Текст книги "Death on the Rive Nord"

Автор книги: Adrian Magson

Соавторы: Adrian Magson
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

He left the building and walked towards his car. As he did so, he glanced across to where the canal ran past the corner of the building. A working barge was sliding by, smoke puffing from a blackened stack on its rear structure. It wasn’t the barge that caught his attention, however; it was the tall metal fence separating the building from the canal. There were curved spikes at the top of each metal post, he noticed, bent to prevent anyone climbing into the plant. A professional job guaranteed to dissuade casual burglars looking for easy pickings. On a post above the fence stood the same array of security lights he’d seen at the front of the building. Clearly Lambert took his security duties seriously.

He heard a scuff of noise close by and turned.

The second security guard had followed him from the building and was standing between Rocco and his car, arms down by his side, solid and unmoveable. His stance, blank expression and quasi-official uniform reminded Rocco of a member of the CRS – the Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité.

‘You should leave,’ the man said bluntly. ‘Now.’

Rocco stepped towards him, and for the first time the guard seemed to realise how big Rocco was. His mouth opened and he looked unsure of himself, but he stayed where he was. A bully, thought Rocco. But a bully who didn’t want to lose face. He was wearing a small badge printed with his surname: Metz.

‘I’m a police officer, Mr Metz,’ said Rocco coolly, staring hard at him. ‘Try throwing your weight around with me and you’ll end up in prison or hospital. Take your pick.’

Metz hesitated for a second, eyes flicking past Rocco towards the building. As if on a signal, he shrugged and stepped to one side.

Back at the station, Rocco spotted Desmoulins in the corridor and asked him if he’d ever heard of the Secretariat for Administration to the Ministry of Defence.

Desmoulins looked blank. ‘Not the Secretariat Administration bit, no. The Ministry of Defence, of course – who hasn’t? You in trouble with the military?’

Rocco shook his head. ‘Could you look up a company named Ecoboras SA? They’re on a new industrial complex near the canal.’

‘I know the place.’ Desmoulins nodded. ‘Friend of mine – an electrician – tried to get a job there and was told to get lost. Not very friendly, all that fencing and floodlights; looks more like a prison camp.’ He looked sharply at Rocco. ‘Have you found something?’

‘I’m not sure. They claim to have a contract with the Defence Ministry.’

‘There’s a but.’ Desmoulins was quick on the uptake.

‘Something jars, that’s all. The plant manager’s name is Wiegheim and they have a security stiff called Lambert who looks like he eats glass for breakfast. I showed them the photo and Wiegheim looked as if he was going to throw up.’

Desmoulins grinned. ‘Guilty conscience, I bet. I’ll see what I can find out.’

Rocco was about to leave when he saw Massin approaching. The commissaire pointed towards his office and led the way inside. As soon as Rocco entered, he closed the door behind him.

‘Are you bored, Inspector?’ He waved a slip of paper in his hand. ‘I’ve just had an unpleasant call from the Interior Ministry. You’ve been asking questions of a defence contractor. Is this true?’

Rocco stared at the officer and wondered what the hell was going on. He glanced at his watch. From leaving Ecoboras’s premises to getting here had taken roughly thirty minutes. Yet in that time, Wiegheim or Lambert had managed to put in a protest to the Ministry of Defence about his visit, a protest which had bounced from there to the Interior Ministry, then on down the line to Massin.

‘I was curious,’ he said, fighting to hold down his irritation. He could do without Massin looking to jump on his bones for such a minor matter. The fact that the Ministry had been called made him even more convinced that Wiegheim and Lambert were hiding something. But what? He explained his encounter with the men.

Massin was unperturbed. ‘Ecoboras SA are party to a very important contract for defence equipment handed out by the Directorate General for Armaments, working with the Ministry of Defence. I have no idea what they are making there, nor am I interested. All I do know is that the military is undergoing a huge re-equipment programme, and every branch of the administration is under pressure to complete the contracts as soon as possible. This particular plant has the potential to offer a great many jobs in the area, and the mayor has asked for full understanding and support when it comes to any dealings we might have with the company.’

The mayor. As if national politics wasn’t enough to be going on with, they now had to defer to local bureaucrats. Rocco sighed. ‘Dealings?’

‘Policing matters. We handle them quickly and with minimal intrusion – but only outside the perimeter fence.’

Rocco was astounded. He was being barred from the place. ‘What if they’re employing illegal workers? Do we ignore that?’

Massin looked sceptical. ‘They wouldn’t take the risk. In any case, they have an approved security team who will handle all internal matters. Especially inside the building.’ Massin sniffed. ‘Your off-the-cuff visit today doesn’t come under that heading.’

Rocco tried one last stab. ‘And if I suspect a crime has been committed?’

Massin’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Do you?’

He shook his head. Massin was right; all he had were his instincts. Or had he carried his prejudices and suspicions out of the city with him, and was now seeing shadows under every stone? He wasn’t going to get anywhere like this, so might as well let it go.

For now, anyway.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As night fell across Amiens and its burgeoning industrial quarter, a group of six new arrivals was ushered into a temporary cabin and ordered to take off their travel-soiled clothes and place them in a large oil drum. They were watched by two men, both with the unemotional detachment and stillness of professional guards.

The six men were thin and undernourished, their bones prominent where natural body fat had been eaten away over weeks, maybe months, of deprivation and poor diet. Their journey had not helped, beginning on Algeria’s north-lying coast and culminating in a rotting barge just a few kilometres away, where they had been made to wait before being brought here by boat. The holding barge was a precaution, to distance the plant from any direct connection with the men if they were discovered, and as a place where they could wait during the daytime until darkness fell.

Their discomfort, however, was clearly not their overseers’ problem. Getting them to work was, as was keeping their presence secret from the authorities. Some of the men bore visible scars and abrasions on their flesh, while others rubbed at raw patches of skin where lice had been feeding on them for too long without treatment. Most showed signs of hard labour, their hands roughened and their nails stubby and cracked.

The senior of the two guards sniffed at the smell of them, the sour tang of stale sweat rising as the warmth of the room increased. It didn’t bother him, though; he’d long ago become inured to the discomfort of others. Instead he sipped from a mug of coffee, smacking his lips with evident enjoyment, amused by their resentful and hungry looks. But the newcomers were careful; they had come across men like this before. Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark blouson and tan trousers, he wore the soft, polished jump boots of the kind favoured by French paratroopers, and was the model they had come to fear most, a long way from this place and in another life. The second man was similar, if shorter, and further down the food chain.

Once they were all stripped and the tall man could see they had nothing taped or tied to their bodies, he pointed to a pile of fresh, worn clothing on a bench nearby and told them to get dressed. As they began to sort through jackets and trousers, he checked through the small pile of wallets and other personal effects which each man had been forced to place on the floor. Some had been reluctant to part with these treasured possessions, but their resistance had been short-lived when they saw the short length of steel pipe in the hand of the second man.

The items were pathetically few: some faded photographs or letters; a certificate or permit; relics of a previous life far from here; a pressed flower or a lock of hair; some money folded and refolded but no longer useful in their new home. The man wondered why they had bothered. Scraps of history, they were of no further use to them now than the clothes they had just discarded.

He gathered up the personal effects and tossed them into the drum. Two of the older men protested, anger flaring at seeing these things being disposed of so casually. To them, these represented the only links they had left with the places they had come from, a tenuous kind of memory but still valued. The other four remained in the background, younger and less sure of themselves.

The tall man smiled coldly but said nothing. Now he knew who the leaders were; which were the strong personalities in the group and likely to be an influence. Now he could set about sorting them out. Divide and rule; a method as old as the hills.

He reached into his jacket pocket. When he took his hand out again, the two leading protesters froze instinctively. The others stepped back.

There were many things which might have surprised them. Kindness was one. Food was another … even sanctuary, no matter how temporary; like the canal boat they had been living on for the past few days since jumping out of the lorry, waiting for the next stage of their journey.

But not the threat of death. They had seen it too often in too many guises, and most especially from men like these two with their cold smiles and ugly threats. Even the journey here had been a form of extended death threat imposed by the ever-present risk of exposure, but that didn’t mean they accepted it or looked it in the face without a qualm.

The tall man was holding a gun, with the familiarity of use, the confidence of a professional. With the sureness of one who would use it without a flicker of remorse. He nodded to his colleague, who herded the men out of the cabin into a large warehouse twenty metres away. It smelt new, and echoed with the hollow, disconnected noise of all large, empty places. Sections of metal ducting were hanging from brackets and linked to large blowers, and a steady roar could be heard as the new heating system powered up, although the air here was still cold. The roof was cavernous and high and, to men from the agricultural lands of North Africa, impossibly big and difficult to take in.

The second guard led them over to the production line. This comprised large tables dotted with stools, each station equipped with a selection of screwdrivers and other hand tools. A conveyor belt ran alongside the tables, leading to an open area near the rear doors of the warehouse, where piles of cardboard boxes stood ready for filling, loading and labelling, and placing onto wooden pallets.

‘Welcome to France,’ said the tall man. His contemptuous smile contained no hint of welcome, no sign of weakness. The gun, they noted, had disappeared, the message delivered. ‘It’s time to start work.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘I found someone.’ Claude spoke with a casual air but Rocco could tell he was pleased with himself. He’d rung just as Rocco was about to leave for the office. Feeling frustrated at the lack of progress, he was thinking about the canal again. It had all begun there, and it was the one place from which they had so far gained no help whatsoever. He needed something – anything – to help move this case forward.

‘Good for you,’ Rocco replied. ‘You deserve some happiness. I hope she’s a great cook.’

‘Not that kind of someone – I mean a witness who saw a truck parked near the canal a couple of nights before the body turned up. I put out some feelers around the villages and he just rang. I think he’s hoping for a reward.’

Rocco stopped and sat down. This was too good to be true. Out of all the nights on all the roads in all of France, Claude had found—

‘Who and where?’ he said, and dragged a pad towards him.

‘His name’s Raoul Etcheverry and he lives in Autrey – that’s a village five kilometres from Poissons on the opposite side to where the dead guy turned up. He claims he saw a truck right where we found the bloodstains and the tracks.’

‘Raoul Etcheverry.’ Rocco rolled the name around on his tongue while he wrote. ‘Elegant name for these parts.’

‘Elegant name for any parts. He’s a retired veterinary surgeon from Lille. He’s also a semi-professional card player. Maybe I could get him to teach me a thing or two.’

‘How,’ said Rocco, ‘does a retired vet and semi-pro gambler find himself in the right place to see a truck in the middle of nowhere?’ He was sceptical about sightings such as these, and all too accustomed to people keen to help the police but finding their imaginations or memories working beyond what was a strictly correct recollection of what they had witnessed. But such offers always had to be investigated; even a tiny clue was better than nothing, and it was often the unremarkable point which witnesses considered unimportant that carried the day.

‘Easy. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he goes to play poker with a group of other enthusiasts in Amiens. The game goes on until the small hours. He was on his way home at about three, and saw a truck parked at the side of the road.’

‘Did he get the registration?’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’ Rocco wondered if this was going to be a glorified wild goose chase. It really was too good to be true. Yet stranger things had happened – and finding the truck again would be a major breakthrough. Criminals weren’t above torching a vehicle involved in a crime if there was even a remote chance that it could be traced. ‘How the hell did he do that?’

‘He’s a card player. He’s used to numbers. Haven’t you ever played?’

‘Yes, I have.’ Rocco’s card playing, though, was limited to days gone by in the army and his early days in the police, when it was used as a hedge against the boredom of inactivity between duty calls.

‘So, you know it’s all about remembering number sequences. It’s what he does.’

Rocco stood up. ‘Where is he? I need to meet him.’

‘Actually, on his way to Amiens. He’s visiting a friend, and I suggested he might drop by later to make a statement.’

Rocco made a mental note to get Claude some recognition for this. It was too common among some officers to look down on their rural colleagues, and he wanted Claude to get out from under that mantle of low regard. By anyone’s standards, this was good police work.

By midday, Rocco was seated in an interview room facing Etcheverry, a former vet, now gambler and seemingly upright citizen.

‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Etcheverry,’ he said cordially, ‘and agreeing to make a statement. How did you hear about our enquiry?’ It was an ice-breaker, a device he’d found useful for settling nerves and establishing positions right from the off.

Etcheverry smiled and clasped two large hands together on the table between them. His fingernails, Rocco noted, were bitten down and slightly grubby, and his clothes had a down-at-heel appearance. A vet fallen on hard times, he decided. He was built like a bear, and made the chair creak when he moved, which made Rocco wonder at the manual dexterity required for veterinary work and playing cards, and how on earth this man coped with both. He decided he knew next to nothing about human motor skills and let it go.

‘Through a friend of a friend,’ Etcheverry replied warily. He had a soft, cultured voice and spoke very precisely, leaning forward with his eyes fixed firmly on Rocco’s. It was slightly unnerving this close, and Rocco guessed that intimidation probably played a natural part in the man’s approach to gambling. Mind games, they called it.

‘That’s very public-spirited of you.’

‘Well, one tries to be a good citizen.’ He grinned almost slyly and ducked his head. ‘One never knows when there might be some recompense, of course …’

Rocco let that go without taking the bait. Money seemed a big factor in this man’s life. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what you saw.’

‘Well, I told the other officer—’

‘Of course. But this is for the official record. I’ll also need you to sign the statement afterwards.’ He hesitated, then added pointedly, ‘So we know who has contributed to solving a case.’

Etcheverry’s eyes lit up, impressed at the idea of official recognition. He described how he had spent a very pleasant evening playing cards with ‘friends’, and on his way home saw a truck at the side of the road. He remembered the number and recited it carefully.

‘Amazing,’ Rocco complimented him, playing on his ego. He wrote down the number. ‘Is that what they call a photographic memory?’

‘Well, perhaps not that, exactly,’ Etcheverry smirked modestly. ‘I can’t recall vast passages of text like some, but it helped me get through veterinary college and allows me to play poker without losing my trousers.’ He sniggered at the idea. ‘Um … is there any kind of reward for information leading to an arrest?’

‘Maybe. Did you see anyone with or near the truck?’

‘A driver, you mean?’

‘Anyone. Inside or out. Taking a leak, checking the tyres.’

‘No. Sorry. To be honest, it was just a flash.’ He leant forward to explain, breathing a gust of peppermint over Rocco’s face. ‘I was in a hurry to get home to my little dog – an Italian greyhound. She gets a little anxious when I’m out, you see. Very highly strung, as a breed.’

Rocco crossed off the word ‘wife’, which he’d scribbled down as a question for later. Perhaps he’d lost her in a game of cards.

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I was lighting a cigarette at the time and … I was driving carefully, though.’ He looked suddenly less pleased with himself, as if he had said too much. ‘I’d only drunk modestly all evening.’

‘Of course. And?’

‘It was enough, though, for me to see the number. That was it. Oh, and it looked like a Berliet.’

Rocco lifted an eyebrow. ‘You know trucks?’

Etcheverry shrugged. ‘My father dealt in them.’ He sniffed and tapped nervously on the table. ‘You said there might be a reward.’

‘So I did. If it leads to an arrest.’ He allowed a few seconds to go by while he made random jottings on his pad. Etcheverry sat waiting, and the silence built in the room, save for the scratching of Rocco’s pen.

‘Did you win much?’ Rocco asked suddenly. ‘At the game?’

‘Actually, a nice pot—’ The retired vet stopped, blushing furiously. He’d said too much, lulled by Rocco’s tactics. He looked away, eyes flickering.

Rocco looked at him. ‘You’ve performed a valuable service, for which I thank you.’

Etcheverry sat up, face brightening. ‘Ah. Good. Glad to hear it.’

‘Now I’m going to perform one for you. Actually, two. I won’t pass your name to the tax authorities, nor am I going to report you to that department of the police which deals with gambling in public places. You were playing in a café the other night, I take it?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Fair enough. You know it’s illegal to gamble in a public place unless sanctioned specifically by law?’

Etcheverry said nothing, his eyes rolling in shock. Greed had overtaken any natural caution he might have had. He nodded and stood up, then turned and left the room without a word. Rocco figured when he got outside and thought about it, he’d consider himself very lucky indeed.

Rocco handed his notes with the registration number to Desmoulins and asked him to put an immediate trace on the truck.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Nicole Glavin put down the telephone handset in the post office and sat back, feeling as though every fibre of her body was being slowly shredded. She had just heard the worst possible news – yet news she had known all along would one day surely come.

The clerk behind the counter signalled for her to vacate the booth for another customer. She stood up and went to pay for the call. It had not been cheap, calling her friend, Mina, but a necessity, and one she was half-wishing she hadn’t had to make. Now everything had changed.

Samir Farek was coming after her.

She made her way outside and back to the car, left under the cover of a tree on the edge of a small municipal park. A few children played nearby and a group of mothers watched them with eager eyes. She checked the street around her for new faces and familiar ones. New was OK. New was everywhere. But familiar, once something to be cherished with outstretched arms, was now to be feared. Familiar meant recognition and recognition meant a fate she didn’t care to contemplate.

‘Sorry, my sweet,’ she said softly, seeing the fearful look on the face in the back seat as she opened the car door. Her son, Massi, five years old with eyes that would surely one day tug at a lucky girl’s heartstrings. He smiled up at her, full of trust and love, and she thanked her stars that he looked nothing like his father. God at least had spared her that.

She closed the door and handed him a paper bag with some grapes and a banana. All she had to do now was decide her next course of action.

She sat back and let her thoughts drift. Rather than focus hard on a problem, she found it easier to let it make its own way, to tease out a solution in its own time.

She checked her wallet. She had built up sufficient funds to get them along the illegal pipeline through Marseilles – a hideously dangerous undertaking but her only way of getting out of the country and into France unseen – and to keep them on the road for a good while. She tried not to think about the other travellers along the way, young men from Tunisia, Morocco, Somalia and Libya. Most had observed her and Massi with curiosity, yet treated them with the region’s traditional respect shown to women and children. The journey had been appalling and dangerous, having to sit for hours cramped together in conditions she wouldn’t have applied to a dog. Massi, luckily, had seen it as a great adventure, and had remained remarkably upbeat and stoic, complaining very little.

She looked at a bangle on her wrist. Like her other jewellery and cash, which she had concealed in a body belt beneath her clothing during the journey, it was a commodity, if that became a necessity, to be sold for their continued survival. It would pain her to see it gone, but short-term pain was preferable to the long-term agony that would be inflicted on her if Farek ever caught up with them. Nearly all of the jewellery had been handed down from her grandmother, whose name had been Glavin, the one she was now using as an alias. It wasn’t the most secure one to use, because Farek would know it. But it would do for now; it felt familiar, comforting. And right now she needed all the comfort she could get.

She couldn’t believe it had come to this. Twelve years ago, her husband, Samir, had been a different man. Or had she been so simple, so naive, that she hadn’t seen – maybe hadn’t wanted to see – the truth of what he was already? Was it his subtle aura of danger that had turned her head? A chance, maybe, for her to find a more exciting life than any other on offer?

Whatever it was, he had changed gradually; had become first unthinking, then unkind, treating her more and more like a chattel and less like the lover of their early days. He began to stay out more and more, coming home reeking of cheap women and flaunting it in her face as if daring her to object. When she had done so, asking him where he’d been, the first time he had been merely angry, defensive. The second time he had gone into a violent rage, hurling abuse at her and slapping her. He had apologised later, but it was no longer the same between them. It was as if a hidden line had been crossed, separating them for ever. He had begun to bring his ‘associates’ home, banishing her to her room while they were there, occasionally snapping his fingers when he needed something and telling her to cover her face.

Then had come the deals, openly criminal in nature; hearing the threats made to those who stood up to him, enduring the screaming fits on the telephone against those who dared oppose him. Then came the death threats, as if he were taunting everyone, trying to find out how far he, Samir Farek, gangster, could go.

The answer was, very far indeed. And when the monstrous Bouhassa joined him, and the first bodies began to turn up, Nicole knew that she could stay no longer, no matter what. When she asked if she could travel to France with him next time he went on one of his business trips, a vague plan was forming in her mind. He refused point-blank. Out of the question.

‘But my grandmother was born there,’ she had reminded him, stifling a feeling of panic. ‘Surely I can see where a part of my family came from?’

He wouldn’t hear of it, resorting to a vitriolic tirade against all things French – especially the people who, he said, had placed the people of Algeria under their boots for far too long. It seemed he was able to forget that he had served in that very same army. Now, he had declared, the French yoke was there no longer; everything had changed.

Part of that change seemed to be relegating her to the position of a mute slave in a dead marriage.

She sat up. The children had stopped playing, their shrill voices stilled. The small park was deserted. She knew enough to realise that sitting here now made her noticeable – a target.

She started the car and checked Massi was comfortable, then took a deep breath. She had one clear option, but one which filled her with unease. From being around Samir Farek, she had learnt as if by osmosis that the police were not to be trusted. For every good policeman there was a bad one, one who had his price. And Samir Farek had the means to pay.

She was remembering with clarity the tall policeman she had encountered in the village of Poissons-les-Marais, up at the strange religious grotto on the hill. He had said he worked here in Amiens. That meant at the main police station which she had seen earlier. But was he trustworthy? Did he have a price, like many others? Or was she about to put her faith in a false image? He had seemed pleasant enough, his own man rather than someone’s lackey. But only time would tell.

Time. She checked her watch.

She had to leave Massi somewhere safe while she spoke to Rocco. Just in case. There was a woman who had already looked after him twice, when she’d had to go out. Amina was Somali, a cleaning lady with three children of her own, who wanted more. She was instantly friendly, openly welcoming. But discreet. You learnt that quickly when you were part of an unwelcome community.

Nicole put the car in gear and drove away.