business which was not entirely to do with a gangster chasing his runaway wife.
Massin reached into a folder on his desk and took out a slim leather booklet. Rocco recognised the address book he’d found in Michel Gondrand’s house.
‘While you were otherwise engaged yesterday, Desmoulins and some other officers went through this, checking for anything familiar which might tie in to anyone with a grudge against Michel Gondrand. They discovered nothing of significance until a reference was found to a bank deposit box here in Amiens.’ He took a piece of paper from the folder and slid it across the desk. It recorded all the recent visits made by Gondrand to the deposit box vault. He gave a wisp of a smile. ‘It seems Gondrand made an unusually high number of visits to the bank, sometimes twice a day. Fortunately, the manager was only too willing to help us in our enquiries, as Gondrand was a particularly unpleasant individual. His arrogance has not helped him, but it has helped us.’ He slid another piece of paper across to Rocco. ‘A record of regular payments made to someone you know.’
Rocco checked the paper, which listed account numbers, dates, sums of money… and the name of the recipient account holder.
Alain Tourrain.
It was damning — if as yet unexplained — evidence against a fellow police officer. To be receiving payments of any kind from a local businessman was bad enough; to be in receipt of payments from a car dealer who had lived an expensive lifestyle and who was now dead of a gunshot wound was a whole new level of suspicious behaviour.
‘You haven’t arrested him, have you?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. There hasn’t been time. But we will. Why do you ask?’
Rocco couldn’t quite explain even to himself, but now they had confirmation that the janitor hadn’t been the sole leak of information here, someone else had to be. And the prime candidate was Tourrain. The only question that puzzled him was that Yekhlef seemed to be in thrall solely to Farek — but Farek had only arrived in the past forty-eight hours. If Tourrain had been receiving payments from Gondrand for many, many months, was it possible he was also being paid by someone else? But payments for what? And from whom?
‘Can you let him run for a while?’ he replied. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
Massin huffed undecidedly for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘Very well. But I will hold you responsible if he goes missing. What is this idea of yours?’
‘Can we risk the anger of the mayor and everyone else, and announce another sweep for illegal workers? Only this time, instead of the whole town, we’ll let Tourrain know that it’s to two or three specific sites.’
Massin lifted an eyebrow. ‘I see. So if we find the named sites shut down, we’ll know it’s him. And what will you be doing?’ Then he sighed. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I do not know.’
‘Perhaps it would.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
It was clear by early afternoon that Farek and his men had gone to ground, no doubt waiting for the police activity to die down. One of his brother’s men, out scouting for provisions in the town, was picked up following a collision with a cement truck. Climbing from his car and waving a handgun, the man was set upon by the truck driver’s mate, who clubbed him to the ground with a large wrench used for releasing the chute at the back. Arrested by a patrol car crew, the gunman refused to reveal where his colleagues were hiding.
In the meanwhile, Massin convened a meeting of selected personnel to reveal a sweep of three factories in the town, suggesting there had been information received of illegal workers being trucked in to begin a shift that evening. Among the mild grumbles from officers facing another sleepless night, Rocco watched as Alain Tourrain took in the news without comment, then walked away to use a telephone down the corridor.
After the meeting broke up, Captain Canet beckoned Rocco and led the way to Massin’s office.
Inside, Massin stood stiff and controlled behind his desk. His deputy, Perronnet, stood to one side, and next to him was a young woman in the impressively starched uniform of a gardienne of the national police.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Massin, indicating the newcomer, ‘I would like to introduce you to Mlle Poulon, our new liaison officer. She is the first of perhaps many new recruits for specialist duties which it is hoped will complement the day-to-day activities of officers in this and other regions.’
The young woman nodded at each of the men in turn. She flushed slightly under their scrutiny, but did not appear ill at ease, Rocco noted. He shook hands with her and felt a firm grip with the briefest contact. Confident without being brash.
‘Initially,’ Massin continued, once introductions were over, ‘Miss Poulon will report to Captain Canet. He will brief all other personnel about her duties, but I would like you to ensure that she has everybody’s full cooperation at every stage.’
‘Doing what?’ said Rocco.
‘I’m glad you asked. Miss Poulon is fully versed in dealing with sensitive matters relating to the arrest and treatment of women and young offenders, and the liaison between ourselves and victims of rape, domestic violence and general crime. If a case has any of those elements, she is to be involved at the very earliest stages of the investigation. Understood?’ He looked round and received nods of assent, then added, ‘Inspector Rocco, in view of your most recent contact with a female and child immigrant, perhaps you could take Miss Poulon under your wing for the first couple of days. Show her around, bring her up to speed with your current case and so forth. See where she might be able to help.’ He gave a thin smile and nodded at the room in general. ‘For now, I think we all have duties to prepare for.’
Rocco stepped out into the corridor, biting back the urge to tell Massin where he could put this assignment. There was too much going on right now for him to be babysitting a new recruit. But maybe that was the response Massin was looking for. If so, it was trouble he didn’t need.
‘Well, Inspector,’ said a cool voice behind him, ‘that made me feel thoroughly welcome. Did you just suck on a lemon or did you get out of bed on the wrong side?’
He turned and looked at the new officer. She had short, auburn hair, a spray of faint freckles across her nose and startlingly grey eyes which were now looking up at him with a flinty confidence. Her mouth was set in a firm line, jaw clenched, confirming that she was no wallflower.
He felt a heat growing around his ears and shook his head abruptly. ‘Actually, Miss Poulon,’ he said curtly, ‘I didn’t sleep at all last night, and this morning, I shot a man dead. It tends to make me a bit scratchy. Would you like coffee?’ He turned without waiting for a reply, and led the way out of the station to a cafe at the end of the street. Much frequented by police, it was full of officers changing shifts; those coming on duty holding thick, brown cups of coffee, those going home brandishing stubby glasses of wine or Pernod. The ashtrays were piled high with cigarette ends and a dark-grey ash, and a heady fog hung in the air above their heads.
He and Poulon immediately became the focus of attention. But he figured the sooner they all got over the shock of seeing a female officer, the better. He deliberately chose a corner table and sat down, ordering coffees from the barman on the way past.
‘The name,’ Poulon said, sitting down across from him, ‘is Alix.’ She flinched as a burst of laughter came from some officers at the bar. ‘And I apologise. Did you really kill a man?’
‘Yes. It’s not something I joke about.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s a long story. He was holding my neighbour at gunpoint. She’s a nice old lady.’
She looked surprised. ‘So how did you…?’
He explained how Mme Denis had thrown hot tisane in the man’s face. ‘I said she was old, I didn’t say she was conventional.’
‘I didn’t realise this area was the OK Corral.’
He looked at her for signs of sarcasm, but could have sworn she was suppressing a smile. Before he could respond, however, he was interrupted by a shadow looming over the table.
‘Hey, Inspector.’ A tough-looking sous-brigadier had moved away from the bar, a coffee cup in his hand. ‘Since when do investigators get their own secretaries? Especially good-looking ones?’ He winked at Rocco and gave a courteous bow to the newcomer, earning cheers and jeers from his colleagues. Then he emptied his cup and
