the line of duty, and not looking back if things went sour, he wouldn’t hesitate. ‘Did you hear anything over the wires from last night, about the South East?’ It might be too early for word of the police raid on the garage to have reached Santer’s ears, but it was worth a try.
‘Like what? This is a big city, you know, with lights and the Metro and everything.’ His voice was a sarcastic drawl. ‘We even have cars and trucks and trains and buildings which almost reach the sky.’
‘Creteil, you cretin. A raid on a garage. Three men taken in.’
‘No. I haven’t heard that. But I’ll ask around.’
‘Thanks. There’s one more thing. Is Caspar still around?’
A heavy silence. For a brief moment Rocco thought Santer had gone. Then the captain said, ‘He’s around. Why?’ He sounded cagey, and Rocco knew why.
‘I might have some light work for him, if he’s up to it.’ Marc Casparon, better known as Caspar, was a burnt- out cop who’d worked too long undercover and had had to be quietly retired. Rocco had recently used him to penetrate an Algerian gang, and it had nearly got him killed. But he knew Caspar was desperate to get back into the job; it was all he knew how to do. Rocco’s problem might be getting past Santer, who was fiercely protective of the man.
‘What sort of work?’
‘Some legwork among the OAS groups and their affiliates. Who their contacts might be out this way. Is he well?’
‘Actually, he’s fine.’ Santer surprised him. ‘He’s been doing jobs for a security company in St Denis. It seems to be working for him. You know he has limits, though, right? He pushes himself too far.’
In other words, don’t put Caspar in direct danger.
‘I understand.’
‘Fine. You got his number?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right.’ An urgent voice sounded in the background and Santer said, ‘Listen I’ve got to go. I’ll call if I hear anything else about
… you know. Remember what I said, Lucas: watch yourself. And start saving for that big lunch you owe me.’
The phone went dead.
Rocco dialled Caspar’s number. It rang six times before the familiar voice answered. Caspar sounded alert, much more so than when Rocco had last seen him a few weeks ago. Then, he had been through a grinder and very nearly lost his life. Fortunately, he was made of tough stuff and had escaped with a slight flesh wound and a beating from a group of Algerian gangsters.
‘It’s Rocco,’ he said. ‘I need some help. It’s police work but private billing. Are you available?’
He could almost hear the smile as Caspar’s voice came down the line. ‘You bet. Where and when?’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rocco drove back out to the scrapyard. Caspar was on his way and would be here in the morning. He’d offered to go to Paris to brief him on his own ground, but Caspar had suggested the trip out and the change of scenery would help get the kinks of the city out of his system.
For now Rocco needed to lean on Bellin. It was too bad if the fat man was scared of being seen talking to the police; he should learn to mix with a nicer brand of people.
But he was out of luck. The yard was locked tight, two heavy chains holding the gates together. He banged on the corrugated sheets and immediately heard a dog barking followed by the skitter of paws as the animal raced up and down along the inside of the fence. It sounded big and mean and desperate to bite someone. Had Bellin panicked and decided to go home and keep his head down, or was his departure more long-term? He’d have to try again later.
He drove back to the station and sought out Dr Rizzotti in his office across the yard. He had completed his inspection of the car and was writing a full report with the help of the notes dictated to the young officer.
‘Interesting vehicle,’ said Rizzotti, putting down his pen and stretching. ‘If you like puzzles. Long or short version?’
‘Short. I can read your report later.’
‘All right. Very short, then. A Citroen DS, less than one year old, done a high number of kilometres for its age but with a registration not its own. The plates are home-made. Ten to one there’s another car driving around somewhere with the same plates, only genuine. God knows where this one came from.’
Rocco nodded. ‘So, a criminal enterprise. Anything else?’
‘Not really. The addition of the framework inside is unusual, as are the seat harnesses. I’ve only ever seen those on rally cars before
… oh, and a stunt team who did a display here in Amiens last year. They wore them. Other than that, the car was clean save for the camera in the back, which I still can’t explain. It’s an old model, twenty years at least, as far as I can determine, probably lifted from an old studio junk heap. But who would drive around with an empty camera casing in the boot of their car?’
‘Someone who wanted people to think he was making a film?’
‘To impress the ladies?’ He pursed his lips. ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘Was that all?’
Rizzotti smiled, the expression of a man who had a surprise in store. ‘Actually, no. We found this under the carpet.’ He pushed an envelope across his desk.
Rocco opened it. Inside was a butt end, smoked halfway down and flattened. A filter tip, with some printing on the white paper. Wills.
‘English make,’ said Rizzotti. ‘I’m not sure which specific brand — the company of Wills make several. We could always send it to them for verifying if you wish. As you can see, it looks reasonably fresh — the paper hasn’t been stained by damp or dirt.’
Yet another reference to England. First the English drunks in the Canard Dore, then the cigarette packet in the car used for the attack on the N19, followed by the English penny in the burnt-out truck. Now this. Add the smell of an Englishman’s aftershave in the Citroen as well, which, although a flimsy link and all but impossible to prove, seemed very conclusive. Or was he jumping to too many conclusions in the hopes of a rapid resolution?
‘Thanks, Doc.’ He was turning to leave when he noticed a small key lying on Rizzotti’s desk. It was discoloured along the toothed edge and blackened on the inside of the hole where it would be held on a ring. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s the key to the burnt truck. I was hoping to have it traced but there’s no serial number. It looks like a cheap copy. You can get them made up almost anywhere for a few francs. Why?’
Rocco felt in his pocket and took out the key Tasker had been staring at, but had denied knowing anything about. He dropped it alongside the one on Rizzotti’s desk.
They were an exact match.
He walked round to a nearby bar frequented by cops, his mind on what he could do with this latest information. The key tied Tasker to the Renault truck, he was convinced. But even if they got him back, he would simply deny knowing anything about the key and claim it had been left lying around in the station by someone else and became mixed with his personal possessions. A clever lawyer would have it thrown out in an instant.
He took a table in the corner, nodding at a few familiar faces at the bar. Cops going off duty taking a drink, cops going on duty hitting the coffee to stay awake throughout their shift. The same scene would be replicated in every town across the country. He saw Alix at a table on the far side of the room. She was sitting with the young officer who’d been helping Rizzotti with his examination of the DS. She smiled faintly and nodded, then excused herself and stood up. She crossed the room and stopped at his table.
‘So, Inspector,’ she said, ‘have you solved the puzzle of the fragrance yet?’
