Death on the Rive Nord (29 page)

‘Listen to me, Yekhlef; we know you’ve been looking at confidential information. And you took these files home with you.’ He waved the papers in his hand. ‘Tell us why and who you passed the information to, and we might not put you and your family straight on a plane back to Algiers.’

Yekhlef didn’t even look up. He shrugged and shook his head, defeated. It was as if he did not understand what Canet was saying.

Desmoulins leant in, one huge hand resting on the table right in front of Yekhlef’s eyes, where he couldn’t ignore it. ‘You were looking for a specific name and address, weren’t you? There’s no other reason for taking those files.’ He studied the man, willing a response out of him. Up close, he could see a tremor building in his thin frame, barely visible elsewhere but noticeable in his fingers, which were clenched tight. The man was terrified. Desmoulins decided to take a stab in the dark. ‘Is it to do with the investigation into illegal factory workers?’

For the first time Yekhlef gave a reaction. He looked up, a puzzled frown on his face. Desmoulins wondered for a moment whether he was wrong. Maybe his theft of the files had been simply looking for information to sell. There was always someone out there looking to get something they could use to their advantage. He picked up the sheaf of papers which Canet had placed on the desk. The pages were folded back at a list of investigators’ names, including his own. Then he froze.

Rocco’s name had been scored underneath by the sharp imprint of a fingernail.

So it was Rocco the man was after. Then he had it. The answer was staring him right in the face and he hadn’t even given it a thought. Christ, he must be tired, he thought shamefully. Tired and slow.

The people pipeline. Rocco had been investigating Maurat the truck driver and his part in bringing in Algerian workers to Amiens. And Yekhlef was Algerian.
Evidemment
!

He had an idea. He just hoped the others would play along – especially Massin, a stickler for procedure. Slamming the papers back on the desk he reached for the telephone. Dialled a number and waited, then said, ‘Lieutenant Delors in Immigration, please.’

Over by the door, Massin and Canet looked startled. Massin began to step forward, but Canet touched his arm, signalling the senior officer to hold back.

‘Ah, Delors,’ said Desmoulins. ‘You owe me a beer, if I remember. Yes, you do. In the meantime, I need some fast action. I need you to get a secure bus to …’ He consulted a piece of paper containing Yekhlef’s details and read out the address of his flat. ‘… and collect a Mrs Yekhlef – that’s Y E K H L E F – and two children, a boy aged ten and a girl, twelve. Take them to the holding centre at Roissy and I’ll get the paperwork in order. Yes, four to travel, next available flight. What? Well, if they’re at school, you’ll have to pull them out, won’t you? A
bientôt
!’

‘You cannot do that!’ Yekhlef was on his feet in protest. He looked round at the other officers for support, but met blank faces. ‘This is illegal!’

Desmoulins slammed the telephone down and glared at him. ‘Actually, we can and it’s not. You have abused the hospitality of the State, my friend, so you’re no longer
welcome here.’ He gave an exaggerated shrug and glanced dramatically at his watch. ‘The good news is, by three this afternoon, you’ll all be back on Algerian soil.’ He gathered together the papers and looked at the guard standing nearby, making sure Yekhlef couldn’t see his face, and winked. ‘Take him to a cell ready to be picked up by Immigration.’

The guard nodded and took Yekhlef away to a holding cell. Desmoulins watched him go, then turned to find Massin glaring at him.

‘Tell me, Detective,’ Massin said with quiet menace, ‘that you were not speaking to the Immigration Service just now. Have you any idea how difficult those people are to stop once they’re set in motion? The paperwork alone will be a nightmare.’

Desmoulins grinned. ‘No problem, sir. That was my wife on the other end. She’s used to that stuff and just plays along.’ Then he walked out of the office as if his work was over.

Two minutes later, he was back to find a trembling Yekhlef pleading desperately with someone – anyone – to listen to him. Massin and Canet were still there, faces inscrutable. ‘Please. I beg you!’ The janitor was almost in tears. ‘Let me explain … I have a wife and children! I did not intend to break any laws …’

‘OK,’ said Desmoulins, looking at his watch again. ‘Explain. But you’d better do it before the bus gets here. Those deportation drivers get really shitty if we keep them waiting.’

Faced with the certainty that he and his family were going to be flown immediately back to Algiers, the janitor began to talk. It wasn’t much, merely that he had been ordered to watch and listen, and to find out Inspector Rocco’s home
address. But it was said with a passion and a ring of truth which convinced the policemen that he was telling the truth.

‘Who ordered you to find this information?’ said Canet, at a signalled request from Desmoulins to join in. A uniform with lots of silver on it might be sufficient to scare further answers out of the man.

‘Farek. Samir Farek.’ The name came out in a whisper, barely loud enough for the others to hear. But it was evident that the man had given up any idea of further resistance. ‘He is
oualio
– a gangster – from Oran, my home city.’

‘He’s
here
?’ asked Canet.

‘Yes. There is talk that he has taken over the clans and gangs in Paris and the north, but I do not know if this is true. I know only his name and reputation. He is a very cruel man and anyone who says no to Farek has not long to live in this world.’ A tear suddenly erupted out of one of Yekhlef’s eyes and slid down his face, leaving a dark track on his skin. He brushed it away angrily and ducked his head in shame. ‘I could not say no. He would have killed me and my family.’

Desmoulins had another thought. ‘Did you tell your friends about the factory raids the other night?’ Somebody had leaked the news, and it now seemed that they had the culprit.

But Yekhlef shook his head miserably. ‘No. I did not. I was off sick that day. I only heard about it the following morning.’

Desmoulins let it go. It sounded true and would be easy enough to verify.

‘Mother of God,’ said Massin softly, staring at the ceiling. ‘Rocco was right about Farek. As if we don’t have enough
problems.’ He turned to the janitor. ‘But why this interest in Inspector Rocco by this … gangster, Farek?’

‘Because his wife ran away from him and she is said to be with Rocco. She and her son. I heard her asking to speak to him in this very place.’ Yekhlef shrugged. ‘It is a question of honour. Farek has lost face with his family and the community. He will not rest until they are all dead … perhaps even the boy also.’

‘With Rocco?’ Massin looked stunned. ‘What the hell does that mean,
with
Rocco? Is the man out of his mind? He’s taken up with the wife of a criminal?’

‘It’s not what you think, sir,’ said Desmoulins quickly. He signalled for the guard to take Yekhlef away, and when he was out of earshot, continued, ‘We believe Nicole Farek came down a people-trafficking pipeline with the man who was found dead in the canal several days ago. Her husband had taken her passport, so the only way she could escape him was to come to France. She arrived here on the truck driven by the prisoner, Maurat, but Farek followed her. Inspector Rocco is just trying to protect her.’

Massin looked deeply sceptical. He picked up the telephone and dragged the calls list towards him, then dialled Rocco’s number. He listened for several rings, but there was no answer.

‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘He should be here by now.’

Nobody answered him.

CHAPTER FIFTY

You’re a popular guy,’ said the gunman, listening as the phone rang for the second time. He smirked at the two men now sitting where he’d ordered them on the floor by the bed. Their guns were across the other side of the room out of reach. He looked at Mme Denis, who was still sitting up on the bed glaring at him. ‘You. Old lady. Go bring me the telephone. And don’t say you can’t; I know it will stretch all the way in here.’

He made no attempt to help as Mme Denis eased herself with difficulty off the bed, wincing with pain. Still holding the mug of tisane, she shuffled slowly past him, favouring one hip and hissing something uncomplimentary in what Rocco was sure might be old Breton. The man sneered and moved aside just enough to keep her in his line of sight, but with one eye on the two policemen.

Rocco tensed himself ready to move, but the gunman was too careful. He looked like a professional, accustomed
to what he was doing. And French, Rocco surmised, by his colouring and accent, drafted in for the job.

The gunman grinned maliciously at Rocco as Mme Denis reappeared in the doorway, holding the telephone.

‘You tangled with the wrong man, Rocco,’ he said. ‘Getting cosy with Farek’s wife was the worst thing you could have done. He’ll be here within thirty minutes, I guarantee. He’s going to have fun with you and your friends; him and his pet gorilla, Bouhassa.’ He looked at Mme Denis and gestured for her to pass him the telephone.

She thrust it at him. But before his fingers could take hold, she dropped it on his foot and hurled the cup of hot tisane in his face.

The man howled with pain and swung his gun wildly, trying to hit her and intimidate the two men into keeping still. But Mme Denis had moved quickly to one side, leaving the way clear for Rocco and Claude to do something.

Rocco was already moving. He didn’t waste time standing up, but rolled frantically across the room, pushing Claude away to add to his own momentum and to prevent the gunman having a sitting target. As soon as his fingers closed around the butt of his MAB 38, he rolled onto his back and aimed instinctively at the doorway, triggering two shots in quick succession. The bullets slammed into the gunman, throwing him back through the opening into the kitchen.

In the deathly silence that followed, as Rocco and Claude got to their feet, Mme Denis looked sombrely at the mug on the floor, now broken in several pieces.

‘I hope you’re not going to ask me to pay for that,’ she said.

***

By the time Rocco returned to Amiens, leaving a team to clear away the body of the gunman, it was close to noon. Massin had already launched a sweep for Farek and his men and sent urgent bulletins to neighbouring forces and the Interior Ministry, alerting them to the sequence of events. Rocco had been reluctant to leave Mme Denis, but she had shooed him away, showing remarkable tenacity in spite of her experiences. The last he had seen of her, she had Claude shadowing her every move and was getting ready to tell her story to her cronies in Poissons.

Massin met Rocco in the corridor outside the main office, where search teams were being directed by Captain Canet to go through the town visiting the known haunts of Algerians with criminal connections. Several pairs of eyes turned his way through the glass, some admiring, some curious, most expressing sympathy for a fellow officer who had just been forced to shoot a man dead.

Massin explained about the janitor, Yekhlef, and his role as a major leak of information from the station. ‘He’s in a cell and his family is in protective custody,’ he announced. ‘The truck driver, Maurat, too. There’s no saying who this man Farek won’t go after, from what I hear.’ He gestured towards his office, and when they were both inside, said, ‘Where is the woman and her child?’

Rocco hadn’t been looking forward to this; hiding the truth from Massin was a precautionary measure, but he was well aware that it would be looked on as insubordination at the very least if he refused to reveal Nicole’s whereabouts. But as proven already by the janitor’s arrest, any information shared around here was not guaranteed to remain secret.

‘I don’t know exactly,’ he said honestly. ‘She’s on the move
with someone looking after her.’ He waited to see if Massin would insist on more information.

To his surprise, the
commissaire
nodded. ‘Fair enough. A good precaution to take, under the circumstances.’ He paused and looked slightly pained. ‘I have to ask this question, Inspector, simply because it will be asked of me by someone higher up the chain of command. And please consider your answer carefully. Are you having any kind of relationship with the Farek woman?’

‘No. I’m not.’ Rocco had expected the question, and was relieved at not having to lie. On top of everything else, it was a pressure he didn’t need.

Massin looked satisfied. ‘Well, that’s something. But tell me, is this really all about a man trying to get his wife back? My assumption is she will hardly be delighted to see him, in any case.’

‘No. She won’t,’ said Rocco. Massin behaved as if he had a broomstick up his backside a lot of the time, and seemed too concerned with not displeasing his bosses in the Interior Ministry, but he was no fool. Somehow he had managed to arrive at the same conclusion as Rocco himself: that there was something at the heart of the Farek 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.’