When the call was answered, he recited what he had seen and heard earlier; how the Farek woman he had recognised from when he lived in Oran until just a year ago had come in asking for a very tall policeman who always dressed in black. The inspector he knew as Lucas Rocco.
At the end of the call, he hung up and went quietly back to his duties.
The net was beginning to close.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Caspar came round to find himself bound tightly by ropes to a hard-backed chair. He had a ferocious headache sending stabs of pain down through his cheekbones into his neck and shoulders, and he felt inexplicably cold. He couldn’t recall much beyond being taken out of the old theatre by two men and bundled roughly into a waiting car. His mouth tasted bad and he wondered if a drug had been administered. Then he became aware of a more concentrated throbbing behind his left ear and realised he’d been knocked out by more direct means.
He shivered and forced his eyes open, the lids ungluing with reluctance, listening for noises of anyone in the building. He squinted against the yellow glare of an overhead light. The air smelt dead and musty, as if the place he was in had not been used in a long time. The decor reinforced the smell: the wallpaper was brown with age and bubbled by damp, the floorboards bare and unpolished with large cracks showing where the wood had warped over the years. There was no furniture that he could see other than the chair he was on, and the single window had the shutter closed against the outside light. He estimated that it was sometime in the morning, but not yet noon, in an old house somewhere near the theatre where he’d been lifted. At least, he told himself, he wasn’t so damaged that he couldn’t think straight. So far, anyway.
He heard a rustle of paper behind him.
He turned his head slowly to the right, his whole body rebelling at the movement, a nasty cracking sound coming from his shoulder. He wished he hadn’t bothered.
Bouhassa was sitting close by, absorbed in a kids’ comic. Superheroes in masks saving the world. Few words, big pictures. The gunman’s tongue was poking out of his mouth, a small pink dart of flesh like the nose of a lizard. He was grinning inanely at the pictures, chuckling silently. Had to be the pictures, Caspar told himself. Bastard couldn’t read words, that was for sure. He wore his habitual white djellaba, the front stained with sauce. Or was it blood? His feet were strapped into heavy sandals, the tooled leather surprisingly intricate in design for such a thug.
Caspar turned back to the front, trying to blot out the man’s presence and focus on getting out of here. The way things looked, he was in the deepest shit ever. And he’d been in some sticky situations before now. But being here at this time, and with this man in particular sitting within arm’s reach, was about as bad as he could imagine. If Bouhassa was here, there was going to be only one outcome.
He wondered how he’d been singled out, and by whom. He shook that thought away; he’d got careless, that was the truth of it. Careless and cocky and… stupid, thinking he could carry on for ever in this job. He’d walked right into the beast’s lair without a second thought as if he was bulletproof or invisible. Like the fantasy figures Bouhassa was reading about.
Just like the brass had hinted, maybe he really wasn’t fit for this work anymore. Time to give up.
Like he had a choice.
Then Caspar realised that the sensation of cold was concentrated in his hips and thighs. He dropped his chin.
He was naked from the waist down.
Jesus… what was this for?
Before he could analyse the information, the door opened and Samir Farek walked in. He was dressed in a smart suit and polished shoes, his hair glossy and full. Behind him was Youcef, his stupid brother — or half-brother, Caspar couldn’t recall which — lumbering along on his heels like a giant puppy, only half as bright. Farek motioned for Bouhassa to give up his chair and sat down facing Caspar, so close the former cop could smell his breath and a whiff of fancy aftershave.
‘So. Mr Casparon.’ Farek shot the cuffs of his shirt and flicked a piece of fluff off his knee. He seemed unabashed by the fact that his prisoner was semi-naked. ‘We have been a long time meeting. I’ve heard much about you.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Caspar, and instantly felt the world tip upside down as Youcef Farek reached forward and backhanded him sideways with no more effort than he’d have taken swatting a fly.
‘Don’t speak,’ the giant ordered. ‘Listen.’
Farek waited patiently while Bouhassa and Youcef struggled to right Caspar and his chair, then looked at his brother and said calmly, ‘You do that again and I’ll have Bouhassa shoot you.’ He turned his eyes back on Caspar. ‘My apologies. Let us keep this civilised. You know of an Inspector Rocco, yes? From Amiens?’
Caspar shook his head, the side of his face smarting like hell. But the action was more an attempt to retain a sense of focus and win some time than a denial. How the hell had this man come to know about Rocco? He debated saying that he’d never heard of him, but guessed Farek probably knew the answer anyway. Waste of time.
‘I know him, but not well.’ He wished he’d got his pants on at least, although loss of dignity in front of this monster was the least of his worries. He recognised it for the psychological tactic that it was. Take away a man’s dignity and he was immediately weakened. Open. Vulnerable.
‘I see. You work with him?’
‘No. I’ve been… retired.’
Farek lifted an eyebrow. ‘Really? That must be difficult to take, for such a young man. What did they offer in its place — desk work? Traffic duty? School patrol?’ Farek’s companions chuckled dutifully. ‘Still, fortunate for us, I suppose. I gather you were very good once. So. What were you doing at our meeting last night? A final visit for old times’ sake?’
Caspar said nothing, although he thought if he got Youcef riled again, he might have the pleasure of seeing Bouhassa shoot the moron dead. At least that would be one less to worry about. He decided on honesty.
‘I thought if I picked up some information, they might take me back.’
‘They?’
‘The department.’
‘Ah. Well, I’m afraid they won’t be doing that.’ Farek smiled thinly. ‘But let’s not be hasty. Perhaps we can talk about who has replaced you in your undercover role? We might come to an arrangement if the information proves correct.’
Caspar looked at him and thought, more likely you’ll kill me now, then kill the poor bastard who took my place. He wondered how long they had known about his role and decided it was probably longer than he’d ever thought. ‘I don’t know who took over. Anyway, I’m the last person they would trust with that kind of information, wouldn’t you think?’
Farek smiled, appreciating the logic. ‘Of course. Silly of me.’ He brushed again at his knee, a gold bracelet jangling on his wrist. He had fingers, Caspar noted, like sausages. Clean, but powerful-looking. Brutal. He could imagine those fingers digging into his flesh, probing for the nerve endings.
‘It’s true.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it is. Another question: do you know of a woman calling herself Nicole Glavin?’
‘No.’
‘Very well.’ Farek stood up and stared at Caspar dispassionately, like a butcher inspecting a side of beef and wondering what to do with it. ‘Kill him,’ he said at last, and walked out of the room, followed by Youcef.
‘ Wait!’ Caspar shouted. Anything to buy time, to delay what he knew the fat thug, Bouhassa, was going to do to him.
Just then, hurrying footsteps sounded and a man called Farek’s name, followed by a mumbled conversation. The effect was instantaneous.
‘Out,’ called Farek. ‘Both of you. We’ll deal with him later. Get the car.’
And suddenly, inexplicably, Caspar was alone. And frightened.
