‘Where?’
‘P-pardon?’
‘Where did she go? It’s an easy enough question.’
‘I don’t – I’m not sure.’
‘Pity.’ Farek pressed the point of the key beneath the man’s eyeball, lifting it slightly in its socket, yet without breaking the skin. Tappa whimpered and lifted on his toes, trying to escape the relentless pressure and the first hint of the pain to come. To add to his terror, the vast figure of Bouhassa had moved in and was now standing close, cutting off any chance of escape … and any chance that someone might see what was happening. ‘
Wait
! Wait … I can remember, I promise! Of course. Stupid of me to forget such a thing. It was north. That’s right, north.’
‘North where? North Pole?’ The key probed deeper.
‘Chalon-sur-Saône. Near Dijon.’ Tappa began to weep, his whole body trembling with fear.
Farek was unmoved. ‘How far is that? How long to drive?’
‘Distance, I don’t know. Four … maybe five hours … a little longer. Please, I don’t—’
‘Name.’
‘What?’
‘A name. At this place called Chalon-sur-Saône which is four, maybe five hours away.’ As Farek knew well from his own line of business, every supply line consisted of contacts, like way stations, with the product being shuttled from one to another. It mattered not whether the product was animal, vegetable or mineral. Or human. The arrangement was the same. Each cut-out reduced the chances of too many in the line being scooped up if someone talked. ‘Who do I ask for?’
Tappa held out only for a fleeting moment, then told Farek everything he wanted to know.
Farek stood back a pace and smiled. ‘There. See how easy that was?’ He bent and picked up the holdall, sliding the zip open. Dumped a spare shirt and underclothes on the tarmac, then raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, you keep your savings under the mattress, I see. Doesn’t say much for your faith in the banking system, does it?’ He closed the holdall and said, ‘Nice doing business with you, Maurice.
Adieu
.’ Then he turned and walked away, leaving a smiling Bouhassa to take his place.
Tappa groaned and fell back against the car.
The sound of his dying didn’t even reach the street.
There was an urgent knock at the door of the office Rocco was using. It was Desmoulins.
‘Got the information on the truck Etcheverry saw,’ said the detective. ‘He was spot on. It’s registered to Armand Maurat. He’s an owner-driver, works out of Saint-Quentin running small haulage all over. Mostly last-minute stuff the bigger firms can’t factor into their schedules. When he’s not doing that he works as a stand-in driver for a general haulier called Convex. Among other things, they’re contractors for a bunch of the smaller champagne houses.’
Rocco stood up. At last, something positive. A glass of champagne would go down very well right now; just the thing to get him firing on all cylinders. Some hope.
‘Where is he at the moment?’
‘According to a woman at his home address, he’s at a warehouse, doing some night work. She sounded old and cranky. I told her I was checking on a load.’
Rocco looked at his watch. Nearly six. He wondered how long Maurat would be around before he picked up a load and disappeared on a trip to God knew where. They couldn’t risk alerting the man by ringing first, and it was almost guaranteed that if he was involved in the death of the man in the canal, his radar would have him up and running the moment he heard the police wanted to talk to him.
‘How far to Saint-Quentin from here?’
‘Eighty kilometres – about an hour thirty if we’re lucky. It’s a straight road but there are roadworks on the way.’
‘We?’ Rocco looked at him, then considered the sense in having another pair of eyes and ears along. He nodded and pulled on his coat. ‘This might be a late night; you’d better warn your wife.’
Desmoulins grinned happily, keen to be out of the office. ‘No problem. She’s got her sister staying anyway; I doubt she’ll even notice.’
Ten minutes later, they were in Rocco’s car with Desmoulins at the wheel. Rocco was already half asleep, falling back on the usual cop’s instinct to get some rest while he could, in case it wasn’t possible later.
He didn’t notice the cream-coloured Peugeot pulling up as they left, nor the attractive young woman in a headscarf, locking the door and hurrying inside.
Saint-Quentin late at night had the look and feel of a graveyard. Rocco had expected more movement somehow, as if the town might harbour a secret nightlife when the more licentious inhabitants came out to frolic. But he was disappointed. Instead, the pale-yellow street lights were struggling to fight their way through a cold mist hanging over the town, leaving it like a deserted film set. Surveillance was always more difficult with little or no background cover, and he regretted bringing the Citroën. An anonymous, family-type saloon car would have fitted in more easily.
He stopped on the western outskirts and nudged Desmoulins, who sat up, rubbing his face. They had changed halfway, giving the detective a chance to get some rest. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to sleep that long.’
‘No problem,’ Rocco murmured. He took a map off the dashboard and handed it to his colleague. He’d written
Maurat’s address on the margin and circled the street. In a town this size, they must be fairly close to it.
Desmoulins pointed towards the north side of town. ‘Over that way.’
Rocco took them into a scattering of streets with little movement and few cars. After a couple of turns down mist-shrouded dead ends which the map seemed unaware of, they found themselves in a darkened street where the buildings on either side looked abandoned, as if the area was in the middle of a demolition phase.
Halfway along the street stood a group of young men. They were barely out of their teens and wore black leather jackets and jeans, the new youth uniform of choice. No signs of bikes, though. Pavement bikers.
‘All we need,’ muttered Desmoulins, as a couple of the youths saw them and stepped into the street. One of them belched loudly and tossed an empty beer bottle onto the bonnet of the Citroën, drawing laughter from the others. The bottle hung for a second, balanced precariously, then rolled and dropped to the tarmac, where it smashed.
‘Cheeky bastard!’ Desmoulins growled, and reached for the door handle.
‘Leave it,’ said Rocco calmly, pulling to a stop. There was no way round them, only over. Confrontation was what these kids were after. He’d seen it before: hungry for some excitement, bored by mindless jobs, one wrong look and they’d be over the car like a rash.
The drunk who had tossed the bottle ambled over to the car on Rocco’s side. He banged a fist on the door panel while his friends stood in Rocco’s path and watched. He was short and squat, with powerful arms and a chest straining at his
vest. In the glow from the car’s lights, his face was suffused with a nameless anger.
‘Hey – spare some change?’ the youth shouted, and laughed sourly at his own humour. He turned to look at his mates. When he turned back he was holding a large clasp knife in his hand. He began waving it over the Citroën’s paintwork, his tongue sticking out and a wild grin on his face. His intentions were crystal clear.
Rocco lowered his window. He said to the youth, ‘Sure.’ In his hand was the gleam of coins.
But the youth wanted more. In a flicker he was at Rocco’s side, the knife lifting as he saw his opportunity. He signalled to his friends to go round the other side of the vehicle. They did so, leaving the way clear.
‘Out of the car, sucker—’ the youth began. Then he stopped speaking as Rocco’s clenched fist, wrapped tightly around the coins, struck him in the side of the neck with a meaty smack.
Rocco stamped on the accelerator and the Citroën leapt forward, leaving the youth gurgling and clutching his neck, and his friends standing helpless in the middle of the street.
‘Was that really necessary?’ said Desmoulins, dryly. He twisted round in his seat, watching to see if the gang had any way of coming after them. But the injured youth was kneeling in the road, holding his throat, while his friends stood watching, stunned by the turn of events.
‘What did you want me to do?’ Rocco asked calmly. ‘Offer him a lift?’
‘No. I wanted you to let me out to give him a kicking.’ He grinned and turned his attention to the map and gave directions, taking them through a series of turns and narrow
streets towards the outskirts of town. They finally reached a road with a line of small, prefabricated bungalows on one side and a dark, featureless expanse of land on the other. Few of the bungalows had cars in evidence, and most of the fabric of the buildings looked neglected and drab under the weak street lamps. A dog watched them roll by before scurrying away into the darkness. There was no other movement.
‘Homely looking dump,’ said Desmoulins.
Rocco saw a doorway with a light overhead and drew to a stop across the street. He saw a number painted on the front porch. This was the place.
Close up, even in the dark, it was no palace. The small front garden was overgrown and dank, the house itself rundown, with shutters hanging limply across the windows, emitting a faint gleam of yellow light through the single diamond aperture in each side.
Alongside the house stood a Berliet truck, the familiar logo with the circle and downwards arrow just visible in the light.
‘Looks like our boy’s home,’ murmured Desmoulins. ‘I’d love to have a look in the back of that truck.’
‘Me too. Watch our backs,’ said Rocco, and got out of the car.
He knocked on the door and listened for sounds of movement. He’d decided to try Maurat’s home address first, in case the driver had finished his shift. There was no sound and no sign of life in the houses on either side. Elsewhere, a door slammed followed by something rattling against a dustbin, and in the distance a train rattled along a track. He knocked again, and was about to return to the car when he heard a rattle from inside.
‘What do you want?’ The door flew open and Rocco turned to see an elderly woman in carpet slippers and an old, faded dressing gown. In spite of her age, she was tall and upright, her eyes firmly fixed on his in a no-nonsense stare.
He asked if Armand was in.
‘No,’ the woman shot back. ‘And don’t bother asking me where he is – I’m his mother; he doesn’t tell me a thing. He’ll be back in the morning.’ She began to close the door.
Rocco put out a hand and stopped it. ‘I need to speak to him,’ he said quietly, glancing over his shoulder in a conspiratorial manner. ‘I’ve got a job of work for him.’
Mme Maurat snorted in disbelief. ‘Really? It’s so urgent you come looking for him now?’ She peered up at him, craning her neck. ‘Mother of God, you’re a big lad. I’ve never seen you before.’
‘Let’s keep it that way, shall we? I need to speak to your son, and it won’t wait. It’s very important – a special load to go out.’
‘Who’s the shy one?’ The old woman’s eyes had swept past Rocco and alighted on Desmoulins sitting in the car. There was nothing wrong with her eyesight.
‘He’s a colleague you also didn’t see. Now cut the crap and tell me where he is.’ He took a note out of his pocket and held it up so she could see it.
Her lined face pinched in resentment at his tone, but she chewed the matter over, eyeing Rocco then the money. Eventually the temptation proved too much. She snatched the note from his hand, then backed up and took a pen and a scrap of paper from a table behind her and scribbled down an address. It was for the Convex warehouse.
‘He’s doing a bit of night work for a friend. Deliveries and
stuff. I’m sure he’ll find a way of helping you out.’ She smiled obsequiously, but the meaning wasn’t even skin-deep. ‘Now fuck off.’ This time she slammed the door in his face.
Rocco grinned and went back to the car. Maurat’s home life must be great fun.
‘If her son’s up to anything other than a bit of moonlighting,’ he told Desmoulins, ‘his mother doesn’t know about it. Either that, or she’s a great actress.’
He followed Desmoulins’ directions and drove back the way they had come, turning off before reaching the street where they’d had the confrontation with the youths. They eventually arrived at a commercial estate on the western side of town, and saw a row of warehouses. Only one unit showed any signs of life. The name CONVEX was painted across the fascia, and a thin glimmer of light shone under a closed roller door.
From inside came the high-pitched whine of a forklift truck. Outside under a security light were three skips loaded with discarded packing material.
Rocco stopped a short distance away under the cover of a parked trailer unit. He was just considering what approach to make when a side door opened, spilling light. A tall, thin man in blue overalls scurried out, slamming the door behind him. He looked around, then hurried over to a battered Simca and got in. He drove off with a faint squeal of rubber on the tarmac.
‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ murmured Desmoulins.
‘It’s him,’ said Rocco. There was something about the man’s stance which was identical to the old woman they’d just seen. ‘She tipped him off, the sly old boot.’
They followed the Simca through a maze of streets towards the centre of town. Maurat drove fast, with little regard for the speed limits, and it soon became clear that he wasn’t heading back to Mummy. Wherever he was going, for a man on a mission he seemed unaware that anyone might be tracking him. His driving was also erratic and difficult to follow, as he appeared to be looking for something. Twice he stopped outside cafés, both of which were shut. On what became a meandering tour, they passed the heavily ornate frontage of the
hôtel de ville
twice, and the Simca hesitated near the Basilique once before driving on with a burst of speed.
‘Christ, what’s this – a tourist trip?’ muttered Desmoulins.
Rocco was initially worried that Maurat was actually aware of them on his tail, having spotted them with his stop-start tactics. But then the Simca finally crossed the river which bisected the town and stopped in a street near the
railway station. Maurat jumped out and, without looking back, hurried down a darkened alley alongside a café with a dim light burning inside.