them now than the clothes they had just discarded.
He gathered up the personal effects and tossed them into the drum. Two of the older men protested, anger flaring at seeing these things being disposed of so casually. To them, these represented the only links they had left with the places they had come from, a tenuous kind of memory but still valued. The other four remained in the background, younger and less sure of themselves.
The tall man smiled coldly but said nothing. Now he knew who the leaders were; which were the strong personalities in the group and likely to be an influence. Now he could set about sorting them out. Divide and rule; a method as old as the hills.
He reached into his jacket pocket. When he took his hand out again, the two leading protesters froze instinctively. The others stepped back.
There were many things which might have surprised them. Kindness was one. Food was another… even sanctuary, no matter how temporary; like the canal boat they had been living on for the past few days since jumping out of the lorry, waiting for the next stage of their journey.
But not the threat of death. They had seen it too often in too many guises, and most especially from men like these two with their cold smiles and ugly threats. Even the journey here had been a form of extended death threat imposed by the ever-present risk of exposure, but that didn’t mean they accepted it or looked it in the face without a qualm.
The tall man was holding a gun, with the familiarity of use, the confidence of a professional. With the sureness of one who would use it without a flicker of remorse. He nodded to his colleague, who herded the men out of the cabin into a large warehouse twenty metres away. It smelt new, and echoed with the hollow, disconnected noise of all large, empty places. Sections of metal ducting were hanging from brackets and linked to large blowers, and a steady roar could be heard as the new heating system powered up, although the air here was still cold. The roof was cavernous and high and, to men from the agricultural lands of North Africa, impossibly big and difficult to take in.
The second guard led them over to the production line. This comprised large tables dotted with stools, each station equipped with a selection of screwdrivers and other hand tools. A conveyor belt ran alongside the tables, leading to an open area near the rear doors of the warehouse, where piles of cardboard boxes stood ready for filling, loading and labelling, and placing onto wooden pallets.
‘Welcome to France,’ said the tall man. His contemptuous smile contained no hint of welcome, no sign of weakness. The gun, they noted, had disappeared, the message delivered. ‘It’s time to start work.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘I found someone.’ Claude spoke with a casual air but Rocco could tell he was pleased with himself. He’d rung just as Rocco was about to leave for the office. Feeling frustrated at the lack of progress, he was thinking about the canal again. It had all begun there, and it was the one place from which they had so far gained no help whatsoever. He needed something — anything — to help move this case forward.
‘Good for you,’ Rocco replied. ‘You deserve some happiness. I hope she’s a great cook.’
‘Not that kind of someone — I mean a witness who saw a truck parked near the canal a couple of nights before the body turned up. I put out some feelers around the villages and he just rang. I think he’s hoping for a reward.’
Rocco stopped and sat down. This was too good to be true. Out of all the nights on all the roads in all of France, Claude had found ‘Who and where?’ he said, and dragged a pad towards him.
‘His name’s Raoul Etcheverry and he lives in Autrey — that’s a village five kilometres from Poissons on the opposite side to where the dead guy turned up. He claims he saw a truck right where we found the bloodstains and the tracks.’
‘Raoul Etcheverry.’ Rocco rolled the name around on his tongue while he wrote. ‘Elegant name for these parts.’
‘Elegant name for any parts. He’s a retired veterinary surgeon from Lille. He’s also a semi-professional card player. Maybe I could get him to teach me a thing or two.’
‘How,’ said Rocco, ‘does a retired vet and semi-pro gambler find himself in the right place to see a truck in the middle of nowhere?’ He was sceptical about sightings such as these, and all too accustomed to people keen to help the police but finding their imaginations or memories working beyond what was a strictly correct recollection of what they had witnessed. But such offers always had to be investigated; even a tiny clue was better than nothing, and it was often the unremarkable point which witnesses considered unimportant that carried the day.
‘Easy. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he goes to play poker with a group of other enthusiasts in Amiens. The game goes on until the small hours. He was on his way home at about three, and saw a truck parked at the side of the road.’
‘Did he get the registration?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’ Rocco wondered if this was going to be a glorified wild goose chase. It really was too good to be true. Yet stranger things had happened — and finding the truck again would be a major breakthrough. Criminals weren’t above torching a vehicle involved in a crime if there was even a remote chance that it could be traced. ‘How the hell did he do that?’
‘He’s a card player. He’s used to numbers. Haven’t you ever played?’
‘Yes, I have.’ Rocco’s card playing, though, was limited to days gone by in the army and his early days in the police, when it was used as a hedge against the boredom of inactivity between duty calls.
‘So, you know it’s all about remembering number sequences. It’s what he does.’
Rocco stood up. ‘Where is he? I need to meet him.’
‘Actually, on his way to Amiens. He’s visiting a friend, and I suggested he might drop by later to make a statement.’
Rocco made a mental note to get Claude some recognition for this. It was too common among some officers to look down on their rural colleagues, and he wanted Claude to get out from under that mantle of low regard. By anyone’s standards, this was good police work.
By midday, Rocco was seated in an interview room facing Etcheverry, a former vet, now gambler and seemingly upright citizen.
‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Etcheverry,’ he said cordially, ‘and agreeing to make a statement. How did you hear about our enquiry?’ It was an ice-breaker, a device he’d found useful for settling nerves and establishing positions right from the off.
Etcheverry smiled and clasped two large hands together on the table between them. His fingernails, Rocco noted, were bitten down and slightly grubby, and his clothes had a down-at-heel appearance. A vet fallen on hard times, he decided. He was built like a bear, and made the chair creak when he moved, which made Rocco wonder at the manual dexterity required for veterinary work and playing cards, and how on earth this man coped with both. He decided he knew next to nothing about human motor skills and let it go.
‘Through a friend of a friend,’ Etcheverry replied warily. He had a soft, cultured voice and spoke very precisely, leaning forward with his eyes fixed firmly on Rocco’s. It was slightly unnerving this close, and Rocco guessed that intimidation probably played a natural part in the man’s approach to gambling. Mind games, they called it.
‘That’s very public-spirited of you.’
‘Well, one tries to be a good citizen.’ He grinned almost slyly and ducked his head. ‘One never knows when there might be some recompense, of course…’
Rocco let that go without taking the bait. Money seemed a big factor in this man’s life. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what you saw.’
‘Well, I told the other officer-’
‘Of course. But this is for the official record. I’ll also need you to sign the statement afterwards.’ He hesitated, then added pointedly, ‘So we know who has contributed to solving a case.’
