by Rachel Green
Enzo flicked his lighter and torched the end of a cigar, puffing on it until the air filled with thick grey smoke. How he loved that smell. He tossed the business card into the boy’s lap. “This yours?”
The kid’s eyes were like roving saucers, rapidly assessing, trying to decide the best way out of the scene he’d landed himself in. He did the right thing and nodded.
“What’s in the bag?” Enzo indicated the messenger bag in the footwell between them. The kid seemed to have gone mute so Enzo signalled to Mutt who promptly snatched it up and went through. At the side was a false lining concealing his stash: two bags of pills, three grams of hash, a small bundle of cash, two mobile phones. Mutt held it up to show Enzo who shot the kid a derisory look.
“Is this it?”
The kid nodded.
“You working for anyone?”
The kid shook his head.
“Good. Because if one of my boys went out with a stash as crap as this I’d kick his arse all the way from here to Lyon.” With a weary sigh, he tossed the bag and the drugs into the kid’s lap. It wasn’t like the old days. Now it was all Snapchat and text-a-drug, kids could set themselves up from anywhere. They had no respect for boundaries. “You do know the third is my district?”
“Is it?”
“You were seen there three times last week.”
The kid moved his shoulders, more of a twitch than a shrug. “I’m sorry,” he said, and Enzo had to chuckle.
“You’re sorry?” He turned his face to the window while he laughed himself out. Lights shone in his eyes as a vehicle swung out of the car park. Enzo took a long draw on his cigar, and then turned to blow smoke in the kid’s face. There was nothing here for him to worry about here. The kid was a user-dealer, small fry. But still, lessons had to be taught.
“What’s your name?”
“Sacha.”
“Sacha. Well, let me tell you something about myself, Sacha. I’m old school. I like boundaries. I don’t stray into anyone else’s patch and I don’t expect them to stray into mine. That’s a perfectly reasonable point of view, don’t you think?”
The kid seemed eager to agree.
“You can see where I’m coming from, can’t you?’
He nodded again. They were both on the same wavelength, apparently.
“Good. Because now you might see value in the lesson I’m about to teach you.”
The kid blanched, went so white he looked like he might just throw up.
“Are you good with your hands?”
“W—what?”
“I said, are you good with your hands? Do you enjoy combing through that stupid pompadour you’ve got going on, putting on your poncey makeup, that kind of thing?”
Sacha nodded.
“Are you left- or right-handed?”
The boy’s eyes switched frantically between the two men. He had the look of a caged animal, knowing that something bad was coming his way and desperate to figure a way out of it. His words tumbled out: “Hey look – I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I promise.”
Enzo tapped Mutt’s shoulder. The beefcake took a hammer out of the glovebox and held it up between the front-seat headrests.
“Now, my colleague here, he’s very good with his hands. He can do all sorts of things with a tool like this. He can put up some shelves, make a really nice fence. Or, he can mincemeat out of a man’s face.”
There was a small clenched sob as the kid dropped his head. Enzo leaned down; he could hardly believe it but the kid was actually crying. He shook his head in dismay.
“Oh, Sacha, you disappoint me. If you want to play in the big boys’ league you need to toughen up. Taking a beating is an occupational hazard.”
The kid started sobbing now, pleading to be let go, and it was not a pretty sight. Enzo pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly fatigued. He really did not want to be sitting here with this snivelling little greaser, and neither did he want to go back up to the restaurant. Why did other people have to make his life so complicated? He heaved a sigh.
“All right, Sacha, let me tell you how this is going to be. I can see you’re young, naïve. I’m willing to believe you didn’t realise whose territory you were straying in to. So I’ll have my boys go easy on you. When I get out of this car they’ll take you for a little drive. They’ll park up somewhere nice and quiet. And then they’ll break three of your fingers – two on your left hand for pissing on my patch and one on your right for being such a baby. Do you understand?”
The kid squealed and started bouncing on the seat. He doubled up and tried to pull the door handle with his teeth, but Mutt reached back and pinned him in place with one fat fist. And then the atmosphere in the car changed. Enzo ruffled his nose; sniffing the air he picked up the stench of urine. He looked down at the kid’s trousers where a dark patch was spreading across one leg, and screwed up his face.
“Oh Jesus Christ – don’t tell me you’ve wet yourself?”
The two men had a groaning contest.
Enzo reached over and pulled the door handle. “Get the hell out of my car.”
The kid couldn’t believe his ears. “You mean I can go?”
Enzo blasted: “I said, get the hell out of my car, you snivelling piece of shit,” and the kid moved so fast he tripped, feet pedalling air as he face-planted the tarmac. When he finally got up, his pompadour had collapsed into a greased-up atrocity.
Enzo shook his head. Kids these days.
Chapter 9
A TV news crew was setting up in the harbour when Margot came back from her swim. A female presenter was rehearsing her lines to camera, gesturing over her shoulder at the beach of rocks where Aswan’s body had been found. A small group of onlookers had gathered, a ghoulish reminder of the day the bodies had been discovered.
As soon as she got home, Margot dug out the number of the local car rental shop. Her plan was simple – she would hire a car and take it to Garage de Paolo on the pretence that something was wrong with it. Play the damsel in distress and have a snoop around while they fixed it. According to an internet search, Paolo Bellucci was the garage’s sole proprietor. A quick search on Enzo Bellucci revealed little other than the fact he was named as a director of a shipping company in Marseilles. The lack of information was hardly surprising – she didn’t imagine they were the kind of people who left an on-line trail.
She downed her third coffee of the morning and stared at the clock: 10:06. She’d been prevaricating for over an hour now, sitting at the kitchen table, smoking cigarette after cigarette, wondering if she should talk herself out of it. Another ten minutes rolled by. Perhaps she should try and contact Pierre again, or go back to Le Paname and see if she could get something more out of Raymond, though she quickly dismissed that second idea. She wouldn’t want to put him in danger.
Finally, at 10:45, Margot summoned her courage. She phoned the rental shop and then ordered a taxi.
***
The satnav directed her onto the main road and then up along the narrow strip of land that separated the sea from the saltwater lagoon. A left turn at a miniature roundabout brought her back inland and she drove across a wide flat plain, home to a caravan park that had seen better days. The directions ended on a concrete apron next an inlet lined with large brick warehouses. Margot drew up alongside an elderly gent walking his dog and lowered her window to ask for directions to Rue Baudin. The streets he told her to go down had a tatty, run-down feel.
Garage de Paolo was tucked away amongst an assortment of old brick buildings. After a slow drive-by, Margot turned right to go under a railway arch and then looped back around the block. Despite the emptiness of the streets she couldn’t escape the feeling she was being watched. She passed the garage for a second time and then did a U-turn further up the street. She pulled in at the end of a line of parked cars. When she turned off the ignition the only sound was the drumming of her pulse in her ears. Had Hugo ever got nervous when he’d been out on surveillance?
She had a good view of the gar
age from where she’d parked. The big roller door was up, but a tow truck parked on the forecourt blocked any view of the interior. In the half hour she sat there no one went in or came out. Margot gave it another five minutes while she finished her cigarette, then popped the bonnet and got out of the car. After checking that no one was looking, she loosened the fuse on the starter motor relay.
A personnel door lay to the left of the roller door but Margot squeezed past the tow truck and went directly into the workshop. Despite the huge open door, the interior was gloomy. A car was up on a ramp, but the only mechanic in evidence was lying on his back under a Hilux, the lower halves of his legs sticking out from underneath. A small office was situated on one side, and through the half-open door Margot could hear a man speaking on the phone. The personnel door she’d seen from outside led straight into an open-plan waiting area, but no one was in there. Tinny radio music came from close by. There were no other doors that she could see, and crucially, no staircase. Raymond had spoken of a room above the garage, but there was no obvious means of accessing one from here.
A dog barked, making Margot jerk her head. A small terrier looked up from its basket, but settled back down when she offered it a smile.
The mechanic didn’t appear to have noticed so Margot stepped closer.
“Hello,” she said, peering under.
A grumbled curse came from beneath the truck. Margot stepped back as the man rolled out on a creeper and stood up. His expression changed from irritation to pleasure as he took her in. He gave her an up-and-down look before settling his eyes on her chest.
“I’m looking for Paolo.”
The man got to his feet. He indicated the office with a tilt of his head, but the person inside was still on the phone so Margot remained where she was. She hoped the mechanic might go back to work, but he lingered, licking his lips as his eyes roved over her. Margot inwardly cringed. Pathetic creature.
“What can we do for you?”
“My car’s broken down.”
“You work around here?”
“I was just passing.”
He moved a step closer. Margot cringed again, though more at her own stupidity this time. She should have come up with a better story – this was hardly the kind of place you would stumble upon by chance. But she held her nerve. “I’ll pay extra if you’re busy.”
The mechanic continued to stare, doing his best to look menacing, but Margot was not going to be intimidated. One step closer and she would be reaching for her pepper spray. Fortunately, the man in the office came off the phone at that point and the mechanic’s face dropped. Margot enjoyed a small smile as she crossed to the office, looking back over her shoulder as she went. The mechanic returned to his creeper.
“Can I help?”
Margot jumped at the sound of the voice. She turned to find Paolo standing right in front of her. He must have been five centimetres shorter than she was, though his demeanour suggested he was not someone to be trifled with. He had a lumpy face, olive-skinned and heavily pock-marked. Margot let out her breath.
“You startled me.”
“Are you booked in?”
“I was just speaking to your colleague.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I take it you’re Paolo?”
“You are?”
She’d been intending to give a false name but in the heat of the moment completely forgot which one she’d chosen. He was radiating unfriendliness but she forced a small smile. “Is there any chance you could have a look at my car? I just tried to start it and it was completely dead.”
He hadn’t once lowered his eyes. For a man who liked to take pictures he seemed strangely uninterested. Maybe she was too old for him, or perhaps he was making an effort not to look. He was certainly difficult to read. A silence developed and she began to fear he’d seen right through her, but finally his mood lightened.
“Where is it?”
“Just down the street.” She held up the keys. “The white Clio.”
Paolo took the keys and whistled to the mechanic who took his time coming over. When he was halfway there, Paolo tossed him the keys.
“We’ll see what we can do.”
“Thank you. Shall I wait over here?” Margot indicated the seats in the corner.
Paolo nodded and went back to his office, this time closing the door behind him.
***
Margot picked the cleanest of the four chairs and moved it so she could sit facing the workshop. A range of magazines covered the table – she glanced at some back issues of PHOTO before settling upon a copy of Art et Décoration. She kept the magazine open in front of her while her eyes roved over the top, imagining herself as a spy in an old-fashioned movie.
The mechanic had gone back to working on the Hilux and seemed to have forgotten she was there. Margot lowered the magazine. The walls of the office were made from stud and plasterboard, and although the door was glazed the glass was obscure and all she could see through it were vague shapes. From the street it had been obvious that the garage was part of a jumble of buildings and there had to be more to it than what she could see from here, a back way in at least. There must have been something other than this waiting for Aswan and his papa.
The mechanic finally put down his tools and sauntered out through the big roller door. Margot closed the magazine and laid it gently on the table. She glanced around the corner of the office to check the door was still closed and then quietly got to her feet. The dog’s eyes tracked her as she moved back to the ramp but it chose not to bark this time. Now she could see there was a door on the far side. Checking again that she wasn’t being watched, Margot turned the handle and tentatively peered in. A lobby led to a toilet and a storeroom, beside it a grubby kitchenette. The smell coming out of there was pretty foul so she quickly pulled it shut.
A squeal of tyres drew her eyes to the forecourt. The tow truck was still blocking the entrance but through a gap she could see that a vehicle had pulled in – a white pickup with a green and white logo. The driver barely had time to get out when the office door flew open and Paolo emerged. Margot froze, but he marched straight out without even noticing her.
She moved closer and concealed herself behind one of the steel stanchions. Outside, Paolo had gone around the back of the pickup and was arguing with a dark-skinned man in blue overalls. Both men were quite animated and the argument kept them swaying back and forth, making it difficult to keep them in sight. Despite the animosity between them, they were speaking in voices too low to be overheard. Some sort of agreement was reached and the two of them set off down the street on foot.
Margot’s pulse quickened. Alone in the garage, her eyes snapped to the office where the door had been left wide open. The mechanic had been gone for at least five minutes. She would have to be quick. After snatching another glance onto the street, she hurried into the office.
She went to the far side of the desk and perched on the edge of the armchair, pulling all the drawers. They were all crammed with papers and junk apart from one which was locked. The computer was still switched on, but without knowing what she was looking for there was no point wasting time clicking through. Next, she ran a fingertip along the shelf of lever arch files, checking labels, but nothing caught her eye. He was hardly likely to keep anything incriminating in plain view. She scanned around, desperate to find something, and spotted a door on the far side of the filing cabinet. It wasn’t locked. After turning the handle, she found herself peering into an inner lobby. And there was the staircase, leading up into darkness.
Margot’s heart was beating so rapidly she feared it might burst but she had to take a look. A quick glance back to the empty workshop and then she went in. The floor was covered in a hideous orange carpet and a strong smell of petrol was coming from close by. A short corridor led to a door marked PRIVATE, but Margot ignored it and headed straight for the stairs. Her feet moved lightly on the hard metal treads. Eyes turned upwards, she found another short corridor
and paused at the top, peering into darkness. The walls of the corridor were painted black, as was the ceiling and the floor. There were no doors – just a red velvet curtain five metres down at the end.
Voices drifted up from downstairs. Margot hesitated. She was desperate to go on, but it was far too risky. She turned on her heel and quickly went back.
Paolo and the mechanic were on their way in. She’d cleared the door by perhaps a metre when they spotted her at which point they abruptly went quiet, suspicion writ large their faces. Margot tried to look innocent as they halted in front of her, but her mind raced, convinced she’d been rumbled, tempted to make a run for it. She hadn’t left a name, they wouldn’t be able to trace her. Paolo looked like a man who was weighing up his options. Perhaps the police had already been round and put him on his guard. Somehow, Margot held her composure.
“I was just coming to find you. I thought you’d deserted me.”
Paolo cleared his throat. “You had a loose fuse.”
“Did I? I wonder how that could have happened.”
He rocked his head. “A number of ways.”
“You managed to fix it, then?”
He nodded.
“Thank you.” She reached for her purse. “What do I owe you?”
Paolo continued to hold her eye, saying nothing. Margot still couldn’t read him. He tipped his head towards the mechanic who strolled back to the Hilux, and for a moment Margot thought he was going to call her bluff. But he twitched a small smile instead.
“No charge.” He held up the car keys.
Wrongfooted, Margot stared blankly back. She was off the hook, but part of her wasn’t ready to go just yet. She still had no idea why Aswan had had this address and she was tempted to come straight out and ask him, present him with her evidence and tell him she’d already been to the police. But her courage finally abandoned her.
“That’s very kind,” she said, and accepted the keys.
Back in the car, Margot gripped the steering wheel with unsteady hands. Her mind was already running ahead. She had no idea what they were up to in there but something suspicious was definitely going on. She would come back after dark and find out what lay beyond that red velvet curtain.