Death on the Rive Nord lr-2 Page 17

It was one of the men from the cafe, Caspar noted with surprise. As the man stood up, his companion tried to pull him back, but he waved off the restraining hand with an angry gesture. ‘You think you can come in here just like that?’ He snapped his fingers, the sound loud in the silence. ‘You come from your little piss-pot of an empire in Oran and decide to tell us how we will run things?’ The man spat sideways into the aisle, showing his contempt. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, huh? A man who can’t even control his own wife!’

  An intake of breath followed amid warnings from within the crowd, most concerned, some not. But it was already too late. The challenge had been issued and in a most personal manner.

  Farek stood up. He stepped to the front of the stage and gestured towards the door. ‘You are free to leave, my friend,’ he said calmly. ‘As is anyone else who holds the same views.’ He looked around the sea of faces. ‘Anyone?’

  Nobody took up the invitation. The protester looked around, his face twisting in dismay as he realised that he was entirely on his own. He looked down at his companion for support, but the other man refused to meet his eye.

  Then Bouhassa made his move.

  He stepped out from behind the chaise longue and walked down the side of the stage. His heavy tread boomed ominously on the wooden steps and his nasal breathing was harsh in the ominous silence. As he moved, the crowd parted like the sea in front of a large ship, men moving quickly away from a killer whose reputation had gone before him. Bouhassa reached the protester and grasped his arm as if he were a small child, then dragged him out through a swing door to one side, which flip-flapped after them in a grotesque imitation of a farewell.

  Then came movement on either side of the stage as a number of men appeared. Men in dark suits, hands clasped in front of them, watching the assembled audience without expression.

  There were gasps from all over the room; a few faint protests, but nobody stood up. Nobody moved.

  Caspar found he was holding his breath. Jesus, the theatrics. But it was working! Farek had done it. He had taken over without a shot being fired. These people probably didn’t realise it yet, but they’d just witnessed the biggest cave-in in underworld history.

  Someone clapped. It was a catalyst. Others followed, chairs scraping back as men stood, and the applause echoed around the auditorium. Voices began calling for more, welcoming the new order.

  Caspar stood up and joined in, but felt sickened by the threat involved in this new future. If he did nothing else tonight, he had to get word out to his old bosses. They’d have a collective fit.

  Then someone touched his arm. He turned and saw two men standing close behind him. Dark suits, rolls of muscle across the shoulders, bulges beneath their jackets, they eyed him without expression. The men closest to Caspar moved away, leaving him alone among the chairs, another untouchable.

  As Caspar was led away, he looked back to see Farek watching him from the stage.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The operation kicked off at 23.00 hours precisely, with a fleet of vehicles spreading out from various locations around the town, carrying uniformed officers, detectives and personnel from the Immigration Service.

  Massin oversaw the details like a military campaign, marshalling men and vehicles by the clock, mindful that his division would be under scrutiny from various quarters, both as soon as the first factory was breached and in the aftermath once the press, unions and other political bodies got word of events.

  Rocco watched as the station yard emptied and men went about their tasks, and was impressed by Massin’s command of detail. But then, he reminded himself, the former army CO had been through the elite military academy of Saint-Cyr, where organisation and strategy were high on the curriculum for officers with ambition. If you could plan a battle, making a sweep through a few factories should be child’s play.

  Desmoulins wandered across to where Rocco was eyeing a large chart on the wall of the briefing room. The chart showed the layout of three factory sites to be searched. They were mostly small operations employing unskilled staff, ranging from food production to assembly works. But that was the secret: unskilled staff on low wages working long hours. Nobody would be surprised by such places working throughout the night to fulfil desperately needed orders.

  Each suspected building had been placed under surveillance during the late afternoon to monitor activity and identify any vehicles arriving or leaving, and to gauge what was going on inside. When the search teams got a signal from an officer on watch, they would go straight in and close down the site. Buses would be on hand to take away anyone suspected of not having the correct documentation, along with those running the factory.

  ‘I seem to have got left behind,’ said Desmoulins cheerfully. ‘What about you?’

  Rocco shrugged. He’d been careful not to get himself assigned to any particular group, staying well back when personnel were being selected. Evidently he wasn’t the only one. He wondered how he could get the detective out of the way without being too obvious. What he was planning depended on all the noise and distraction being focused elsewhere. He didn’t need witnesses.

  ‘You’ll never manage by yourself, you know,’ Desmoulins murmured. He had a knowing expression on his face. ‘And it’ll take too long for your mate Lamotte to get here from Poissons. Besides,’ he puffed out his barrel chest and flexed his arms, which were already straining the fabric of his shirt, ‘I’m way stronger.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Rocco, although he did.

  ‘Sure you do. You’re going over the wire, aren’t you? Into the Ecoboras place.’ He waited for Rocco to say something, then added, ‘I would if it was me. With all the shit and shouting going on elsewhere, who’d notice one man popping over a little fence?’

  Rocco gave it some thought. He liked Desmoulins and had found him a reliable and genial character. The detective was a good thinker and seemed well above the petty politics going on in this place. For most of his working life, he’d found it hard to put personal trust above the professional kind customary among colleagues sharing a dangerous occupation. Somehow it always seemed easier not to put too much in anyone. He sighed. Maybe it was about time he broke the habit.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ he said finally.

  ‘Easy.’ Desmoulins grinned. ‘You know the army assault courses and the high wall, where someone always had to be the base man?’

  Rocco nodded, knowing what was coming.

  ‘Well, that was me. Every time.’ He looked Rocco up and down, assessing his size and weight. ‘I could punt you over, no problem. You probably wouldn’t even touch metal.’ He turned away and grabbed his coat, picked up a flashlight. ‘Your car or mine?’

  Ten minutes later, they were crossing the second set of lock gates which Demai had shown them, and jumping down the other side. The thunder of water roared in Rocco’s ears and the spray rose once again to touch his face with icy fingers. Behind him the town was hidden under a familiar layer of cold mist, and only the occasional sound of vehicles drifted through the night air.

  He rounded the curve of the canal, stepping carefully until he saw the first glare of floodlights. This close to the factory, a faint hum carried through the air. Rocco stopped and watched for movement, looking obliquely at the shadows and eyeing the water for signs of boats. Nothing moved. The surface of the canal was still, like black ice. He signalled to Desmoulins and continued until they were close to the security fence, then stepped off the towpath into an area of deep shadow where the lights couldn’t penetrate. From here, there was a good view of the gate in the fence. It was shut and padlocked.

  He turned and moved along the rear of the factory, ducking beneath the level of the bank to avoid the glare of the lights. When he came to another block of shadow, he stood up and pressed close to the metal fence, studying the outwards curve of the bars at the top. They were designed to prevent access over the top, since few people wanted to risk catching their clothing on the
spikes, and most lacked the strength to haul themselves up by armpower alone.

  Rocco took off his coat and tossed it on top of the fence. Desmoulins braced himself and cupped his hands, then nodded for Rocco to step into the stirrup. The moment Rocco did so, he huffed briefly, then heaved upwards, using his weightlifter’s shoulders to power Rocco upwards with almost childish ease. With a kick of his leg, Rocco rolled over the top curve of the fence and dropped down on the far side, pulling his coat with him. Scanning the building to make sure there were no signs of movement, he jogged across to a collection of large rubbish bins, where he settled down to catch his breath. When he looked back, Desmoulins had dropped out of sight.

  In a house barely a kilometre away, Nicole Farek went to the telephone in the hallway and waited to make sure nobody was listening. She had been out during the day, listening among the mothers and grandmothers gathered near the schools, shops and nurseries in the town, eager to catch any gossip spreading among the immigrant community. With Massi beside her, it had been simple to blend with the groups, another mother trying to make her way in a strange world. Most of the talk had been about the shortage of good job opportunities and housing, the difficulties in getting an education for them and their children, and the increasing numbers of other new arrivals which were making a strained situation even worse. But there had been an undercurrent, too, and Nicole had soon caught the familiar name.

  Farek.

  He was here, in France. The news had travelled fast, rippling out through the Algerian community and spreading by word of mouth, the way bad news always does. Farek the gangster was here. He had come from Oran to bring the clans together. Not everyone understood what that meant exactly, but there was a sense in the air that it might not be good.

  For families it spelt the worst kind of news. Life was already hard here; you didn’t need to see the newspapers to know that. You could pick it up in the street by reading the faces of the women struggling to make ends meet. Many of the men, however, especially the young, had a different agenda. They wanted change and they wanted it now. Not for them the slow grind of manual work, the gradual improvement over a lifetime. Coming here had promised so much, they didn’t want to wait.

  Someone like Samir Farek could provide that change.

  It was their right.

  Nicole felt a tug of fear in her chest and reached for the telephone. It wouldn’t take long for Farek to find her now. Someone, somewhere would hear something and talk. And she couldn’t kid herself that people weren’t already wondering who she was, this lone woman with a small boy, who’d appeared out of the pipeline. By far the biggest threat was the men who had travelled with her. They were right here, too. Living, working, sleeping, talking. Desperate for a way to earn money.

  And if one way to do that was the promise of a reward for finding a woman and a boy, they would remember her in an instant.

  She dialled the number from memory.

  The phone was picked up. A man’s voice, official and brusque. She asked to speak to Inspector Rocco.

  ‘Rocco? He’s not here. Call back tomorrow.’

  ‘Is he at home?’ She remembered the village, Poissons, where they had met. He’d said he lived there. How difficult would it be to find a policeman in a small place like that?

  ‘I can’t give you that information. Tomorrow.’

  She felt like screaming with frustration at the bland response.

  Tomorrow, then. She would find him. First she had to get back to Massi, then get ready to move.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The atmosphere closed around Rocco as he became accustomed to the sounds and smells of the factory site. Looking through a narrow gap above his head, he saw bats darting to and fro, their jagged movements touching the edges of the security lights. Elsewhere he heard scurrying movements on the ground as other night creatures took opportunity where it presented itself.

  He’d moved along the back of the building earlier, looking for a hiding place, and found one of the rubbish skips near the front corner covered with a plastic tarpaulin. It was almost full of cardboard packaging and offcuts of cladding used on the exterior of the factory, and he guessed it was ready for collection. It smelt of plastic and paint thinner, but gave him a good view of the gate and security cabin.

  He’d slipped inside and made himself a gap, then settled down to wait and listen.

  After a while he dozed, the effects of the paint thinner and the warm air of his own breathing captured beneath the tarpaulin acting as a soporific. His mind whirled with images, the way it often did when in the thick of an investigation: of Nicole, tall and smooth-skinned and strong; of Massin, hell-bent on being his nemesis; of Caspar, the tortured undercover cop; of the cold canal and the rotting hulk where men had slept, dreaming of a rescue from desperation and the chance of a better life.

  He came awake as a breeze shook the plastic above his head. It made a sharp, crackling sound, amplified in the metal frame of the skip. He peered under the edge of the tarpaulin, careful not to disturb the rubbish around him. Looking towards the front, he could just see the security guard in his cabin. He looked as if he were half asleep.

  Something wasn’t right, and it took him a moment to realise what it was.

  All he could hear was silence. No machinery, no voices, none of the sounds of activity that he’d heard when he followed Demai along here the previous night. Just the faint hum of the heating system coming from a vent on the wall some way above his hiding place.

  He climbed out of the skip and padded along the rear of the factory, stopping to test a fire door on the way. It was locked, as he’d expected. The same with the access door to the delivery bay. He bent and listened at a gap in the roller door, but there was no light, no sound.

  The place was deserted.

  Fifteen minutes later, he and Desmoulins were back at the station, and it was soon clear when the teams began drifting back, empty-handed and disconsolate, that the rest of the night’s activities had been a failure.

  ‘It’s a bloody disaster!’ Captain Canet, whose uniformed men had been the main thrust of the sweep, was prowling the corridors, quietly furious. ‘How can they all have so conveniently shut down on the same night?’ His mood was echoed by a number of others. All their concerted efforts had netted was just two men, working late at a small vegetable processing plant. And they had only been discovered because they happened to turn the wrong corner at the wrong moment and walked smack into a group of disgruntled officers who demanded to see their papers. They had none and were arrested. It was a small but bitter victory.

  Massin dismissed the men and called all senior officers and detectives into his office, where he rounded on them the moment the door was closed.

  ‘This is unbelievable!’ he snapped, his eyes flaring with anger. ‘How did this happen? Someone please tell me!’

  Canet took a deep breath. ‘Someone warned them,’ he said, aware that the question was rhetorical, but wanting to voice the unspeakable anyway. He glanced at his colleagues. ‘Someone deliberately put the word out that we were coming. A simple leak would not have caused them all to shut up shop on the same night.’

  ‘Who?’ Massin stared around the room. He wasn’t expecting an answer, but the meaning was clear: he wanted a name, sooner or later. Someone had to pay for the failure of what should have been a straightforward operation.

  Rocco thought back to the briefing. It had to have been from that point on. Instinct had him placing his money on Tourrain, although he was trying not to give way to prejudice about the man’s racist leanings. But the detective had been looking a little too quietly pleased with himself, as if he knew something nobody else did. For an officer about to go on a sweep, which was pretty much standard police work, he should have been no more affected at the prospect of trawling through factories at the dead of night for illegal workers than the next man. Yet his expression had been oddly animated.

  Unfortunately, Rocco knew that there was no way of proving
it without an admission from the detective himself or one of the men organising the workers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The phone ringing kicked Rocco out of a troubled sleep. He pushed back the blankets, wincing at the chill in the air of his bedroom. He hadn’t used the wood burner for a couple of days and the house was like a cold store. Much more of this and even the fouines up in the attic would leave home in search of warmer premises.

  He groped for the handset, his head like cotton wool. ‘Yes.’ It was all he could think of to say. He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock. Jesus, no wonder he felt light-headed. Probably Massin calling another council of war to pursue the leak in the building. He’d have been hugely embarrassed by the operation’s failure, especially if the other regions had been successful, and he’d be looking to collect a scalp somehow to show the men at the Ministry.

  Rocco almost felt sorry for him.

  He stood up and grabbed his coat off the chair where he’d left it last night, shrugged it around his shoulders and trailed the phone and wire through to the kitchen. Coffee. He needed coffee.

  It was Desmoulins, sounding tired. ‘Lucas, you need to get in here.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You went to speak to Gondrand the other day, right? About a car you’d seen — a Peugeot?’

  ‘What about it?’ Nicole’s 403. It seemed a long time ago now. Ancient history, almost.

  ‘Gondrand’s been hit. The car lot’s been destroyed. They reckon it was a firebomb.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘The old man’s dead.’

  The Gondrand car lot looked like a war zone. A heavy pall of smoke hung over the area around what had once been Victor Gondrand’s pride and joy, and the smell of burning rubber choked the atmosphere from a good kilometre away. As Rocco climbed out of his car he saw smouldering pennants hanging from their support wires and heard the tortured groan of overheated metal and the crackle of burning plastic echoing in the bitter morning air. Firemen in shiny helmets and heavy boots were dousing the smouldering remains of vehicles, but the heat from the burnt hulks was considerable, made worse by occasional flashes of renewed fire as the heat found remnants of fuel and oil in the tanks and engine blocks.