‘I’m not suggesting that. I just like to know who I’m dealing with, that’s all — especially if I’m going to spend a decent amount of money.’
‘Then I’m the boss, yes. You dealing or not?’
The man was lying. Caspar didn’t know who he was, but he wasn’t the main man — he could feel it. ‘Okay. Have you got any models I can see?’
‘Not here.’ The mechanic flicked his cigarette away and turned to go inside. ‘Meet me in thirty minutes… I need to finish up here first.’
‘Sure. Where?’
‘Back to the main road, go right and take the third on the right. There’s a lock-up down there where we keep our cars. Bring cash. You do have cash, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Caspar held out his hand. ‘I’m Michel.’
The man ignored the hand. ‘Good for you. See you in thirty.’
Caspar drove out of the street and followed the directions to the lock-up. It was as the man had said. The building was fairly new, a brick-built, metal-clad unit of the type springing up everywhere, and big enough, he estimated, to house about a dozen vehicles. It was in darkness, with no cars outside and no signs of life. He parked along the road and walked back to the front door, and peered through the glass. All he could see was an office containing two desks and a scattering of paperwork. He checked he wasn’t being watched and walked around the back, where he found a large roller door opening out to a hardstanding. The area was unlit, sunk in heavy shadows. There were no cars here, either. He stepped up close to the roller shutter, where an oval window was set in one of the metal sections. He rubbed away a film of grime and put his face against the glass. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the poor light.
The lock-up was empty.
He stepped back from the roller door and kept moving, walking away from the building until he was standing in the shadow of some trees fifty metres away, off-site. His skin was prickling and he felt his pulse quickening. He’d been in this situation many times before, and had learnt to follow his instincts; and right now, his instincts were telling him to get out — fast.
But he waited.
Ten minutes later, a car appeared and turned in at the front of the building.
The man was early.
Then he saw movement inside the vehicle. At least three occupants, all big. He stood absolutely still. The glow of the headlights wasn’t strong enough to reach back here, but he didn’t want to take any chances. This was their turf, not his, and they’d soon pick up on anything unusual.
He heard the car doors opening and closing. A murmur of voices, then footsteps. One man appeared, walking away up the road, passing briefly beneath a street light. He was wearing a leather jacket and boots, broad- shouldered and with a shaved head. Checking out the parked cars, Caspar decided.
Then two more men came round the side of the building and checked the rear yard. They were dressed in work clothing and heavy boots, and moved in concert without talking, as if they had done this before.
Caspar heard an oath when they found the area empty, and watched as the men walked back to the front and stood chatting. The first man came back, and as he met his colleagues, he shook his arm and a length of metal pipe slid out of his sleeve.
The three men laughed and got back in the car and drove away.
Caspar found a bar and used the phone at the back. He called Santer at home. ‘It’s a chop shop,’ he reported, using an Americanism. ‘And they’re very jumpy. Word locally is, they don’t do any normal trade, just specialised stuff.’
‘Did you talk to anyone inside?’
‘Briefly. Their idea of customer relations is a bit unusual. I arranged a buying meet, and three of them came armed with iron bars.’
‘Ouch. You okay?’
‘Yes. I had a feeling about them and stayed out of the way. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t made — I just think they’re on high alert. I couldn’t even get a name. You’ll have to go through the paperwork.’
‘I can do that. Thanks, Marc. You’d better put your head down and stay out of trouble.’
‘I can follow up one of the OAS leads I’ve got.’
‘Okay. But watch your back.’
CHAPTER FORTY
‘I didn’t realise today was a national police holiday.’ Mme Denis was waiting in the dark outside Rocco’s gate when he returned from a punishing five kilometres run along the Danvillers road. A sharp night chill had settled across the countryside — not ideal weather for running, but he’d used the exercise on the deserted road to vent some of the impatience and frustration from his system, and to free up his mind for what lay ahead. He was well aware that if he didn’t manage to clear himself of suspicion very quickly, he’d face a rough time indeed and be out of a job at the very least. And that was without the looming possibility that there was a credible threat to the president’s life, no matter what Colonel Saint-Cloud believed.
He opened the gate and led his neighbour into the house, his skin tingling at the sudden warmth. The road surface had been a shimmering patchwork of early ice crystals, promising a heavier than normal morning frost, and the grass on the verges was already showing stiff and pale. But the run had managed to make him feel energised once more. He considered how much he could tell his neighbour, and what the likelihood was that she would find out soon enough what had happened to him.
‘I’ve been suspended,’ he told her, putting some water on to boil. ‘Accused of taking a bribe.’
There, it was out. But he couldn’t think of handling it any other way. Mme Denis had welcomed him to Poissons and helped ease him into the village community as much as Claude Lamotte had done, albeit in her own way, and she was no fool; she knew today was no holiday for the police or anyone else.
‘Hah!’ She barked at him and nudged him to one side. She took the lid off his percolator, inspecting the filter before upending it and banging it onto a sheet of newspaper and dropping the contents into his rubbish bin. She rubbed her fingers on her apron. ‘I knew they were up to no good.’ She rinsed off the filter and replaced it, then filled it with fresh ground coffee from a tin in the cupboard.
Rocco watched her with amusement. ‘I’m glad you know your way around my kitchen. Who are you talking about?’
‘Those men who came to see you. Why do strangers think they can sit outside a house in a place like this with the engine running and not be noticed?’ She placed two cups and saucers on the table. ‘I saw him, the big one. He tried your front door, then went and stood out in the road with the other one. He looked like a weasel.’ She looked at Rocco with piercing eyes. ‘Not friends of yours, I hope. They looked like trouble. Foreigners. You shouldn’t be drinking coffee this late at night — it’s bad for the digestion.’
Rocco said, wondering if he wasn’t hoping for too much, ‘What did you see?’
‘I saw the big one hand you an envelope. Is that what this is all about? He was giving you money? Damn stupid of you to take it, if you ask me. No wonder someone thinks you’re a bad one.’ She pursed her lips and poured water onto the coffee, then placed the percolator on the stove, where it began to bubble with a regular, gloopy sound.
Rocco felt his spirits sag. He could have done with the support of this woman more than most. But if asked, all she would be able to say was that she saw him take an envelope from a stranger. It wasn’t going to make for the most convincing defence.
‘Still,’ she continued, dropping two sugar lumps into his cup, ‘you did the right thing by throwing it back at him, although,’ she prodded him in the chest, ‘I was hoping you were going to knock his head off — but you didn’t.’
‘You saw me give it back?’ He felt a weight lift off his chest. It was no guarantee, bearing in mind that she was his neighbour and friend. But it offered a slim chance that his story might now be believed.
