gave directions, taking them through a series of turns and narrow streets towards the outskirts of town. They finally reached a road with a line of small, prefabricated bungalows on one side and a dark, featureless expanse of land on the other. Few of the bungalows had cars in evidence, and most of the fabric of the buildings looked neglected and drab under the weak street lamps. A dog watched them roll by before scurrying away into the darkness. There was no other movement.
‘Homely looking dump,’ said Desmoulins.
Rocco saw a doorway with a light overhead and drew to a stop across the street. He saw a number painted on the front porch. This was the place.
Close up, even in the dark, it was no palace. The small front garden was overgrown and dank, the house itself rundown, with shutters hanging limply across the windows, emitting a faint gleam of yellow light through the single diamond aperture in each side.
Alongside the house stood a Berliet truck, the familiar logo with the circle and downwards arrow just visible in the light.
‘Looks like our boy’s home,’ murmured Desmoulins. ‘I’d love to have a look in the back of that truck.’
‘Me too. Watch our backs,’ said Rocco, and got out of the car.
He knocked on the door and listened for sounds of movement. He’d decided to try Maurat’s home address first, in case the driver had finished his shift. There was no sound and no sign of life in the houses on either side. Elsewhere, a door slammed followed by something rattling against a dustbin, and in the distance a train rattled along a track. He knocked again, and was about to return to the car when he heard a rattle from inside.
‘What do you want?’ The door flew open and Rocco turned to see an elderly woman in carpet slippers and an old, faded dressing gown. In spite of her age, she was tall and upright, her eyes firmly fixed on his in a no-nonsense stare.
He asked if Armand was in.
‘No,’ the woman shot back. ‘And don’t bother asking me where he is — I’m his mother; he doesn’t tell me a thing. He’ll be back in the morning.’ She began to close the door.
Rocco put out a hand and stopped it. ‘I need to speak to him,’ he said quietly, glancing over his shoulder in a conspiratorial manner. ‘I’ve got a job of work for him.’
Mme Maurat snorted in disbelief. ‘Really? It’s so urgent you come looking for him now?’ She peered up at him, craning her neck. ‘Mother of God, you’re a big lad. I’ve never seen you before.’
‘Let’s keep it that way, shall we? I need to speak to your son, and it won’t wait. It’s very important — a special load to go out.’
‘Who’s the shy one?’ The old woman’s eyes had swept past Rocco and alighted on Desmoulins sitting in the car. There was nothing wrong with her eyesight.
‘He’s a colleague you also didn’t see. Now cut the crap and tell me where he is.’ He took a note out of his pocket and held it up so she could see it.
Her lined face pinched in resentment at his tone, but she chewed the matter over, eyeing Rocco then the money. Eventually the temptation proved too much. She snatched the note from his hand, then backed up and took a pen and a scrap of paper from a table behind her and scribbled down an address. It was for the Convex warehouse.
‘He’s doing a bit of night work for a friend. Deliveries and stuff. I’m sure he’ll find a way of helping you out.’ She smiled obsequiously, but the meaning wasn’t even skin-deep. ‘Now fuck off.’ This time she slammed the door in his face.
Rocco grinned and went back to the car. Maurat’s home life must be great fun.
‘If her son’s up to anything other than a bit of moonlighting,’ he told Desmoulins, ‘his mother doesn’t know about it. Either that, or she’s a great actress.’
He followed Desmoulins’ directions and drove back the way they had come, turning off before reaching the street where they’d had the confrontation with the youths. They eventually arrived at a commercial estate on the western side of town, and saw a row of warehouses. Only one unit showed any signs of life. The name CONVEX was painted across the fascia, and a thin glimmer of light shone under a closed roller door.
From inside came the high-pitched whine of a forklift truck. Outside under a security light were three skips loaded with discarded packing material.
Rocco stopped a short distance away under the cover of a parked trailer unit. He was just considering what approach to make when a side door opened, spilling light. A tall, thin man in blue overalls scurried out, slamming the door behind him. He looked around, then hurried over to a battered Simca and got in. He drove off with a faint squeal of rubber on the tarmac.
‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ murmured Desmoulins.
‘It’s him,’ said Rocco. There was something about the man’s stance which was identical to the old woman they’d just seen. ‘She tipped him off, the sly old boot.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
They followed the Simca through a maze of streets towards the centre of town. Maurat drove fast, with little regard for the speed limits, and it soon became clear that he wasn’t heading back to Mummy. Wherever he was going, for a man on a mission he seemed unaware that anyone might be tracking him. His driving was also erratic and difficult to follow, as he appeared to be looking for something. Twice he stopped outside cafes, both of which were shut. On what became a meandering tour, they passed the heavily ornate frontage of the hotel de ville twice, and the Simca hesitated near the Basilique once before driving on with a burst of speed.
‘Christ, what’s this — a tourist trip?’ muttered Desmoulins.
Rocco was initially worried that Maurat was actually aware of them on his tail, having spotted them with his stop-start tactics. But then the Simca finally crossed the river which bisected the town and stopped in a street near the railway station. Maurat jumped out and, without looking back, hurried down a darkened alley alongside a cafe with a dim light burning inside.
Rocco parked along the street and waited.
‘What do we do, boss?’ said Desmoulins.
‘We give it a few minutes,’ said Rocco. ‘When he comes out again we’ll follow him and catch him somewhere quieter.’
‘Why don’t we just go and kick a couple of doors in? We’re cops, aren’t we?’
Rocco was tempted, but reminded himself that he was too exposed now to use methods which would have gone unnoticed when facing gang members in Paris, who reached for guns almost by nature. Employing excessive force would be playing right into Massin’s hands. ‘It’s not that simple,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t check in with the local chief before coming here.’
‘Ah.’ Desmoulins pulled a face. ‘And you didn’t get this cleared by Massin, either?’
Rocco nodded. Under the national initiative which had brought him out of Paris, his roving brief carried a considerable distance. But courtesies were supposed to be observed when stepping onto another district’s territory, which they were doing right now. ‘I’d rather the locals didn’t know we were after Maurat, in case he has friends.’
They sat in silence, the night air closing in on them. A buzz of music came from behind the cafe window, but everywhere else was silent save for the occasional car or moped passing the end of the street.
Rocco stared at the cafe and wondered what was going on inside. They had been waiting fifteen minutes and Maurat had still not emerged from the alley. For all they knew he could have walked straight through and left the area by other means. But that presupposed he knew they had been following him, and Rocco was pretty sure the man had no idea. He’d skipped out of the warehouse pretty swiftly, and probably hadn’t even looked in his rear-view mirror. The cafe might have nothing to do with Maurat, but he had called at two other similar establishments before settling on this place.
‘Come on. Let’s go inspect the nightlife.’ He climbed out and closed his door, followed by Desmoulins.
As they crossed the deserted street, he wondered what had brought Maurat here. Picking up instructions, maybe? Or spooked by his mother into diving under cover?
