Death on the Rive Nord (30 page)
Rocco checked the paper, which listed account numbers, dates, sums of money … and the name of the recipient account holder.
Alain Tourrain.
It was damning – if as yet unexplained – evidence against a fellow police officer. To be receiving payments of any kind from a local businessman was bad enough; to be in receipt of payments from a car dealer who had lived an expensive lifestyle and who was now dead of a gunshot wound was a whole new level of suspicious behaviour.
‘You haven’t arrested him, have you?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. There hasn’t been time. But we will. Why do you ask?’
Rocco couldn’t quite explain even to himself, but now they had confirmation that the janitor hadn’t been the sole leak of information here, someone else had to be. And the prime candidate was Tourrain. The only question that puzzled him was that Yekhlef seemed to be in thrall solely to Farek – but Farek had only arrived in the past forty-eight hours. If Tourrain had been receiving payments from Gondrand for many, many months, was it possible he was also being paid
by someone else? But payments for what? And from whom?
‘Can you let him run for a while?’ he replied. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
Massin huffed undecidedly for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘Very well. But I will hold you responsible if he goes missing. What is this idea of yours?’
‘Can we risk the anger of the mayor and everyone else, and announce another sweep for illegal workers? Only this time, instead of the whole town, we’ll let Tourrain know that it’s to two or three specific sites.’
Massin lifted an eyebrow. ‘I see. So if we find the named sites shut down, we’ll know it’s him. And what will you be doing?’ Then he sighed. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I do not know.’
‘Perhaps it would.’
It was clear by early afternoon that Farek and his men had gone to ground, no doubt waiting for the police activity to die down. One of his brother’s men, out scouting for provisions in the town, was picked up following a collision with a cement truck. Climbing from his car and waving a handgun, the man was set upon by the truck driver’s mate, who clubbed him to the ground with a large wrench used for releasing the chute at the back. Arrested by a patrol car crew, the gunman refused to reveal where his colleagues were hiding.
In the meanwhile, Massin convened a meeting of selected personnel to reveal a sweep of three factories in the town, suggesting there had been information received of illegal workers being trucked in to begin a shift that evening. Among the mild grumbles from officers facing another sleepless night, Rocco watched as Alain Tourrain took in the news without comment, then walked away to use a telephone down the corridor.
After the meeting broke up, Captain Canet beckoned Rocco and led the way to Massin’s office.
Inside, Massin stood stiff and controlled behind his desk. His deputy, Perronnet, stood to one side, and next to him was a young woman in the impressively starched uniform of a
gardienne
of the national police.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Massin, indicating the newcomer, ‘I would like to introduce you to Mlle Poulon, our new liaison officer. She is the first of perhaps many new recruits for specialist duties which it is hoped will complement the day-to-day activities of officers in this and other regions.’
The young woman nodded at each of the men in turn. She flushed slightly under their scrutiny, but did not appear ill at ease, Rocco noted. He shook hands with her and felt a firm grip with the briefest contact. Confident without being brash.
‘Initially,’ Massin continued, once introductions were over, ‘Miss Poulon will report to Captain Canet. He will brief all other personnel about her duties, but I would like you to ensure that she has everybody’s full cooperation at every stage.’
‘Doing what?’ said Rocco.
‘I’m glad you asked. Miss Poulon is fully versed in dealing with sensitive matters relating to the arrest and treatment of women and young offenders, and the liaison between ourselves and victims of rape, domestic violence and general crime. If a case has any of those elements, she is to be involved at the very earliest stages of the investigation. Understood?’ He looked round and received nods of assent, then added, ‘Inspector Rocco, in view of your most recent contact with a female and child immigrant,
perhaps you could take Miss Poulon under your wing for the first couple of days. Show her around, bring her up to speed with your current case and so forth. See where she might be able to help.’ He gave a thin smile and nodded at the room in general. ‘For now, I think we all have duties to prepare for.’
Rocco stepped out into the corridor, biting back the urge to tell Massin where he could put this assignment. There was too much going on right now for him to be babysitting a new recruit. But maybe that was the response Massin was looking for. If so, it was trouble he didn’t need.
‘Well, Inspector,’ said a cool voice behind him, ‘that made me feel thoroughly welcome. Did you just suck on a lemon or did you get out of bed on the wrong side?’
He turned and looked at the new officer. She had short, auburn hair, a spray of faint freckles across her nose and startlingly grey eyes which were now looking up at him with a flinty confidence. Her mouth was set in a firm line, jaw clenched, confirming that she was no wallflower.
He felt a heat growing around his ears and shook his head abruptly. ‘Actually, Miss Poulon,’ he said curtly, ‘I didn’t sleep at all last night, and this morning, I shot a man dead. It tends to make me a bit scratchy. Would you like coffee?’ He turned without waiting for a reply, and led the way out of the station to a café at the end of the street. Much frequented by police, it was full of officers changing shifts; those coming on duty holding thick, brown cups of coffee, those going home brandishing stubby glasses of wine or Pernod. The ashtrays were piled high with cigarette ends and a dark-grey ash, and a heady fog hung in the air above their heads.
He and Poulon immediately became the focus of attention. But he figured the sooner they all got over the shock of seeing a female officer, the better. He deliberately chose a corner table and sat down, ordering coffees from the barman on the way past.
‘The name,’ Poulon said, sitting down across from him, ‘is Alix.’ She flinched as a burst of laughter came from some officers at the bar. ‘And I apologise. Did you really kill a man?’
‘Yes. It’s not something I joke about.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s a long story. He was holding my neighbour at gunpoint. She’s a nice old lady.’
She looked surprised. ‘So how did you …?’
He explained how Mme Denis had thrown hot tisane in the man’s face. ‘I said she was old, I didn’t say she was conventional.’
‘I didn’t realise this area was the OK Corral.’
He looked at her for signs of sarcasm, but could have sworn she was suppressing a smile. Before he could respond, however, he was interrupted by a shadow looming over the table.
‘Hey, Inspector.’ A tough-looking
sous-brigadier
had moved away from the bar, a coffee cup in his hand. ‘Since when do investigators get their own secretaries? Especially good-looking ones?’ He winked at Rocco and gave a courteous bow to the newcomer, earning cheers and jeers from his colleagues. Then he emptied his cup and ordered everyone who was on duty back to work for a briefing. The rest he told to go home and sleep with their wives or girlfriends, or even both. Within seconds, the place was empty.
Rocco was relieved; he’d been given a soft ride by the men, along with many looks of approval, proof that news of the shooting had spread through the ranks.
He explained to Alix about the lead-up to the shooting, about Farek and his arrival in France on the heels of Nicole and Massi, and the news that the gang boss appeared to have simultaneously made a clean sweep of the clans in Paris and the north, establishing an empire for the taking. ‘Farek doesn’t mess around. He’s ruthless and has little respect for the law. He sent a man to watch us but he overstepped himself. We were lucky,’ he concluded.
‘His wife and child have been staying with you?’ The grey eyes were softer now, but the question was probing.
‘Just for last night. We got them out early this morning. They’re safe.’
‘They must be in shock after everything that has happened.’
He shrugged. ‘They’re holding up well. The boy thinks it’s a big adventure, although he’s very quiet. As for Nicole,’ he shrugged. ‘She’s just glad to be alive. I hope we can keep her that way.’
Alix sipped her coffee, wincing at the bitterness. ‘You like her.’
‘She’s in trouble and asked for my help. But I don’t need complications.’ He wondered how true that was and realised that the explanation had come without being forced, and therefore felt relieved. Nicole was pretty and strong and exotic, powerful attractions for most men. But she wasn’t part of this world – not
his
world, at any rate. She belonged somewhere else, in a life far away from daily reminders of violence and danger.
‘So what is this sweep tonight? Captain Canet mentioned that I might be needed if they pick up any women workers.’
‘It’s a feint,’ he explained. ‘Not a real operation.’ He told her about the leak of information about the last raids, and that the suspect might be a serving officer. ‘If we’re right, and the raids come up empty at the specific factories named, it will flush him out.’
‘Will we be in on the raid?’
‘Not if I can help it.’ Rocco had another agenda in mind altogether, but that had already been thrown into disarray by Alix’s presence. He wondered how he might get her involved with one of the sweep units without Massin questioning his actions.
‘Am I in the way?’ Alix asked perceptively. ‘I know I’m not a real cop … not as far as most of you are concerned, anyway. But I do have a job to do and I can’t do it standing on the sidelines.’
He nodded, appreciating her honesty, and studied her face. He didn’t have time to mess around with long-winded explanations just to get her off his back. He was going to have to trust her to keep her mouth shut.
‘I need you to lose yourself for a few hours this evening,’ he said finally, and hoped he wasn’t about to drop himself into a career-ending hole. ‘I have something to do which I wouldn’t want you involved in.’
‘Something illegal?’
‘No. But it could get messy. I wouldn’t want you to get caught in the bureaucratic crossfire.’
‘So it’s something
Commissaire
Massin wouldn’t approve of.’ She had a faint smile at the corners of her mouth and
he couldn’t quite make out whether she was laughing at his caution or amused out of a sense of co-conspiracy.
‘Probably not.’ She was quick, he had to give her that. Too quick, maybe. He was going to have to trust her. ‘I’m going to break into a factory where a man died.’
It was a rerun of the other night. Cold and misty, damp underfoot and no night to be out walking by the canal, Rocco pulled up his collar and turned to check that he was alone. The water slid by on his right, silent and black, throwing off faint, yellow glints where a distant light was reflected off the oily surface.
He trod carefully, checking off the outlines of familiar landmarks as they loomed up in the dark, and wondered how the raids were going. Alix had questioned his plan and the dangers involved of going alone, but hadn’t argued with his suggestion that she find herself a team to attach herself to in order to cover herself if anything went wrong.
‘It’s illegal, what you are planning,’ she warned him. ‘If they catch you, being a cop won’t protect you. The Defence Ministry trumps the Interior Ministry on these matters. They’ll just throw you into a cell and forget you ever existed.’
‘You sound as if you know a bit about it.’
‘I do. I was a PA in a branch of Defence Security before I applied to join the police. Anything involving the military and breaches of security surmounts all other matters.’ She shrugged. ‘We are a nation of paramilitaries.’
Fortunately, she had agreed to keep quiet and let him go. If he’d made a mistake by taking her into his confidence, he would soon find out.
He passed through the cutting and came to the building fronting the canal where the geese were housed. Slowing to ensure he made no sound that might rouse them, he stepped carefully on the hummocks of grass between the remnants of the towpath’s ancient surface. Once past the building, he stopped and waited, tuning into the night and reacquainting himself with the sounds of water gurgling, the hum of distant traffic and the rustling of night creatures going about their business. From here on, he was entering the danger zone, where any foot traffic was probably confined to illicit workers and their guides, and anyone not expected here would be regarded as a problem to be disposed of. A loud splash occurred up ahead and he eased to the ground, relaxing when he heard the protesting honk of a coot or moorhen disturbed from its sleep.
After a few moments he carried on until he reached the lock, where he stepped carefully across the gates and jumped down the other side. Moments later he reached the slope and the fence surrounding the Ecoboras site and hunkered down again, watching for movement in the shadows behind the factory. Satisfied that nobody lay in wait, he moved along the slope, then took off his coat and uncoiled a thick rope from around his shoulder with a grappling hook attached. He replaced his coat and,
using it as cover, checked his watch with a brief flick of the flashlight.
Three minutes to go. He’d cut it fine.
The remaining seconds ticked away while he sat listening to the noises from inside the factory: the ring of metal, the murmur of voices and the high-pitched hum of a forklift. Outside the building he picked up other sounds: of vehicles passing along the road at the front, the occasional car horn, and a police siren. Flashing lights reflected through the mist, but nothing came close enough to worry those inside the factory.
At least, not yet.
The crash, when it came, was loud. A squeal of brakes was followed by a solid thump and the smashing of glass, and a car horn added to the drama. With no time to lose, Rocco stepped up to the fence and tossed the grappling hook arcing over the top, then threw his weight on the rope to make sure it was going to hold him. Satisfied he wasn’t going to be dumped on his arse, he pulled himself up hand over hand and swung his legs up, hauling himself past the downward-facing points in the fence and resting on the top.
