Death on the Rive Nord (31 page)
This was the time of maximum exposure; he wasn’t yet fully committed, but there was really no going back. He could already hear shouting in the distance, and the sound of running feet, and picture the scene unfolding in front of the factory gates. The guard, alerted by the accident just metres away, would automatically come out of his hut to investigate, and would now be deliberating on whether he should go through the gates to help.
Rocco rolled across the curved top, trying to see the ground below. The guard would be weighing civic responsibility, of
which he probably had little, against the danger of upsetting Lambert, his boss, by leaving his post. If he had any sense he’d ignore the crash, although basic human curiosity would make him at least take a look.
Moving to the edge of the fence, he pushed forward into the dark, falling for a brief second before landing on the ground with a faint grunt. Then he was up and running across the open space where a wide shadow fell between two sets of floodlights.
He reached the building and looked back. He could just about see the rope and hook but only because he knew where to look. Hopefully, anyone else coming past here would be too focused on looking for movement inside the wire, not outside.
At the front of the building, the wail of a police siren split the night and a wash of blue light showed faintly through the darkness.
He grinned. When he’d outlined his plan to René Desmoulins earlier that afternoon, the detective had jumped at the chance to help. It had required close timing, but all he had to do was crash the car, an abandoned vehicle which had never been reclaimed, then make himself scarce before the police arrived. With the number of officers and cars out that night, it would not take long. Desmoulins had also supplied the rope and grappling hook, borrowed from a friend in the police training section.
Rocco slipped along the building until he came to the skip he’d hidden in the other night. It held the same smell of plastic and paint thinner, and was still covered by a tarpaulin. He hauled himself over the lip and settled down to wait for his moment. He checked his watch. The raids should now
be well under way and occupying the attention of everyone involved.
A door opened close by, and the hollow sound of laughter echoed briefly into the night, followed by footsteps. Something heavy clattered into an adjacent skip and a man muttered an oath in a language Rocco didn’t recognise. He peered over the lip of his skip in time to see a figure disappearing through the rear door. A flare of light flooded the area briefly before being cut off. But he could now see a yellow gap down the edge where the door hadn’t quite clicked shut.
He relaxed. He now had a way in.
A car engine approached, and a horn beeped once. He made his way carefully to the front of the skip and checked his field of view. The security guard was standing by the barrier, muffled in a heavy coat and hat. He’d just raised the pole to admit a pale-coloured Citroën DS 19.
Lambert.
The head of security got out of his car and spoke to the guard. They both turned and looked towards the road where the crash had occurred. A police light was flashing off the adjacent buildings and Rocco could almost read the body language of the guard as he explained what had happened. Then Lambert climbed back in his car, shaking his head, and drove through the barrier. For a brief second, as Lambert’s face was caught in the floodlights overhead, Rocco was sure the security man was looking towards the skip where he was hiding, but told himself it was a trick of the light. Seconds later, Lambert’s car disappeared from sight.
Rocco watched the security guard, waiting until the man decided it was safe to relax now the boss had gone inside. As soon as the man turned and walked back into his hut, his night-sight now compromised by the floodlights outside, Rocco lifted the tarpaulin and pulled himself over the side of the skip. He dropped to the ground, and half a
dozen strides later he was standing by the rear door.
His initial plan had been to wait for someone to come out and slip inside for a look. But now he didn’t need to bother. He grasped the handle and tugged gently, feeling the door break free of the wooden surround. The strip of light widened, and he glanced towards the front corner of the building. The security cabin was now out of sight, but if the guard saw a spread of light as Rocco opened the door he might assume that it was a worker dumping waste.
He hesitated, straining for the sound of footsteps inside. Satisfied nobody was close by, he opened the door and slipped through, pulling it closed behind him. He waited for the sound of an alarm, ready to turn and run.
Nothing.
He was standing in a narrow corridor formed by twin stacks of cardboard boxes several feet high. High overhead, an array of lights threw an uneven glow over everything, creating a play of shadows large enough to hide a small car. He scanned the boxes, which were stamped with a meaningless jumble of letters and part numbers, and probably contained component parts for assembly. The walls above the stacks were dotted with power trunking and ventilation pipes, with what he could see of the lower walls dotted with electrical sockets and cables. The floor had been finished in a dark-red gloss, sectioned off in bays to one side by white lines with stencilled numbers. The ceiling was thirty feet above his head, with the beginnings of a mezzanine flooring being built around the edges. Beyond the boxes he could hear the hum of machinery and the stop-go whine of a forklift truck. Above the mechanical noises was a constant babble of voices, and occasionally, laughter. The air smelt of oil and a faint
tang of burning, and he guessed it was part of the production process. Everything was fresh and new, with a clean, glossy appearance.
Footsteps sounded nearby and Rocco slid into a recess between two stacks of boxes. It seemed inconceivable that the security measures outside would come to a stop at the door; with contracts for government work, he assumed there would be precautions taken within the building as well, even if the open door he’d just come through gave lie to that.
The footsteps walked by. Moments later, he heard an oath and the rear door slammed shut. His exit route had just been shut off. But at least it would open again when needed. He eased his way among the boxes, gradually making a route through to the far side where he could observe what was happening on the main floor. With the building not yet fully operational, and the signs of so many power outlets on the walls, it was likely this part of the floor would soon be given over to more electrical equipment.
He nudged a box to one side, giving him a view of a line of benches. Several men sat at stools, each using screwdrivers and what looked like soldering irons, with faint coils of smoke drifting above their heads. In front of each man was an array of plastic boxes, which they reached into at regular intervals.
He moved further along the stack of boxes for a better view. It was more of the same: more benches, more stools, more assembly points. In all he counted thirty men, all hard at work. They were dressed in ordinary clothes, their skin glowing darkly under the strip lights hanging low above the benches. The air above their heads steamed with their rising body heat as it met the colder atmosphere higher up. They
all looked like Algerians, but could just as easily have come from a variety of countries in the region.
A bell sounded from a casing on one wall. Everyone instantly downed tools and shuffled eagerly towards the far end of the factory, where an urn was steaming. It was a refreshment break.
One of the workers was clumsy. As he left his workplace, he caught his sleeve on a plastic box close to the edge of the assembly bench. The box teetered for a second, seemed certain to stay, then tipped off the bench and hit the floor with a loud crack. It burst open, sending a deluge of tiny objects scattering across the dark-red floor, the overhead lights giving them the appearance of thousands of silver minnows in a stream.
Amid the ensuing deathly silence, several of the objects skidded and tumbled between the stacks of boxes and fetched up around Rocco’s feet. He looked down. They were tiny silver screws. When he glanced up, everyone had turned and was looking towards the unfortunate man who had caused the spill.
Chief among them was Metz, the security guard who had confronted Rocco in the car park. And standing alongside him, sneering coldly at the worker’s plight, was another familiar figure.
Detective Alain Tourrain.
Metz paced slowly across the floor, the fallen screws crunching like gravel beneath his shoes. He stopped in front of the offender and stared at him. The man, a thin-faced individual in his fifties in a bright-red shirt, flinched and backed away.
‘Come here,’ Metz said quietly, and pointed to a spot in front of him. His intentions were made clear when he shook his other arm and something silver slid down his sleeve into his hand. A thin metal rod.
A soft groan came from the other men assembled at the far end of the factory. They had seen this before.
The worker said nothing, merely shaking his head in supplication.
‘I said, here,’ Metz repeated. This time softer, more menacing.
Behind him, Tourrain sniggered in anticipation.
The man shuffled forward, feet unsteady on the carpet
of fallen screws. He twisted his hands together and looked round for support, but none came.
The moment he was within reach, Metz moved. His arm swept up from his side in a vicious swing, and the overhead lights flashed on the silver rod. There was a crack, and the worker screamed and fell to the floor, blood pumping from his shattered mouth. Metz struck again, using the full power of his shoulders. Then again. When he looked up, he singled out two men closest to him. ‘You two … clear up this filth.’
Rocco closed his eyes, sickened by the attack. The man on the floor looked dead. Nobody could survive blows like that to the head. Even Tourrain looked shocked, and had lost his expression of the eager onlooker.
‘Very useful, Metz. Wonderful way to manage a workforce. I hope you’ve got a replacement tucked away in your pocket.’ The familiar voice rang out across the factory and everyone stopped. It was Lambert. He stopped by the body and stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Metz. ‘We needed him, you idiot. Just as we need every man we can get our hands on. Why is it you can’t seem to get that?’ His voice was cutting and deadly, soft, yet even more menacing than Metz’s brutality. The workers recognised this and moved away, not daring to meet his eyes, focusing instead on putting space between them and him.
‘Get back to work,’ he said sharply. ‘Break time is over.’
The workers shuffled their feet, but did as they were told, moving back to their benches and picking up their tools.
Lambert looked directly at Tourrain. ‘How about you?’ he said, his voice carrying over the low hum of the men working. ‘Can you tell me where I’m going to get another
worker? Your uniformed colleagues are playing havoc with our production schedules, do you know that?’
‘Hey, don’t blame me,’ said Tourrain, hands in his pockets. ‘I don’t ship them in … I just keep the cops off everyone’s backs as much as I can.’
‘So how is it you didn’t warn us that they were conducting another sweep tonight? Every time they run a search, we’re vulnerable and fall further behind schedule. This contract depends on low costs and regular production.’
‘But you’re protected. They’re not allowed on this site, you said.’
‘That’s correct. But if they suspect something illegal is going on, such as a mess like this, they’ll find a way of coming over the wire without asking permission first. I know how they work.’
Tourrain gave a shrug. ‘You worry too much. The brass here are gutless. They don’t wipe their arses without checking with the Ministry first.’
‘You’d better hope it stays that way. In the meantime, I’m down a worker.’
‘Hey, you’re the one who knocked off Gondrand, not me. He was your supplier.’
‘Pardon me?’ The voice became softer, more deadly, like the whisper of death, and Tourrain looked startled. He backed away, a hand held out in defence.
‘Christ, Lambert, don’t get heavy with me, OK? We’re all in this together. I didn’t say I couldn’t get others; it’ll take time, that’s all.’
‘We don’t
have
time!’ Lambert sounded furious, but controlled, as if he was holding himself in. ‘We have a tight schedule for this contract; if we don’t keep to it, we’ll have to
hire more dayworkers – and they’re more expensive. I need another illegal to keep costs down.’
‘OK, OK.’ Tourrain scowled in thought. ‘I’ll have to draft one over from another factory. There’s a place I know that won’t mind losing a man. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do to get more workers in. Gondrand said the supply lines had gone dead and his contacts had disappeared. It might not be easy to get another one open.’
‘Not my problem,’ Lambert spat. ‘We paid you and your friend Gondrand to keep things running smoothly.’ He stopped and tipped his head to one side. ‘Unless you’re just trying to get more money out of us – is that it? You want us to pay you more?’
Tourrain looked surprised, then fearful. ‘No. Hell, no – I wouldn’t.’
‘That’s a wise decision.’ Lambert’s voice dropped. ‘Just remember what happened to Gondrand when he tried screwing us, too.’
Rocco had heard enough. He began to worm his way back to the rear door, angling between the boxes. One thing was certain: he doubted any of the workers here would be willing to talk to him about what was going on in this place, or what had just transpired. Surmounting the fact that they were illegals, they would be too terrified of what might happen to them if they dared speak out against Lambert, Metz or anyone else involved in this operation.
He stepped clear of the boxes and was almost to the door when a figure appeared around the corner, tailing a broom. Dark skin, dulled, terrified eyes, an air of resigned fatigue, a man assigned to sweep up the fallen screws.