Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  Contents

  Books by Adrian Magson

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Books by Adrian Magson

  Marc Portman spy series

  Dark Asset

  Hard Cover

  Close Quarters

  The Watchman

  Gonzales & Vaslik series

  The Bid

  The Locker

  Inspector Lucas Rocco crime series

  Rocco and the Price of Lies

  Rocco and the Snow Angel (E-book novella)

  Rocco and the Nightingale

  Death at the Clos du Lac

  Death on the Pont Noir

  Death on the Rive Nord

  Death on the Marais

  Harry Tate spy series

  Execution

  Retribution

  Deception

  Tracers

  Red Station

  Riley Gavin/Frank Palmer crime series (E-books)

  No Kiss for the Devil

  No Tears for the Lost

  No Sleep for the Dead

  No Help for the Dying

  No Peace for the Wicked

  General fiction

  Smart Moves

  Non-fiction

  Write On! The Writers’ Help Book

  To my big brother Barry, for old times’ sake

  One

  1964 – Picardie, France

  The first letter was delivered in a yellow Citroën 2CV fourgonnette.

  Drifting along a curving street of elegant houses, tall trees and sculpted gardens in Le Vésinet, an outer suburb to the west of Paris, the van wore the familiar colour of the PTT, the French postal service. It received no more than a glance from the area’s residents, those few who were up and about – they valued their leisurely lifestyle as much as they did their privacy. PTT yellow was commonplace and safe, as much a part of everyday life as fresh baguettes, Johnny Hallyday and, when called for, enthusiastic renditions of La Marseillaise.

  Only one old man, on a morning stroll with a tiny rat-like terrier, looked faintly surprised at the van’s appearance. He stopped to check his pocket watch, the driver noted. He would find it read seven a.m. Earlier than normal for the mail. But this delivery wasn’t in any way normal.

  He gave the old man a casual lift of his hand. The other responded automatically before dragging the dog away from a lamppost in mid-performance, causing it to hop inelegantly with one rear leg stuck out at right angles. The driver watched in his mirror as the old man continued on his way, no doubt bound for a bowl of coffee and a nice warm brioche.

  The driver’s name was Georges Peretz. Despite his friendly wave, he didn’t know the old man, whose name was Baptiste Dupannet, from a hole in the hedge. But postal workers were known to interact with their customers and he’d been instructed to act the part; it would allow him to pass by and be quickly forgotten. Peretz, who’d lived his life careful never to stand out, was unremarkable to a degree that made him almost invisible.

  It was what made him so useful to his employer.

  He slowed after a hundred metres, studying the name plates on the gates of the houses. The one he wanted was Les Jonquilles and, if the directions he’d been given were correct, it should be just up ahead.

  Neither the van nor Peretz belonged to the PTT. And had Baptiste Dupannet been a little more alert, he might have noticed that the mustard-coloured vehicle bore none of the official insignia normally emblazoned on the side panels or doors. It was a deliberate omission. Postal workers in the Paris area were not noted for their casual acceptance of anyone trying to take over their jobs. Any official PTT member might question another delivery van encroaching on their patch, and that was to be avoided at all costs. But the yellow would be enough for the general public, like Baptiste Dupannet and his rat-like dog.

  Peretz pulled into the kerb a few metres beyond a driveway marked by an impressive set of sturdy metal gates, currently open. A mailbox was set into the wall to one side, with an ornate metal bell-pull to alert the occupants of a delivery. Pulling a leather mailbag strap over one shoulder, another piece of misdirection for idle onlookers, he climbed out and approached the mailbox. The open gates suggested that a visitor was expected. There was little time to delay.

  He extracted a plain white envelope from the bag and dropped it into the slot, casting a quick glance through the railings. The gravel drive ran between twin sweeps of immaculate lawn and colourful flower beds. He couldn’t see any of the flowers after which the house was named, but that was because it was late in the season.

  The drive ran up to the front of a mansion. It was elegant and imposing, impressively broad, with double sets of tall French windows opening on to a stepped patio flanked by two sand-coloured griffins. The traditional mansard roof was topped with black filigree ironwork, giving it a faintly menacing air. Peretz couldn’t help a touch of nervousness, sensing eyes watching him with suspicion from behind the darkened windows. If he were fortunate enough to live in this gilded place, he decided, he’d be just as wary of everyone and anyone who came near.

  He gave a firm tug on the bell-pull, hearing the rattle of the connecting wire behind the wall followed by a distant tinkle from the house. Then he returned to the van and drove away. It was a close call; just around the curve in the road he saw an official-looking black limousine approach, then indicate to turn into the open gates.

  Peretz was several kilometres away and merging into the traffic heading towards the city before he finally felt fate wasn’t about to clamp a heavy hand on his shoulder. Anything to do with government officials made him nervous. Like his peers, he believed that such people were always watchful and skilled at spotting those with ill intent. Blending in was a skill he’d cultivated many years ago which came as naturally to him as it did game birds in deep cover, but even game birds got caught. He had two further deliveries to make, neither of them in the immediate area, and the sooner he was away from each one, and had reported the jobs completed successfully, the sooner he could relax.

  He spotted a café up ahead, on the edge of a small industrial area. It looked quiet enough and he slid into a car park at the rear, tucking the van between a beer truck and a weather-beaten garage with rusted sheet-metal sides. He’d seen no signs of police vehicles in the area, but there was no point in tempting providence by leaving the van out in the open.

  The café was quiet save for four men in work clothes hunched over rolls and large cups of coffee, and a delivery driver in a grey uniform exchanging paperwork with the owner. The air smelled of stale beer, tobacco, fresh coffee and swe
at-stained clothes, an aroma familiar to Peretz from his regular haunts. He caught the eye of the owner, ordered a coffee and made a signal with one hand for the use of the telephone. The owner pointed to a short hallway at the rear of the room and moved towards the coffee machine, scooping up a cup on the way.

  Peretz found the phone on the wall above a shelf holding a clutch of directories. He dialled a number and waited. It rang three times before being picked up.

  ‘It’s done.’ His instinct was to say more, that he’d completed the delivery before the man left for the office as instructed and had done so without incident. But it wouldn’t be well received. The man he was calling had little time for unnecessary words. All he needed to know was that his orders had been followed to the letter. No more, no less.

  ‘Good. Call me only when you’ve completed the next two, not before. Space them out, as I instructed.’ A click ended the call.

  Peretz replaced the phone, feeling a shiver of relief down his back. It was ridiculous at his age, feeling like a kid in front of an angry headmaster. But he knew others in the man’s employ felt the same. The soft voice had carried no hint of threat, but it was there all the same, lurking beneath the surface like a hungry pike. They were paid well, but employees who did not measure up were never forgiven and quickly removed.

  He dropped the phone back on its rest and returned to the bar, where he drank his coffee, paid up and left. By the time he got back in the van the owner would have trouble remembering anything about him.

  In the van, he opened the flap of the mailbag, revealing two more white envelopes just like the first. He had twenty-four hours in which to deliver them. He knew nothing of the contents, but he was familiar enough with the man he’d just spoken with to know that the recipient of this first letter was probably finding his morning omelette curdling in his stomach like a round of cheap Camembert.

  Two

  On the south-eastern outskirts of Paris, in the district of Ivry-sur-Seine, Yuri Serban sat back in his chair and stared through the window towards the centre of Paris, which shimmered in the heat a few kilometres away.

  Serban was not averse to taking risks. In his trade, which mostly entailed making money in any way he could manage, whether through manipulation of circumstances, argument or outright force, they came with the territory. Profit was profit and if it meant taking from others – and it usually did – so be it. However, this latest endeavour was a departure. He had taken a while to be convinced that it would work, but the lack of manpower required and the apparent absence of direct risk had seemed attractive, as had the potential returns. Most importantly, the scheme avoided stepping on the toes of the more powerful criminal groups closer to the centre of the city. And this had been sufficient to clinch his co-operation.

  He enjoyed the irony of the situation: that the targets for the scheme proposed were not in any position to go running to the law, something he knew the other gangs would quickly pick up on once they heard. Even more of a reason to get in, make a profit and move on before they came calling, looking to take over. Serban was no coward, but he knew his limits. He wasn’t equipped for a fight with bigger organisations, preferring to stay out here in Ivry-sur-Seine where he could run his businesses and his lines of girls and clubs, away from the furious undercurrents that had dragged other groups into open conflict, burning business and freedom of movement in a vicious downward spiral.

  He reached forward and picked up the telephone, dialling a number in the city.

  ‘My driver has made the first drop.’ His voice was soft but echoed deep from his large chest. A former boxer and wrestler, he still carried an impressive amount of muscle, something that had done him no harm in establishing his local crime operation.

  ‘Excellent. We should hear something very soon.’ The voice on the other end was cultured, the tone confident and pitched to convince and reassure. Yet there was an undercurrent of something else, too, which appealed to Serban: was it relief? Gratitude for a service rendered?

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ Serban murmured, adding for good measure, ‘for everyone’s sake.’ This last came with an emphasis which the other man couldn’t fail to notice.

  ‘Of course, I understand,’ he agreed quickly. ‘I’m certain it will.’

  Serban smiled. He wasn’t convinced by the reply but neither was he unduly concerned. He’d learned long ago that all guarantees were subject to change. In his view trust was strictly a one-way street. And the man on the other end of the line was someone he wouldn’t trust if his life depended on it. However, he was useful in a number of ways and, in Serban’s business, that counted for a lot. This endeavour – he liked the word endeavour, which sounded almost noble – had yet to show signs of reaping any reward, but it had cost little more to set up than Peretz’s daily wage and the provision of a suitable vehicle. Most endeavours cost a great deal more and they too brought varying degrees of success.

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘What if your scheme doesn’t work?’

  There was a brief pause as the reminder of whose idea it had been sank in. ‘I’m sure it will. In any case, that’s why I prepared the other two to fill any … shortfall. You have the details, don’t you?’

  ‘I have.’ Serban reached into a drawer and took out three photographs and a sheet of paper. The paper held three names and addresses. The photos were of paintings: two nudes and a clothed portrait. He studied the latter carefully. It was of a young woman with an inviting expression. He liked this one best. He had young women in his employ who would be naked at the click of his fingers, but this one was different. He wasn’t an art lover as such, but he could appreciate beauty like any other man. Maybe he’d buy some paintings of his own some day. An investment for the future. Good ones, though. Proper paintings, not copies like these.

  ‘Your man is delivering them soon, as arranged?’

  Serban took a moment before replying. His patience was wearing thin at the other man’s superior attitude, as if he were the master and Serban the slave. One day he might enjoy the pleasure of putting him in his place. ‘He will deliver them soon,’ he confirmed. ‘There’s no rush.’

  ‘As you see fit.’ There was a pause. ‘I believe I did caution you that this scheme might not work every time. However, there are plenty more opportunities like these out there. All we need to do is exploit them.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t let you down in the past, have I?’

  Serban put the telephone down without answering. It was a trick he’d learned some time ago, and it worked well with those in a more vulnerable position than himself. The sudden cut in the connection acted like a physical turning and walking away from a conversation, leaving the other wondering what had gone wrong, what they might have said.

  He tossed the photos back in the drawer, on top of three letters. He wasn’t supposed to have seen these, which had been in sealed envelopes, but he’d taken the precaution of opening them and having copies made. Being used as a mail service to deliver sealed letters was akin to playing with unstable explosives: if you didn’t know what you were handling, it could blow up in your face.

  And Serban hated surprises.

  Three

  Back in the mansion in Le Vésinet, Jean-Pascal Bourdelet, Secretary of State for Finance, was just completing a phone call to his secretary. He suspected at times that Cécile Boyesse actually slept in a cupboard at the Louvre Palace, where the Ministry of Economy and Finance was located, as she was always there, early and late, running the office and his busy appointments diary like a well-oiled machine. He thanked her courteously and replaced the phone, reflecting on how long the day’s first meeting would take. No doubt there would be the usual round of deflections and power-plays that were endemic to every department of government, with certain members of staff looking for openings and signs of weakness in others to exploit for their own advancement.

  Today, however, he was in good sp
irits and inclined to put up with the in-fighting. The weather looked far too pleasant to be stuck indoors and he longed for the chance to stay out of the city for the day. However, as secretary of state he had to attend to business; there was no chance of avoiding it.

  He heard the jangle of the post bell and walked out of the front door and down the drive. His housekeeper would normally have dealt with this, but she was off this morning for a doctor’s appointment. He sniffed appreciatively at the aroma from the flowers in the borders, and relished the crunch of gravel beneath the soles of his shoes, so much more gratifying than on everyday paving, and the sound so much richer.

  He glanced towards the front gates as he heard the tinny clatter of an engine moving away. No doubt the post van. But when he opened the box on the inside of the stonework, instead of the regular banded clutch of letters he received every day, a single white envelope was lying there.

  No stamp, he noted.

  He took the envelope out and slit it open with his thumb. He scanned the contents, the first few words enough to bring a thud of incredulity and dread. He read it again to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood, his hand shaking as the full meaning began to hit home.

  Bourdelet stepped quickly through the open gates to check the street. There was nobody there save, in the distance, the retreating back of an elderly man dragging a tiny dog. They were too far away to have delivered this, he realised, and remembered the sound of the departing vehicle. Just then another engine sounded, this one smoother, the familiar mellow hum of his official car. Its tone dropped as it slowed and he quickly jammed the envelope and note in his pocket before hurrying back to the house, pursued by the crunch of tyres on gravel as Lopez, his driver, drove through the gates.

  Bourdelet gave a vague backward wave of acknowledgement, then walked inside and scooped up the phone. Lopez would wait until he was ready. Cécile answered with her usual briskness.