cutting off any chance of escape… and any chance that someone might see what was happening. ‘ Wait! Wait… I can remember, I promise! Of course. Stupid of me to forget such a thing. It was north. That’s right, north.’
‘North where? North Pole?’ The key probed deeper.
‘Chalon-sur-Saone. Near Dijon.’ Tappa began to weep, his whole body trembling with fear.
Farek was unmoved. ‘How far is that? How long to drive?’
‘Distance, I don’t know. Four… maybe five hours… a little longer. Please, I don’t-’
‘Name.’
‘What?’
‘A name. At this place called Chalon-sur-Saone which is four, maybe five hours away.’ As Farek knew well from his own line of business, every supply line consisted of contacts, like way stations, with the product being shuttled from one to another. It mattered not whether the product was animal, vegetable or mineral. Or human. The arrangement was the same. Each cut-out reduced the chances of too many in the line being scooped up if someone talked. ‘Who do I ask for?’
Tappa held out only for a fleeting moment, then told Farek everything he wanted to know.
Farek stood back a pace and smiled. ‘There. See how easy that was?’ He bent and picked up the holdall, sliding the zip open. Dumped a spare shirt and underclothes on the tarmac, then raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, you keep your savings under the mattress, I see. Doesn’t say much for your faith in the banking system, does it?’ He closed the holdall and said, ‘Nice doing business with you, Maurice. Adieu.’ Then he turned and walked away, leaving a smiling Bouhassa to take his place.
Tappa groaned and fell back against the car.
The sound of his dying didn’t even reach the street.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There was an urgent knock at the door of the office Rocco was using. It was Desmoulins.
‘Got the information on the truck Etcheverry saw,’ said the detective. ‘He was spot on. It’s registered to Armand Maurat. He’s an owner-driver, works out of Saint-Quentin running small haulage all over. Mostly last-minute stuff the bigger firms can’t factor into their schedules. When he’s not doing that he works as a stand-in driver for a general haulier called Convex. Among other things, they’re contractors for a bunch of the smaller champagne houses.’
Rocco stood up. At last, something positive. A glass of champagne would go down very well right now; just the thing to get him firing on all cylinders. Some hope.
‘Where is he at the moment?’
‘According to a woman at his home address, he’s at a warehouse, doing some night work. She sounded old and cranky. I told her I was checking on a load.’
Rocco looked at his watch. Nearly six. He wondered how long Maurat would be around before he picked up a load and disappeared on a trip to God knew where. They couldn’t risk alerting the man by ringing first, and it was almost guaranteed that if he was involved in the death of the man in the canal, his radar would have him up and running the moment he heard the police wanted to talk to him.
‘How far to Saint-Quentin from here?’
‘Eighty kilometres — about an hour thirty if we’re lucky. It’s a straight road but there are roadworks on the way.’
‘We?’ Rocco looked at him, then considered the sense in having another pair of eyes and ears along. He nodded and pulled on his coat. ‘This might be a late night; you’d better warn your wife.’
Desmoulins grinned happily, keen to be out of the office. ‘No problem. She’s got her sister staying anyway; I doubt she’ll even notice.’
Ten minutes later, they were in Rocco’s car with Desmoulins at the wheel. Rocco was already half asleep, falling back on the usual cop’s instinct to get some rest while he could, in case it wasn’t possible later.
He didn’t notice the cream-coloured Peugeot pulling up as they left, nor the attractive young woman in a headscarf, locking the door and hurrying inside.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Saint-Quentin late at night had the look and feel of a graveyard. Rocco had expected more movement somehow, as if the town might harbour a secret nightlife when the more licentious inhabitants came out to frolic. But he was disappointed. Instead, the pale-yellow street lights were struggling to fight their way through a cold mist hanging over the town, leaving it like a deserted film set. Surveillance was always more difficult with little or no background cover, and he regretted bringing the Citroen. An anonymous, family-type saloon car would have fitted in more easily.
He stopped on the western outskirts and nudged Desmoulins, who sat up, rubbing his face. They had changed halfway, giving the detective a chance to get some rest. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to sleep that long.’
‘No problem,’ Rocco murmured. He took a map off the dashboard and handed it to his colleague. He’d written Maurat’s address on the margin and circled the street. In a town this size, they must be fairly close to it.
Desmoulins pointed towards the north side of town. ‘Over that way.’
Rocco took them into a scattering of streets with little movement and few cars. After a couple of turns down mist-shrouded dead ends which the map seemed unaware of, they found themselves in a darkened street where the buildings on either side looked abandoned, as if the area was in the middle of a demolition phase.
Halfway along the street stood a group of young men. They were barely out of their teens and wore black leather jackets and jeans, the new youth uniform of choice. No signs of bikes, though. Pavement bikers.
‘All we need,’ muttered Desmoulins, as a couple of the youths saw them and stepped into the street. One of them belched loudly and tossed an empty beer bottle onto the bonnet of the Citroen, drawing laughter from the others. The bottle hung for a second, balanced precariously, then rolled and dropped to the tarmac, where it smashed.
‘Cheeky bastard!’ Desmoulins growled, and reached for the door handle.
‘Leave it,’ said Rocco calmly, pulling to a stop. There was no way round them, only over. Confrontation was what these kids were after. He’d seen it before: hungry for some excitement, bored by mindless jobs, one wrong look and they’d be over the car like a rash.
The drunk who had tossed the bottle ambled over to the car on Rocco’s side. He banged a fist on the door panel while his friends stood in Rocco’s path and watched. He was short and squat, with powerful arms and a chest straining at his vest. In the glow from the car’s lights, his face was suffused with a nameless anger.
‘Hey — spare some change?’ the youth shouted, and laughed sourly at his own humour. He turned to look at his mates. When he turned back he was holding a large clasp knife in his hand. He began waving it over the Citroen’s paintwork, his tongue sticking out and a wild grin on his face. His intentions were crystal clear.
Rocco lowered his window. He said to the youth, ‘Sure.’ In his hand was the gleam of coins.
But the youth wanted more. In a flicker he was at Rocco’s side, the knife lifting as he saw his opportunity. He signalled to his friends to go round the other side of the vehicle. They did so, leaving the way clear.
‘Out of the car, sucker-’ the youth began. Then he stopped speaking as Rocco’s clenched fist, wrapped tightly around the coins, struck him in the side of the neck with a meaty smack.
Rocco stamped on the accelerator and the Citroen leapt forward, leaving the youth gurgling and clutching his neck, and his friends standing helpless in the middle of the street.
‘Was that really necessary?’ said Desmoulins, dryly. He twisted round in his seat, watching to see if the gang had any way of coming after them. But the injured youth was kneeling in the road, holding his throat, while his friends stood watching, stunned by the turn of events.
‘What did you want me to do?’ Rocco asked calmly. ‘Offer him a lift?’
‘No. I wanted you to let me out to give him a kicking.’ He grinned and turned his attention to the map and
