By two in the afternoon, Samir Farek was in a run-down place called Cafe Emile on the outskirts of Amiens. It was frequented by Algerian workers and, as if reflecting the isolation they felt from the community around them, stood on a patch of waste ground between a crumbling grain warehouse on one side and a deserted sawmill on the other. It had long been marked down for demolition, but perhaps because of its insignificance, its date with the wrecking ball had been postponed.
Farek had left his brother Lakhdar to keep an eye on things in Paris following his takeover, and was accompanied by Youcef and Bouhassa, with three men from Lakhdar’s Paris organisation acting as guides and outriders. They had driven fast, brushing aside other cars by sheer intimidation, paying scant heed to road signs and playing the odds when encountering turnings on the right, where the traditional — and legal — French habit was to exit without looking.
The front door of the cafe was locked and the curtains closed. The few customers present had needed no urging to leave, and the proprietor had been advised that his loss of business would be amply compensated. Two men who were sitting together at a table looked anxiously at the assembled company as if wondering why they had come forward.
The police station janitor, Yekhlef, was the first to be asked to tell his story again, this time directly to Farek, about the woman he had seen in the police station earlier that morning asking after Inspector Rocco. He said he had seen her there once before, in the early evening when he was just starting a shift, but he hadn’t seen her with enough clarity to recognise her. Then Farek turned to Malik, who gave the janitor a resentful look before telling them what he had witnessed outside in the street, saying how he had seen her walk out of the police station and climb into a car.
‘A Peugeot four hundred and three,’ he said eagerly. ‘As clearly as you and I see each other now.’
Farek stood up and walked around the cafe interior, lower lip pushed out in thought. He finally came to a stop in front of both men. He looked at Yekhlef, who was the older man, and said in a whisper, ‘Does she lie with this policeman? Has she become his whore?’
The janitor looked shocked by the question. He licked his lips nervously, then looked Farek in the eye and said with careful dignity, ‘That in all honesty I cannot say, sir. But she used his first given name. As if they were friends.’ He shrugged carefully. ‘Beyond that, I would not care to comment.’
It was enough for Farek. ‘Can you find out where this man Rocco lives?’
Yekhlef considered it for a moment, then nodded with absolute certainty. ‘This evening I will go in, and when everyone has gone, I will look through the emergency calls list. It has the telephone number of all officers. I will also find his address, and call you.’
Farek nodded. He ordered Youcef to give money to both men, with a larger sum to Yekhlef to reflect his greater contribution and age. Then he told the two men to leave and never speak of this with anyone. Ever.
Once they had gone he sat down at a table and poured a cup of thick, black coffee from a percolator made earlier by the proprietor. He added several sugar cubes and stirred the drink slowly, thinking about how to resolve this situation.
He had completed one of the tasks that had brought him here: the takeover of the clans in Paris. Fortunately, it had been simple, accomplished without bloodshed. Well, almost. But what was one man’s life against the greater goal? It reminded him that he hadn’t dealt with the undercover cop, Casparon. That was a mistake; he should have allowed Bouhassa to do his thing. He called one of Lakhdar’s men over. ‘The policeman, Casparon. He must disappear. Tonight.’
The man nodded and went in search of a telephone.
So be it. Now that was taken care of, he had his other task almost within sight. He sipped the coffee, which was bitter, even with the sugar. It was how he liked it.
Married women, he reflected, do not become friendly with other men. It is not correct. And married women never become friendly with policemen.
Most especially this married woman.
‘As soon as we have the address of this man Rocco,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘I want a man to watch and see if the woman and child are by his side. Send a white face. Then we will plan our move.’
‘What if she’s not there?’ said Youcef, picking at his nails with the point of a flick knife.
Farek put down his cup, the rough glaze scraping in the saucer. ‘Then we will look until we are successful,’ he declared simply. ‘When we find him, we find her.’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Rocco called in to the office to see what had happened in the aftermath of the failed factory sweep and found Massin facing a mixed delegation from the mayor’s office, the local chamber of commerce and the unions, all for once united in their opposition to the raids and the effects on local industry and community relations. Even the local newspaper had got in on the act by sending a reporter to ferret around for details. Serge Houchin collared Rocco the moment he stepped into the building.
‘Inspector Rocco,’ the man said, breathing garlic in his face and waving a pen and notebook. Rocco had met the man once before, and he hadn’t liked him then. He had the sly manner of a rat without the personality.
‘What do you want?’ He wasn’t paid to be nice to the press and saw no reason to pretend otherwise. He’d seen colleagues burnt too many times by speaking carelessly to reporters after a scoop.
‘Can you comment on how it was the police have made utter clowns of themselves and wasted time and money on the ridiculous raid last night? And do you understand the mayor’s view that their heavy-handed approach has seriously damaged output in the town, with the factories closing down overnight and losing valuable production time, all for a few so-called illegal workers?’
Rocco wondered what would happen if he drop-kicked the man down the front steps into the street. No doubt there would be a rousing cheer from some quarters, but it would play too easily into Massin’s hands and get him suspended.
In the background, he could see Desmoulins grinning expectantly and Canet slowly shaking his head in warning.
‘Get out of my way,’ Rocco said softly, backing Houchin up against a wall, where the reporter stopped with a faint yelp and stared up at Rocco with wide eyes, ‘or I’ll tell your wife about the mistress you keep in Abbeville.’
It was a complete bluff, snatched out of nowhere; he couldn’t imagine any self-respecting woman getting close and naked with this little prick, let alone being any kind of mistress. But the world was a strange place. To his amazement, Houchin turned quite pale and slid away sideways.
‘I didn’t mean any offence,’ he said obsequiously, looking for a way out. ‘I wanted a comment from an experienced and highly regarded officer.’
‘Well, you’ve got one. Fuck off.’
Rocco walked away and joined Desmoulins, who was having trouble holding in his laughter at the reporter’s discomfort.
‘I need a witness,’ said Rocco. ‘I’m going to see Gondrand’s lawyer.’
‘Good idea. I hate lawyers. Are we going to bounce him around the office or do it the nice way?’
Rocco smiled at the idea. He had no love for lawyers, either, having been on the receiving end of their legal intricacies in the past and seeing clients he knew were as guilty as hell walk free on technicalities of law. But he didn’t know this one and wanted to play it by ear.
M. Bertrand Debussy was tall, patrician and elegantly dressed, and occupied the ground floor of a modern office just a few minutes from the police station. He welcomed the two policemen into his office with relaxed grace, even though they had no appointment.
‘May I offer a drink? Coffee? Tea? Mineral water?’
‘Thanks,’ said Rocco. ‘But we’re pressed for time — in the middle of an investigation.’
‘Very well.’ Debussy sat back and looked at Rocco, quickly noting the order of seniority between the two men. ‘How can I help?’
