‘My sympathies. In that case, I’ll have a coffee.’
Gondrand nodded and poured a cup, passing Rocco a small container of milk and some sugar cubes. ‘Help yourself. I’ll just be a moment.’
He sat and pulled a file box towards him and began to flick through the cards, whistling a faint tune. Seconds later, and before Rocco had taken his first sip of coffee, he gave a grunt of triumph and held up a card.
‘
Voilà
. A 1960 Peugeot,’ he read. ‘Four-O-three, licence number as you said, dah-dah-dah, not bad condition, fifty thousand on the clock, one owner, sadly deceased. Sold three days ago to a Mme Nicole Glavin.’ He scowled. ‘Odd. There’s no home address.’ He looked up and gave a forced
smile. ‘My apologies, Inspector. This isn’t right. Could you excuse me for one moment?’
He left the office and closed the door, and Rocco decided Gondrand
fils
, as the only other employee, was in for a shock. He waited, hearing the sound of raised but restrained voices, and wondered why Nicole Glavin hadn’t told him her full name. Too much information on a first meeting, perhaps. Cautious.
Moments later, Victor Gondrand returned. He looked flushed, his mouth set in a rigid line.
‘My sincere apologies, Inspector. My son assures me he completed all the documentation correctly, but did not make a note of the customer’s address because she declined to give him one. She claimed she was staying with friends and had not yet acquired a permanent home.’ He lifted his hands in the air with an expression of disgust and added, ‘Like I said, not good with details. I don’t know what to say.’
Rocco waved it away. It was a dead end. But at least he now had a full name. ‘Don’t worry. These things happen.’ He finished his coffee and decided to leave the Gondrands to fight it out between them. If the bureaucrats at the town hall wanted to join in because due process hadn’t been followed, that was up to them. He shook hands with Gondrand and headed for the door. Then, for no particular reason, a thought occurred to him. He stopped. ‘How did she pay for the car?’
Gondrand glanced at the record card and looked surprised. ‘Cash. Would you believe it? She walks in off the street and buys a car just like that.
Merde
!’ He grinned easily. ‘I wish there were more like her!’
* * *
On the way back to the office, Rocco spotted a collection of industrial buildings in a new development, the like of which were springing up all round the region in answer to the demands of a growing economy and inward investment from countries like the United States. Remembering Tourrain’s acid comment, he turned in and drove slowly around the site, following a curving road which took him past a variety of buildings and vacant lots. Most of the units were shells awaiting completion, with show boards on the front listing, for potential tenants, the basic facilities on offer. One or two had groups of workmen unrolling electric cables, while others were at the groundwork stage, with stacks of construction materials awaiting their turn in the process of converting open ground to fully functioning commercial plants.
One of the structures stood apart from the rest. Sitting on the periphery of the complex and already complete, it was the largest of them all and surrounded by an impressive array of austere metal fencing dominated by tall poles every few metres, each holding an array of floodlights. A security cabin and striped barrier were built into the fence, and a guard was staring out through the front window at Rocco’s car. On one corner of the site was a stretch of canal, a touch of light relief against the drab and intimidating appearance of the building and its fencing. A panel across the fascia gave the company name of Ecoboras SA.
Rocco pulled up to the barrier and waited while the guard stepped out and approached with casual indifference. He was dressed in a dark-blue uniform and jump boots, and walked with the insolent confidence of security guards everywhere.
‘This is a restricted area,’ he said without preamble. He made a lazy, circular motion with his hand for Rocco
to turn round and go away. No questions, no greetings, no explanation.
‘Is that right?’ Rocco considered it for a moment, then dug out his badge and held it up. ‘I’d like to see the site manager.’ He didn’t like private armies of any kind, no matter what their function. And being treated like an intruder got under his skin.
The guard looked at the badge and shrugged, deliberately unimpressed. But he walked to the barrier and lifted it.
‘Go to reception,’ he said, as if he couldn’t care less. ‘They’ll tell you the same thing.’
Rocco drove beneath the barrier and parked in front of the building, wondering whether the guard and the fence were a reflection of corporate ego or a genuine need for intimidating security. He pushed back a glass door and found himself in a small reception area. The air smelt of fresh paint and plastic. A single desk and two modern, tubular chairs were the only items of furniture, with a small, framed certificate bearing an official-looking seal hanging on an otherwise plain wall.
‘Can I help?’ A young woman was sitting behind the desk.
Rocco flipped his badge and asked to see the manager. ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘A security matter. It won’t take long.’
The young woman slipped out from behind the desk and disappeared through a side door, leaving Rocco to study the certificate on the wall. As well as the seal, it bore a lengthy title from something called the Secretariat for Administration of the Ministry of Defence. Underneath was the company name. Before he could read the fine print, the door opened and the young woman was back, closely followed by a man
in a smart blue suit. He was in his fifties, short, pear-shaped and with an air of impatience.
‘How can I help, officer?’ The man held out a limp hand. ‘Marcel Wiegheim – operations manager. Is something wrong?’
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Rocco. ‘Forgive the intrusion, but I was wondering if I could take a look around.’ He smiled. ‘Call me curious; I’ve never been in one of these new factories.’
‘It’s an assembly plant, Inspector. We’re a clean environment here.’ Wiegheim’s eyes flickered. ‘But I’m afraid I won’t be able to let you in. This is a restricted area.’
‘So your guard told me. Restricted by whom?’
‘The Ministry of Defence.’ Wiegheim fluttered a hand at the certificate on the wall. ‘We are under contract to the government and nobody is allowed in without authorisation from them.’ He gave a thin smile, and for someone so short, managed to peer down his nose at Rocco. ‘That includes the police. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Actually, no. What are you making here?’
‘Assembling. It’s an assembly plant.’
Rocco felt his irritation go up a notch. This man was pushing all the wrong buttons. ‘I stand corrected. Assembling, then.’
Wiegheim shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t reveal that. You will have to speak to the Ministry. In any case, we aren’t up and running yet; the assembly lines are still being completed.’
As if to reinforce the point, there was a loud clatter of metal hitting the floor, and a shout. Wiegheim flinched as if he’d been stung.
Before he could say anything, the door in the wall opened and a tall, lean man appeared. As he walked across to join them, Rocco noted a cat-like grace in his movements. A big cat. As tall as Rocco, he had the broad shoulders of an athlete and the healthy glow of someone who was not confined to an office all day.
‘Mr Lambert is our director of security,’ said Wiegheim, and chuckled for no good reason. ‘We are required to employ professional safeguards while we are under contract, and he has a long record in providing the very best security advice to operations such as ours, including in the military.’ He turned to Lambert, saying, ‘Inspector Rocco is with the local police. I was just explaining the situation here.’
Lambert nodded and offered his hand. His grip was firm, with a ridge of wrist muscle showing beneath a plain blue shirt.
‘Is there a reason for your visit, Inspector?’ he asked with a genial smile. ‘We aren’t breaking any by-laws, I hope?’
‘None that I know of.’ As he spoke, Rocco noticed movement outside the building through the window. Another man had appeared. This one was stocky and hard-looking, with a stiff, brush-like haircut and dressed like the gatehouse guard in a dark shirt and trousers and black boots. He stood quite still, staring at Rocco with a complete absence of expression. Hired muscle.
For a building which wasn’t yet fully active, Rocco decided, it seemed to be producing an unusually concentrated security response. ‘I was passing and happened to be curious,’ he explained. ‘I don’t normally get inside factories – sorry, assembly plants – very often, and thought I should acquaint myself with one.’
Lambert nodded in understanding, but gave no sign of bending. ‘No problem. Perhaps when we have time, we can invite you in for a tour? I’m sure something could be arranged.’
Rocco could tell he wasn’t going to get anywhere. This man was trained to deflect the curious by one means or another. The additional bulldog outside was proof of that.
‘Then I’ll have to come back another time.’ He nodded and turned to leave, then stopped, reaching into his pocket. ‘Actually, I have a question you might be able to help me with.’ He took out the photo of the dead man from the canal and held it up for both men to see. ‘It will save my men troubling you again later. Have you ever seen this man before?’
Lambert took the photo and studied it carefully. Shook his head. ‘No. Sorry. Is he dangerous?’
‘Not much. He’s dead. We’re trying to find out where he came from. We think he’s an illegal worker employed in one of the factories around here.’
‘Not here, they aren’t.’ Lambert’s face was a blank canvas. ‘We only employ skilled workers.’
Rocco looked at Wiegheim who, from being impatient and eager to speak before, was now saying nothing. In fact, he seemed suddenly nervous and was sweating visibly, a beading of moisture glistening across his forehead.
Lambert stepped forward and handed the photo back, partly blocking Rocco’s way. ‘Sorry. We can’t help.’ His tone carried a hint of steel.
Rocco ignored him. ‘Mr Wiegheim?’
Wiegheim gave a start, eyes flickering towards Lambert before murmuring quietly, ‘No. I’ve never seen him before.’
Rocco put the photo away and turned towards the door. And wondered why both men were lying through their teeth.
He left the building and walked towards his car. As he did so, he glanced across to where the canal ran past the corner of the building. A working barge was sliding by, smoke puffing from a blackened stack on its rear structure. It wasn’t the barge that caught his attention, however; it was the tall metal fence separating the building from the canal. There were curved spikes at the top of each metal post, he noticed, bent to prevent anyone climbing into the plant. A professional job guaranteed to dissuade casual burglars looking for easy pickings. On a post above the fence stood the same array of security lights he’d seen at the front of the building. Clearly Lambert took his security duties seriously.
He heard a scuff of noise close by and turned.
The second security guard had followed him from the building and was standing between Rocco and his car, arms down by his side, solid and unmoveable. His stance, blank expression and quasi-official uniform reminded Rocco of a
member of the CRS – the
Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité
.
‘You should leave,’ the man said bluntly. ‘Now.’
Rocco stepped towards him, and for the first time the guard seemed to realise how big Rocco was. His mouth opened and he looked unsure of himself, but he stayed where he was. A bully, thought Rocco. But a bully who didn’t want to lose face. He was wearing a small badge printed with his surname: Metz.
‘I’m a police officer, Mr Metz,’ said Rocco coolly, staring hard at him. ‘Try throwing your weight around with me and you’ll end up in prison or hospital. Take your pick.’
Metz hesitated for a second, eyes flicking past Rocco towards the building. As if on a signal, he shrugged and stepped to one side.
Back at the station, Rocco spotted Desmoulins in the corridor and asked him if he’d ever heard of the Secretariat for Administration to the Ministry of Defence.
Desmoulins looked blank. ‘Not the Secretariat Administration bit, no. The Ministry of Defence, of course – who hasn’t? You in trouble with the military?’
Rocco shook his head. ‘Could you look up a company named Ecoboras SA? They’re on a new industrial complex near the canal.’
‘I know the place.’ Desmoulins nodded. ‘Friend of mine – an electrician – tried to get a job there and was told to get lost. Not very friendly, all that fencing and floodlights; looks more like a prison camp.’ He looked sharply at Rocco. ‘Have you found something?’
‘I’m not sure. They claim to have a contract with the Defence Ministry.’
‘There’s a but.’ Desmoulins was quick on the uptake.
‘Something jars, that’s all. The plant manager’s name is Wiegheim and they have a security stiff called Lambert who looks like he eats glass for breakfast. I showed them the photo and Wiegheim looked as if he was going to throw up.’
Desmoulins grinned. ‘Guilty conscience, I bet. I’ll see what I can find out.’
Rocco was about to leave when he saw Massin approaching. The
commissaire
pointed towards his office and led the way inside. As soon as Rocco entered, he closed the door behind him.
‘Are you bored, Inspector?’ He waved a slip of paper in his hand. ‘I’ve just had an unpleasant call from the Interior Ministry. You’ve been asking questions of a defence contractor. Is this true?’
Rocco stared at the officer and wondered what the hell was going on. He glanced at his watch. From leaving Ecoboras’s premises to getting here had taken roughly thirty minutes. Yet in that time, Wiegheim or Lambert had managed to put in a protest to the Ministry of Defence about his visit, a protest which had bounced from there to the Interior Ministry, then on down the line to Massin.