check papers, check permits, but keep it low-key. We don’t want firebombs and water cannon on our streets. Understood?’
‘Have we actually got a water cannon?’ asked Desmoulins with pointed innocence. The comment raised a laugh around the room, lowering the tension. But it was a valid point. Levels of equipment were not always spread evenly across the various divisions, and some of the quieter parts of the country fared less well when it came to budget allocations. So far, though, water cannon had not been a feature of policing in the Amiens division.
Massin smiled thinly, probably grateful for the change of topic and atmosphere. ‘If we have, perhaps someone could let me know where we keep it, just in case.’
‘Perhaps that should be the new liaison officer’s job,’ suggested another man. ‘Acting as liaison between the driver and the cannon operator.’
Massin looked less amused at this. He scowled. ‘The liaison officer has been introduced as an experiment,’ he said, ‘working on special cases. The idea arises from studies carried out in several countries, and would appear to have some merit. We have been chosen as a test bed, so I expect you to welcome the officer and give the matter your serious consideration.’
‘What sort of special cases?’ asked Captain Canet.
‘Sensitive ones. Serious domestic violence, criminal assault on females or minors, racial and religious bias… basically, anything uniformed officers may not have the expertise or time to deal with, and where we need to bring in other agencies to take over. That coordination will be the responsibility of the liaison officer.’ He looked around the room. ‘I will advise you of further details when they become known.’ He inclined his head towards Perronnet and added, ‘There are some important housekeeping matters to discuss. Commissaire Perronnet will talk to you about those.’
There was a low groan among the crowd. ‘Housekeeping’ covered rosters, manning levels and special duties, none of which were good news for the grunts on the ground, and inevitably impacted on their days off. Their wives usually made their feelings known very quickly afterwards.
As Massin left the room, he signalled to Rocco to follow him.
On his way out, Rocco was intercepted at the door by Canet, who waved other men away out of earshot.
‘Lucas,’ the captain said quietly, ‘I still don’t know what’s between you two, and I don’t want to know. I’m guessing it relates to your time in Indo-China, you and him both. I also know he’ll have you on a spit if you let him.’ He frowned at the thought. ‘And that would be a hell of a waste. Just stay calm.’ He stepped out of Rocco’s way with a friendly nod.
Rocco walked down the corridor to Massin’s office and closed the door behind him. Canet was right to warn him, but if Massin really wanted him gone, he’d find a way.
‘Do we have a problem?’ the commissaire asked, sitting behind his desk.
‘You tell me,’ said Rocco bluntly. He wondered if this was finally it; that Canet was going to be proved right and Massin had found a point of leverage to use against him in the issue of their brief history together. As Rocco’s commanding officer during the war in Indo-China, Colonel Massin had not exhibited the highest level of courage under fire, and had had to be accompanied out of danger by, among others, Rocco himself, then a sergeant. It had been clear from the moment they had met again that Massin still remembered him, although Rocco had no desire to act as a living reminder of his momentary weakness. Things happened in the heat of battle, and he’d seen too many good men falter to hold judgement over them. However, since finding himself reporting to Massin in his new posting, he’d been waiting for the hammer to fall and to discover himself on a transfer list to somewhere unpleasant, safely beyond Massin’s embarrassment.
‘With Tourrain. Did I detect some… tension between you?’
Rocco wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. It seemed Massin was going to ignore the fact that he had implied Rocco’s involvement in the October 1961 riots, choosing instead to pick on a brief exchange of words between officers.
‘Put me in a room with a racist bigot,’ he said finally, remembering Canet’s advice, ‘and I suppose it pushes the wrong buttons.’
‘I see. Well, his views are well known, but that should not bother you.’
‘Doesn’t it bother you?’
‘Naturally. But that must not get in the way of the smooth running of this division. Tourrain and his like will be dealt with in due course.’ He stared hard at Rocco, challenging him to disagree. ‘Understood?’
‘As you wish.’ Rocco wondered where this was leading. It was a petty issue for a senior officer to pick on. There should have been far more pressing things to occupy Massin’s mind, such as the need for better forensics and pathology facilities, or improved police radio equipment for cars. Minor disagreements between officers under his command should have been a given, not a point of contention. Unless Massin was playing mind games and showing his superiority by dragging Rocco into his office in full view of everyone else.
The phone on Massin’s desk rang, cutting off further talk. Massin made a motion for Rocco to stay, listening for a few moments and glancing at Rocco before replacing the receiver.
‘Trouble seems to follow you around like a rabid dog, doesn’t it?’ he muttered. ‘That was a message from your local rural policeman — Lamotte, is it? A body, thought to be male, has been discovered in the canal not far from Poissons. It was being dragged under a barge.’
Rocco was relieved. It meant he could get out of this place before he said something he truly regretted. ‘Probably a drunk or a vagrant,’ he said, and turned to go.
‘I doubt it.’ Massin’s words stopped him. ‘The body is trapped underwater, but there was a rough description.’ He lifted an eyebrow. ‘You said you haven’t met any Algerians here yet, Inspector. I think that’s about to change.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
In Es Senia, Samir Farek left the building where his men were preparing to dispose of the dead taxi driver, Abdou. The body would be transported in an old packing crate and eventually found in a convenient alleyway in the old town. A robbery victim, sniffed over by dogs and rats. Unfortunate, but it happened all the time.
‘Find me the Calypsoa,’ he said, walking towards his Mercedes. ‘Find the agent who dealt with the addition of passengers on board. I want to know where the ship went from here and what stops it was due to make along the way.’
Bouhassa shuffled heavily along beside him, djellaba flapping around his huge belly. He nodded and licked his lips. ‘The agent. Right. Then what?’
‘Then kill him, of course.’
Later, at his home in Al Hamri, Farek walked through every room, feeding the anger that had begun when he returned from a lengthy business trip to Cyprus to find his wife gone. There was no trace of her here now, save for some clothing and a few cheap trinkets. The good jewellery was all gone, as was the emergency cash from his desk drawer.
And the boy.
She had left him. He couldn’t believe it.
The place was so quiet. He found that strange until he remembered how she had always been playing music on the radio; mindless modern pap, mostly.
He ended up in the bedroom, and standing breathing in the atmosphere of her perfume, found himself wondering whether she had ever soiled this place with another man.
He shook off the idea and went to the living room, staring at the expensive furnishings, the leather and polished hardwood, the glistening floor tiles and rugs from Afghanistan, the magazines from Paris and New York which she had persuaded him to buy her.
Felt the fury beginning to tip over as he thought about his generosity while ignoring the times he had gone with other women, soiled his own promises to her, threatened her very life for daring to question any decisions he made.
