Then he saw the sandals.
They were pointing up, scuffed and dirty, clumsy with thick rubber soles, the leather stained. They were at the end of a pair of cheap, green, cotton trousers, grubby and creased with wear.
‘Yalla!’ he shouted, banging on the floor. ‘Come on, get up!’ He reached out and tugged at one of the feet, flicking the light along the legs for a better view. The words stalled in his throat. He knew instantly by the stillness and the stains around the seat that it was no good. The man wearing them had ended his journey.
Maurat’s stomach heaved at the noxious smell in the enclosed space and what lay here. Up close, the atmosphere was mixed with the tang of blood … and something stronger. Faeces. He gulped and crouched where he was, fighting the desire to empty his guts. That wouldn’t help right now. He had to consider his options. If he left this poor bastard where he was, come Monday morning there would be hell to pay and it would be a long time before he ever drove a truck again. But what to do with him?
Running water.
He stuffed the flashlight in his pocket and backed out through the tunnel of boxes, dragging the dead man by his feet. Hefty, by the feel of him. Solidly built, whoever he was … had been.
When he reached the tailgate, he leant out and checked the road either way, blinking against the rain. No lights, no engine noises. Perfect conditions for dumping the unwanted dead. He dropped to the ground, and gritting his teeth against the smell, heaved the body onto his shoulder and lurched across to the parapet.
Moments later he was back, breathless and sweating, trying not to throw up at the feel of some unnameable slime on his hands. He bent and ripped up a clump of grass, scrubbing until his skin burnt. He couldn’t tell if they were clean or not, but he was running out of time. He slammed the rear door and seconds later was back in the cab and driving away, his nearside front wheel crunching over the forgotten marker post. As he ran through the gears, the heater kicked in and began to warm the inside of the cab. Moments later he coughed, his nose filled with a strange smell: close, heavy, sweet. Out of place. He flicked on the interior light, wondering what the hell it was. When he looked down, he gave a cry of dismay.
His shoulder and side were glistening with a sticky layer of fresh blood.
CHAPTER FOUR
Oran, Algeria
Where is she?’
The voice was cool, just a hair’s breadth from turning cold, like the evening winds off the Hauts Plateaux of the Atlas Mountains. The man asking the question stared out of the window of a room on the third floor of a small office block in the commercial district of Es Sénia, a few kilometres from the centre of Oran on Algeria’s coastline. Nearby was the international airport, from where a steady roar could be heard as a cargo plane prepared for take-off. In the background came the tinny sound of a radio playing the lilting, stringed sound of kamanjah music.
The speaker was dressed in expensive trousers and a white silk shirt, at odds with the plain, even rough interior of the room, which had once been an office but was no longer used. His name was Samir Farek, known to a few friends and close associates as Sami. He was of medium height, heavy across the shoulders, with muscular arms and powerful hands. He had dark eyes in a fleshy face, a thick moustache and dark hair swept back and falling to touch his shirt collar, in the modern manner. Far from looking like a local, Farek could have passed almost unnoticed anywhere in Europe and especially in France – as he had done on many occasions.
Two other men stood by the door. Also heavily built, but with shaven heads and coarse features, their faces held identical expressions of careful boredom.
In the centre of the room, a man was eating, chewing hungrily at a simple meal of cheese, olives and leavened bread laid out on a small table before him. A dumpy glass of beer stood by his hand, from which he gulped regularly and noisily. He paused and looked up, a flake of bread falling from his lips. He had not shaved in two days and the stubble of his chin had trapped a faint scattering of crumbs and a tiny piece of cheese. His name was Abdou and he was the owner-driver of a battered Renault taxi in the city of Oran.
‘Huh?’ He wiped his face with the back of a grubby hand and flicked a wary glance towards the two men by the door. They ignored him. He had been brought here for a meeting, so he had been told, to discuss a position as a regular driver for Farek’s business activities, although so far, there had been no such discussion. He had, though, been encouraged to eat by Farek, by way of an apology for causing him to miss his lunch break. Poorly paid and in a competitive market, he had needed no second invitation, and even wondered if he would be permitted to take away what he didn’t consume, for eating later.
‘The woman you took from the house on Al Hamri Street,’ said Farek casually, as if the matter were of no great consequence. ‘The woman and the boy.’
Abdou blinked, and turned slightly pale. ‘Al Hamri? I don’t know that place.’ He gave a weak smile and shrugged. He was a very poor liar. He was also very stupid. It had not occurred to him to question why he, a lowly cab driver on the border of destitution, was being treated with such courtesy by a man known widely throughout Algeria to be the head of a large and very ruthless criminal empire.
He was about to find out.
Farek turned and snapped his fingers. Like a well-rehearsed team, the two men by the door moved across the room and dragged the table away to one wall. It left Abdou sitting alone, arms suspended and mouth open, confused by the sudden change in the atmosphere. And frightened.
‘Wait! I don’t follow …’ he murmured. But it was evident by his reaction to the mention of Al Hamri that he followed all too well what Farek was talking about. And with it seemed to come the realisation that agreeing to come here had been a serious mistake; a trap for the unwary. And he’d walked right into it.
Farek clapped his hands, and the door to the room opened. Another man stepped inside. ‘You two – out,’ Farek continued, and his two guards left the room.
The newcomer was large, in the way very fat men are large, and moved with difficulty, feet forced apart by the girth of his thighs. He was dressed in a long, white djellaba and wore industrial glasses with wrap-around lenses flipped up on top of his head, which was shaven and shiny with sweat. In his hand he carried an ugly, black handgun fitted with a long, slim silencer.
CHAPTER FIVE
Farek didn’t need to watch Bouhassa at work, but stayed, anyway. It was part of the ritual, just as giving the victim one last taste of a meal was his way of doing things … and of instilling an aura around himself. He was the boss here, le chef. And if you weren’t prepared to get your own hands soiled, even at one step removed, where was the honour to be gained? Where was the respect from those around you, and from those who heard only the rumours? It was the rumours feeding on each other which built and enhanced his reputation and power.
He sat on a hard chair in the corner and watched as Bouhassa flipped out the chamber of the revolver. Underworld rumour had it that he had ‘liberated’ the gun from a police chief in Algiers with a predilection for collecting weapons. But nobody had ever cared to confirm or dispute it; Bouhassa had a reputation, too. He inserted a single shell and flipped his hand again, locking the chamber.
As Farek was well aware, Bouhassa liked to load the shells himself, using a reduced charge. He also fitted a hollow point head which he’d worked on, in place of the standard head, to fragment on impact. For Bouhassa’s kind for work, range was never a priority.
The fat man cocked the hammer and looked at his boss. Abdou, horrified and frozen, swallowed hard as if the food he had just eaten was rising in his throat.
Farek took his time. Lit a cigarette, holding it between fleshy fingers, and considered the man in the chair like a minor puzzle waiting to be solved. He shook his left wrist, freeing a solid gold watch, the light glinting on two thick gold rings. It was a conscious move, a mannerism he’d seen and copied from a cop film when he’d served with the French army. The film’s villain liked to
remind people of his wealth … when he wasn’t reminding them of the power he wielded over them.
Farek could relate to that.
‘You collected a woman and boy from Al Hamri five days ago,’ he said softly. For a few moments, the cargo plane had gone quiet, leaving a hush in the atmosphere as if ordered by Farek himself. ‘Where did you take them?’ Al Hamri was the broad, tree-shaded street where Farek had an apartment, away from the overheated centre of the city and cooled by gentle breezes from the hills.
‘I don’t remember … it was too long ago … I …’ He stopped, eyes locked on the gun in Bouhassa’s hand. It had a black, shiny finish, a thing of cold beauty with but a single purpose.
‘Where?’
Abdou dragged his gaze away from the gun and Bouhassa, and stared imploringly at Farek. ‘I got a call,’ he babbled, holding out his hands, palms upwards in supplication. ‘To collect a fare … that is all. I didn’t know who they were …’ He jumped up suddenly as if launched by a spring, but Bouhassa reached out a huge hand and pushed him back down.
‘I. Said. Where?’ Farek leant forward, enunciating the words with exaggerated care. ‘Did you take them to the airport?’
To the airport might have given Abdou a slim chance. Lots of people travelled to the airport for all sorts of normal reasons, and he couldn’t be held responsible for the whims of women. But where the woman had gone was not normal – not for one like her. He swallowed noisily and closed his eyes, as if all vestiges of hope had gone. Then he said softly, ‘No. Not there. Le Vieux Port. A ship called Calypsoa.’ He sank back like a deflating balloon, resigned to his fate.
The Old Port. Where the steamers and trawlers and junk ships were berthed; where many transactions were carried out without the benefit or obstacle of official paperwork; where no woman in her right mind went, and where no cab driver would willingly take a woman without knowing exactly why she was there … and without taking money to ensure his silence. Farek knew the Old Port well; he had cause to, having used it for most of his adult life in one way or another. If she had elected to leave by sea, and from such a place, it meant she had done so to avoid being seen by Farek’s spotters at the air terminal and passenger port. In doing so, she had taken enormous risks … but risks she must have decided outweighed any reason for staying. That could only mean one thing: she wasn’t coming back.
He nodded at the fat man.
Bouhassa moved over to Abdou, his breath whistling in his nose, balancing himself carefully on his feet as if he were about to take a plunge off a high board. He flipped the industrial glasses down over his eyes and grasped Abdou by the hair, jerking the man’s head backwards. Abdou shrieked, eyes bulging as he finally realised what was about to happen. Like many in the city, he would have heard the stories of what happened to men who crossed Sami Farek, and the part that the fat man Bouhassa played in their despatch.
It was called swallowing a shot.
He tried to speak, but the words in his throat were cut off as the gun barrel with the silencer was thrust into his mouth. There was a crackle of breaking teeth and the prisoner gurgled and shook his head, fighting against the pain and terror. But Bouhassa was too strong. He pulled Abdou’s head right back, forcing the gun deeper and deeper until his knuckles were pushed hard against the man’s teeth and Abdou’s Adam’s apple bulged against the skin of his throat.
In the background, the cargo plane increased power and hurtled down the runway.
‘Do it,’ Farek commanded.
The shot was muffled, and would not have reached the outside world, even without the silencer or the airplane’s roar. Bouhassa quickly withdrew the gun and clamped Abdou’s mouth shut, noting with what appeared to be distaste a few spots of blood on the sleeve of his djellaba, and a trickle of urine as the dying man voided his bladder.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Glad you could join us.’ Divisional Commissaire François Massin had already begun the briefing in the main office by the time Rocco arrived. If the senior officer was being ironic, he managed to hide it behind his customarily cold expression. Assembled in the room were the duty officers of the day and a collection of uniforms about to go on patrol in and beyond the town, notebooks poised. A few eyes turned Rocco’s way, newcomers surprised by his size and sombre clothing. Standing at two metres, with the shoulders of a rugby forward and a strong, confident gaze under a short scrub of black hair, he was a full head taller than anyone else and filled the room with his presence.
He nodded in turn at Massin’s deputy, Commissaire Perronnet, and Captain Eric Canet – a likeable officer he’d met a few times – and, lounging by the door sipping at a mug of coffee, the muscular figure of René Desmoulins, one of the detectives. The latter grinned and raised his mug in greeting.
Rocco wondered what was so important that had made Massin demand his attendance today in particular.
As if sensing the question, Massin waved a collection of papers at the room in general, and pointed to a similar stack on a nearby desk. ‘This is the latest alerts bulletin from headquarters. Take a copy each and read it. Among other items it tells us that we are shortly to be joined by a new liaison officer, details to follow in due course. It also advises that Amiens and the north is being viewed by incoming North Africans as an attractive place to live. Increased numbers have been noted making their way out of the cities looking for work in the new industrialised zones. That in itself is not a problem; but not all of them are legally entitled to be here, especially those with a criminal record who have been declared undesirables, or those from non-aligned nations. Unfortunately, it is not always possible to know which is which.’ He looked at Rocco, the outsider from the big city, and gave a thinly knowing smile. ‘You were in Paris before transferring here, weren’t you, Inspector Rocco? Perhaps you could tell us of your experiences with Algerians.’
Rocco stared at him over the heads of the others, wondering just how much more openly barbed this comment could have been. Just two years ago, in October 1961, thousands of Algerians had marched near police headquarters in Paris to protest against official repression. The march had ended with an unknown number of Algerians dead, some in the streets, others floating in the river. The country was still feeling the shockwaves, with accusations and counter-accusations being thrown around at the highest levels, and even suspicion among fellow officers about who was to blame. It was clear by the looks coming Rocco’s way that some of his colleagues were now having the same thoughts.
He let it pass. He’d been on undercover duty that night in Courbevoie, eleven kilometres west of the city centre, and had only heard about the trouble the following day. Like many of his colleagues, it had depressed him enough to consider resigning. Only the intervention of a senior officer, Captain Michel Santer, had prevented it.
‘I wasn’t suggesting anything, Inspector,’ Massin added evenly. ‘But you must have worked at close quarters with some of them?’
Rocco remained calm. Being in open warfare with Massin was a no-win situation. Perronet in particular would side with his senior colleague out of support for a fellow ranking officer. Rocco would lose.
‘A little,’ he agreed. ‘But I haven’t met any around here yet.’ The few he’d seen had been at a distance, workers on building sites or drifting around the town, remote and self-contained. Outsiders. Like any community, there were the good and the bad. The good wanted a better life for themselves and their families; the bad were usually loosely affiliated to a network of gangs and clans, sharing the characteristics of their kind everywhere, like the American Mafia, the Asian tongs or Triads and the Corsican clans. Put too many people together in confined areas with little opportunity or acceptance, and you had a melting pot ripe for trouble and exploitation.
‘Try the Yank factories,’ murmured a detective at the back of the room, a sour-faced man by the name of Tourrain. He was referring to the rubber and electrical plants that had brought employment to the region and needed a large workforce to keep the production lin
es running. ‘Plenty of Arabs there, working for peanuts and happy as rats in a sewer.’ He grinned nastily, showing a set of stained teeth. ‘Best place for them.’
‘And what makes you so superior?’ Rocco countered sharply. He disliked the casual racism prevalent among so-called intelligent people, and was disappointed to find it present in a largely rural police force. He’d seen it undermine communities before, raising barriers where none were needed and making police work more difficult and hazardous.
‘Gentlemen.’ Massin spoke sharply, bringing order with what seemed to be a degree of relief. ‘Let’s be aware of them, that’s all. Where there is deprivation and competition for jobs, there is usually trouble. I don’t want any unrest in this division, no matter what the cause. Patrols should keep an eye out for gatherings, and especially for work gangs, which are usually collected from prearranged points each morning by gang bosses. If you see them, check papers, check permits, but keep it low-key. We don’t want firebombs and water cannon on our streets. Understood?’
‘Have we actually got a water cannon?’ asked Desmoulins with pointed innocence. The comment raised a laugh around the room, lowering the tension. But it was a valid point. Levels of equipment were not always spread evenly across the various divisions, and some of the quieter parts of the country fared less well when it came to budget allocations. So far, though, water cannon had not been a feature of policing in the Amiens division.
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