food. But at least it prevented him from seeing what happened next. She became aware of movement and heard the man’s coarse breathing as he slid closer.

Nobody tried to stop him.

A rough hand closed around her ankle, the grip like a clamp. Then it slid upwards, forcing its way beneath her coat and dress, like a large, obscene spider. She struggled, kicking out, felt a spray of spit touch her cheek as he moved closer, his sour breath engulfing her along with the body smell of one who had not showered or bathed in days.

She fought back in silent, furious desperation, trying to push him off, to stop the hands moving over her, to stop the hot face pushing down towards hers.

In the background, one of the men protested.

Slimane turned, swore that he’d cut the throat of the boy if anyone tried to stop him. The protest ceased.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she hissed, aware of Massi’s sleeping body nearby. Whatever was about to follow, he must not witness it, should not hear it; there could not possibly be worse things for a child to know of his mother than that she had been defiled.

‘I know who you are, whore!’ Slimane whispered, grunting as he tried to move above her. ‘You belong to Farek. Farek the gangster.’ He chuckled knowingly, the sound full of menace and meaning, and devoid of humanity. ‘And we all know what kind of women gangsters bed down with, eh? Whores and bitches.’ He pushed against her, but she managed to get one leg between them, a slim barrier but a strong one. For now. ‘So which one are you, huh? Madame Farek.’ He made the title sound at once insulting and obscene, and she knew with utter certainty that she was not going to survive this night. If Slimane didn’t kill her, Farek eventually would.

Then she felt a sharp pain in her arm, and the warm trickle of blood on her skin.

She knew instinctively what it was: Slimane’s knife. The point was sticking through the material of his jacket and had pricked her arm.

She stopped struggling, trying desperately to think. How to stop him? She had to distract him, to focus his mind on one thing and one thing only. She would have only one chance. After that … she couldn’t even contemplate what came after that.

He grunted in surprise as her body went limp and soft, then chuckled, sensing compliance. He reached down to open his clothing, grunting like a pig at a trough. As he did so, Nicole slipped a hand inside his jacket, searching the rough fabric, feeling for the weight of the knife’s handle, desperately hoping that Massi would continue sleeping.

Then another hand touched her, this time from one side, out of the darkness. She cried out in horror at the idea that another man was joining in. But this wasn’t like Slimane’s repulsive groping, wasn’t invasive and probing and threatening; this hand patted her arm, then moved off her. She felt Slimane give a start as he also became aware of the other man, and a threatening snarl burst from his lips, his head turning away from her.

Then the other hand touched her arm, and the knife was pressed into her hand.

Closing her eyes against the horror, Nicole took the weapon. She clasped her hand around the wooden handle, still warm from Slimane’s heat. He muttered and stopped pushing, sensing something wrong.

She had to do it. To make him stop!

She placed the point against Slimane’s body where it hovered above her, and pushed as hard as she could. One thrust, going deep. That was all it took. She felt him go stiff, felt the breath burst from his mouth and a questioning noise, like the cry of a small child.

Then he fell to one side.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Rocco got Claude to take him back to the station, leaving Jean-Michel to move on immediately to another location. As he walked into the main office he found Desmoulins waiting with a large mug of coffee. He was surprised to find it was nearly noon.

‘Get this down you. Don’t stand too close to Massin, though – I put something in it to help you dry out after your swim.’ He shrugged at Rocco’s look. ‘I spoke to Rizzotti; he told me what happened. You were one lucky bastard, you know that? Next time I buy a loto ticket, give it a kiss for me, would you?’

Rocco took the mug and swallowed a mouthful of coffee laced with cognac. After what he’d just heard from Nicole, he could have done with the cognac alone, but it still tasted like nectar. ‘Right, what’s come in so far? Any sign of Farek or Tourrain?’

‘Tourrain’s downstairs, wishing he’d taken up another line of employment and talking like an old lady. Says he’ll do anything to get a lesser charge. I think he’s terrified of finding himself in the general prison population and wants isolation.’

‘No chance,’ said Rocco. ‘A security guard called Metz did the killing but Tourrain was right there, watching it happen. He’ll have to take his chances.’

‘Serves him right, then, the weasel. We can do without his sort. He must have made a fortune out of the supply line of illegals, and being paid to keep the factories fed with information.’

‘What’s the news on the Gondrand killings?’

‘Well, we spoke to another lawyer who did some recent work for Michel. He reckons Michel and Tourrain were full partners, both in the motor business and one or two other ventures. Because of Tourrain’s position in the police force, he kept a low profile and took a smaller percentage, but that was a small cut of quite a lot of cash coming from the illegals, the leases on the factories and the car sales. I think if we keep looking, we’ll find a whole lot more on both the Gondrands and Tourrain going back quite a while.’

‘Do it. And while you’re at it, check any land deals he might have made while he was working for the planning department. He’d have had advance notice of parcels coming up for sale or development, and I’m pretty sure those factory plots were part of it.’

‘Will do.’

‘What about Lambert?’

‘Gone. Wiegheim was in here having a rant earlier – mostly about you. When he went back to his office, Lambert had cleared out his things and disappeared. Ecoboras is now closed, probably for good. Massin reckons they were probably underpaying the illegal workforce while recording inflated costs and a phantom local staff, which is against the terms of government contracts. Wiegheim claims he knew nothing about it but I think Lambert had him scared to death. They must have been raking it in. Their head office is about to get a nasty visit from the government auditors.’ He looked Rocco in the eye without expression. ‘And there’s one other thing. The security guard you mentioned: Metz.’

‘What about him?’

‘He was found in the canal a couple of hours ago. They just identified his body.’

‘I’ll try to hide my disappointment.’ Rocco couldn’t summon any guilt or sympathy for the dead man; Metz had tried to kill him. Fortunately, he hadn’t been up to the job. ‘Anything else?’

‘Maybe. One of the illegals brought in last night claims he was on the truck with the dead man you fished out of the canal near Poissons. He’s offering to tell what he knows if we go easy on his legal status.’

‘Suddenly everyone’s a negotiator. Name?’

‘Choose one of three he’s given so far.’ Desmoulins looked sceptical.

‘Well, that’s not going to help him. Put him in a separate cell. I’ll speak to him later. What about Farek?’

‘Massin wants to talk to you about that. He’s waiting upstairs.’

‘Let’s go.’ Rocco led the way to Massin’s office, where they found the commissaire sitting at his desk. In front of him, nursing a cup of coffee, was an Algerian man Rocco recalled seeing before. He couldn’t recall where or in what capacity, though.

Massin did the introductions. ‘Inspector Rocco, this is Monsieur Yekhlef, until recently our janitor.’ He explained about Yekhlef’s theft of information and dismissal, adding, ‘I think it might be a reasonable assumption that Farek’s presence in the area is not unknown among the community. All we have to do is find someone who will talk. As Mr Yekhlef is most anxious not to return to Algeria …’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but gave Yekhlef a cold stare. The janitor returned the look with an air of resignation and a nod. Massin stood up and adjusted his uniform. ‘In that case, I will leave you to discuss the matter. Please don’t break any of my furniture.’

He walked out, leaving the three men staring after him. Desmoulins looked quizzically at Rocco. They were barely able to hide their surprise. Massin was giving them a free run at this man.

Yekhlef seemed focused on Rocco, eyeing the dark clothes, the splash of iodine on his face and the cuts and bruises he’d picked up from the encounter on the canal bank and his escape from the boat.

Rocco grabbed a chair and sat down facing him. ‘I don’t know about you, Monsieur Yekhlef,’ he said softly, looking directly into the other man’s eyes. ‘But it seems you have nothing to lose and a lot to gain if you help us. There are lives depending on this. Yours as well as others. One question: where will I find Samir Farek?’

Yekhlef swallowed, placed the coffee cup on the desk with extreme care and sat back. His hands were shaking. He clamped them together and nodded. ‘I do not know for sure, but I was taken to see him at a place called Café Emile, on the Beauvais road out of Amiens.’

Desmoulins said, ‘I know it. It’s a dump, due for demolition years ago but still in use.’

‘Why would he go there?’

Yekhlef shrugged. ‘Because it is where men from my community go … and the police do not.’ His eyes looked watery with strain, and he coughed to clear his throat. ‘I heard him saying to his men that they would use it as their base because it was safe and they have eyes to keep watch. He will not go back to Paris or anywhere else until this matter of honour is settled.’

‘Honour?’

‘He thinks you have taken his woman.’ Yekhlef spread his hands in apology, absolving himself of any input or opinion on the subject. ‘For him, it is more important than any other matter.’

‘Then he’s a fool. I never even knew his wife existed until a few days ago.’ He looked at Desmoulins. ‘Can we get a team together? Full gear.’

‘Of course. It won’t be easy, though. The place is surrounded by open ground. They’ll see us coming.’

Rocco wasn’t surprised. It was probably why they had chosen it. ‘Right. I’ll brief Massin.’ He turned to Yekhlef and thanked him, then stood up and went to get ready.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Samir Farek was in a killing mood.

He’d timed things badly. He should have been able to move freely about this rat-hole of a town, but after the loss of the man he’d sent to watch his wife and Rocco, and with the arrest of one of his brother’s men in the town, he was finding his movements savagely curtailed by the local police raids on factories in search of illegal workers. Although they had nothing on him, the last thing he wanted to risk was being picked up at a random stop. If that happened, the gang leaders in Paris would take it as a sign of weakness and he’d be finished. Lakhdar would be able to hold on for a day or two only if they didn’t know where Samir was. Until then, he was reduced to hiding like a petty crook in the Café Emile with Youcef, Bouhassa and the others. He badly wanted to take out his frustrations on someone but lacked a visible target. Instead, he had chosen a solution which, while solving his main problem in one way, would also send a message to anyone who doubted his reach and his capabilities, and reinforce his reputation while leaving him absolutely clean of any involvement.

It had necessitated a telephone call to his brother, Lakhdar, which he was loath to make. But sometimes compromise was a necessity, as were forceful tactics. Lakhdar had argued fiercely against this, as Farek knew he would. His brother favoured talk and resolution, which he did not. In the end Lakhdar had relented.

As if to remind him, the telephone rang on the back wall. ‘It’s your brother,’ said the owner, holding out the handset as if it might bite him.

‘I’m busy,’ growled Farek, stirring sugar into the sludge they sold as coffee. What the hell did his brother want to argue about now? Outwardly he looked calm, as he knew he must. But inwardly he was seething, his blood bubbling and his teeth clenched to a painful degree as he considered his options. Staying here was not one of them. But neither was going out, not right now. He should never have come here, he knew that. It had been impulsive and reckless and left the door wide open to anyone who cared to stab him in the back. Having so easily gained control of the gangs by a combination of his brothers’ preparatory work and the elimination of a single key protester, he should have stayed to consolidate his position and reputation. But he hadn’t; he’d gone instead for the chance to regain a position of honour by tracking down his bitch of a wife. And Rocco.

He sipped his coffee, then stood up and walked without haste to the back of the room. He snatched the telephone from the terrified owner’s hand.

‘What?’ he snapped.

‘Samir, my brother. You are wasting your time. Our time.’ Lakhdar’s voice, usually the tone of reason, of calm, was now edged with impatience. And something else. Farek felt a tinge of unease.

‘What? You’re calling to tell me this?’

‘Let the woman go. She is worthless – and the policeman can be taken at any time.’ It sounded so simple. Not for nothing had Lakhdar made a fortune in trade after they had dismantled the original gang in Constantine. The careful planner of the family, the negotiator, he had been able to capitalise on his experiences and take them into a legitimate area of operations in Paris, building a base from where he – and Samir when he’d called him – could launch their bid for control of the gangs in the city and the north of the country.

‘I don’t want to wait,’ Samir countered. ‘The policeman can be dealt with immediately. Without his protection the woman will come to me.’

‘Meanwhile, you are powerless.’

Farek swore silently and threw a vengeful glance at Lakhdar’s men, standing guard by the front window of the café. One of those fucks had been keeping his brother informed of what was really happening here. He’d glossed over the reality earlier, explaining that he was staying here to draw Rocco to him. Then his plan could be put into operation.

‘Not powerless,’ he argued. ‘It will soon be over.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ The words carried a needling tone of disbelief. It was one of Lakhdar’s more irritating habits, the attitude of one who thought himself intellectually superior and commercially astute.

‘I told you, yes. Then we are done here. They have nothing to hold me for. They can prove nothing.’

‘I hope you are right. Because I am already picking up signs of discontent among the families. They are impatient for change. What we – you – promised was a chance to build our position here, to amalgamate and consolidate to everyone’s advantage. You should have begun showing the lead already … but that has not happened because you are chasing your woman and this policeman. The others are becoming uneasy, saying—’

‘Words. They’re just words,’ Farek broke in, feeling the need to smash something, to lay waste to something tangible. ‘Let the cretins complain. What will they do, these well-fed sheep, huh? What can they do? I will be back soon. Until then, you must exercise control.’

‘How am I supposed to do that? You are the new figurehead, not me.’

‘Set an example, that’s how. Have you forgotten everything we learnt?’ He gritted his teeth in frustration. There had been a time when Lakhdar was more ruthless than himself. Now he had gone soft, but expected others to do the dirty work. ‘Did you do as I asked?’ he demanded softly. ‘Did you send someone as I requested?’

A sigh, then, ‘Yes. Of course. He will be in place by now. He’s one of the best. But, Samir, I ask you one last time to forget this madness. They will know it is you and it will lead back to us. I can still call him off—’

‘No!’ Farek slammed down the phone, cutting off his brother’s words. Always offering advice, always holding him back. He turned to the room where Lakhdar’s two remaining men, Youcef, even the normally placid Bouhassa, were all standing quite still, watching him.

‘What are you all staring at?’ Farek yelled. ‘Are you all afraid, too? Huh? Have you all lost your balls? What’s the matter with you?’

Youcef was the first to speak. He swallowed once, then gestured to the front of the café. ‘It’s the tall cop,’ he whispered. ‘Rocco. He’s out there. So’s half the French police force.’

‘Are we sure he’s inside?’ Rocco looked at the sous-brigadier who had spoken to him in the café with Alix what seemed like days ago. It now seemed a distant memory.

‘He’s there. One of my men spotted him through the curtain earlier. We’ve got eyes on the back door and unless he’s started tunnelling his way out, he’s stuck.’

‘How many with him?’

‘We think four, plus the café owner. Two in suits, a big man and a fat slug in a djellaba.’

Bouhassa. Rocco nodded. ‘Stuck’ was one way of putting it. He could feel the police presence behind him: Canet’s uniformed teams, the detectives like Desmoulins who wanted in on the action, and the brass like Massin and Perronnet. In reserve were the intimidating lines of tough CRS personnel spoiling for a fight. And beyond them, unseen but always present, were the eyes of the Ministry and the government, watching with drawn breath to see how this would unfold.

‘What we don’t need,’ Massin had warned Rocco earlier, when sanctioning the operation to take Farek, ‘is a massacre. We want prisoners. Alive and able to walk unsupported. Got it?’

Rocco had agreed, although he wasn’t sure if it would be quite that simple to bring off. A man like Farek wouldn’t allow himself to be taken without a fight, and he had the means and willpower to resist them. His entire structure was based on ego and violence, so why should he change now?

‘You don’t seem convinced.’ Massin was studying his face.

‘Farek’s up to something. He’s not the sort to allow himself to get cornered like this. He must have something in mind.’

‘We could lob some tear gas through the window to soften them up,’ suggested the sous-brigadier, whose name was Godard. ‘The longer he’s in there, building up a head of steam, the more desperate he’ll get. There could be collateral damage.’

Rocco agreed. There were houses nearby, and bullets fired in anger were indiscriminate in their targets. He opened his mouth to give the order.

Then the café door opened.