Текст книги "Death on the Rive Nord"

Автор книги: Adrian Magson

Соавторы: Adrian Magson
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Nearly eight hundred kilometres to the south, Samir Farek had already moved with extraordinary speed. With the name and address of the handler in the port of Marseilles forced from the agent, Selim, in Oran – now relieved permanently of his lucrative post and his life – Farek and Bouhassa were waiting for their man to appear. A telephone call to his flat in a six-storey apartment building off Rue du Génie, behind the bustling Saint-Charles Station, had established that he was in. He had sounded groggy, recuperating no doubt after a night of heavy drinking.

‘He’ll come,’ said Farek confidently. He didn’t know the man, but he knew the kind of person he was dealing with: a low-level criminal named Maurice Tappa, trading in drugs, prostitution and now people. A bottom-feeder, moderately successful if you looked at his address, which wasn’t bad but not great, either. He would be sensitive to threats from the police because he wasn’t rich enough to pay for high-level protection and knew there was probably plenty they could be calling about. The call had been brief and anonymous, informing Tappa that the official hammer was about to drop. It had been enough to dispel his grogginess and set him running. All they had to do now was wait for him to come scuttling out.

Farek was a realistic man. He knew his disappearance from Oran would have been noted with interest, by the authorities as much as his enemies. The latter, especially, would be looking for a vacuum, a gap to fill. It was the way of things in his business. And maybe they would fill it before he got back.

But right now he was facing a crisis that had to be dealt with. His wife had left him, taking their young son, and soon everyone would know; every crook, pimp, cop and politician. He no longer cared for his wife; her French ancestry had been a help when they first married and he was looking to impress people, especially in the military. But he no longer needed that dubious cachet; he had forged his own future and the old colonial power had gone. As for the child, only a nod to convention made him spare the boy a thought. But his anger was reserved for his wife. She had caused him to lose face among his peers and his family, and that could not go unpunished. He felt a simmering rage at the thought of her doing this to him, and wondered if another man was involved. If that were the case, his pleasure would be short-lived and very, very painful.

When people heard that he, Samir Farek, had gone after his wife, and of the penalty she paid – as she surely would – he would win back the respect he had lost. No doubt about that. A question of honour.

The light moved as the glass-panelled rear door to the apartment block swung open. A short, squat figure hurried out into the shadowy courtyard and headed for a Mercedes parked nearby. The man was wearing a crumpled suit and carrying a small holdall and looked as if he had dressed in a hurry. His face was unshaven and pallid.

As the man reached the car, Bouhassa stepped out from the doorway to a small maintenance building. He looked like a ghost in his white djellaba, his head a shiny dome beneath the wrap-around industrial glasses. But his presence was real enough.

As was the gun in his hand.

‘Dear God,’ Tappa muttered, and swallowed hard. He dropped his car keys. They clinked to the ground, but he didn’t bother trying to retrieve them. He had recognised the fat man immediately and knew of his reputation. He also knew that Farek couldn’t be far away.

He was right.

‘Monsieur Tappa,’ said Farek politely, and appeared as if out of nowhere, stepping in close so that the Frenchman couldn’t escape, even had his legs been able to carry him. ‘How delightful to catch up with you.’

‘What do you want?’ Tappa gabbled, and tried to melt into the coachwork of the Mercedes, desperately looking for a way out. The holdall fell with a soft thud.

For an answer, Farek bent and picked up the car keys. When he straightened again, he had them clasped with the main key protruding between his first and second fingers. ‘I believe you may have assisted a woman to come to France,’ he said softly. ‘From Oran.’ He lifted his hand and teased the point of the key gently across Tappa’s face, stopping just beneath his left eye. ‘Am I wrong?’

‘It wasn’t me,’ said Tappa automatically, eyes flicking between Farek and the fat man in the white robe. ‘I don’t move women – they’re too much trouble. Who told you it was me?’

‘Let’s say we have information from an impeccable source … in Oran. Well?’

‘Oh.’ Tappa appeared to relent. ‘Well, in that case, maybe I did, once.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Yes. Why do you want to know?’ Tappa was regaining his nerves. ‘You want to buy her back or something? She didn’t look that special to me. Just a sheep on the move.’

Farek lifted an eyebrow. Only those who knew him well would have noticed the sudden danger sign of a pulse beating in his neck. ‘A sheep? Is that all they are to you, these people?’

Tappa gave a feeble laugh. ‘Sure. Why not? They’re hardly high value, are they? Cheap labour, that’s all. They don’t smell too good, either.’

Farek tapped the key against the other man’s cheek. ‘Mr Tappa,’ he said very softly, ‘you’ve just been talking about my wife.’

What little colour remained drained from Tappa’s face. ‘What? I mean, I didn’t know who she was – how could I? She was just a sh—’ He stopped; he’d already said too much, then gabbled, ‘They don’t tell us their names …!’

‘Where?’

‘P-pardon?’

‘Where did she go? It’s an easy enough question.’

‘I don’t – I’m not sure.’

‘Pity.’ Farek pressed the point of the key beneath the man’s eyeball, lifting it slightly in its socket, yet without breaking the skin. Tappa whimpered and lifted on his toes, trying to escape the relentless pressure and the first hint of the pain to come. To add to his terror, the vast figure of Bouhassa had moved in and was now standing close, cutting off any chance of escape … and any chance that someone might see what was happening. ‘Wait! Wait … I can remember, I promise! Of course. Stupid of me to forget such a thing. It was north. That’s right, north.’

‘North where? North Pole?’ The key probed deeper.

‘Chalon-sur-Saône. Near Dijon.’ Tappa began to weep, his whole body trembling with fear.

Farek was unmoved. ‘How far is that? How long to drive?’

‘Distance, I don’t know. Four … maybe five hours … a little longer. Please, I don’t—’

‘Name.’

‘What?’

‘A name. At this place called Chalon-sur-Saône which is four, maybe five hours away.’ As Farek knew well from his own line of business, every supply line consisted of contacts, like way stations, with the product being shuttled from one to another. It mattered not whether the product was animal, vegetable or mineral. Or human. The arrangement was the same. Each cut-out reduced the chances of too many in the line being scooped up if someone talked. ‘Who do I ask for?’

Tappa held out only for a fleeting moment, then told Farek everything he wanted to know.

Farek stood back a pace and smiled. ‘There. See how easy that was?’ He bent and picked up the holdall, sliding the zip open. Dumped a spare shirt and underclothes on the tarmac, then raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, you keep your savings under the mattress, I see. Doesn’t say much for your faith in the banking system, does it?’ He closed the holdall and said, ‘Nice doing business with you, Maurice. Adieu.’ Then he turned and walked away, leaving a smiling Bouhassa to take his place.

Tappa groaned and fell back against the car.

The sound of his dying didn’t even reach the street.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There was an urgent knock at the door of the office Rocco was using. It was Desmoulins.

‘Got the information on the truck Etcheverry saw,’ said the detective. ‘He was spot on. It’s registered to Armand Maurat. He’s an owner-driver, works out of Saint-Quentin running small haulage all over. Mostly last-minute stuff the bigger firms can’t factor into their schedules. When he’s not doing that he works as a stand-in driver for a general haulier called Convex. Among other things, they’re contractors for a bunch of the smaller champagne houses.’

Rocco stood up. At last, something positive. A glass of champagne would go down very well right now; just the thing to get him firing on all cylinders. Some hope.

‘Where is he at the moment?’

‘According to a woman at his home address, he’s at a warehouse, doing some night work. She sounded old and cranky. I told her I was checking on a load.’

Rocco looked at his watch. Nearly six. He wondered how long Maurat would be around before he picked up a load and disappeared on a trip to God knew where. They couldn’t risk alerting the man by ringing first, and it was almost guaranteed that if he was involved in the death of the man in the canal, his radar would have him up and running the moment he heard the police wanted to talk to him.

‘How far to Saint-Quentin from here?’

‘Eighty kilometres – about an hour thirty if we’re lucky. It’s a straight road but there are roadworks on the way.’

‘We?’ Rocco looked at him, then considered the sense in having another pair of eyes and ears along. He nodded and pulled on his coat. ‘This might be a late night; you’d better warn your wife.’

Desmoulins grinned happily, keen to be out of the office. ‘No problem. She’s got her sister staying anyway; I doubt she’ll even notice.’

Ten minutes later, they were in Rocco’s car with Desmoulins at the wheel. Rocco was already half asleep, falling back on the usual cop’s instinct to get some rest while he could, in case it wasn’t possible later.

He didn’t notice the cream-coloured Peugeot pulling up as they left, nor the attractive young woman in a headscarf, locking the door and hurrying inside.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Saint-Quentin late at night had the look and feel of a graveyard. Rocco had expected more movement somehow, as if the town might harbour a secret nightlife when the more licentious inhabitants came out to frolic. But he was disappointed. Instead, the pale-yellow street lights were struggling to fight their way through a cold mist hanging over the town, leaving it like a deserted film set. Surveillance was always more difficult with little or no background cover, and he regretted bringing the Citroën. An anonymous, family-type saloon car would have fitted in more easily.

He stopped on the western outskirts and nudged Desmoulins, who sat up, rubbing his face. They had changed halfway, giving the detective a chance to get some rest. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to sleep that long.’

‘No problem,’ Rocco murmured. He took a map off the dashboard and handed it to his colleague. He’d written Maurat’s address on the margin and circled the street. In a town this size, they must be fairly close to it.

Desmoulins pointed towards the north side of town. ‘Over that way.’

Rocco took them into a scattering of streets with little movement and few cars. After a couple of turns down mist-shrouded dead ends which the map seemed unaware of, they found themselves in a darkened street where the buildings on either side looked abandoned, as if the area was in the middle of a demolition phase.

Halfway along the street stood a group of young men. They were barely out of their teens and wore black leather jackets and jeans, the new youth uniform of choice. No signs of bikes, though. Pavement bikers.

‘All we need,’ muttered Desmoulins, as a couple of the youths saw them and stepped into the street. One of them belched loudly and tossed an empty beer bottle onto the bonnet of the Citroën, drawing laughter from the others. The bottle hung for a second, balanced precariously, then rolled and dropped to the tarmac, where it smashed.

‘Cheeky bastard!’ Desmoulins growled, and reached for the door handle.

‘Leave it,’ said Rocco calmly, pulling to a stop. There was no way round them, only over. Confrontation was what these kids were after. He’d seen it before: hungry for some excitement, bored by mindless jobs, one wrong look and they’d be over the car like a rash.

The drunk who had tossed the bottle ambled over to the car on Rocco’s side. He banged a fist on the door panel while his friends stood in Rocco’s path and watched. He was short and squat, with powerful arms and a chest straining at his vest. In the glow from the car’s lights, his face was suffused with a nameless anger.

‘Hey – spare some change?’ the youth shouted, and laughed sourly at his own humour. He turned to look at his mates. When he turned back he was holding a large clasp knife in his hand. He began waving it over the Citroën’s paintwork, his tongue sticking out and a wild grin on his face. His intentions were crystal clear.

Rocco lowered his window. He said to the youth, ‘Sure.’ In his hand was the gleam of coins.

But the youth wanted more. In a flicker he was at Rocco’s side, the knife lifting as he saw his opportunity. He signalled to his friends to go round the other side of the vehicle. They did so, leaving the way clear.

‘Out of the car, sucker—’ the youth began. Then he stopped speaking as Rocco’s clenched fist, wrapped tightly around the coins, struck him in the side of the neck with a meaty smack.

Rocco stamped on the accelerator and the Citroën leapt forward, leaving the youth gurgling and clutching his neck, and his friends standing helpless in the middle of the street.

‘Was that really necessary?’ said Desmoulins, dryly. He twisted round in his seat, watching to see if the gang had any way of coming after them. But the injured youth was kneeling in the road, holding his throat, while his friends stood watching, stunned by the turn of events.

‘What did you want me to do?’ Rocco asked calmly. ‘Offer him a lift?’

‘No. I wanted you to let me out to give him a kicking.’ He grinned and turned his attention to the map and gave directions, taking them through a series of turns and narrow streets towards the outskirts of town. They finally reached a road with a line of small, prefabricated bungalows on one side and a dark, featureless expanse of land on the other. Few of the bungalows had cars in evidence, and most of the fabric of the buildings looked neglected and drab under the weak street lamps. A dog watched them roll by before scurrying away into the darkness. There was no other movement.

‘Homely looking dump,’ said Desmoulins.

Rocco saw a doorway with a light overhead and drew to a stop across the street. He saw a number painted on the front porch. This was the place.

Close up, even in the dark, it was no palace. The small front garden was overgrown and dank, the house itself rundown, with shutters hanging limply across the windows, emitting a faint gleam of yellow light through the single diamond aperture in each side.

Alongside the house stood a Berliet truck, the familiar logo with the circle and downwards arrow just visible in the light.

‘Looks like our boy’s home,’ murmured Desmoulins. ‘I’d love to have a look in the back of that truck.’

‘Me too. Watch our backs,’ said Rocco, and got out of the car.

He knocked on the door and listened for sounds of movement. He’d decided to try Maurat’s home address first, in case the driver had finished his shift. There was no sound and no sign of life in the houses on either side. Elsewhere, a door slammed followed by something rattling against a dustbin, and in the distance a train rattled along a track. He knocked again, and was about to return to the car when he heard a rattle from inside.

‘What do you want?’ The door flew open and Rocco turned to see an elderly woman in carpet slippers and an old, faded dressing gown. In spite of her age, she was tall and upright, her eyes firmly fixed on his in a no-nonsense stare.

He asked if Armand was in.

‘No,’ the woman shot back. ‘And don’t bother asking me where he is – I’m his mother; he doesn’t tell me a thing. He’ll be back in the morning.’ She began to close the door.

Rocco put out a hand and stopped it. ‘I need to speak to him,’ he said quietly, glancing over his shoulder in a conspiratorial manner. ‘I’ve got a job of work for him.’

Mme Maurat snorted in disbelief. ‘Really? It’s so urgent you come looking for him now?’ She peered up at him, craning her neck. ‘Mother of God, you’re a big lad. I’ve never seen you before.’

‘Let’s keep it that way, shall we? I need to speak to your son, and it won’t wait. It’s very important – a special load to go out.’

‘Who’s the shy one?’ The old woman’s eyes had swept past Rocco and alighted on Desmoulins sitting in the car. There was nothing wrong with her eyesight.

‘He’s a colleague you also didn’t see. Now cut the crap and tell me where he is.’ He took a note out of his pocket and held it up so she could see it.

Her lined face pinched in resentment at his tone, but she chewed the matter over, eyeing Rocco then the money. Eventually the temptation proved too much. She snatched the note from his hand, then backed up and took a pen and a scrap of paper from a table behind her and scribbled down an address. It was for the Convex warehouse.

‘He’s doing a bit of night work for a friend. Deliveries and stuff. I’m sure he’ll find a way of helping you out.’ She smiled obsequiously, but the meaning wasn’t even skin-deep. ‘Now fuck off.’ This time she slammed the door in his face.

Rocco grinned and went back to the car. Maurat’s home life must be great fun.

‘If her son’s up to anything other than a bit of moonlighting,’ he told Desmoulins, ‘his mother doesn’t know about it. Either that, or she’s a great actress.’

He followed Desmoulins’ directions and drove back the way they had come, turning off before reaching the street where they’d had the confrontation with the youths. They eventually arrived at a commercial estate on the western side of town, and saw a row of warehouses. Only one unit showed any signs of life. The name CONVEX was painted across the fascia, and a thin glimmer of light shone under a closed roller door.

From inside came the high-pitched whine of a forklift truck. Outside under a security light were three skips loaded with discarded packing material.

Rocco stopped a short distance away under the cover of a parked trailer unit. He was just considering what approach to make when a side door opened, spilling light. A tall, thin man in blue overalls scurried out, slamming the door behind him. He looked around, then hurried over to a battered Simca and got in. He drove off with a faint squeal of rubber on the tarmac.

‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ murmured Desmoulins.

‘It’s him,’ said Rocco. There was something about the man’s stance which was identical to the old woman they’d just seen. ‘She tipped him off, the sly old boot.’

CHAPTER TWENTY

They followed the Simca through a maze of streets towards the centre of town. Maurat drove fast, with little regard for the speed limits, and it soon became clear that he wasn’t heading back to Mummy. Wherever he was going, for a man on a mission he seemed unaware that anyone might be tracking him. His driving was also erratic and difficult to follow, as he appeared to be looking for something. Twice he stopped outside cafés, both of which were shut. On what became a meandering tour, they passed the heavily ornate frontage of the hôtel de ville twice, and the Simca hesitated near the Basilique once before driving on with a burst of speed.

‘Christ, what’s this – a tourist trip?’ muttered Desmoulins.

Rocco was initially worried that Maurat was actually aware of them on his tail, having spotted them with his stop-start tactics. But then the Simca finally crossed the river which bisected the town and stopped in a street near the railway station. Maurat jumped out and, without looking back, hurried down a darkened alley alongside a café with a dim light burning inside.

Rocco parked along the street and waited.

‘What do we do, boss?’ said Desmoulins.

‘We give it a few minutes,’ said Rocco. ‘When he comes out again we’ll follow him and catch him somewhere quieter.’

‘Why don’t we just go and kick a couple of doors in? We’re cops, aren’t we?’

Rocco was tempted, but reminded himself that he was too exposed now to use methods which would have gone unnoticed when facing gang members in Paris, who reached for guns almost by nature. Employing excessive force would be playing right into Massin’s hands. ‘It’s not that simple,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t check in with the local chief before coming here.’

‘Ah.’ Desmoulins pulled a face. ‘And you didn’t get this cleared by Massin, either?’

Rocco nodded. Under the national initiative which had brought him out of Paris, his roving brief carried a considerable distance. But courtesies were supposed to be observed when stepping onto another district’s territory, which they were doing right now. ‘I’d rather the locals didn’t know we were after Maurat, in case he has friends.’

They sat in silence, the night air closing in on them. A buzz of music came from behind the café window, but everywhere else was silent save for the occasional car or moped passing the end of the street.

Rocco stared at the café and wondered what was going on inside. They had been waiting fifteen minutes and Maurat had still not emerged from the alley. For all they knew he could have walked straight through and left the area by other means. But that presupposed he knew they had been following him, and Rocco was pretty sure the man had no idea. He’d skipped out of the warehouse pretty swiftly, and probably hadn’t even looked in his rear-view mirror. The café might have nothing to do with Maurat, but he had called at two other similar establishments before settling on this place.

‘Come on. Let’s go inspect the nightlife.’ He climbed out and closed his door, followed by Desmoulins.

As they crossed the deserted street, he wondered what had brought Maurat here. Picking up instructions, maybe? Or spooked by his mother into diving under cover?

He paused before nudging open the door, catching a glimpse of the interior through a grubby net curtain. A fifty-something woman with beefy arms stood behind the bar, wiping glasses. Three men in rough working clothes were drinking in front of her, with another on a pinball machine. The ping of the ball hitting the bollards vied with a blast of bad rock music coming from a speaker on the wall. A single door with a smoked-glass panel led to the rear of the premises. The few Formica-topped tables were vacant.

The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of fried onions. As the door let in the night air around Rocco and Desmoulins, the smoke swirling like a living thing, everyone turned to look. Tired eyes, pasty skin and the usual expressions of wariness at a haven being invaded by strangers. Rocco was used to it.

The pinball machine gave a hollow thunk as the loose ball dropped unhindered into the tray, and the player swore softly.

Rocco ordered two beers and nodded at the three customers, all nursing glasses of milky pastis. They looked away without responding. The woman behind the bar pulled two beers without comment and slid them across with practised economy of effort. Unexpected customers they might be but clearly a welcoming smile wasn’t part of the deal.

Rocco slid some coins back and nodded his thanks.

‘Anyone seen Armand?’ he said, after taking the top off his beer. He figured that shaking the tree couldn’t do any harm, not now they knew where Maurat lived and worked. If word travelled fast enough, as it probably would do, it might make him panic and drop the ball.

Desmoulins picked up his glass and wandered over to watch the pinball player start a new game, leaning comfortably against the wall next to the rear door.

‘Armand?’ The woman pulled a face and rubbed at a clean glass, the flesh of her arms wobbling like a half-set crème caramel. ‘Armand who?’

Rocco ignored her. Part of a barkeeper’s job in a place like this was playing defence against unknown visitors asking questions. If they didn’t, their customer base didn’t stay around long.

Desmoulins wandered back, his glass drained, and gave a minute shake of his head.

They left.

Outside, Rocco stepped into the alley, feeling the crunch of litter underfoot. The street lights barely penetrated the darkened recesses, but they could see enough to identify two doorways on each side, and what might have been a loading bay at the end. Rocco tried the doors on his side, but they were locked tight. He looked across at Desmoulins, who found the same.

‘Come on.’ Rocco backed up and returned to the car. He had a feeling Maurat had gone underground for a while. It might be better to let him come to them.

‘Where to?’ said Desmoulins. He sounded disappointed at the prospect of giving up so soon.

‘Back where we came from. If he goes anywhere, it’ll be home to Mummy.’