Rocco and the Nightingale Page 3

  She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, nothing really. Old age pains, I expect. You’ll get them yourself one day, believe me.’

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’ Rocco didn’t know her real age, but he guessed she was in her seventies. Like most country people, she was tough and obstinate when it came to ailments and brushed off any questions about her health. A little like his own mother had done years before.

  ‘Actually, I’m going into town tomorrow,’ she said, surprising him. ‘A good friend in the village told me about a specialist who’s holding a surgery at the hospital. The pain has been keeping me awake so I decided to see what can be done about it. There. Satisfied?’

  ‘When tomorrow?’

  She gave him a sharp look. ‘Why – are you checking up on me?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve got some time off and I know the bus through here doesn’t always turn up on time. And you won’t be able to get back easily. So I’ll take you.’ He smiled. ‘Who knows, if you behave yourself I might even bring you back.’

  She scowled and began to protest but he raised a hand to forestall her. ‘You can argue all you like, but I insist. Anyway, what will I do for eggs, vegetables and gossip if you’re not well?’

  She prodded his chest with a gentle finger. ‘I’ve never asked you for anything and I never would. Understood?’

  ‘I know that. But I’m offering – which is not the same thing.’

  ‘Good point. As long as we’re clear on that. My appointment is at four in the afternoon.’ She smiled with gratitude. ‘Can I make you some coffee? You look like you could do with it. While the water boils you can tell me all about your latest case.’

  ‘How do you know I’ve got one?’

  ‘Because you have that look about you; the one that tells me your brain is working overtime trying to tease out a puzzle. Am I right?’

  He raised a hand in resignation. She was as sharp as a razor and didn’t miss a thing, and he was still getting used to the fact that news travelled fast here, often much faster than in cities, even without the benefit of telephones.

  ‘A coffee would be good,’ he admitted, thinking that anything would be better after the black poison he’d had at the café. And any time spent with Mme Denis was a great counter to his daily work, even if she did like hearing about every detail.

  ‘And a chat?’

  ‘A chat, too. But strictly between us.’

  She smiled impishly and led the way into her cottage. ‘That goes without saying. Don’t you know the best part of being a gossip is knowing something that nobody else does?’

  Rocco followed her into her kitchen and sat down at the table. It was spotlessly clean, with the air of a room regularly scrubbed whether it needed it or not. She waved away his offers of help and busied herself heating water and filling an ancient aluminium cafetière topped by a glass lid. She poured two cups and placed them on the table with a box of sugar cubes and a small canister of milk. Rocco usually drank his coffee black, but he’d learned quickly that the old lady expected him to take milk with his, believing that too much black coffee was bad for the digestion. He wondered what she would say if she saw the stuff being served at the café in Faumont.

  ‘So,’ she said, taking a chair across from him, ‘how’s that young lady of yours? I haven’t seen her for a while. Jacqueline, I think you said, wasn’t it?’

  Rocco smiled. He was pretty sure he hadn’t said any such thing, but Mme Denis had her ways of extracting information from complete strangers within moments of meeting them.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ he said, and made to drink his coffee.

  ‘The best ones usually are,’ she said pragmatically, giving him a look of total innocence. ‘But we have time. Go ahead, humour an old lady.’

  He sighed and gave in. He wasn’t going to be able to leave this house without giving her a proper answer, so he might as well save himself the trouble of attempting to. ‘I’ve faced tougher grillings from the Ministry of the Interior,’ he complained, ‘and I never tell them half of what they want to know. Why do I always tell you everything?’

  ‘Because deep down, you need to talk. Most strong men do – they just don’t like to admit it. My husband was the same, bless his memory. Now, drink your coffee – it’ll help you unload.’

  ‘Jacqueline’s gone to Washington,’ he explained. ‘There’s talk of setting up an embassy there in addition to the consulate general in New York. An advance team has been sent out to help with trade talks and other matters and she was selected to go with them.’

  ‘You should have married her when you had the chance,’ Mme Denis said with characteristic bluntness. ‘I think I told you that at the time.’

  ‘Really? I don’t think you did.’

  ‘Well, if I didn’t, I certainly should have. What happened, anyway? I thought you liked her. She was very pretty.’ She reached for the cafetière and refreshed his cup, her way of keeping him in his seat for a few more minutes. ‘She’d have kept you warm at night, too.’

  Rocco felt himself flush, and sank more coffee. ‘I did like her – I do. But she’s entitled to make her way in the world. She was offered the job, and has the skills, so it seemed a good chance to get on.’ What he didn’t mention was his suspicion that the job offer hadn’t been quite so innocent as it might have seemed. Nominally at least, Jacqueline worked for the Interior Ministry. But as he’d discovered later, she seemed also to hold a floating position in the DST – the Directorate of Territorial Surveillance – the domestic intelligence service. And having been trained by a branch of the intelligence service, her skills would prove very useful when coming into contact with foreign diplomats and envoys.

  The old lady wasn’t having it, however. ‘What you mean is, her father didn’t want his daughter marrying a cop. It’s usually the fathers in my experience.’

  ‘That, too, probably,’ he said wryly. Jacqueline was the daughter of a career diplomat. He’d never met her father, but François Roget was rumoured to be very protective of his daughter, driving away undesirables before they could get their feet under the family table. Jacqueline had denied any interference on his part in her selection for a post overseas, but Rocco had no doubts that the timing was more than just a little coincidental. The irony was, he’d recognised and liked her ambitious nature, and had suggested that the Washington position was too good an opportunity to miss. Whether that was a good move on his part he couldn’t judge but, not long after, Jacqueline had called to say goodbye. It was mildly encouraging that she was tearful at the prospect of leaving him, but he wasn’t sure how long that would last in the new and exciting surroundings of Washington.

  Mme Denis reached out and placed a hand over his. ‘Sorry – it’s not my place to interfere. But I like to see a man happy. And she seemed a very pleasant young woman.’

  ‘She was – is,’ he affirmed, and finished his drink. ‘Just not my young woman. Thank you for the coffee. It was nice.’ He held up the spring onions. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll make that salad you were suggesting.’

  ‘But you haven’t told me about your latest case yet.’

  ‘I will, I promise,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, in the car. I won’t be able to escape then.’

  He walked round to the house and dropped the spring onions by the sink. A couple of eggs, some ham and chopped vegetables might be a good idea. First, though, time for a bath. As he walked into the bathroom he heard a familiar scurrying sound overhead, and smiled. The fruit rats had their own little community up there, and had been resident since before he took over the house. Rocco didn’t mind their presence. He’d quickly got used to their comings and goings, even welcoming the sounds of other living beings in the house when they played with dried walnuts left up there by a previous tenant, rolling them around the floor in a bizarre game of night-time football.

  The phone rang, stilling the noises from the attic for a moment. He sighed. Forget the bath, he thought. Duty calls.

  ‘Lucas?’ It
was Captain Michel Santer, his old boss and friend from the Clichy district in Paris. Amazing, Rocco considered fleetingly, how bad news could be heralded by the tone of a single word.

  ‘Michel. What’s up?’

  ‘I hope you’re sitting down, my friend.’

  Six

  ‘Sorry I can’t dress it up better than this,’ Santer continued, ‘but I figured you wouldn’t want me to, anyway. I’ve just heard there’s a marker out on you.’

  A marker, the alternative name for a contract or a hit. Most cops picked up at least one during their career, more if they really became a thorn in the side of someone who took being sent down personally. Most threats came from low-level criminals they’d put away, trying to make up for their own failings with verbal displays of bravado. Not even their criminal colleagues took them seriously, and the threats rarely came to anything. But some were real and had to be taken as they were meant. Rocco, like others, had helped put away many a low-life and a few of the bigger fish in his time. Not all of them bore a grudge, or were open about it if they did, some even accepting the pitfalls of their profession. But he could name maybe three men off the top of his head who had issued threats he’d taken seriously, any one of whom might follow them through one day.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You remember Samir Farek?’

  Rocco experienced a moment of surprise. Farek. Algerian, head of a gang based in Oran and now dead, shot by an unknown sniper. Known as Sami by his friends, it was a far more genial sounding name than he’d ever deserved. He’d come to France on the hunt for his wife, who’d run away with their young son, and had sworn to kill Rocco for helping her. Rocco had barely known the woman or even whom she was married to, only that if Farek, a vicious criminal with many contacts and a long, vindictive memory, ever caught up with her, she would be in trouble. Fortunately, the man hadn’t lived much longer.

  ‘I remember. So?’

  ‘After his death, his brother Lakhdar went away for a spell for theft and fraud. By the time he got out he was ready to take over Samir’s operations, as we expected. He’s been looking after the business ever since, cleaning out some of brother Sami’s old mates and bringing in new blood. Anyway, just lately he’s let it be known that he’s coming after you for Samir’s death. You know what these thugs are like: all muscle and no brains. It’s an honour thing, intended to show him in a good light with his horrible family and his growing band of morons.’

  ‘Growing?’

  ‘He’s staging a comeback. The word is he’s recently taken over a couple of the gangs operating between Paris and Marseille by quietly displacing their leaders.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘At least five known chefs have disappeared in the last few weeks: three from Paris, two further south. There’s not a trace of them anywhere, so I’ll leave you to join up the dots.’

  Rocco wasn’t surprised. Once a gang chief always a gang chief. There was no walking away and retiring to a quiet life in the country, even if you wanted to. Sooner or later somebody would decide you were better off out of the picture. Permanently. As to the honour thing, it was a smokescreen. The Fareks and their kind were big on the word, a twisted version of the real thing and more correctly filed under the title of revenge.

  And that was what Farek wanted: revenge for his brother, who’d been shot by an unknown sniper during a confrontation with Rocco. Although the killing had undoubtedly been at the hands of powerful criminal enemies who didn’t want to run the risk of Farek talking to the police, his family and criminal entourage preferred to look on Rocco as the root cause.

  ‘How real is this threat? He must know he’ll get pulled in if he tries anything.’

  ‘He should do, but who said any of his kind deal in logic?’

  ‘It doesn’t really sound like him, though.’ From what little Rocco knew of Lakhdar, he was more into business dealings and paperwork than ordering or carrying out a killing.

  ‘Lakhdar’s changed. He’s grown out of Sami’s shadow. Seeing his brother losing face like he did, it seems to have affected him. But he’s got to prove he has the balls to those around him and this could be his way of doing it.’

  ‘By settling old scores.’

  ‘Correct. And you’re one of them.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘The gang chiefs I mentioned, a couple who were thought to have had a hand in Samir’s murder. But getting rid of them was considered small fry, as well as being strategic.’

  ‘Whereas knocking off a cop will show what a big, bad man he is.’

  ‘Exactly. You’re not just any cop, though, are you? You’ve got a profile. A bit like big-game hunters who want to bag a lion.’

  ‘Fine. Thanks for the comparison, boss. I’ll keep my eyes open.’ Boss. He hadn’t called Santer that in a while, but it had a habit of sneaking back in.

  ‘Lucas, he won’t come at you head on. Like I said, he’s no longer in thrall to anybody, which includes any of the other gangs now, and with this honour thing driving him, he won’t stop – he can’t.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Farek’s no hero; he won’t come calling with a gun in his fist. He’ll get someone in to do it and sit proud and loud in his office so he’s got an alibi. We’re pretty sure he did that with another former cop recently.’

  ‘Anybody I know?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He was a captain in Cambrai, name of Raballe. He used to work the northern smuggling routes into Paris until he retired last year. He crossed Lakhdar a couple of times and shut down an operation we think must have cost Lakhdar dear because he swore he’d get even with him. We thought it was the usual bullshit at the time, Lakhdar talking big to impress his friends, the way they do. But Raballe took it seriously. My guess is he knew Lakhdar well enough to think he wasn’t just blowing hot air.’

  Rocco sensed what was coming. ‘What happened?’

  ‘As soon as Raballe handed in his papers he moved to a village outside Dieppe, to his brother’s place. I heard it’s a middle-of-nowhere kind of place that you won’t find on any map. He settled into a quiet life, probably thinking he was safe. But he was found dead two days ago while walking his dog. He’d been shot in the neck. The locals think it was some idiot with a rifle blasting off in the woods but I’m not so sure. It seems too coincidental. We can’t tie it to Farek because he’s got himself a watertight alibi for his movements, but he’s the one who did all the shouting, so we can’t ignore it.’

  ‘If Raballe was so well hidden, how did Farek find him? It’s a big country.’ Especially, thought Rocco, if an ex-cop like Raballe had taken the threat seriously enough to duck below the radar. Working the drug gangs would have made him more than capable of making sure he could never be found if he didn’t want to be.

  ‘It certainly is… unless you’ve got someone on the inside who can keep track of a former cop’s movements.’ Santer sounded sick at the notion. Criminals having a contact within the police wasn’t unusual, except that it usually involved the flow of information going in, not going out. ‘He’d left his new address on file for pension purposes, and so we could get in touch if anything cropped up from one of his old cases.’

  ‘Do you know who gave it out?’

  ‘We think so. There’s an officer rumoured to have got himself into debt with some serious people. He’s close to retirement and working as a supervisor here. He suddenly came into a nice legacy and began splashing money around. Not that it’ll do him any good; the roof’s going to drop on his head any day now.’

  Rocco thanked him for the warning and disconnected, then took a stroll around the garden and thought about the likelihood of Lakhdar Farek carrying out his threat. In the over-heated atmosphere of the criminal underworld, threats were almost a currency of their own, issued to gain position, to warn off competition and even to curry favour among followers who wanted a strong man in the lead. Not going through with a promise to take down a named cop wasn’t like a politician breaking his word,
which was par for the course in the shifting world of political power-plays. In Farek’s world it would seriously call into question his courage and willingness to take risks. And that made a man vulnerable.

  He wondered if he should tell Massin of this development. Having a viable threat made against a police officer was a serious problem, especially if it affected that officer’s performance and that of his colleagues. Many senior officers would expect to be told, if they hadn’t already heard. On the other hand, what was Massin going to do about it? He could hardly put Rocco on temporary leave or assign him a bodyguard; nor could he make a move against Farek himself. Making threats against officers was nothing new, and proving there was genuine intent would be impossible.

  He went back inside and took his handgun from a drawer in the bedroom, the MAB D snug in its webbing holster, and checked the load. He didn’t carry it with him every day, although he was supposed to. Unlike some colleagues, he’d never formed an unbreakable attachment to guns, perhaps a hangover from his army service. From now on, though, he’d better make sure he had it with him at all times.

  Seven

  The following morning Rocco drove to the station. As he entered, he was greeted by a young officer on guard duty. Rocco had heard he was a recent transfer-in from somewhere down south. With so many changes going on in police forces at the moment, he had a job keeping track of new personnel. The man seemed efficient enough, from the little he’d seen of him, if a little over-familiar towards senior officers for a newly-arrived gardien.

  ‘There was a person asking after you earlier, Inspector,’ the man announced, a knowing smile edging across his face.

  ‘Really? Who?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say. Just asked if you were in. I said you were out on a call and she said she’d come back later.’

  ‘Someone local?’ Rocco didn’t often get people asking for him by name, and almost never women. The people most likely to confide information to the police, accurate or otherwise, were usually male and shifty, while normal residents preferred to keep a respectful distance and only call on the law in times of need.