‘Well, we can only speculate about that at the moment.’ Massin sounded sceptical, but he reached for a pen and made a few notes. ‘I will ask for any relevant files they can get from the Algerian police and our own military records. I’m sure the Algerians will be pleased to see him gone, but I don’t hold out much hope without a specific case against him of a crime committed either there or on French soil. Anything else?’
‘Yes. The men who arrived on the truck.’
‘What about them?’
‘They’re somewhere in Amiens, being used as cheap labour. They must know what happened on that truck. That’s why I had Desmoulins arrange a trawl of the area for new arrivals with the photo of the dead man. They might not hang around too long.’
Massin pursed his lips. ‘How many illegals are we talking about?’
‘The truck could have held up to a dozen for this trip, but I think fewer. I doubt they’re the first, though.’
Massin sat back and contemplated the ceiling for a moment. Then he said, ‘The whole Algerian thing is extremely sensitive — I don’t need to tell you that.’ He blinked and added with a raised eyebrow, ‘That’s not a dig, by the way. They’re effectively French citizens, with full freedom of movement. If we get too heavy-handed and drag these poor wretches out of factories and start interrogating them, it will reignite all manner of old memories. We don’t need that.’
‘I can see that,’ Rocco countered. ‘But what if they’re not Algerians?’
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s just a thought. Not all Algerians have papers, and we know there are other nationals keen to get here. Do we let them all come?’ He was aware that that made him sound racist and added, ‘There are criminals and factory owners making a lot of money out of these people, and not paying the taxes associated with their workforce. Do we let them get away with it?’
The argument swung back instantly against Massin. He could play the equality game all he liked, but allowing the evasion of taxes and the importation of labour from nonaligned countries would not go down well among the high command in the Interior Ministry.
He pulled a face as if he’d swallowed a slice of lemon. ‘Do you have any leads on the factories involved?’
‘Nothing specific. But it would be simple enough to narrow down the search to factories employing unskilled workers and those operating at night.’
Massin made another note. If he felt cornered by Rocco’s arguments, he hid it well.
‘Leave it with me. I will tell Captain Canet to delay any action until I clear this through the Ministry. I want to avoid any repercussions.’
Rocco left Massin to get on with protecting his back and went in search of a telephone. He dialled the number Santer had given him, and waited. After a dozen rings it was picked up and a cautious voice grunted a greeting of sorts.
‘My name’s Lucas Rocco,’ he replied. ‘I used to work out of Clichy with Michel Santer. He gave me your name, suggested you might be able to help with some information.’
‘Rocco. Sure, I’ve heard of you. You know I’m no longer on the force, right?’
‘I know.’
‘What do you want, then?’ Caspar sounded wary and tired, a man worn down by the stresses of his job. If Santer was right, he was on the brink of a breakdown. Rocco wondered if this was a waste of time.
‘Everything you can tell me about some Algerians — one in particular.’
‘Whoa… wait a minute,’ Caspar broke in quickly. ‘No names, OK?’ He paused a moment, then said, ‘I’ll call you back from another phone.’ The line went dead.
Rocco waited patiently. Caspar was being very careful. He was probably calling Santer right now, checking that this was on the level. If so, it was a measure of how he had survived so long undercover.
Five minutes passed before the phone rang. Rocco was impressed. Caspar must have got the station number from Santer.
‘How urgent is this?’ Caspar asked.
‘Very.’
‘All right. Can you make nine tonight in Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Champs-Elysees, south side, between the Rond-Point and Clemenceau. Don’t bring company.’
The phone clicked off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Champs-Elysees in central Paris, even at night, was not the kind of place Rocco would have imagined as an ideal meeting place unless it were in a spy film. Wide open and busy, it was somewhere he’d have thought was anathema to a former undercover cop suffering anxiety attacks. A quiet cafe in a dark backstreet would have been more fitting, with discreet shadows and several avenues of escape if required.
Rocco checked his watch. It was just on nine o’clock. He left his car and walked slowly along the southern side of the avenue as directed, heading towards the distant Place de la Concorde. The Clemenceau metro was in front of him, and behind him loomed the always-impressive bulk of the Arc de Triomphe. Even at this hour there were a number of tourists gawking at the shop windows and drinking in the sights of a city famous the world over.
He had to give Casparon time to see him, to check his back-trail, so he stopped and peered in one of the shopfronts, a minimalist display of fine silks draped over an arrangement of driftwood and pale pebbles. It had probably cost more than he earned in a month, but he had to admit it looked good. More art than fashion. Or maybe he was missing the point.
A lone man appeared walking towards him along the inside of the pavement, and Rocco felt a tug of surprise. It was as if he’d dropped from a nearby rooftop. It was a reminder that he had been away from the city just long enough to have lost his street ‘edge’ — that instinctive feel for your surroundings which alerts you to a change in the atmosphere long before anyone else would notice.
The man moved under the flood of light from the window Rocco had been studying and nodded a greeting.
He was gaunt and dark-skinned, the colour of stained oak. In the shop light, his eyes were an unusual amber with tiny irises, and he wore a wisp of beard and moustache with a scrub of short, black hair. He looked wiry and tense, and might have been a former footballer or athlete. Except, reflected Rocco, footballers and athletes don’t carry an air of tension like an electrical charge which seems to envelope them and the atmosphere around them.
He put Caspar’s age at forty plus, but he might have been younger. Working too long undercover did that to you; it put years on your face and in your head, and wore you down like a stint of hard labour.
‘Rocco?’ The man lifted his chin in query, but it was clear he knew Rocco by sight, probably thanks to Michel Santer.
‘Caspar. Can I call you that?’
‘Sure. Everyone does. You prefer Rocco, right?’ It was a ritual between policemen, establishing common ground when working together. For Caspar it was probably a habit he couldn’t break, but Rocco was happy to go along with it.
He led the way to a large cafe with empty tables spilling onto the pavement. There were few customers around. ‘Inside OK for you?’
Caspar nodded. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ The tone was defensive, and Rocco noted a trace of bravado in the man’s eyes. Even so, he wasn’t going to pretend all was well when it so obviously wasn’t. That would be patronising.
Instead he said, ‘Because it’s too open outside and I don’t like sitting in a goldfish bowl.’
Caspar accepted the explanation with good grace. ‘Yeah, I hear you’ve banged a few heads in your time. No sense in taking chances.’ He stepped past Rocco and walked inside, heading for a table at the rear. He sat down
