‘What kind of connections?’
‘He runs a line in cheap cars for hire, some used by local riff-raff. A couple of the vehicles have been spotted close to the scenes of robberies, but the trail didn’t go back directly to the garage so they had to drop the investigations.’
Rocco chewed on the information as he drove. As leads went it was tenuous at best, but better than nothing. He checked his watch. He was meeting Santer at lunchtime in Montigny, and from there to Sarcelles was going to be tight. But he’d make it. ‘Let’s lean on him. Can you be at the garage at four?’
‘Can do. I’ll get there early and scout around, see if they have any yellow vans in evidence.’
‘Good idea. Let the local force know we’re going. If you get any problems get Massin involved and he’ll clear the way.’
Twenty-six
‘I still don’t understand why they asked you to conduct the investigation,’ said Santer. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’ It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned it, and Rocco had a feeling he was leading up to something.
‘They just did and that’s it,’ he said. ‘Not mine to reason why.’
‘Really? Well, I have my suspicions.’ Santer picked up his glass and gave an almost delicate sip, pursing his lips to fully savour the flavour of the pale wine. It was a fine Chablis, Rocco could tell that by the look of satisfaction that glided across the captain’s face. Not for nothing did he have a reputation among his colleagues as something of a gourmet, although it wasn’t often that he could indulge himself like this.
They were sitting in Le Vieux Poêle on the outskirts of Montigny, and had dispensed with the first course, a delicate langoustine. They were now waiting for the salmon, which Santer had expressly ordered the evening before to make sure they weren’t out of it. The captain was being deliberately cagey about telling Rocco what he’d learned, but Rocco wasn’t concerned. He’d spill the information eventually, once the wine had loosened his tongue and his appetite had been dented. It was a game his former boss liked to play in return for the reward he was about to enjoy.
‘Go on, thrill me,’ Rocco encouraged him and tasted the wine. It was crisp and fruity, with a subtle aftertaste that hung on the back of his tongue and lingered in his throat.
‘Think about it.’ Santer leaned forward, nearly upsetting a basket of bread. ‘The Ministry is huge. They’ve got investigators coming out of their ears: military, civil, intelligence, security, scientific – quite apart from people like the Dreycourt character you told me about. It’s an ants’ nest of experts, that place.’ He looked abashed. ‘Not that I’m saying you’re not expert, of course I’m not – you’d put them all to shame. But still–’ He broke off as the salmon arrived, and sat back with a look of reverence as it was served. ‘God, I love this place.’
Neither of them spoke until the waiter had gone and they had each taken the first forkful of pale pink fish. For a few seconds Santer looked as if he were in heaven, eyes closed and a soft smile on his face. Then he continued: ‘They’ve also got reach, in the Ministry, you know that. They control every corner of this country, with informants round every corner.’ He checked that nobody was close enough to overhear and said, ‘It’s a police state, only nobody likes to call it that because who the hell wants to live in one of those? We’re not the USSR, after all, controlled by those shovel-smacked faces in the Politburo.’
‘Does all this have a point?’ said Rocco mildly, playing his part. ‘Fish good?’
‘Fantastic. Beautiful. I must bring my wife here – she’d love it. And yes, it has a point.’ He poked his fork at Rocco. ‘The point is I worry about you, Lucas. How far do you have to go in any town before you see a uniform? Tell me.’
‘Not far.’
‘Correct. And that’s not counting the non-uniforms, the ones you don’t see.’
‘Now you’re sounding paranoid. Does this fish contain mercury?’
‘What?’ Santer stared at his plate. ‘What makes you say such a thing?’ Then he smiled. ‘Ah, one of your jokes. You had me worried for a moment. You’re thinking of the Japanese thing a few years ago, aren’t you? Well, forget it – these are freshwater fish from Aquitaine, absolutely clean, no impurities. What was I saying? Oh, yes. But you’re right. I am paranoid – and with reason. You’ve been chosen, my fine young friend, to do this job for one reason and one reason only.’ He scooped up another mouthful of fish and chewed with relish.
Rocco knew what was coming. ‘Go on.’
‘You’ve been set up to fail.’
‘You think?’ Rocco could see what he was driving at because he’d had similar thoughts himself, especially after Dreycourt’s warning that nobody else wanted to touch it. ‘If that was true,’ he countered reasonably, ‘they could have chosen someone inexperienced.’
‘Ah, but that’s where they’ve been clever, see. Bourdelet is a scandal in the making. They can’t have that. It would be bad for the government if everyone knew the finance secretary had been dipping into secret state coffers. He’ll be written off … but as a suicide while of unsound mind due to stress. It happens all the time: a casualty of events for the sake of the country. They’ll read eulogies about what a fine chap he was, a loyal servant of the state, hardworking, blah-blah-blah. Then you’ll hear no more about it.’
‘What about the other two?’
‘Exactly my point. Bourdelet alone, that can be explained away. But throw in two more top dogs buying forgeries and being blackmailed for specified crimes, and it’s got enough combustion to lift the roof off the Élysée Palace. That’s not so easy to hide. So they have to have a main whipping post … which comes back to poor old Bourdelet. Tough on him but he wasn’t that popular, anyway. So, what to do? They can’t not have an investigation, as that would set tongues wagging. So, who will do it? Choose one of their own insiders and they could be accused of trying to hide something, to control events. I’d be surprised, anyway, if any of their own people wanted to go anywhere near it for fear of the result. Bourdelet being an obvious exception, and forgive me for being tasteless, but government employees are not known for committing professional hara-kiri if they can help it.’
‘True.’
‘On the other hand, if they chose someone inexperienced, they’d have the press and the opposition parties on their backs for not taking the matter seriously. By choosing you, a detective with a top record of successful investigations, they can demonstrate that they’ve put their best man on the job … and Bourdelet will still be written off and everyone will be happy. Job done. A big shame but he was a bad one, but …’ He shrugged and set about clearing his plate.
‘There’s only one thing wrong with that theory,’ said Rocco. ‘If I’m supposed to be so good, what if I solve the case and find the painter and the blackmailer and his accomplices?’
‘Same thing, my friend. That’s when they’ll shut the case down and bury it, because that way they can prove they did their best but without any huge scandal. You won’t ever let the cat out of the bag because that’s the way you are. You’ll go back to your day job and forget all about it.’
Rocco couldn’t fault Santer’s logic. He’d gone through the various possibilities himself more than once. Even he knew there were scandals that the government could not possibly allow to become public, not at the present time. It made him wonder if Santer was aware of his new job offer. The timing of the offer and his being handed the investigation were a pure coincidence, but others might not see it that way. In any case, he figured Santer didn’t know, since that would have been the first question the captain would have hit him with today.
‘What about Vauquelin?’
‘The painter’s agent and lawyer? Well, I already told you about him. My friend says to be very careful of that one. Vauquelin’s lost a lot of credibility on the court circuit recently, which must have put a serious dent in his case load and income. But he’s got friends in low places who don’t mind playing rough, so you should watch your back.’
He eyed Rocco’s plate, which still wasn’t clear, with interest. ‘Are you going to eat that fish or not?’
Twenty-seven
Moteurs Gregnard was in a ramshackle building in a back street away from the centre of Sarcelles, and Rocco was hard pushed not to form preconceptions about the place before he saw the inside. The jumble of buildings in the surrounding area were dilapidated and looked mostly deserted, and there was an air of defeat hanging over them that seemed to emanate from the ground up, as if the area was waiting for the wrecker’s ball to move in and lay waste to every brick and timber. Aging vehicles were parked along the front of the premises, and two men in grubby vests and oil-stained trousers were sitting outside next to a single fuel pump, puffing on cigarettes.
So far Rocco had seen no through traffic of any description, and it wasn’t difficult to see why: who would want to risk coming down such a dead-end street in what was surely a road to nowhere? He saw Desmoulins climb out of his car further down the street and waited for the detective to join him.
‘I’ve walked past a couple of times,’ said Desmoulins, sliding into the passenger seat, ‘but couldn’t see a yellow van. That’s not to say there isn’t one – there’s a space at the rear where they could probably get a dozen vehicles or more.’
‘Are those two oily vests the only employees?’
‘I think so. They came out after three men arrived about fifteen minutes ago. They’ve been out there ever since.’
‘Under orders, I expect. What did the three visitors look like?’
‘Cheap suits, street swagger and trying to look tough. Late twenties to early thirties. They pitched up in the green Simca across the street, and an older man met them at the door. I think it was Gregnard himself. Looks as if they were expected.’
Rocco studied the Simca. It didn’t look new but was highly polished and sat low on the springs, with a row of fog lights across the front as if it had been prepped for the Tour de France Automobile Rally, idiot amateur division. ‘How did the local force feel about you coming here?’
Desmoulins pointed down the street. ‘The ratty blue Peugeot with the red wing? There are two detectives inside in case we need any help.’
Rocco looked at him. ‘Did you ask them to come?’
Desmoulins smiled. ‘I didn’t have to. The moment I mentioned Gregnard, they almost jumped in their car before I’d finished speaking. They’ve been trying to pin him down for a long time. They’re pretty sure he’s been moving stolen goods around the city, quite apart from providing vehicles for raids and fake documentation to just about anybody who can stump up the cash. It must be a lucrative business because, although the garage is a dump, the locals told me Gregnard has a very nice house at the posh end of town, and can be seen splashing money around on a regular basis.’
‘So, we’re among friends?’
‘We are. I told them it’s just a chat for now but they said if we need help, just whistle.’
‘Come on, then. Let’s go and disturb Monsieur Gregnard’s day, shall we?’ Rocco climbed out and led the way along the street. They were watched every step of the way by the two men, who stamped out their cigarettes and got to their feet. One of them, the taller of the two, scooped up a length of metal bar and swung it experimentally from side to side with a swishing sound.
‘Sit down, boys,’ said Rocco, and flicked back his coat to show his gun, while Desmoulins held up his ID card. ‘We’re here for a chat, so why not be sensible and have another smoke? I’m sure your boss won’t mind.’
The men sat down again, the tall one dropping the bar on the ground. The shrug as he did so was a face-saver which said they could have done something if they’d wanted to, but they weren’t paid to confront the cops.
The interior of the garage smelled of oil, damp and cigarettes. Compared to the outside it was surprisingly clean, the floor oil-stained but clear of rubbish. There were two ramps, an inspection pit and long benches along the side walls covered in tools and car parts. Racks above them held a variety of tools and above them a selection of colourful automobile plaques. The overall appearance was of a professional set-up in sharp contrast to the second-rate exterior.
Rocco had seen this kind of place before: a dump to outsiders but capable of turning out high-level work for the right kind of customers.
An office was visible through a glass-panelled screen covered in auto parts stickers. Four men were seated around a desk, the air around their heads clouded with smoke. Whatever they were discussing looked serious. The odd man out was a heavy-set, older individual in his fifties dressed in an expensive-looking sports jacket and shirt. He was stabbing the air with a fat forefinger.
Gregnard, thought Rocco, and he was laying down the law about something. It was a good time to catch him off-guard. He stepped up to the door and knocked, then pushed it open.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said calmly. ‘But we need to talk.’
Gregnard dropped the pointy finger and growled, ‘Who the hell are you? Piss off and come back next week. We’re busy.’ He glared towards the outside, no doubt wondering why his men hadn’t intercepted these intruders.
The three visitors weren’t quite so patient. They took it as their cue to stand up and look tough. Rocco did the trick with his coat while Desmoulins flashed his card. It worked wonders. They went to sit down again but Rocco stopped them.
‘Don’t bother staying,’ he said. ‘We don’t need an audience.’
Gregnard looked surprisingly untroubled at this and didn’t argue. He nodded at the three younger men and said, ‘Just think about what I said, right? Not here, not now, not ever.’ He stood up and watched them leave, then turned to Rocco and shook his head, ‘I was about to toss them out anyway. You saved me the trouble. Young punks think they can come in here and make a silly offer for my business? They need to grow some balls first. What is it you two want? Rocco, isn’t it?’
Rocco was surprised. ‘Have we met?’
‘No, but I’ve seen you around. Down in Clichy, wasn’t it? It’s been a while.’ He sat down and gestured at the empty chairs. ‘Why not make yourselves comfortable? Where have you been?’
‘I’ve been working elsewhere,’ said Rocco. ‘My colleague is Detective Desmoulins. Are you having trouble with those three?’
Gregnard gave a spit of laughter. ‘You’re joking. Them? They’re voyous, that’s all. Street thugs. Good on talk and scaring old ladies, but nothing in the tank.’ He scratched at his face, which was covered in a three-day stubble. ‘They’re looking for a base and for some reason thought I’d be ripe for a takeover. They were wrong. What can I do for you, Inspector?’
‘I hear you have some vehicles for hire, is that correct?’
‘Sure. Why – you looking for a wedding limousine?’ His smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I don’t have one in the yard but I can always get one for the right kind of money.’
‘Thanks, but not yet. How about a small van, a 2CV in PTT yellow?’
Gregnard pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. ‘Not sure I can do that. Why so specific? You thinking of a change of profession?’
‘The registration records show you as the owner,’ said Desmoulins. He took a slip of paper out of his pocket and pushed it across the desk.
Gregnard didn’t bother looking at it, playing the cool customer. ‘I hire out lots of vehicles, but I don’t recall every one. It might be mine, it might not. So what?’ His tone was still civil but getting harder, and Rocco recognised a man trying to think fast on his feet.
‘We’ve had reports of that vehicle having been seen in connection with two suicides and another near-fatality. All three incidents appear to lead right back here. To you, Monsieur Gregnard. What do you say about that?’
Gregnard shrugged and tilted back on his chair, his belly rising above the desk. ‘So what? A vehicle hired from me just happened to be in an area when a couple of losers decided to kill themselves. Doesn’t mean I know anything about it. Do you go after the SNCF w
hen some idiot walks across the track in front of an express?’ In spite of his brash words he didn’t sound overly confident.
‘You admit it does belong to you?’
His eyes flickered nervously. ‘Yeah, but so what? I hire them out, I don’t see what people do with them. I didn’t even know about any suicides.’
‘Not personally, no,’ said Rocco. ‘But you’ll have heard of one of them. And that’s where a whole load of trouble is going to come down on you. Believe me, we’re the polite squad, unlike the ones coming along behind.’ He was bluffing, because it was ten to one that nobody would be coming along after him and Desmoulins. But he was counting on Gregnard not knowing that.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Gregnard stared at them in turn. He was beginning to sound edgy, as if realising that this had been a build-up to something he hadn’t seen coming.
‘Jean-Pascal Bourdelet. Late Secretary of State for Finance. Does that ring a bell?’
There was a long silence, with Gregnard’s mouth forming into an ‘o’ while he digested the words. It took a few seconds, then he fell forward on his chair, the feet slamming into the floor as the implications finally hit home. He’d evidently read the newspapers.
Rocco and the Price of Lies Page 17