Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Hello, Lucas. I’m sorry, but Pa’s in the middle of a project. I don’t want to disturb him unless it’s absolutely urgent, but I will if you want me to.’

  ‘No. I just wanted to see if he’s going to be in tomorrow. I’d like a chat.’

  ‘That’s fine. He’ll be here, since he rarely goes out. I’ll tell him to expect you. Can I tell him what it’s about? It’s not more shooting, is it?’

  ‘No. Not that. I’d like to seek his expertise on a subject.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  Next, he rang Claude and arranged to pick him up the following morning.

  ‘Sure. Where are we going?’ Claude asked. ‘Will I need my gun?’

  ‘Not this time. I think we’ve frightened enough people. We’re going to make another call on Cezard and show him some photos. I’d like you to watch his reaction.’

  ‘Suits me,’ Claude replied, a laugh in his voice. ‘This has nothing to do with Eliane being easy on the eye, has it? You being single and she being … well, also single?’

  ‘You’re an old romantic and the answer’s no.’

  ‘Damn. You’re going to die a lonely old detective, you know that?’

  Twenty

  The third-floor security guard, Brasseur, had watched from along the landing as Rocco left Bourdelet’s office and walked back down the stairs. The investigator hadn’t been inside very long, which meant he’d found nothing to speak of or had quickly discovered something important.

  He saw Tellier approaching and called him over.

  ‘What’s the idea, being all pally with the big cop?’ he muttered. ‘You made me look a fool – you should have backed me up. I was only having a bit of fun.’

  Tellier shook his head slowly, not intimidated by Brasseur’s bullying approach. He’d come across the type too many times before. ‘You should learn to read people better,’ he said bluntly. ‘Rocco’s not someone you want to mess with. And given that he’s been handed the authority to investigate Bourdelet’s death, he carries more weight than you or I will ever do. On the basis of that letter he could have had you arrested for obstruction.’

  Brasseur didn’t get the message. ‘Are you kidding? He’s a country cop, that’s all. That letter just makes him think he can punch above his weight. Or do you know better? You seemed cosy enough the two of you, like a kid with his favourite teacher.’

  ‘All I know is he was decent to work with and a good cop.’ He started to walk away, then stopped and turned back. ‘You weren’t on the force so I don’t suppose you’ll have heard of a man named Samir Farek.’

  ‘No. Should I have?’

  ‘He was a gang leader here in the city, had a base in the Belleville area. He was a vicious bastard and was heading for the top of the tree, disposing of anyone who got in his way. He had a brother named Lakhdar, who was just as bad but with more brains.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Lakhdar hired an assassin to take him out. Rocco took them all down. There were others, too, before that. The reason he got transferred up north was on some Interior Ministry assignment, not because he was stupid or incapable.’

  Brasseur wasn’t impressed. ‘Yeah, yeah – now I’m bored. Look after the desk, I’m going for a smoke.’ He walked away along the landing and entered the small room where the security personnel rested when they weren’t on duty. He checked nobody was approaching, then picked up a phone on the desk and dialled a number in the south-west of the city.

  It rang twice before being picked up. As usual there was no greeting. Brasseur licked his lips before saying, ‘I’ve got the information you wanted. The cop handling the Bourdelet suicide is called Rocco. Lucas Rocco. He’s based in Amiens. It’s up north.’

  ‘I know where Amiens is. Go on.’

  ‘He’s been and gone. Showed up all important and throwing his weight around but didn’t get much. The security section had been in just before he got here and removed anything important from Bourdelet’s office.’

  There was a pause, then the man on the other end said, ‘You know for sure that he found nothing? Were you in the room with him?’ The voice was soft, but something in the tone made Brasseur go cold around the shoulders. He realised he’d said too much.

  ‘No. Sorry, I mean … I don’t think he’d have got much.’

  ‘You’re paid to report, not to think.’ There was a click and the line went dead. Brasseur put the phone down and remembered to breathe again. He took out a cigarette and sucked in a lungful of smoke, his hand shaking. He needed a drink. Just a small one. He also wanted to turn the clock back and not be involved with the man on the other end of the phone. But it was too late for that. A bad gambling habit had been enough to put him in debt with no way out.

  Less than eight kilometres away from where Brasseur was steadying his nerves, Yuri Serban stood up and stared out of his window at his base in Ivry-sur-Seine. There wasn’t much to look at, but that was the way he liked it. Ordinary buildings in an unremarkable neighborhood where nothing much ever happened. It allowed him to operate without wondering if the doors were going to be kicked in at any minute by the heavy boots of theCRS. The Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité were well known for their forceful methods. Being made to hand responsibility to people he didn’t trust, such as Brasseur, was never easy, but staying ahead in the information game was vital. Gathering information from a variety of sources to which he didn’t get easy access was part of the business he was in. Information was like gold: difficult to come by, but worth the investment if it produced results. Sometimes the sources and informants failed at the simplest of tasks, sometimes they came up with something worthwhile. Right now, he was trying to decide on which side of the divide this latest information fell.

  Serban had heard the name Rocco before. He couldn’t recall the precise facts, but he had a feeling Rocco had been a thorn in the side of certain gangs in the north of the city. He rang a contact in a research section of the local police. This man was an officer who enjoyed regular payments into a bank account in return for useful nuggets of information. He gave the man Rocco’s name and waited for him to call back. It didn’t take long. He listened in silence, making an occasional note, then thanked his contact and replaced the phone.

  Another key aspect of his business was deciding when to get involved and when to pull back. Even more critical was knowing when to cut his losses. With a small operation like his, it would be easy to overstretch his resources, placing him in a vulnerable position and open to attack. He wasn’t sure about this man Rocco. To continue with the project meant dealing with a tough investigator not known for giving up easily, if his contact was to be believed. On the other hand, calling time on a potentially useful source of income risked having another group step in and take over. And his pride would not allow that to happen.

  His pride.

  It was something which burned bright inside him, demanding much, seeking more, but always kept in check due to an innate sense of caution. He’d seen too many others in his position end up face down in a gutter after overestimating their abilities. There were many routes to success, but the man who found a new method of sourcing money from, or influence over, others was likely to come out on top. Until recently he’d been happy to trundle along doing his own thing his own way, staying out of trouble. But this scheme brought to him by the man known as Maître had stirred something inside him. He wanted more, even if things so far hadn’t gone quite as planned.

  Caution told him that if Rocco was as good as his reputation, it might be safer abandoning the project and getting out. But something inside him wouldn’t let go that easily. What if he could take it over himself? As part of the original proposal, he’d made sure of learning more about the background behind the three letters. On seeing the names of the targets, he’d been instinctively wary. They were all high profile, and only the president himself, surrounded by a phalanx of bodyguards and the best resources France had to offer, would have presented a greater risk.

  He di
alled another number.

  ‘Rocco?’ The man sounded surprised, his cultured tones unaffected. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. He has a reputation for fighting criminal organisations much larger than yours, but I believe he’s been posted out into the middle of nowhere. I wouldn’t concern yourself, Yuri. If they brought in such an outsider it’s because they want to make sure the investigation falls flat and stays out of the media. From what I’ve heard Rocco is no lover of the press, so I doubt he’ll talk. In the end, when he gets nowhere, the Interior Ministry will tell him with great relief to drop it. Case closed, end of a potentially damaging scandal.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Serban. ‘What about the other targets?’

  There was a slight pause. ‘What about them?’

  ‘You said there would be others if these first three failed to make a return.’

  ‘Ah, those. They’re of little interest to me. I’ll have to think about it.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re willing to pass up a lucrative business?’

  ‘Let’s say they don’t have quite the … relevance of the first three. They were in the background as make-weights. Don’t worry, Serban, you won’t lose out. If I decide not to proceed further, you’ll still be paid, I promise. I think you’ll be pleased with the amount.’

  There was a click and the line went dead.

  Serban dropped the phone into its cradle and breathed deeply. The other man had just made a big mistake: he’d underestimated Serban’s ambition. Serban stood up, forcing himself to remain calm. He’d see how the other targets played out first, before making a decision. Perhaps he needed to make the man who called himself Maître a surprise visit.

  Maybe it was time, he thought, eyeing the distant horizon. Time to spread his wings and move up in the world.

  Twenty-one

  Detective Desmoulins had never been to Mers-les-Bains. His occasional days out en famille as a child had been limited to the neighbouring town of Fort-Mahon-Plage, 30 km to the north. Given a fast turn of speed when his parents weren’t watching, its wide stretches of sand allowed him and his brother to get far beyond calling range before they could react. Since then his wife, Sandrine, had ventured the occasional wish to try somewhere different, like Mers, but pressure of work had never allowed it.

  Right now, he was wishing he’d brought her with him; he could have left her to enjoy the beach while he did the detective bit around the neighbourhood home of Jean-Marie Gambon.

  It soon proved to be a re-run of his visit to Le Vésinet, with few people willing to talk, most claiming they hadn’t seen anything worth mentioning and only a couple happy to dish any dirt on their neighbour, the former Director General of the Sûreté Nationale.

  ‘He’d been fooling around with that young housekeeper of his for a couple of years – even before his wife left him,’ said a Mme Challonnet. Her face twisted in disapproval at the idea and she nodded towards the Gambon house just along the road, where a uniformed officer was pacing up and down. ‘And him a senior policeman, once. Is that why he tried to hang himself – because of the shame?’

  Sensing the absence of helpful information, Desmoulins asked a few more questions before moving on. Another neighbour suggested that Gambon was part of a secret cabal of politicians, senior cops and civil servants trying to overthrow the state from within.

  ‘It’s blatantly obvious to the rest of us.’ M. Medioni was a scarecrow of a man with liver spots and a nasal voice, and the shrewish look and narrow face of a zealot. ‘So why you lot haven’t been able to see it is beyond me. What the hell do we pay you for, tell me that?’

  Desmoulins stepped back a pace from the powerful smell of brandy emanating from the man, feeling his willpower beginning to slip away. Many more interviews like this and he’d throw himself in the sea.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said quietly. ‘We know all right – and we’re keeping an eye on all of them.’ He touched the side of his nose with his forefinger.

  ‘Ah.’ Medioni’s eyes went wide and he brightened up considerably, his mad suspicions vindicated. ‘Of course. That’s good to know, officer. Excellent. I knew I was right.’

  Desmoulins said, ‘But keep it to yourself, understood? We don’t want to tip our hand too early and ruin the chances of an arrest.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Medioni frowned. ‘Sorry – you asked about something else.’

  ‘A yellow van. Have you seen one in the area in the past few days?’

  ‘Only the PTT van. It comes every day. Like clockwork.’

  ‘Are you sure it was the PTT that you saw every time?’

  ‘Absolutely. The driver is my niece’s boy, Allain, so I always watch out for him, to give him a wave.’

  Three doors along, after ringing the bell, Desmoulins found himself confronted by an excited-looking individual in a bright yellow shirt and red trousers who virtually leapt out to greet him.

  ‘Have you got the papers?’ the man demanded, grabbing him by the arm. ‘Coulibay’s the name. Philippe Coulibay.’ He spelled it out. ‘Court papers … they should have been here by now.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Desmoulins, gently prising the man’s fingers from his arm. ‘But I’m not here to deliver any court papers.’

  ‘What? Christ, when are they going to get here, eh? When?’ Coulibay slapped a hand against the side of his head in obvious frustration and stared wildly each way along the street. ‘I’m going through a bastard of a divorce,’ he muttered angrily, even though Desmoulins hadn’t asked. ‘Being fleeced, I am. Robbed. Mugged. She wants eighty per cent of everything. Eighty! I need to sign the final papers before she gets any other ideas and hires some crooked private detective to cook up more lies against me. The way things are going right now I might as well save everyone the effort and put a gun to my head, except she’d probably want the cost of the bullet, too.’

  ‘You need to calm down, M. Coulibay,’ Desmoulins advised him. ‘You’ll make yourself unwell. And, believe me, that’s no way to solve the problem. In any case,’ he added, ‘I believe the usual division in divorces is fifty-fifty.’

  He made his escape while Coulibay was trying to think of an answer, and was fifty metres down the street when he heard someone puffing up behind him and turned to find the stick figure of M. Medioni trotting along the pavement.

  ‘Officer. Officer,’ he gasped nasally, and slowed to catch his breath. ‘Sorry – I was wrong earlier. I did see another yellow van the other day. I didn’t really give it a thought until you mentioned it just now, but I remember seeing it stop at Gambon’s house. I thought it was Allain, my niece’s boy, at first, but then I noticed it didn’t have the proper insignia on the side, like they’re supposed to. I was going to mention it to Allain, but it slipped my mind.’

  Desmoulins felt a thrill run through him that he wasn’t about to let go. This was better than anything so far, supporting the sighting by Dupannet in Le Vésinet. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Slow down, sir. Deep breaths. Did you get a look at the driver or the registration?’ It was too much to hope for, he thought; around here they all seemed to be a bottle short of a full crate.

  ‘I did. Both.’ Medioni breathed deeply, then in a rush added, ‘The driver was a sallow individual, like those types who haven’t had a touch of sunshine in their lives. He had on a peaked cap but it wasn’t the official issue. He reminded me of a skinny version of … what’s that comedian who does the Don Camillo films?’

  ‘Fernandel?’ A vision of a big face and a wide smile full of teeth popped into Desmoulins’ head. God on a bicycle, he thought, he should be easy enough to find.

  ‘That’s him. Only skinnier and paler and not so many teeth.’ Medioni laughed. ‘Maybe he didn’t look so much like him at all, now I come to think of it. Anyway, I’m glad I remembered that detail. I bet it helps, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I think it might.’ Desmoulins kept his expression blank and wondered how on earth he was supposed to find a face that looked nothing like the actor comedian, except in Medioni
’s insane imagination. ‘What about the registration?’

  ‘Sorry, that went right out of my head.’ He scowled. ‘I mean, I did see the registration, so you’d think I’d be able to call it to mind … but no. Sorry. It was a Paris number, though, I remember that much.’

  Ten minutes later, after leaving a phone number for Medioni to call if he remembered anything else, followed by a phone call to the office with details of the second appearance of a yellow van, Desmoulins was on his way back to Amiens. It might turn out to be nothing, but he hoped and suspected not. Bigger cases had been solved because of more slender clues, and if whoever was delivering the letters had made a slip-up, it could all hinge on finding the vehicle.

  Twenty-two

  A new blue Mercedes with a soft top and whitewall tyres was parked at the front of the château when Rocco and Claude arrived the next morning. It carried a Paris registration and looked polished and buffed to an eye-watering shine, in stark contrast to the state of the ancient building and its sagging structure. There was no sign of the sporty blue Renault.

  ‘Not Cezard’s car,’ said Claude, before Rocco could ask. ‘I checked. He doesn’t go out much but when he does, he drives a banged-up old Peugeot 203. Probably keeps it out back somewhere.’

  Rocco knocked on the front door. Sébastien Cezard opened it, wearing a paint-spattered shirt, trousers and carrying a cheroot.