He paused before nudging open the door, catching a glimpse of the interior through a grubby net curtain. A fifty-something woman with beefy arms stood behind the bar, wiping glasses. Three men in rough working clothes were drinking in front of her, with another on a pinball machine. The ping of the ball hitting the bollards vied with a blast of bad rock music coming from a speaker on the wall. A single door with a smoked-glass panel led to the rear of the premises. The few Formica-topped tables were vacant.
The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of fried onions. As the door let in the night air around Rocco and Desmoulins, the smoke swirling like a living thing, everyone turned to look. Tired eyes, pasty skin and the usual expressions of wariness at a haven being invaded by strangers. Rocco was used to it.
The pinball machine gave a hollow thunk as the loose ball dropped unhindered into the tray, and the player swore softly.
Rocco ordered two beers and nodded at the three customers, all nursing glasses of milky pastis. They looked away without responding. The woman behind the bar pulled two beers without comment and slid them across with practised economy of effort. Unexpected customers they might be but clearly a welcoming smile wasn’t part of the deal.
Rocco slid some coins back and nodded his thanks.
‘Anyone seen Armand?’ he said, after taking the top off his beer. He figured that shaking the tree couldn’t do any harm, not now they knew where Maurat lived and worked. If word travelled fast enough, as it probably would do, it might make him panic and drop the ball.
Desmoulins picked up his glass and wandered over to watch the pinball player start a new game, leaning comfortably against the wall next to the rear door.
‘Armand?’ The woman pulled a face and rubbed at a clean glass, the flesh of her arms wobbling like a half-set creme caramel. ‘Armand who?’
Rocco ignored her. Part of a barkeeper’s job in a place like this was playing defence against unknown visitors asking questions. If they didn’t, their customer base didn’t stay around long.
Desmoulins wandered back, his glass drained, and gave a minute shake of his head.
They left.
Outside, Rocco stepped into the alley, feeling the crunch of litter underfoot. The street lights barely penetrated the darkened recesses, but they could see enough to identify two doorways on each side, and what might have been a loading bay at the end. Rocco tried the doors on his side, but they were locked tight. He looked across at Desmoulins, who found the same.
‘Come on.’ Rocco backed up and returned to the car. He had a feeling Maurat had gone underground for a while. It might be better to let him come to them.
‘Where to?’ said Desmoulins. He sounded disappointed at the prospect of giving up so soon.
‘Back where we came from. If he goes anywhere, it’ll be home to Mummy.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was forty minutes before the Simca turned back into the street and parked in front of the Berliet. The driver climbed out and looked around, then made for the rear of the bungalow. He didn’t notice Rocco and Desmoulins parked up the street behind a broken-down hoarding.
‘Let’s go.’ Rocco got out and walked along the street to the front door, while Desmoulins went to cover the back. Rocco waited for a few seconds to give his colleague time to get in position, then knocked softly on the window.
Maurat himself opened the door. He immediately realised his mistake and tried to slam it shut, but Rocco jammed his foot in the way and slammed it back, knocking the driver back down the hallway. He stepped in and stood over the man, deliberately intimidating him by his presence.
‘We need to talk, Armand,’ he said quietly, and gestured for Maurat to go into the front room, where a light was on. The driver looked as if he was going to argue, then saw Desmoulins appear from the back, blocking the only other exit.
Maurat was tall, like his mother, and skeletal in build, with a mournful face showing a two-day stubble. His clothes were dusty and creased, and a small strip of packaging tape was clinging to one knee. He blinked at the two men and a tremor crossed his face. ‘What? Who are you and what do you want?’
‘Armand? Who’s there?’ It was his mother calling from a bedroom at the back of the bungalow.
‘We can talk here in front of your mother or out in the car,’ said Rocco matter-of-factly. ‘Your choice.’
Maurat hesitated, then sighed, the spirit draining out of him like air from a punctured balloon. He looked tired and worn, as if he had been under severe stress for too long. He turned his head and spoke out of the corner of his mouth, eyes never leaving Rocco. ‘S’OK, Maman
… just someone from the depot. I’m going out for a bit.’
He stepped outside and walked along the street, then stopped and looked at Rocco. ‘Who are you? Cops? Customs?’
Rocco loomed over him, crowding close. ‘Luckily for you, neither,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s just say we’re not good news.’ He grabbed Maurat’s arm and walked him to the Citroen and pushed him into the front passenger seat, then climbed in beside him. Desmoulins sat in the back.
‘Made any stops near a canal recently?’ said Rocco. He held up a finger. ‘A warning: don’t lie to me. I can smell liars.’ To reinforce the message, he reached into his coat pocket and took out his gun. He made a play of checking the magazine, making sure Maurat could see the shells. The clicks of the mechanism were unnaturally loud in the car, the smell of gun oil heavy and sweet. He looked back at Desmoulins and said, ‘Did you bring the silencer?’
‘Sorry. We need a new one… after that last job. I’ve got a cushion here in the back, though. Works a treat if you do it right.’
‘Jesus — what — ?’ Maurat jumped in his seat and tried to bolt, scrabbling for the door handle. Rocco grabbed him by the arm, forcing him to turn his head. His face was full of grooves and angles under the reflected street lights, and was now beaded with sweat. ‘Christ, who are you…?’
Rocco ran one hand round the rim of the steering wheel. It made a soft, abrasive sound in the silence. Then he flexed his fingers, all the while staring into Maurat’s eyes. He allowed the seconds to tick by, and the driver blinked several times, eyes darting from one man to the other. The silence eventually had the unnerving effect Rocco had intended. His primeval look, someone had once called it.
‘Yes. Yes, all right?’ Maurat said. ‘I’ve been past the canal — a canal. So what?’ Close up, his breath stank of drink… and something else. Rocco recognised the sweet tang of weed. It explained Maurat’s erratic trip around town: he’d been looking for something to calm his nerves.
‘Why?’
‘What?’
‘Why?’ Rocco spoke softly. ‘You initially said the canal. There’s more than one around here, but you know which one we mean, don’t you? What were you doing there? It’s not your usual route… and I know you didn’t stop for a pee.’ He reached into the man’s shirt pocket and found a ragged- looking joint, pinched at both ends. He stuffed it back. ‘Silly. That’s a jail term already.’
‘Hey — you put that there!’ But the protest lacked conviction.
Rocco reached under the dashboard and produced a white triangle, flipped it into the man’s lap. The wood was muddied and split, where it had been crushed by a heavy weight. ‘You know what this is? I’m willing to bet that the pattern on there will match your truck tyres exactly.’
‘Actually, there are scientific ways of proving it, now,’ added Desmoulins, for good measure.
Maurat looked stunned and shook his head, mouth working desperately. ‘I… can’t,’ he said softly.
‘Can’t what, Armand?’ Desmoulins leant over from the back seat and placed a heavy hand on the driver’s shoulder, making him flinch visibly. ‘Can’t what?’
‘I can’t tell you. They’ll come after me… or my mother. I thought you were them — when she called me at work… and then at the cafe.’
Word had travelled fast.
