Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  ‘As long as you tell me the truth.’ Rocco dropped the cigarettes back on the table as a sign of good faith.

  ‘Sure. Of course.’ Fontenal scrabbled for a new cigarette and lit it with the stub of the old one. He blew out the smoke in a nervous gust, eyeing Rocco with a squint as if he might suddenly disappear. His voice dropped as he said, ‘Georges works for Yuri Serban.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Seriously? Christ, Rocco, you have been out of circulation. Serban’s bad news. Not like some of the bigger boys, the Africans or the Corsicans, but he’s got a short fuse and doesn’t let anyone get one over on him. He runs a couple of small clubs, some gambling dens, a few girls, a taxi firm – lots of small stuff. But between you and me I reckon he’s got his eye on the big time.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because I know the type – and I’ve heard stuff.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘He’s clever. He’s been playing it small so far, see, so nobody gives him a second glance – cops or the bigger gangs. But, bit by bit, he’s building a busy little empire for himself. You know what it’s like: it’s never long before a crim like that starts to get more ambitious. And Serban’s ambition is to move closer to the centre and take over someone else’s turf. Why do you want to know about him, anyway?’

  ‘Where does he operate?’

  ‘So far, strictly on the outskirts, south-east suburbs. Ivry-sur-Seine area. He puts out the picture of not wanting to mix it with the bigger boys, preferring to do his own thing, so they leave him alone.’

  In Rocco’s experience, most big city gang leaders liked to consolidate wherever they could, which meant taking over smaller groups if they thought a territory showed promise. Leaving one operating nearby long enough to get more established was almost unheard of.

  ‘Why haven’t they moved in on him?’

  ‘Because they know he’s got friends who’ll back him up. Not gang members, but guys from the same background who aren’t afraid of a fight.’

  ‘Why would that worry them?’

  Fontenal shrugged. ‘Because most of them are headcases and out-of-town and nobody knows what they look like. You can’t fight faces you don’t know, can you? And none of the big boys want to start an international fight because it gets the cops interested and doesn’t make a profit.’

  ‘You say background. What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but I’ve heard Serban’s family’s from Romania, a long way back. The way I heard it is they do feuds in a big way over there. Hurt one family member and you get the whole clan on your back for ever.’

  ‘Has he ever been inside?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s clever, makes sure he doesn’t get too ambitious and hurt the wrong people. Not unless they cross him, at least.’ He seemed to realise what that statement implied and looked alarmed. ‘Hey, remember – you won’t tell anyone about this, will you? He’ll go after Edith if he can’t get to me. I’m not kidding, Rocco – he’s got a thing about people talking out of turn.’

  Rocco waved a hand to calm him down. He stood up, realising that Fontenal was unlikely to say anything more. ‘Nobody will know outside this room, I promise.’ He nodded at the cigarettes. ‘You can keep those. I’ll see what I can do about putting in a good word with the magistrate. It won’t be much, though, because of the gun.’

  Fontenal nodded, subsiding in his chair. ‘Fair enough. My own fault, that. Thanks, Rocco. I appreciate it.’ He grinned and squinted through the smoke. ‘You couldn’t give Edith a call for me, could you? Just a quick one to let her know I’m all right? She probably doesn’t know about this yet and she’ll be worrying.’ He told Rocco the number to call.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. You don’t deserve her, you know that?’

  ‘That’s what she’s always saying. I’m starting to believe it.’

  Rocco thanked Pouillot for his help and got the name of the magistrate handling Fontenal’s case. Her name was Laure Ordon. He asked for the use of a telephone and gave her a call.

  ‘You’re optimistic, aren’t you, Inspector?’ said Ordon. She sounded young and confident, clearly unfazed by a call out of the blue. ‘He and his friend were armed. That’s not going to help their case.’

  ‘I know. But Fontenal has given me information that might help with another case I’m working on. It should be worth consideration, don’t you think?’ He was guessing he didn’t have to tell her that informants were key in solving many cases, and the knowledge that ‘an informant’ had received some consideration in a sentence for providing inside information might persuade others to come forward in future.

  ‘I suppose, although it depends what this other case is, frankly.’ Her tone of voice lacked enthusiasm, and he decided he had to take a chance on giving out a name. He’d been ready for that very question and figured it was worth the risk to mention it. ‘Jules Petissier.’

  ‘What? The Assize Court Petissier?’ Her tone went up a peg or two. ‘You’re investigating that? I thought it was attempted suicide.’

  ‘It probably was. But there are secondary circumstances which may have driven him to it.’

  ‘What sort of information did Fontenal give you? Did he name someone?’

  Rocco smiled. She must have known he wasn’t going to tell her, but it hadn’t stopped her asking. Magistrates loved gossip as much as anyone else. ‘I can’t say at this point. Let’s call it a possibility.’

  ‘Well, I’ve met Fontenal, Inspector, and I’d be amazed if he moves anywhere near the right circles for that kind of detail. Still, if it’s a possibility, I’ll put the fact forward in his defence but I’m not promising anything.’

  He thanked her and rang off, grateful for magistrates who were prepared to consider the bigger picture.

  Next he rang Edith, Fontenal’s long-suffering partner, and told her the bad news. She responded with the expected wail of despair, but rapidly became pragmatic and asked for details of where he was being held.

  ‘Did you say Rocco?’ she asked. ‘François mentioned you before. He said you were okay.’

  ‘You mean for a cop?’

  ‘Yeah, for a cop.’ She laughed. ‘Thank you, anyway. I’ll see where he ends up and pay him a visit. If you see him, tell him he’d better be wearing a crash helmet when I get there because he’s going to need it.’

  Thirty

  In Amiens, Commissaire Massin was working late, trying to catch up with paperwork while dwelling on the police officers’ function near Versailles. He was still feeling vexed by the turn in the conversation with Ceyton, and couldn’t get rid of the feeling that somehow the senior officer had deliberately found him and steered the talk towards the Bourdelet case. He’d tried telling himself that it was rubbish, that it had been his decision to attend the event, so there was no way Ceyton could have known he’d be there.

  And yet … why did he feel that the last few words uttered by Ceyton had come across as a threat? That if Rocco didn’t do as he was told, which by implication meant call a halt to the investigation when ordered, it would be the end of his career – and by association, Massin’s, too.

  On the other hand, hadn’t Ceyton offered to help him investigate potential links between Bourdelet, Petissier and Gambon? Why would he do that if he wanted it to fail?

  Even as he thought it through his telephone rang. He snatched it up. ‘Massin.’

  ‘Ah, François. I’m glad I got you.’ It was Ceyton. ‘I thought you’d like to hear about my investigations on your behalf following our little chat.’

  Massin’s heart pounded. Had he been wrong about the man’s intentions? ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

  ‘Well, a big zero, is what I discovered. By that I mean no connections at all.’

  Massin felt his belly go cold. Ceyton’s voice sounded oddly relieved, as if it had been a sticky subject that could now be forgotten and filed away, a dead-end case with no result.

  ‘Not eve
n Gambon and Petissier? I’d have thought a judge and a senior policeman would have had some passing professional acquaintances in common.’

  Ceyton chuckled. ‘You’d think, wouldn’t you? Believe me, there’s not as much contact between the police and the judiciary as you might think at our level. We’re all too busy watching our backs. I did a thorough job, I can promise you. Enjoyed myself, too, rattling a few bones and raking in favours owed. But the answers all came back the same: as far as anyone can tell, they all moved in different circles, belonged to different clubs and would not have studied together due to their different ages. The short answer is Bourdelet was a snob and loner, Petissier was the most God-awful career-hound and social climber, and neither of them would have acknowledged Gambon if he’d been on fire in the courtyard of the Élysée Palace.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you for your efforts, sir. I appreciate it. I’ll tell Rocco.’

  ‘Good. You might want to tell him something else, too, while you’re at it. While I was rattling a few bones, I happened to get a call from high up in the Interior Ministry – and I mean nose-bleedingly high.’

  Massin didn’t like the sound of that. ‘About what?’

  ‘There have been calls to impose a time limit on how long this investigation can go on.’

  ‘I hope that’s not going to be unreasonable, sir. These things take time. And Rocco’s investigation has barely got off the ground.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Massin.’ That hard tone in his voice was back, the one Massin had heard at the function. ‘Certain people high up in the government are getting impatient. They need answers soon in order to bring the Bourdelet investigation to a close. The longer it goes on the more likely it will be for rumours to build and for stories to begin circulating. And the government can’t have that. I did warn you.’

  ‘What’s the sudden rush?’

  ‘Simple. A new secretary of state for finance is about to be appointed and they can’t have an unresolved investigation involving the misuse of departmental funds hanging over the newcomer’s head. It’s bad for government business and won’t help public confidence in such an important element of the state.’

  ‘What about the other two cases – Petissier and Gambon?’

  ‘Those, too. I think you should advise your man to report what he has found so far and we’ll see what the response is.’

  Massin felt a sense of unease. Unless Rocco had moved further along in his assignment than he was aware, and had somehow triggered a sensitivity in the machinery of government, this went against all the normal protocols of a criminal investigation. He’d read the blackmail letters and in each one there was a clear criminal intent in the threat to the reputation of the victim. Were some elements of the government playing at following the rule of law while deciding to sweep the three cases under the carpet? If so, it confirmed what Ceyton had suggested.

  He already knew that Rocco’s first response would verge on the unprintable. But his first question would be entirely rational. ‘How long do we have?’

  ‘Days,’ replied Ceyton. ‘Two or three at most. Candidates for the post are already being lined up. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such news, but there’s nothing more I can do.’ He hesitated. ‘It has been put to me that the view in the Ministry is that Rocco would be a most useful asset to the BRI here in Paris. He has the right experience and background and is a natural choice to be a senior member of the team. You might like to remind him of that while he makes up his mind about this case. Good luck.’

  The call was ended, leaving Massin staring at the wall. He was appalled. In his years in the military and the police he had witnessed pressure. You toed the line or you could forget reaching any further in your career. But the pressure had usually been subtle, a suggestion rather than a heavy threat, understood and accepted as a normal part of being on a career ladder surrounded by competitors. This was beyond direct; it was an open reminder that if Rocco wanted to advance further, he should remember where his future lay.

  He got up and paced around his office. Even before speaking to Rocco, he knew the detective’s contention would be that if the three men had had nothing in common and were unlikely to have even known each other, then the common factor, the connection bringing them together in the blackmail scheme had to be through someone else. An outsider. Somebody who knew them all, or knew their individual history.

  How the hell Rocco was going to find that person in a couple of days was hard to imagine.

  He picked up the phone and called the radio room. ‘Get Inspector Rocco to call me. Urgent.’

  Thirty-one

  Rocco was just finishing another section of Mme Denis’s pie when his phone rang. It was the operator at the station. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Commissaire Massin wishes to speak with you.’

  Rocco was surprised. For Massin to be calling this late it was unlikely to be good news. ‘Put him through, please.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. The commissaire wants to see you in person. In the office.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry. He says it’s important.’

  ‘I’m on my way. Thirty minutes.’

  Rocco stood up, put on his coat and headed for the car. All the driving was beginning to catch up with him but there was no arguing with a direct order.

  Thirty minutes later he joined Massin in his office. Other than a couple of night duty officers downstairs, there was nobody around and the building felt like an empty shell, devoid of its usual hustle and bustle.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Massin said, and held up a coffee pot, steam issuing from the lid. He had taken off his uniform jacket and looked unusually casual, with his top button undone and his shirt cuffs turned back. ‘Just made. I know it’s late for coffee, but I think we might both need it. And you’ll have to excuse the lack of formal dress, but it’s been a long day. I’m sure you feel the same.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rocco, noting the sombre tone in Massin’s voice. ‘I won’t say no. Is there a problem?’

  Massin finished pouring, then sat down and leaned back, flexing his shoulders. ‘You could say that. We’re on the edge of your investigation being closed down, and I wanted to warn you in person. It seemed not to be the kind of discussion to have by telephone.’ He sipped his coffee, then launched into a replay of his talk with Ceyton and the officer’s subsequent warning.

  Rocco listened in silence. It came as no surprise, given Santer’s grim prediction, but it was still disturbing to hear that there were now strict conditions attached to his handling of the case. Even more so was the implied threat to his future advancement if he didn’t follow orders.

  ‘I may have precipitated this, I’m afraid,’ Massin confessed, ‘by getting Ceyton involved. It could have been a step too far in letting them know how you were proceeding. I shouldn’t have put myself in the position.’

  ‘Unless it was him who approached you.’

  Massin looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said you decided to go to this senior police officers’ event. Was that normal?’

  ‘No. I’ve never been before. But seeing the invitation gave me the idea to see what I could discover.’

  ‘Have you had an invitation before?’

  ‘Not that I can remember. They usually place a piece in the officers’ bulletin.’

  ‘But not this time.’

  ‘No.’ Massin chewed his lip. ‘Not this time.’ He frowned. ‘You think it was a deliberate ploy to get me there?’

  ‘I’m suggesting it seems unusual, since they’ve never bothered to ask you before.’

  Massin stood up and took a tour of his office. ‘Now you mention it, I handed the card in but the man on the desk didn’t seem to know what to do with it. Others were walking straight in. But why?’

  Rocco assumed he was wondering why the subterfuge. ‘If you want to drop a word in a contact’s ear without making it look deliberate,’ he said, ‘then a chance encounter in a crowd is the safest bet. In this
case, you were there, Ceyton was there; what could be more natural than a chat … followed by a little timely advice.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘To warn me off.’ Rocco stood up to join him. ‘They didn’t want this investigation from the start. This was their opportunity to send in a torpedo to get it stopped.’ He waited for Massin to say something, but the senior officer seemed conflicted at the idea of such an open piece of skulduggery from the high command.

  ‘So far,’ he continued, ‘two other people have said pretty much the same thing to me. Both suggested this investigation was riddled with danger and would go nowhere, that finding out the truth behind the letters would stir up too many problems they didn’t want broadcast.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Bourdelet by himself was a shock but explainable: a case of stress, a moment of weakness, but not unheard of. Throw in the other two and suddenly you have intrigue on your hands involving senior members of state bodies – the finance ministry, the police and the judiciary. That’s too much.’