Rocco and the Nightingale

by Adrian Magson

  ‘I don’t think so. She was too soignée, if you get my meaning. Well dressed, in a masculine kind of way.’

  ‘Masculine?’

  ‘Trousers and sturdy shoes, and short hair. Pretty face, though. Lucky you – I reckon you’ve got an admirer. Pretty unusual in our line of work, huh?’

  Rocco wasn’t amused. ‘What’s your name again?’

  ‘Jouanne, sir.’

  ‘Well, Officer Jouanne,’ Rocco muttered coolly, ‘next time I get lucky, get me a name. I don’t like guessing games.’

  He left the guard and his quickly-fading smile and walked into the main office. It was scattered with desks and filing cabinets, and the colour scheme always managed to depress him. He was convinced the Ministry of the Interior had a fixed list of colour tones for their offices, an unflattering variety of dull greens and creams. As he walked towards his desk he was greeted by muted nods from his colleagues but none of the usual raucous comments and chatter. In fact most of the officers were keeping their heads down.

  Then he saw why. Commissaire François Massin was staring up at a large bulletin board pinned to the far wall. He looked no different from normal, which meant tall, aloof, unsmiling and dressed in an immaculately-pressed uniform, but it was unusual to see him down among the troops; he usually preferred to stay upstairs in his office. He gave Rocco a slight nod of greeting before flicking an impatient finger for him to follow.

  A stranger was standing in Massin’s office, studying a large map of the Picardie region. Smartly dressed, freshly shaven and in his forties, the visitor wore the pose and austere expression of somebody important. Or maybe he just thought he was, Rocco decided. He nodded a greeting as the man turned towards the door.

  ‘Inspector Lucas Rocco, Gerard Monteo of the Interior Ministry,’ said Massin briefly.

  Rocco shook hands. Monteo’s grip was a cursory attempt at politeness, accompanied by a murmur of something Rocco couldn’t catch, as if the words were too valuable to waste. He gave the detective a fleeting once-over, then turned away.

  I’m really going to get on with you, thought Rocco, and wondered what this was all about. Had someone in authority finally decided they wanted to reel him in for some past jurisdictional transgression?

  ‘Mr Monteo has a special task he would like us to perform,’ Massin explained, sitting behind his desk. ‘Something I’m sure you’ll manage effortlessly. Gerard?’ He made a gesture for the visitor to continue.

  Rocco’s heart sank as Monteo visibly gathered his thoughts, eyes on the floor as if a handy script was down there waiting to be used. A visit from the Interior Ministry was rarely a precursor to good news, and ‘special tasks’ invariably meant somebody was going to end up disappointed. And he doubted it would be this man.

  ‘We have an important overseas visitor recently arrived to this area, Inspector Rocco,’ Monteo began, adjusting his already nut-sized tie and lifting his eyes to stare out of the window like a general about to declare war. ‘We want somebody… reliable, to look after him, and Commissaire Massin has obliged by putting forward your name. I gather you have experience in these duties.’ He finally turned to look at Rocco for confirmation. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘That depends what duties you mean.’

  ‘Quite simple: the Ministry would like you to look after him while he’s a guest here and to ensure his safety. His name is Antoine Bouanga and he’s a former government minister in Gabon. As you can appreciate, he’s a man of some standing and it would be… unfortunate if anything were to happen to him.’

  Rocco shot a look towards Massin, who neatly avoided catching his eye. ‘What – so some fool in the Ministry thinks I’m a bodyguard for foreign politicians? They already have a team of experts for that. I know because I’ve worked with some of them.’

  Monteo gave a thin smile. ‘What we in the Ministry think really doesn’t concern you, Rocco. We have a job to do, your name was put forward based on your availability here and your past record, and I’m assigning you to it. Is that a problem?’ He glanced at Massin for support. ‘François?’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Massin interposed firmly, glaring at Rocco. ‘He’s being modest. You’d better give him the written instructions. That might convince him.’ There was something in his expression which told Rocco that he wasn’t happy at having one of his men poached for other duties, but that he had no choice in the matter and Rocco had better buckle under or else.

  Monteo produced a folded sheet of paper and passed it across. Rocco opened it and read quickly. It was a letter of instruction and authority, informing anybody who asked, from Commissaire Massin on down, that officer (name left blank) was required for special duties, namely to ensure the safety until further notice of one Bouanga, Antoine, currently the Development Minister in absentia for the Gabon Republic in central Africa. There was a paragraph expressing how important Bouanga was, but Rocco glossed over it. If it was an instruction from the Ministry, Massin for one would make sure Rocco complied whether he liked it or not. The senior officer was not noted for telling the Ministry to take a running jump if he felt they were being too demanding. The importance or otherwise of the individual in question was a matter of detail. The address where the man was staying, Rocco noted with surprise, was not far from Poissons-les-Marais. A farm called Les Sables.

  ‘Bouanga has only just arrived in the country,’ Monteo continued, ‘so we will have maybe two days at most before word of his presence in the area gets out. But I suggest you get acquainted with his location and its surroundings as quickly as possible.’

  ‘What about my current caseload?’

  ‘Share it out among the other investigators,’ said Massin. ‘That includes the suspicious death which occurred yesterday. This assignment is too important to go wrong. You’ve said before that Desmoulins can take a step up if needed, so I think this might be an ideal opportunity for him to do so. Agreed?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Rocco looked at Monteo. ‘So what exactly do I have to do for this person of great importance?’

  ‘Make sure he’s safe and in no immediate danger. The house where he’s staying has been checked, but I suggest you do it again to make it absolutely secure. I’m sure you’ve dealt with the concept of a “safe house” before?’

  ‘I have. Is he under any immediate threat?’

  Monteo pulled a face. ‘Almost certainly, according to our contacts in Gabon. He is an experienced politician and therefore regarded as a threat to those now in power but also to others wishing to take over.’

  ‘That sounds like a lot of enemies.’

  ‘Perhaps. We flew him out of the country under cover, but his whereabouts will not remain a secret for very long.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then we will have to see. As you might be aware, Gabon was a French territory until 1960, when they achieved independence. Since then there have been a number of changes at the top and Bouanga is one of the most recent ones displaced, shall we say, by a rival in the government.’ He gave a sour smile with not a trace of humour. ‘Not uncommon in that part of the world, sad to say. Unfortunately, as I said, Bouanga’s not short of enemies and they have long memories.’

  ‘Why, what did he do?’

  ‘That isn’t important, and in any case is mostly unconfirmed rumour. All you need to know is that serious threats have been made against his life and he was forced to leave the country at short notice and come to France.’

  Rocco was immediately sceptical. When foreign politicians deserted their country and went into hiding, it usually meant that they had serious charges against them. ‘Displaced, you said.’ Rocco grunted at the euphemism. ‘You mean he’s on the run.’

  Massin cleared his throat as a warning, but Monteo waved away the blunt assessment. ‘No, Rocco. He’s here while the… situation in his home country is resolved and normal relations can be resumed to everyone’s satisfaction. The French government has seen fit to accord him refuge until such time as he can return home and resume his
post. He’s an important guest, not a fugitive and you are to treat him as such. Understood?’ He reached out and took the letter from Rocco, and scribbled something on it with a silver pen. When he handed the letter back, Rocco saw his own name was now in the blank space.

  ‘Got it.’ Rocco folded the paper and put it in his pocket. ‘Do I get any additional resources for this?’

  ‘Resources? I don’t follow.’

  ‘Providing protection for a man with enemies is not just a matter of standing around and hoping to frighten them off. It takes time and manpower. You need a team with regular shifts and rest periods. I think I’ve been past this place. If it’s the one I’m thinking of, it’s in the middle of open country. If somebody is serious about assassinating this man, all they need to do is sit up in a tree and shoot him from a distance.’

  Monteo looked sceptical. ‘And how would extra manpower stop that happening?’

  ‘It probably wouldn’t, if they’re serious. But having a visible police presence around the place might make them think twice about trying.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’re right about that, Inspector, but I have no extra budget for such a thing.’

  ‘Can’t you ask for an extension?’

  ‘I don’t have to.’ Monteo lifted his chin with an air of self-importance. ‘The Ministry has seen fit to grant me complete authority on this issue. Any decisions on budget and spending are mine alone, and I intend bringing this matter to a conclusion without any unnecessary calls on finances.’ He looked directly at Rocco and added, ‘I trust that clarifies my position to your satisfaction?’

  Rocco wondered if there was something in the water at the Ministry that gave men like Monteo their overblown sense of position. He kept his cool and said, ‘A couple of extra men is hardly going to break the bank.’

  Monteo looked at the commissioner. ‘Perhaps you can help there, François?’

  Massin looked as if he were about to object, but seemed to think better of it and went for a reasoned argument instead. ‘I have no spare officers, I’m afraid,’ he replied. ‘As you know we have the Tour de France coming through the area shortly, and all available hands will be focussed on keeping order, closing roads and safeguarding the route. Unless you feel Bouanga is more important than the Tour, of course?’ He looked pleased at having lobbed the ball back to Monteo in the form of a suggested threat to France’s biggest sporting event. But the Ministry man parried it with ease.

  ‘I’m not sure I’d go that far. Surely you can spare one person, can’t you? I think you’ll find the Ministry would appreciate such… cooperation.’

  The silky counter bluff worked. Massin chewed it over, then turned to Rocco. ‘You can have that ruffian of a garde champêtre you’ve worked with before. What’s his name – Lamont?’

  ‘Lamotte. Claude Lamotte. But–’

  ‘Good. Problem solved. Get him to wave his infernal shotgun about and I’m sure things will be fine. Carry on, Inspector.’ Massin sat back with a satisfied smile, a signal that the meeting was over. Monteo said nothing.

  Rocco left without shaking hands.

  Eight

  Rocco returned to his desk and spent some time sorting through his current case ready for Desmoulins to take over. He’d have to brief him on the order of priorities, but he had no doubts that the younger detective could manage perfectly well.

  While he was doing that the office door opened and someone cleared his throat. It was Rizzotti, on a rare sortie from his den in the rear of the building. It meant he’d got something important to show Rocco.

  The doctor slid into a chair opposite him. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Lucas, but there’s something I found about the deceased in the ditch that might interest you. I searched the leather bag, but there was nothing of any real consequence in it apart from this.’ He passed a slip of crumpled paper across the desk.

  It was a bill dated one month ago for a man’s leather blouson-style jacket. The header, although difficult to read, was for a clothes shop named ‘L’Homme’ in the Rue Victor Méric in Clichy, Ile-de-France.

  ‘Interesting.’ Clichy and the surrounding districts were part of Rocco’s old stomping grounds. Victor Méric was a side street off Boulevard Victor Hugo in the north-west of the city. He couldn’t place the shop specifically, but anywhere off the Boulevard was generally more up-market than not, serving residents who preferred living outside the confines of Paris proper. It meant the victim had money… or at least had been in possession of some when the jacket was bought.

  And there was a name just about legible in the body of the bill: J. Vieira.

  He felt a buzz of excitement and nodded at Rizzotti. It might mean nothing but it was worth following up. ‘Great work, Doc. This might narrow things down considerably.’ He waved the bill. ‘Did you find a jacket?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Maybe he left it at home. I hope it helps.’

  ‘It might. I know where this shop is, and if the name belongs to the dead man, I know someone who might be able to identify your body.’

  ‘Actually, it’s your body now, not mine.’ Rizzotti smiled modestly. ‘I’ve done all I can – and none of it was what I’d call highly scientific. The paper was damp and scrunched into a small ball, but I managed to dry it out slowly enough to preserve the integrity. Other than that, there was nothing of much consequence save for scraps of hay and straw attached to the clothing.’

  ‘From the ditch?’

  ‘No. I checked that. I think he must have slept the night in a barn somewhere. Find the barn and you might pick up a useful clue. His suit was cheap with no maker’s label, and his underclothes are available all over France. But there was no leather jacket. There was a washbag, also unhelpful. Typically the kind of stuff somebody might pack to go away for a couple of nights.’ He reached into his pocket and produced two black and white photographs. ‘You might need these for showing around – especially the one with the tattoo. I looked it up, by the way; it’s the symbol for good luck.’

  One photo was a close-up head and shoulders shot of the dead man. The second was a shot of the man’s back. It was this one that Rocco studied carefully. It showed a tattoo of a Chinese character high on the left shoulder. He had no idea what it meant but he was prepared to take Rizzotti’s word for it. A pity it hadn’t worked in the dead man’s favour.

  ‘Thanks for these, Doc. I’ll pass them on.’

  Rizzotti went back to his chemicals and bodies, leaving Rocco trawling through his brain for the name Vieira. It rang a vague bell, but the precise details eluded him. Either he’d run into the name in the course of his previous work in Paris, or it was simply one of hundreds that passed across the bulletin board during the course of a year, either wanted by the police, the victim of a crime or a missing person. Sometimes they stuck for no other reason than possessing a sympathetic rhythm, lodging in the brain like a seed between the teeth.

  He picked up the phone and dialled Michel Santer’s number in Clichy.

  ‘J. Vieira,’ he said. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

  Santer grunted. ‘If it’s the same J. Vieira I’m thinking of, it might. Don’t tell me you’ve arrested him? No, of course you haven’t. He wouldn’t be able to find your neck of the woods unless he was taken there in handcuffs.’

  ‘Not quite true, I’m afraid. If it’s the same man, he’s dead. Stabbed not far from here by persons unknown, his body stripped of identification.’

  ‘Ouch.’ Santer sounded only vaguely surprised, the news clearly not unexpected to a cop with long experience of death and misfortune. ‘I’m not going to ask if you’re sure about this; it’s just that the J. Vieira I’m thinking of wouldn’t venture out of the city unless his arse was on fire or somebody he’d cheated or robbed was after him with a pickaxe.’

  Rocco smiled. If the two Vieiras were the same person, the comment said a lot about the deceased and his place in the scheme of things in north-west Paris. Santer wasn’t usually given to overstatements, but he did have his
finger on the pulse. If he said Vieira was a criminal, it was a declaration Rocco could take to the bank. ‘That’s good enough for me. We needed verification so I thought I’d start with you. He was carrying a bag, and our forensics expert found a bill inside for a leather jacket. I thought the name sounded familiar but I couldn’t place him. The bill comes from a clothes shop in Victor Méric.’

  ‘In that case I’d be surprised if it’s the same man. The one I know is strictly a bottom-feeder; he wouldn’t know style if it jumped up and bit him.’ He paused. ‘Wait. Oh, my God, hang on – I just remembered something.’ The phone clunked onto the desk and Rocco heard Santer calling to somebody in the background. There was rapid exchange of voices before he came back. He sounded sombre. ‘My apologies, Lucas – we probably are talking about the same person. I only had a brief glimpse of the details, but let me read the file.’ There was a rasp of paper being turned. ‘Right. Joseph Pierre Vieira, known as JoJo, one of the many city rats who lives off the misfortune of others: petty thief, wife beater and general nasty who’d sell his own sister for a drink. Spent time in prison, mostly for low-level crimes, but he’s been known to mix with some unpleasant types who used him for anything from transporting messages or arms to selling drugs.’

  ‘So why would he end up out here? It’s hardly his kind of territory.’

  ‘I was coming to that. Vieira walked into the station of his own volition a few days ago. He said he had evidence against three men involved in serious crimes, including murder.’

  ‘Good for him. What did he want in return?’

  Santer chuckled. ‘You know the type too well. He wanted a deal. He was facing a three-year term for theft in another arrondissement and couldn’t face it, so he was angling for a trade-off and protection.’

  ‘Protection. Against anyone specific?’ The moment a criminal turned informer was usually the start of a very short life expectancy, in Rocco’s experience nobody liked a mouchard – an informer. Sooner or later the news would get back to their former colleagues and there was only ever one end in store for them.