‘Go on.’
‘Word is they hit that cop, Raballe. Only it wasn’t in Cambrai, but somewhere on the coast near Dieppe. It was a dry run, somebody suggested, practice for the real thing.’
‘But using a live target.’
‘Yes.’
‘How solid is this information?’
‘I’d put it at ninety-eight percent. Anyway, it’s all I’ve got. For this you owe me a bonus, right?’
Caspar grunted. Ninety-eight percent from Madou was about as solid as it could get. The bar owner wasn’t given to over-egging his information, even for the promise of more money.
‘I’ll put it through your door later today. Thanks, Jean-Luc. You’d better get out of town before it’s too late.’
‘I’m ready to go, don’t worry.’
Caspar put down the phone and put the kettle on to boil. He now had a headache and needed more coffee, preferably hot, fresh and with plenty of sugar; but first he had to ring Rocco.
Thirty
Rocco followed Joncquet to Raballe’s cottage further down the forest road. It was similar to the two he’d just seen, although not so tidy and in need of repair. Retired cops could be divided into two sorts, he thought, eyeing the jungle of a garden. There were the obsessives, who devoted all their time to a hobby or a new job, anything to drive away the memories they wanted to bury deep of the daily stresses that came from dealing with criminality, threats and violence; and there were those who, once they lost the cocoon of the police brotherhood and its routines, basically gave up and allowed themselves to die a slow, disintegrating death. He hadn’t known Raballe, but he got the feeling the ex-cop had more or less slipped into the second camp, although his solitary existence may have been fuelled by his desire to hide away from whatever vengeance he suspected was going to follow.
Joncquet led him round the back of the cottage, past grimy windows and grey curtains, the shutters hanging open and loose on their hinges. He stopped at the back door.
‘We came here to make sure it was secure,’ he explained, ‘but at that stage we didn’t have any reason to suspect foul play.’ He pulled a face at his own lack of diligence. ‘I wish I’d done more, you know?’
Rocco said, ‘Let’s take a look inside, shall we?’ He wasn’t about to go softly on the man; any feelings of remorse might just make Joncquet play the game properly for however long he had left in the job.
Joncquet took a key from his pocket and opened the door. The air rushed out, heavy with the smell of rotting food and burned cooking oil, and dragging with it the musty aroma of neglect.
Rocco clicked the light switch inside the door, but it didn’t work. Disconnected, he guessed, through non-payment or because the news of Raballe’s death had reached the power company. In any case there wasn’t much to see in the gloomy interior. A few dirty items of clothing had been left lying around where they’d been dropped, dirty dishes were piled in the sink and some stale crusts of bread lay scattered on the kitchen table with a line of ants making off with crumbs across the floor to a hole in the wall. A number of wine bottles were gathered in one corner like pins in a bowling alley, uncorked and empty, a testament to at least one of Raballe’s regular habits. A dish containing a few segments of dried meat and some dead flies sat on the floor alongside a cereal bowl of water and a misshapen cushion layered with dog hairs.
Rocco moved through the house to the bedroom. Retired cops didn’t spend a lot of time sleeping unless they hit the bottle or had done a hard day’s work. In Raballe’s case the bottles in the kitchen dispelled any notion of sleep or labour. For many, the bedroom was a kind of comfort, as alone with whatever thoughts troubled them as they were with the dark memories that undoubtedly dogged their waking hours.
A service weapon hung in a cracked leather holster from the back of a hard chair against one wall. He checked it; it was cleaned, loaded and ready to go. At least one habit that had stuck. Inside the wardrobe was a meagre collection of clothes on hangers and two pairs of stout black shoes. A single long drawer in the bottom held a jumble of underwear and socks, and a broken wristwatch with a browned face. Alongside it sat a box of ammunition.
‘Looks like he was expecting trouble,’ breathed Joncquet, eyeing the gun then the box. ‘Odd, though, that he went out without his weapon.’
‘Maybe he thought he was in the clear,’ said Rocco. More likely, he thought, he simply got careless. Living out here, isolated from any contact with his old world, he might have grown to believe that any threat was now behind him.
They finished checking the rest of the house but there was nothing to suggest Raballe had been troubled before being attacked out in the road. In the end Rocco had seen enough. Given that the killer or killers must have known where he lived, if they had been fed the information by Farek’s inside contact on the police force, they would have had plenty of time to watch him and nail down his routine carefully before moving in for the hit. All they’d had to do first was pick their time and place.
It was odd, though, that they hadn’t chosen to deal with him here at the house. It was quiet and secluded, and unlikely to get much in the way of visitors. Unless the idea of a dog had deterred them. But the more he thought about it, and the similarity to the way Vieira had been dealt with, maybe it was the killer’s preferred method: out in the open.
He said goodbye to Joncquet. The detective promised to write a revised report and get another pathologist to confirm the cause of death, then stuck out his hand.
‘I’m sorry for everything, Rocco. That doesn’t mean much and I don’t blame you for thinking it.’ He looked awkward and shifted his feet. ‘I wasn’t always a shit cop. I hope you can believe that.’
Rocco nodded. ‘I can. How long before you hand in your papers?’
‘Four months.’
‘Then make sure you leave with a clear conscience. Get this written up properly and make sure the kid you thought had shot Raballe has a clean slate, too.’
Rocco was twenty minutes out from Amiens when he thought to switch on his radio and call in. There was a burst of static followed by background voices, then the familiar voice of the radio operator.
‘Inspector Rocco, I have three messages for you: one is to call a Marc Casparon – I believe you have his number. Another is from Captain Santer about a time and location you requested. And Commissaire Massin wants to know where you are. This one is most urgent. Over.’
‘Casparon. Got that. Keep the information from Santer until I get in, and please advise Commissaire Massin that I’m on my way.’ Rocco switched off the radio; he could do without being peppered with more messages. He spotted a small village up ahead and decided to call Caspar from there. As for Massin, he would have to wait. Too much had been left to chance already and he didn’t want to repeat the mistake by not picking up on any information Caspar might have found out about Vieira.
He pulled in alongside a bar-tabac near a crossroads and went inside. It was empty apart from one old man in a corner, reading a newspaper. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and the lingering aroma of the lunchtime menu. Rocco ordered a coffee and asked to use the phone. The lady behind the bar dropped a jeton on the counter and pointed to an alcove at the back of the room.
Caspar answered immediately. ‘I hope you’re keeping one eye on your back, Lucas.’ He relayed what the bar owner had told him about the hit team Farek had brought in, including the alleged shooter’s tag name of Nightingale.
‘Is it for real?’ Rocco wasn’t bothered by what name the killer liked to be called, but it might be useful to feed the name out there to see what it brought back. If it was known in criminal circles in Paris, it would be known elsewhere.
‘Madou’s information is usually solid, and he’s desperate to get out of the game, so I don’t think he’d sell me any duff information. The fact that this man has operated in Milan and Geneva sounds pretty genuine, too. If so, Farek’s spent a lot of money to get these jobs done.’
‘Thanks, Caspar
. I owe you. But this ends here for you, right? Stay away from any of Farek’s contacts from now on in case he decides to lash out even further.’
‘Will do. From here on in, I’m out of sight.’
Rocco hung up. So, a two-person team; the shooter named Nightingale, the spotter a woman, names unknown. It fitted with the two people the old lady, Edith Capelle, had seen where Raballe had been killed. He was surprised by the presence of a woman. They weren’t unknown in criminal organisations by any means, but they were usually used as runners, as fronts to cover for criminal activities or were simply willing but silent accomplices to their man’s criminal career. He’d never come across one as an active member of a hit team before.
He drank his coffee, paid the bill and hit the road again for Amiens. He was going to have to tell Massin about this turn of events, before the rumour mill got there ahead of him.
Thirty-one
‘Is there any reason why you kept this from me?’ Massin was looking at Rocco with a flat stare after hearing about Farek’s threat and his rumoured move to bring in an assassin to kill Rocco. ‘One of my officers being threatened is a serious matter. Yet you decide to keep it to yourself. What the hell were you thinking, Inspector?’
‘I needed to be sure that the rumour was credible,’ Rocco replied calmly. He’d come straight in to see Massin and tell him everything he knew about the threat on his life. Massin reacting the way he did came as no surprise, and Rocco understood that. Senior officers didn’t like being kept out of the loop, even though it was sometimes better for their own peace of mind. ‘The criminal world lives and breathes rumour, you know that. The idea of a cop being targeted would have them feasting on it like flies on honey. But it wouldn’t mean the rumour was correct.’
Massin didn’t look mollified. ‘That’s for me to decide and for others closer to Farek and his activities to prove. As for this man – Caspar you say? How much faith do you place in his version of events?’
‘I trust him implicitly.’
‘But he was retired from the police on health grounds, wasn’t he – a breakdown?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So how do you know that in the state of an unsound mind he hasn’t made up the whole story?’
‘Because he was a very good officer with an excellent record of working the gangs in Paris and beyond. Captain Santer in Clichy will confirm that. I asked Caspar to look into it for me because he knows the people concerned, especially Lakhdar Farek himself, and he still has contacts in that world. He says his source is reliable and I believe him.’
‘I see. And the detective Raballe was also on Farek’s list?’
‘Yes. Raballe had crossed him in the past and disrupted his activities, and Farek swore he’d get even. It took a while but it looks as if he finally carried out his threat.’
Massin took a walk around his office, hands held stiffly behind his back. ‘I suppose it’s no surprise that a career criminal like Farek blames you for the death of his brother, no matter how twisted his version of events. You’re not exactly unknown following your previous work in Paris. No doubt Farek hopes to gain some kind of tortured kudos from carrying out his threat on a high-profile officer. What I don’t understand is that hundreds of officers throughout France disrupt the activities of criminals every year, yet they don’t get targeted. Why was Raballe singled out?’
‘You mean why not hit me directly?’
‘If you must put it that way, yes.’
‘Caspar’s source believes Raballe was a dry run.’
Massin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Seriously? That’s monstrous. Why would they do that?’
‘Because practice makes perfect, I suppose – and Farek had a score to settle with Raballe, anyway, so why not take the opportunity to be done with it?’
Massin didn’t respond immediately, but frowned for a moment, absorbing the statement.
‘The official report on Raballe’s death says he was shot with a small calibre weapon. But you believe differently, is that correct?’
‘He was stabbed in the throat. I believe the killer waited for him to walk his dog as usual along a country lane, and drew up alongside him. Raballe either thought he was safe or he’d got careless; he’d left his gun behind in his cottage.’ He took a deep breath and added, ‘Also, I don’t think Raballe was the only one.’
‘You mean the man Vieira.’ It wasn’t a question. The next one, however, was. ‘Did you verify the fact of Vieira’s death with Rizzotti, by any chance – even though you’d been assigned to watch over Antoine Bouanga at the time?’
Rocco ignored the obvious hole he was digging for himself. It was too late to back out and in any case he had nothing to say that would change whatever was in Massin’s mind. Instead he ploughed on calmly and said, ‘Yes. But don’t blame Rizzotti – that was my doing. Both deaths used the same approach, the same type of weapon and in a similar isolated location. I’m certain the killer was the same man.’
Massin nodded. ‘So, let me get this straight, Inspector; you followed up the killing of Vieira, even after being told to hand it over to Desmoulins; you approached your mystery source, this former officer Caspar in Paris, and got him to verify your suspicions; then you drove to Dieppe and bluffed your way into their investigation to prove that Raballe was the victim of a pre-arranged assassination. Am I correct?’
‘Yes.’
Massin came and stood right in front of Rocco, and stared him in the eye. A pulse was beating in the senior officer’s cheek and he looked ready to explode, his breath hot and smelling faintly of oranges. ‘Tell me, Rocco, what makes you think I shouldn’t suspend you with immediate effect for disobeying my orders, or for going beyond your jurisdiction and intruding without official permission on another force’s investigation? Either would be ample grounds for disciplinary action.’
Rocco stayed silent. There were times to speak and he judged this wasn’t one of them. If there was to be a fall-out, he’d have to take it on the chin and hope to argue it out afterwards, but making matters worse by arguing the inarguable wasn’t going to help.
Massin turned away and went behind his desk. ‘I allow you a great deal of leeway, Rocco, I hope you realise that. It might not seem so at times, but it’s true. You’re a thorough investigator with exceptional instincts… although you push the boundaries of your authority to the limit. Would you agree with that assessment?’
Rocco nodded. ‘I suppose.’
‘Well, I’m glad we can agree on something.’ Massin straightened a blotter on his desk. ‘The only reason I’m not suspending you is because the local magistrate in Dieppe has been in touch about your visit. It seems the officer who investigated the murder of Raballe has admitted to not pursuing his duty thoroughly in following up all available leads in the case. That officer has also revealed that their resident pathology expert wrote up an incomplete and essentially false report on the cause of death which could have resulted in a wrongful arrest and conviction had you not intervened when you did.’ He sniffed and stretched his neck against his collar. ‘The magistrate has asked me to pass on his thanks for your assistance, and says the official reports will be amended to reflect that. It pains me to do so, Rocco, but it would be churlish to do anything else.’
‘Thank you.’
Massin sat down and gestured to Rocco to do the same. ‘The fact is, you now have a professional killer on your trail and we have to do something about it. That takes precedence in my mind. Members of the police force are not here to be used as target practice or for settling old scores. If that got to be the norm we would have open warfare on uniformed officers by any criminal with a grudge. But we also have the matter of Bouanga’s kidnapping still completely unresolved, in spite of the Ministry’s investigation team being on the case.’
‘I have a question about the attack on Les Sables that’s been bothering me.’
‘Really? Just the one? Enlighten me.’
‘Shooting the two officers seems almost… extreme.
’
‘I agree, it does. But officers get shot – it’s one of the risks of the job, as you know only too well.’
‘But why? One man didn’t even have time to draw his gun, the other was shot in the back. The dead man clearly wasn’t a threat, but he was killed anyway.’
‘Your point being?’
‘Lamotte said something earlier that’s just come back to me. He said it could easily have been him, Gardienne Poulon and me on the ground, instead of the two men from Arras.’
Massin considered the suggestion seriously, his expression grave. ‘They were easy targets for criminals without morals.’
‘No. I think they became the targets. Shooting them was more like an execution – a vindictive reaction. The killers couldn’t find me so they shot the officers instead.’
‘That would suggest the kidnappers might not have been employed simply to kidnap Bouanga, but to dispose of you, too. It’s a bit wild, isn’t it? You and Bouanga aren’t connected except by your current assignment.’ He stopped speaking and stared at Rocco, eyes flickering with concern. ‘You’re not suggesting there’s a connection with this Nightingale, are you?’
‘Maybe. Nobody outside of this office other than the Arras division would have known about the change of guard. You issued instructions about keeping it quiet.’
‘So you’re suggesting they attacked the house expecting to find you there because they had no reason for thinking otherwise.’
‘I know, it’s crazy. There’s just something about this that doesn’t add up.’
‘I agree it’s odd. But we’ll know the real answer when we find the kidnappers. Get them to talk and we’ll have what we need.’
‘If they know anything. I take it there’s been no sign of them?’
‘Not yet. As we don’t even know what vehicle they were driving, we’re probing in the dark, although the investigation team from the Ministry found what appears to be part of a headlight unit from a Simca by the front gate, where it was rammed open. But as there are plenty of those cars about, it’s not going to be easy stopping and checking them all. I feel sure something will turn up, though.’ He tapped his desk. ‘I suggest you go home and get some rest and wait for developments. It’s no good you driving around the countryside as well, and we don’t yet know to what extent you might be being watched. Offering yourself as an open target would be pointless.’
Rocco and the Nightingale Page 17