Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ Rocco finely managed to whisper, his throat sore and his mouth dry in spite of the blood.

  The man showed a line of yellow teeth. ‘Oh, we’re talking now, are we? That’s not good. And there was I thinking you were about to breath your last. Seems like I might have misjudged things. Still, lucky I came prepared, eh?’ He bent out of sight for a moment, then stood up and showed Rocco a wine bottle with a cork in the top. He gave it a shake. ‘Fancy another drink, Rocco? No? Well, I can’t say I blame you. This isn’t what you’d call a good vintage, let me tell you. A bit young for my tastes, not exactly full-bodied, either.’ He took the cork out and tossed it away, then tipped the bottle. A dribble of pale liquid spilled out, splashing over the front seat and running down the fabric towards Rocco. It touched his leg with cold and he recognised the familiar smell.

  Petrol.

  ‘Oops, didn’t mean to do that,’ said the man. ‘Doesn’t mix well with whisky, I suppose. Still, never mind. You won’t be wearing that suit where you’re going, will you? Nice cut, by the way. They told me you dressed well. Where did you get that?’

  Rocco wanted to say London, but he didn’t have the energy. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  The man frowned. ‘Good question. It’s not as if I know you, which I suppose is a little rude of me, us never having been introduced. Let’s say I’m being paid a nice lot of money, and you’ve become a pain in the arse to the person paying me the lot of money. It’s called business and, in case you’ve any doubts … I’m here to kill you.’

  ‘What’s … name?’

  The frown dropped away. ‘I’ll save that ’til last, Rocco, if you don’t mind. But I can give you a hint. Just think of all the people you’ve crossed, and somewhere down the list you’ll be right.’ With that he up-ended the bottle, emptying the contents over the seat and Rocco, the smell choking and overpowering.

  Somewhere far away Rocco thought he heard the tinny sound of an engine, but it might have been his imagination, hoping against hope. Traffic along this road was hardly regular and usually limited to slow-moving locals. He tried to move again and felt a sharp pain in his hip. God, don’t let it be busted, he thought, desperately. That’s all I need.

  The man looked at his cigarette, but found it had gone out. ‘Damn. I’m always doing that: chatting away about this and that and forgetting to take a regular drag. Never mind, I have more.’ He looked down, patting his jacket pocket in a ridiculous mime, drawing out the agony. ‘Now where did I put them?’

  ‘Hey!’

  The voice floated down to them, full of authority. Rocco looked up, his heart leaping. A stocky figure was standing on the road looking down at them, a grey 2CV behind him. It was Claude Lamotte. He was holding his shotgun, the barrel pointed at the man standing outside the car.

  Rocco shifted his hip again, gritting his teeth against the sudden eruption of pain in various parts of his body. At least his head was no longer fuzzy and he could see more clearly. He also understood what was causing the pain in his hip. It was his gun, jammed between him and the seat.

  ‘Get away from there!’ Claude said, and gestured with the barrel. ‘Now!’

  But the man seemed unfazed by Claude’s appearance. ‘You’ll have to come closer to do any good with that arquebuse, old man,’ he replied. ‘Why don’t you go back to your stinking farm and mind your own business?’ He turned back towards Rocco. ‘Bloody peasant. Christ, how do you stand mixing with these people? Still, it won’t be for much longer. In fact, when you think of it, I’m doing you a favour, so you should be grateful.’ He thumbed his cigarette lighter a couple of times, but it failed to catch. He did it a third time and a flame grew on the wick.

  Rocco was taking a chance, he knew that, but he had no choice. The man was right about Claude not being close enough, but for the wrong reasons: Claude was a crack shot with the shotgun, so in no danger of missing his target. But, standing where he was, he’d be in danger of hitting Rocco as well.

  ‘Safe journey, Rocco – wherever the hell you end up,’ the man said. ‘Oh, and to answer your question, Yuri Serban sends his regards.’ He held up the lighter. ‘Adieu.’

  That was when Rocco pulled his MAB semi-automatic pistol free from under his hip and squeezed the trigger. There was no time to aim with any finesse but the target was so close he’d have to be unlucky not to at least scare the man to death. The sound was shockingly loud in the confines of the car. He prayed that the flash of the gun wouldn’t ignite the petrol fumes and send him up like a crêpe Suzette.

  The shot missed by a whisker, but the man reared back with a look of shock tugging at his face. He dropped the lighter and grabbed for it, his eyes drawn automatically downwards. Rocco ducked low into the seat, knowing what was coming next. As he did so, there was a second, much deeper report from outside the car. The man screamed and slammed into the side of the car before falling away with a soft groan.

  Rocco looked around. No obvious flames but there was a definite smell of something burning. He concentrated on getting out, twisting his body to ease his legs free from where the seat had shifted forward, against the dashboard section. He kicked back as hard as he dared, and felt the seat move a fraction. Kicked again, pushing his back against the seat, and felt it give a little more. One more kick and he was free and scrabbling towards the open air, seeing Claude skidding down the bank from the road, gun at the ready.

  ‘Lucas – you all right?’ the garde champêtre yelled. He puffed across to the car, placing his gun on the ground to help Rocco get free. ‘Is anything broken? You’ve got blood on you.’

  Rocco nodded. He hadn’t fallen on his face, so he figured everything was as sound as could be expected. He was probably going to be one big bruise for a couple of weeks, but he’d got off lightly. Which was more than could be said for the Citroën. He turned towards the front of the car where the man who’d tried to kill him was lying, groaning in agony. Claude’s shot had hit him in the lower legs, the buckshot shredding his trousers and revealing a mass of peppered skin beneath, oozing blood.

  ‘He had the cheek to call my gun a blunderbuss!’ Claude muttered angrily. He nudged the man with the toe of his boot, raising a squeal. ‘I should have aimed higher. And he was going to roast you alive, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Glad to see you’ve got your outrage in the right order,’ Rocco finally muttered, wincing at a lancing pain in his back. ‘He was sent by a man called Yuri Serban. Check him over for papers, will you.’

  ‘Sure. Can you stand up all right?’

  ‘If I can’t, just drag me away by my hair.’

  While Claude checked the man for identification, Rocco turned and looked at the Citroën, one hand on the side to hold himself upright. It was a wreck. Damn, but he’d been fond of this car. It had been reliable, comfortable and had got him out of a few scrapes in their time together.

  He heard a soft ‘whump’ and saw smoke seeping from under the bonnet. Whatever had been smouldering had finally decided to get serious. He limped over to where Claude was examining the man’s pockets and summoned enough energy to help drag him away from the burning car, ignoring the screams.

  When they were at a safe distance, Claude showed him a cheap leather wallet containing an identity card, a wad of folded notes and a few other bits and pieces including a card for a cheap night club in Paris.

  ‘Pierre-Yves Dinal,’ he read out. ‘Rue Riblette. I know that area – it’s near the Père Lachaise. With his lifestyle I wonder if the maggot has had the foresight to book himself a plot?’

  Rocco grunted. The only foresight known to Dinal was probably on the barrel of a gun. Père Lachaise cemetery was one of the largest in Paris, and it reminded him that prior to joining the police, Claude had been a taxi driver and knew the city better than most.

  Above them on the road, a car drew up and stopped. Rocco recognised M. Paulais, the stationmaster from Poissons, as he jumped
out and made as if to scramble down to meet them. Claude stopped him.

  Rocco said, ‘Tell him to ring Desmoulins in Amiens to send an ambulance and support officers.’

  Claude did so. Paulais nodded without a word, jumped back in his car and was gone with a squeal of tyres.

  Rocco had slumped down against the slope, his legs finally giving way with the onset of shock. Claude joined him. ‘What now, Lucas? This is serious stuff, sending someone to kill a cop.’

  Rocco nodded. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but this attempt had ramifications far beyond the man named Dinal, currently lying nearby and groaning softly. Men like him rarely had their own enemies, operating instead on instructions from others, but proving Serban was his boss might be a problem. He had to get more than just a name muttered by a would-be killer in a moment of high drama.

  He stood up with help from Claude and hopped closer to Dinal. The man’s eyes opened a fraction as Rocco’s shadow fell over him, and he fell silent.

  Rocco dropped to his knees alongside him and prodded him in the chest to make sure he had his full attention. ‘Serban, you said.’

  ‘Wha–?’

  ‘The man who paid you to do this.’

  ‘I don’t remember what I said. Must have been the shock of that old goat shooting me. Go screw yourself, Rocco, I’m not talking.’ Dinal’s eyes blazed with pain, anger and an in-built need to play the tough guy. It was likely that he wouldn’t crack easily.

  ‘Claude,’ Rocco called. ‘Is there anything else in that wallet?’

  That woke Dinal up. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘What are you doing with that?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Rocco told him.

  Claude stepped over to join them. ‘Not much. Rubbish, mostly. There’s a card from a cheap and nasty dive called the Perroquet Bleu, which is not somewhere you’d want to take your dear sainted mother, quite a lot of cash for a man in his nasty line of business … and, hellfire!’ he paused in surprise. He was holding the money in his hand, and from the middle took a slip of paper. He showed it to Rocco.

  It bore Rocco’s name and home address, written in elegant script, the ink a distinctive shade of violet.

  Rocco held it up in front of Dinal’s face. ‘Interesting item, this. Do you know who wrote it?’

  Dinal said nothing, his eyes flicking sideways.

  ‘Never mind, I think I have an idea.’ Rocco turned to Claude. ‘Do you know the Blue Parrot?’

  ‘I should do. Had to drop a few clients there in my driving days … and scoop them up afterwards. Not a nice place.’

  ‘Is it what I think it is?’

  Claude nodded. ‘Yes. It’s been a gang hang-out for years. Why?’

  ‘I’m wondering what might happen if we make an anonymous phone call to the club and drop a word in their ear that M. Dinal, here, has been talking to us about his activities … and telling us about a few of his friends in the Blue Parrot. What do you think?’

  They both looked at Dinal, who stared up at them in puzzlement, before giving them a sneer. ‘Yeah, like they’d believe anything you cops say!’ He tried to laugh but it lacked conviction.

  ‘You’re right,’ Rocco agreed. ‘But you know what Chinese whispers are like: by the time it goes through several mouths and gets to the ones who care, it’ll be a lot more colourful than we can make it. And more believable.’ He leaned forward, seeing the first real signs of doubt in Dinal’s face as the thought sank in. ‘I’m willing to bet that this isn’t your first job like this. Took a bit of planning, I imagine, which means a man with your skills will be in demand.’

  ‘You’ve got no chance, Rocco. Get lost.’

  ‘No? See, I’m just wondering how many of your previous employers are going to sleep easy at night once we set the whisper running that you’ve become very … chatty.’

  ‘You won’t do that – you can’t!’ Dinal replied.

  ‘You think? You just tried to – what was it you said he wanted to do to me, Claude?’

  ‘Roast you alive,’ Claude replied.

  ‘That’s right, roast me alive – and get me written off as a drunk. The thing is,’ Rocco continued, ‘we’ll also let it be known where you’re being held. And I have to say, M. Dinal, the cells in Amiens are not what you’d call first class when it comes to security. Especially at night.’ He got to his feet with some difficulty and dusted off his trousers. ‘What do you reckon? Talk and we’ll get you in a secure unit … or stay the big brave boy and face the consequences. It’s up to you.’

  He turned and began to walk away with help from Claude. He’d taken three paces before Dinal shouted.

  ‘Wait!’

  Forty

  By the time the ambulance and police vehicle arrived, Dinal had folded like a wet copy of Le Figaro, taking Rocco another step nearer to completing the case. All he had to do now was keep the would-be killer safe until he got to court.

  ‘Sounds like the cavalry,’ said Claude, cocking his head towards the sound of sirens approaching along the road from Amiens. ‘Whatever old Paulais said it must have lit a fire underneath them.’

  The ambulance arrived first, pulling to a stop above them on the roadside and disgorging two medics who surveyed the scene in surprise. It was followed by three more vehicles and the slamming of doors and running feet.

  Rocco and Claude looked up and saw Desmoulins and Rizzotti, then Captain Canet with two of his officers, followed by Commissaire Massin.

  ‘Looks like a works outing,’ Rocco murmured dryly.

  Desmoulins slid to a stop beside him and surveyed the scene which now included the nicely burning Citroën. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘I got bumped off the road,’ Rocco said. ‘What are the others doing here?’ He was worried that Massin might be carrying orders from the Ministry to curtail his investigation and, at this stage, particularly with what had just occurred, it was the last thing he needed.

  ‘Sorry,’ Desmoulins said softly, watching as Massin descended the bank in a controlled slide. ‘He overheard the call when it came in and insisted on coming. I asked the doc to come in case he was needed.’

  ‘Good call,’ Claude muttered, nodding at Rocco. ‘He’s being all brave and manly but I reckon he needs checking over.’

  Massin arrived, straightened his uniform, and stared in turn at Dinal, who’d gone very quiet, then Claude, then Rocco. ‘I take it this man pushed you off the road, Lamotte shot him and you’re otherwise fit for duty, Inspector. Correct?’

  ‘In a nutshell,’ Rocco agreed.

  ‘Is that petrol I smell?’ Massin leaned forward towards Rocco and sniffed. ‘And … whisky?’

  ‘The voyou on the ground was going to make it look like Rocco was pissed and had gone off the road and died in the wreck,’ Claude said quickly. ‘When he saw Rocco was still alive and kicking, he poured petrol into the car and was going to set it alight with Rocco inside. I know he was unarmed, but I had no choice.’ He gestured with the shotgun.

  Massin looked at him and nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I thought so. Good work, Lamotte. Excellent. Pleased you didn’t blow his head off, though.’

  ‘Eh?’ Claude looked puzzled by the compliment, then pleased. ‘No problem. Sir.’

  Massin watched as the medics dealt with Dinal and got him onto a stretcher. Captain Canet’s two uniformed officers stood in close attendance with handcuffs ready. Canet turned and stared at Rocco and his car with a look of consternation.

  ‘You get in the wars, don’t you? I don’t think you’ll be driving that old bus again.’

  ‘No,’ Rocco agreed. ‘I’ll need to borrow one from the pool.’

  ‘Help yourself. There’s a spare unmarked with a radio. Get the keys from the duty desk.’

  Massin butted in. ‘Now that we’ve established you’re alive and well, Inspector, do you have enough to close this case to everyone’s satisfaction?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Good. Care to share it with us – in brief?’

  Rocco
made a rapid summary of his suspicions, the evidence he had so far, especially with Dinal’s agreement to confirm Serban’s involvement and of the major part played by Maître Vauquelin.

  ‘In that case, you’d better let Rizzotti look you over then get on with bringing these people in as quickly as possible.’ He paused. ‘I trust whatever evidence you have will hold up?’

  ‘It will. There might be some fallout going after Vauquelin and Serban. What about jurisdiction?’

  ‘Your letter of authority from the Ministry will cover that. But if you let me know where you’re going, I’ll deal with the local stations.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Let me know just before you go in, to avoid any potential leaks. I’m sure Contrôleur Général Ceyton will add his weight to it if needed. He’ll understand perfectly the need for the correct procedure to be followed, now we have adequate reasons to do so. Good luck.’