But the senior officer shook his head from behind a mass of paperwork. ‘As I said before,’ he murmured, ‘this whole business of Algerian workers is a delicate issue. Nobody wants to be the first to crack down on these people, not after what happened before.’ He dropped his eyes, shying away from another confrontation on the subject. ‘If handled badly, it would have repercussions across the entire country. And nobody, especially the Ministry, wants unrest in the car plants and manufacturing industries where a lot of these people are employed. It would be political suicide and socially divisive.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Have you done anything about the man Maurat? We can’t keep him here indefinitely… It’s not a hotel. I spoke to Saint-Quentin and explained that he was in our jurisdiction when he was apprehended. You’d better make sure Maurat understands that that is how it happened.’
Rocco nodded. Damn. He’d almost forgotten about the driver. Clearly Massin hadn’t. ‘I know. Thanks for the backup. Can we hold him a little longer? It’s for his own protection.’
‘Yes, but not for days. I suggest you speak to him. We don’t want him standing on his rights and making a fuss.’
Rocco nodded. He was about to leave when Massin’s phone rang. The senior officer listened in silence, then frowned and put the phone down with a delicate touch. When he looked up, it was with bleak eyes.
Christ, what now? Rocco felt a sense of dread. This wasn’t going to be good.
‘You’ll have to speak to Maurat a little sooner than you think. That was the Saint-Quentin police. Maurat’s mother returned to her house last night. She spoke briefly to a neighbour and said she was back to collect some things. This morning the door was wide open. The neighbour went inside to investigate.’
‘Go on.’
‘Mrs Maurat was still there. Somebody had snapped her neck.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Rocco went downstairs to break the news to Maurat. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d carried the death message more times than he cared to remember, and like most cops, had developed a skill of blurring the details, even when pressed. Most family members instinctively wanted to know the how and where, usually only later asking about the why. He’d never had to pass on the news of an old woman with a broken neck before, and wasn’t sure how to describe it without lacking in sensitivity.
The driver was lying on a bunk, reading a newspaper. He barely looked up when Rocco appeared, and seemed almost comfortable in his isolation.
‘You come to beat me senseless, have you?’ he murmured. ‘Let me finish this bit first.’
Rocco pulled up a chair and sat down, waving the custody officer away. ‘No. Nothing like that.’
Something in his voice made Maurat lower his paper. His eyes scanned Rocco’s face. ‘What, then?’
Rocco told him what had happened without embellishment. It didn’t take long. For a long few seconds, Maurat said nothing; made no sign that he understood. Then he threw the paper to one side and swung his legs off the bunk. He stood and walked across to the table, took the other chair and sat down with a sigh.
‘She had cancer,’ he explained after a while, his voice dull. He fluttered a hand towards his stomach. ‘Something to do with the gut. She didn’t have long, according to the doctors, but she wouldn’t admit it. Carried on as if she was still young and healthy. Probably the best thing.’ He looked at Rocco with sad eyes and said softly, ‘How did she go?’
‘It was instantaneous, according to the local cops,’ said Rocco. ‘That’s all I can tell you. She wouldn’t have known anything.’
Maurat didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. ‘Thanks for telling me.’ His eyes watered momentarily, then he said, ‘This is down to me, isn’t it? If I’d never got into this mess, she’d likely still be alive. Salauds!’ He punched the table with a clenched fist, his anger aimed at whoever had killed his mother but plainly blaming himself.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rocco and meant it. ‘We’ll send you home with an escort to make the arrangements once the local cops have finished with their examination.’
‘Fine. Anything.’ Maurat sighed raggedly and appeared to come to a decision. ‘You got a form for me to fill out?’
‘Form?’ Rocco was puzzled.
‘A statement. I’ll make a full statement. Everything I know. Dates, people, descriptions — I don’t care. Let the bastards swing.’
‘Any names?’
Maurat chewed his lip, a sudden glint in his eyes. ‘I might have. But I need something in return.’
Rocco nodded. Maurat wasn’t so upset by his mother’s death that he’d forgotten the art of negotiation. But it was a breakthrough of sorts. It might lead nowhere but in the white heat of anger and loss, some details might emerge which would have otherwise remained hidden.
‘I’ll arrange it.’ He pushed back from the table. ‘Can I get you anything?’
A shake of the head. ‘No.’
When he returned upstairs, he found a uniformed officer waiting for him. A swarthy individual was slumped in a chair in the corridor, looking dejected and frightened.
‘Inspector Rocco?’ The officer gestured at the man and said, ‘Detective Desmoulins said you might be interested in this one. I found him in the town centre, begging for food. He hasn’t got any papers.’
Rocco nodded and led the way into a plain interview room with a wooden table. The man looked North African. There was a slim chance that he might have travelled with Nicole and the others, a chance he couldn’t ignore. ‘Does he speak French?’
‘He pretends not to, but I’m not so sure. I asked him where he comes from but he either couldn’t or wouldn’t say.’
The man sat down on a hard chair with the officer standing behind him, and stared up at Rocco with fearful eyes. He was in his fifties, Rocco judged, wiry and of medium height, badly in need of a shave and dressed in a worn jacket and baggy trousers. He had on a pair of scuffed shoes at least two sizes too big and no socks. He muttered something in a guttural tongue and licked his lips.
‘I don’t understand,’ Rocco told him softly. ‘Do you speak French?’ He sat down on the other side of the table, reducing his height and any sense of threat. ‘Where are you from?’
The man blinked but said nothing.
‘Algeria? Morocco? Tunisia? Where?’
No answer and no reaction.
Rocco looked at the officer. ‘Do we have anyone here with North African languages?’
‘Only a janitor, but he hasn’t been cleared. We tried to recruit a translator, I think, but nobody came forward.’
‘OK.’ He turned and gestured to the man to stay where he was, then said to the officer, ‘Get him a soft drink, will you? I’ll be back in a minute.’ He stood up and went along the corridor to a phone, where he dug out the number Nicole had given him. It rang several times before being picked up.
‘Amina?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’ The voice was soft, like silk, but wary. Nervous.
‘My name is Rocco. I need to speak to Nicole.’
‘Wait, please.’ A clunk as the telephone was put down, then footsteps fading. After a few moments, Nicole came on. She sounded breathless.
‘Sorry — I was in the yard with Massi.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘You’ve heard something.’
‘No, it’s not about that.’ He told her about the man found wandering the streets. ‘I’m trying to pin down where the men who were with you went to. This man might know something, but he doesn’t speak French.’
She caught on fast. ‘Of course… you want me to talk to him for you?’
‘Yes, please. Give me a moment.’ He went back to the interview room and beckoned for the officer to bring his charge, who was sipping at a small bottle of Pschitt lemonade. He handed the phone to the man and said out loud, ‘He’s on. Can you ask him his name and where he comes from?’
