Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  The second man entered moments later. He walked down the centre of the room and stopped alongside Serban, waiting with his hands down by his side. This time there was a nod of the head from Serban and the man sat down.

  Better clothes than the runners, Caspar noted, and an air of confidence the others had lacked. Probably a trusted worker bee because he’d been invited to sit. Otherwise unremarkable to look at. Whatever they were talking about created a low-level buzz. Caspar had long ago learned the art of lip-reading but it needed two mouths to make a conversation, and the newcomer’s lips barely moved. Probably a former convict, he would have picked up the habit during exercise yard conversations where discretion was an absolute must. Moments later, the newcomer stood up and left the restaurant without looking left or right.

  Caspar’s coffee and pastry arrived and he took the newspaper from the straps on his briefcase and pretended to read. To his surprise, the smartly-dressed business type stood up and moved down the restaurant, stopping at Serban’s table. This time there was no waiting for permission, no sign of servility. The two men shook hands and the newcomer took the seat across from Serban.

  As the man turned to face back up the restaurant, Caspar’s gut went cold. He lifted the paper, blocking out a direct view of his face. He swore silently. Christ, of all the people to run into: Laurent tête de merde Vauquelin, cop-hater extraordinaire and lawyer to the criminal elite. Too late, Caspar realised his face was visible in the wall mirror, and that Vauquelin was looking at him. The lawyer had a faint frown etched on his handsome features. Was it a frown of recognition or a response to something Serban had just said?

  Caspar took a sip of coffee with his free hand and focussed on the paper, trying to breathe evenly, while seeing flashbacks of his life before leaving the police. He’d been forced to surface from a deep undercover assignment to give evidence on a case from several months earlier. A prostitute had been slashed by a pimp and drug dealer in a row over money. She’d been courageous enough to bring a complaint against her attacker. But the investigation hadn’t stopped at the violence; by chance it had revealed a network of dealers operating across the city, and two of the leading organisers had been charged with offences ranging from drug importation to intimidation, arson and murder. Caspar had been watching both men.

  It had been a tough time for him, forced into the daylight under a court order, the stress adding to his already fragile state of mind. He’d been allowed to appear in court in disguise to avoid compromising other ongoing investigations, but the one person who had been permitted to see him out of the shadows had been the counsel for the defence, Maître Laurent Vauquelin.

  Like most of his colleagues, he’d already known of Vauquelin’s intense antipathy towards the police and had been very careful with his testimony. But it had been a gruelling time being constantly on guard against the lawyer’s attempts to prove that he and his colleagues had acted unlawfully. Later, long after the trial, the lawyer had been suspected of becoming just a little too close to some of the criminal clients he had defended, to the extent that he’d been accused of manufacturing evidence against the police to get them off the charges on a technicality and, likely, to bring the justice system into disrepute.

  Caspar’s hand was shaking, threatening to slop coffee on the table. He clamped his fingers tightly together and forced it to be still, hoping Vauquelin hadn’t noticed.

  In the wake of the trial and his subsequent decision to leave the police, he’d managed to wipe Vauquelin’s face and supercilious smile from his mind, safe in the knowledge that he would never have to see the man again. And now here he was within a few metres of him.

  He finished his coffee and risked a quick glance in the mirror. The two men were deep in conversation and Vauquelin was no longer staring at him. Whatever Serban was saying had got his full attention, but the words were too muffled to make out.

  Not for the first time in his life, Caspar wished he could have been a fly on the wall. He couldn’t see Serban’s face but Vauquelin was suddenly very tight-lipped, as if he’d discovered something unpleasant taking a swim in his coffee cup.

  Whatever they were discussing was going to remain a mystery. No words heard meant nothing to report, save that once again the maître with the dubious reputation was mixing with a well-known crook. By itself it wasn’t a crime; defence lawyers represented criminals, it was what they did, all legal and above board. They could be discussing property deeds for all Caspar knew.

  He stood up and picked up his briefcase, turning his back as he did so. He stepped across to the counter and deposited some coins in a dish. The man behind the counter nodded and Caspar moved towards the door.

  ‘Monsieur? One moment.’

  He froze, a familiar cold grip of alarm taking hold of the back of his neck. He turned slowly, and found a waiter holding out a newspaper.

  ‘You forgot your paper, sir.’

  Thanking the man and not daring to look towards the rear of the room, Caspar took the newspaper and made his exit, feeling Vauquelin’s eyes drilling into his back all the way.

  Thirty-four

  Behind him, Laurent Vauquelin was only half-listening to what his client, Serban, was saying. He was staring after the gaunt figure with the briefcase. He was certain he knew him from somewhere. Vauquelin prided himself on his memory for faces, a necessary skill in his line of work. Surprises and lack of knowledge were a sure-fire killer in the cut and thrust of defence debate, and he’d schooled himself to stay at the top of his game.

  He ran back in his mind to a gallery of snapshots featuring adversaries and witnesses, experts and prosecutors, the cream and dross of cases he’d worked on. The man had the look of a criminal, he decided, although the clothes and briefcase didn’t quite fit. Certainly not a member of the legal profession, but possibly a lawyer’s runner. Or an investigator.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Maître?’ Serban’s bark dragged him back to the topic in question, before he slapped a hand on the table. ‘You think I’m happy wasting my time here while you go off into dreamland? Pay attention or piss off – frankly at the moment I don’t care which!’

  ‘My apologies,’ Vauquelin murmured. ‘I saw someone I thought I knew.’

  ‘Yeah, well since you probably know half the lowlifes and undercover parasites in Paris by now, that’s no great surprise. But just remember who’s paying your fees.’ Serban shook his head and pushed back in his chair. ‘Merde, I’ve forgotten what I was saying now, damn you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Vauquelin wasn’t, but he had to play the part with this ignorant gutter rat.

  Serban snarled. ‘It’ll have to keep; I’ve got other things to be doing.’ He leaned forward as he got to his feet, looming over Vauquelin with a tangible air of menace. ‘Just bear in mind, our business isn’t over yet. I want some return on my investment but without any further problems. So, you’d better come up with some alternative names to the last three washouts. What was it you called them – makeweights?’

  ‘What about Rocco?’ said Vauquelin. ‘He’s getting closer, isn’t he?’

  ‘Not to me he isn’t,’ said Serban bluntly. ‘He’s got nothing on me. You, however, I reckon he’s got in his sights.’ He smiled mirthlessly. ‘Why not use your influence to make him go away? I’m sure you can pull some strings with your high-and-mighty mates in the police. Maybe get one of your legal snitches to find some dirt on him. After all, that’s what you’re good at.’

  ‘I have no influence in the police or the Interior Ministry. None at all.’ Vauquelin’s voice skidded up a couple of octaves as he saw the look on Serban’s face. The Romanian wasn’t kidding. He’d heard often enough how dangerous this man could be, but he hadn’t witnessed it this close before. The realisation was enough to bring out a fine layer of perspiration on his neck.

  ‘You’re not serious.’ Serban looked sceptical.

  ‘Absolutely.’ God, thought Vauquelin, why did crooks like Serban always assume that being a lawyer meant
you had access to every high office in the land? ‘If I try sticking my nose in, I’ll be accused of trying to undermine the investigation – and that will get me suspended. If they take me down, the first thing they’ll do is look into my recent client list to see who I’ve been working for. Do you really think you can find another avocat who’ll help you the way I do?’ He swallowed hard, suddenly realising that he’d gone too far. ‘Not that it would come to that, of course.’

  Serban shook his head, his eyes like flint. ‘I see. So that’s how it goes, is it? You’ve left a safety letter behind, have you, ready to implicate me if anything happens to you?’

  Vauquelin realised his mistake. ‘No, that’s not what–’

  Serban leaned close again. ‘What if I burn your office down and put a torch to your home? Would you enjoy that? Would that make you feel any safer?’

  ‘No, Yuri – I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Forget it.’ Serban snapped his hand through the air, cutting him off. ‘I’ll deal with it myself. But I’ll need Rocco’s home address.’

  Vauquelin felt a stab of alarm. ‘Why? What are you going to do?’ He had an instant vision of Serban taking extreme action to stop Rocco, and it coming back to haunt him.

  ‘That’s none of your business, Maître.’ Serban’s breath was damp against Vauquelin’s cheek as he spat out the title, more insult than courtesy. For a start I don’t think you have the balls to want to know what I’m capable of.’

  ‘How do you expect me to get his address?’

  ‘I don’t care how – just do it. I want it by the end of the day. Oh, and it will cost you. Call it a protection fee.’

  ‘What? But why should I pay for … for this?’ Vauquelin went to stand up in protest but Serban clamped a meaty hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his seat, his fingers creasing the rich material of his jacket and digging in painfully to his flesh. If any of the staff or customers noticed, they studiously paid no attention, although there was a noticeable drop in the conversation level. It was a stark reminder to Vauquelin that he was in enemy territory here, a long way from the civilised courtroom circuit he enjoyed. Showing his teeth in this place was likely to earn him far more than a sharp retort from a testy judge.

  ‘You charge me for putting my signature on a document for you, don’t you?’ Serban countered softly. ‘Every time I ring you there’s an additional charge to my monthly bill, a fee for disturbing yourself on my behalf. So why should I do anything that benefits you for free? You’re up close to the really rough side of my business now, Vauquelin. Don’t you dare go gutless on me.’ He paused. ‘And if you ever, ever threaten me again, it will be the last thing you ever do!’

  With that he turned and strode out.

  Vauquelin felt shaken. Was he out of his depth? He drained his coffee cup and was tempted to ask for something stronger, but decided it would be too easy to give in to a brief weakness. Anyway, during their exchange a word uttered by Serban had sounded vaguely familiar. And alcohol wasn’t the way to make it clearer. Something Serban had said had given him a hint about the identity of the man he’d seen earlier. Undercover. Damn. That must be it. He closed his eyes the better to think back. During his career he’d forced the courts to bring in more than one undercover cop. In so doing he’d found examples of shortcuts and of behaviour bordering on the misuse of power. Several clients had cause to thank him for his diligence on seeing the cases against them thrown out of court. That must be it: the man was an undercover cop! But which one – and what was he doing there?

  Caspar was sweating as he hit the street, and it wasn’t from the heat of the sun. He’d blown it, pure and simple. He’d got close but was still no nearer to finding out if Serban was connected to the yellow van and the blackmail letters. He breathed deeply and let out the air slowly, then walked back towards where he’d left his car, wondering what the hell to tell Rocco.

  He was really not cut out for this game any more, he decided. For that he needed ice in his veins, and he didn’t have it any longer. Perhaps it really was a good thing he had to give it up. But even as he returned to where his car was parked, he realised that the last few minutes, a chilling reminder of what he used to face on a regular basis, had given him a jolt of electricity, a feeling akin to a parachute jump he’d made in the army years ago. And he’d missed that buzz.

  He was so focussed on his thoughts that he almost collided with a man who suddenly stopped right in front of him and turned round, muttering something and cursing to himself.

  It was the man who’d sat down across from Serban just before Vauquelin.

  Instinctively Caspar switched into survival mode, his brain recovering swiftly from the shock of seeing Vauquelin. He looked at the other man, dredging up the name of the driver of the yellow van. It was worth a try. Who else would have been trusted to take a seat? If he was wrong, he could apologise and be on his way, a stranger mistaking another’s face. It happened all the time.

  ‘Georges?’ he said, assuming an expression of vague uncertainty. ‘Georges Peretz?’

  The man stopped, suspicion washing across his bland face. ‘Might be. Who’s asking?’

  ‘It’s Jomi. Don’t you remember? Jean-Michel. We met a couple of times and you put a couple of tips my way. How’s it going?’

  The name Caspar used was one from the past and untraceable. Jomi or Jean-Michel Cabanas had been a petty criminal who’d made the decision to go straight and leave the area, drawn by a woman he’d fallen for in a big way. The power of love, Caspar had thought, which he knew well himself, could move mountains and change lives. Cabanas was still living somewhere in the Jura region with his lady as far as Caspar was aware, working a smallholding and enjoying the rural life.

  ‘Oh. Jomi. Of course, yeah.’ Peretz looked unsure, but in the face of such a convincing act, having feigned recognition, he couldn’t back-track. ‘I’m doing okay. It’s been a while. You?’

  ‘Excellent. Just in town for the day.’ Caspar was about to see how far he could push the conversation when Peretz looked past him and said, ‘Look, I’m sorry but I have to go – I forgot to give something to my boss and he’ll kill me if I don’t deliver.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We all have burdens, right? Good luck – and nice to see you.’

  As he walked away, Caspar wondered if he’d really made the kind of connection Rocco was after. Serban, Peretz and … Vauquelin? Mother of God, that would be sensational. But what would it prove? Vauquelin was a defender of criminals … and the other two were most likely his clients. So what?

  He reached his car and dumped his briefcase inside. Then he walked across the road and into the courtyard opposite. An empty building lay on one side, with windows missing and wind-blown leaves piled around the entrance. On the opposite side was a smaller, two-storey block with a clean entrance and a full complement of glass. He walked up to the door and listened. Too much background noise from the street to tell. He tried the handle. Locked.

  A scrawny ginger cat twined its way around his ankles. He nudged it gently to one side, then turned and walked along the front of the building. He turned left at the end and saw a frosted window on a latch at the bottom. The cat followed him, purring like a small engine. Ten seconds later Caspar was inside and standing on the tiled floor of a washroom, holding his breath against the pungent ammonia smell of uncleaned toilets and listening to the drip-drip sound of water in the pipes. He eased the door open and cocked an ear. Nothing. He breathed out.

  He was facing a set of stairs. First things first, in case he ran out of time. He made his way up, light on his toes, and stopped at the top to listen and called out, ‘Hello?’

  Nothing. There were four doors. Three of the rooms were empty, with a layer of grit on the floor. Electrical wires trailed from sockets and ceilings and the place smelled of mildew. The fourth room was an office, furnished with a desk, table and filing cabinet and three unmatched chairs. It was clean and smelled of cologne and cigarette smoke.

 
He went downstairs. Four more rooms; three were empty, the fourth was a small kitchen with a sink and a fridge on which sat a kettle and a coffee percolator. The only room in the whole building being used was upstairs. A bolt hole, in other words, but one that could be abandoned at short notice, no great loss incurred. He’d seen buildings like this before.

  He checked the desk first, flicking through a couple of notebooks and skimming through papers: bills, reminders, meaningless clutter, the usual kind of desk rubbish along with pens, pencils, paper and folders. There was nothing useful, like a list of associates or a plan of crimes committed. He opened the drawers. Also empty … except one. It contained three photographs and some sheets of paper. Names – one he immediately recognised – addresses … and three letters that made the hairs move on the back of his neck.

  He knew he didn’t need to look any further, but he was nothing if not thorough. He moved across to the filing cabinet. Locked, which was no surprise. He jiggled the frame, hoping to pop the drawer open, but it was a sturdy unit with no give.

  A rattling sound echoed along the corridor, and the rumble of voices. A man’s laughter. The front door.

  Time to go. The breath caught in his throat and he slipped out of the office door and back along the corridor to the washroom. Pray to heaven that whoever it was didn’t want to wash their hands in a hurry.