Death on the Rive Nord

by Adrian Magson

  He turned back to watch the car, distracted by the unusual in this backwater village. It crawled in slow motion across the square, then went out of sight before reappearing by the co-op. It stopped, facing back the way it had come. A man climbed out and disappeared from view, walking towards the shop door.

  ‘What do you do here?’ she asked casually. Her voice moved away as she stepped back towards the cave and the pathway out of the grotto.

  Rocco hesitated for a moment before replying, eyes still on the car. ‘I’m a cop,’ he said, and wondered if it might scare her off, knowing what he did. It was usually a conversation-stopper, anyway, but not one he deliberately avoided. ‘What’s your story?’

  There was no answer.

  When he looked round, the woman was gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rocco took a direct route down the hill, his shoes skidding on the unofficial path worn by generations of kids sliding down across the chalky soil. He was puzzled by the young woman’s sudden disappearance. He came out on the road leading down to the square, half-expecting to see her walking down the hill towards him. Instead, he saw a cream-coloured Peugeot 403 driving away. It had the local département licence plates, he noticed, and a sticker in the back window advertising last year’s 14th July gala in Amiens.

  The driver was a woman wearing a headscarf.

  He walked home, mulling over what had been, on the surface at least, a banal conversation, a pleasant but uneventful meeting between strangers willing to idle away a few minutes. Yet Rocco had an ear for the unusual, just as a music teacher might have an ear for an instrument slightly out of tune. He couldn’t think of what it was specifically, only that something in what the woman had said had sounded off. And why had she taken off so abruptly?

  He checked his watch as he entered the house. It was gone nine. Time to find out if anything about the dead man had come in overnight. First, though, he wanted to check something else. He picked up the telephone and got through to detective Desmoulins, and gave him instructions, saying he would be in later. After that, he rang Claude, Poisson’s font of all local knowledge, rumour or fact. Sometimes asking questions on your own doorstep led to the blindingly obvious.

  ‘You know anyone around here who owns a cream Peugeot four-O-three?’ he asked. ‘About four years old?’

  ‘Plenty of those,’ Claude replied, and Rocco’s spirits sank. The English had a saying about the impossibility of looking for a needle in a haystack, and he realised this was a fine example. ‘Not a bad car in its day,’ Claude continued knowledgeably, ‘but a bit underpowered and corners like a pregnant hippo. I borrowed one once; put me off for life. Why do you ask?’

  Rocco made up some vague explanation and rang off before Claude could grill him further. Admitting that he was trying to find out the identity of an attractive stranger he’d spoken to at the grotto would be like taking out an advert in the local paper. If he thought there was a possibility of romance in the air, Claude would lay waste to the entire region.

  He drove to Amiens and found Detective Desmoulins pinning up a black and white photograph of the dead man on the office noticeboard. A stack of copies stood on a table nearby, ready for distribution to the duty patrols. He picked one up and studied it. Rizzotti had done a good job; the man’s face looked puffy, but no more than it might have done after a heavy Saturday-night drinking session.

  Desmoulins waved a bunch of car registration documents at him. ‘I checked the local registrations, and that car was sold three months ago to a dealer for cash in a house clearance. The previous owner was deceased, no family. There’s been no re-registration of ownership since, so I was just checking the latest batch received to see if anything new had come in.’

  ‘Which dealer?’

  ‘Moteurs Gondrand on the Abbeville Road. It’s the biggest in the area … but count your fingers if you speak to Michel, the son.’ He looked hopeful. ‘Want me to have a quiet word? I know Victor, the old man. He’s a bit dodgy, too, but he knows what’s good for him.’

  Rocco shook his head. He couldn’t justify taking up the detective’s valuable time on a matter of idle curiosity. If Massin found out, he’d have both their kidneys on a plate, and he had no intention of giving the officer that pleasure. ‘No. I’d rather get a team organised to start trawling factories and foreign residents with copies of the photo to see if we can identify the body from the canal.’

  ‘Right. I’ll speak to Captain Canet and ask him if he can assign some of his boys to it. You think the dead guy came from Amiens?’

  ‘I doubt it. But we have to start somewhere.’ He explained about the sandal being unusual footwear for the region, and the details uncovered at the canal pointing towards the body having been dumped off the parapet after being taken from a truck or a car. ‘It’s thin, I know, but we work with what we’ve got, right?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘Can you handle the briefing to Canet and his men?’ He should have done it himself, but Desmoulins was good at his job and needed the exposure.

  ‘Will do.’ Desmoulins frowned. ‘Whoever dumped the body must have stopped for a few minutes at least. Somebody might have seen the vehicle.’

  ‘Long shot, but a good point. I’ll deal with that.’ He was thinking about Claude and his contacts throughout the area. The uniforms, as well intentioned and effective as they were, would find making progress outside the town very difficult. Viewing visiting policemen with suspicion did not help unlock people’s memories or their willingness to help. The garde champêtre, however, was already part of the community and would be more likely to turn up something useful.

  Desmoulins pursed his lips. ‘I’ll get a bunch of men on it around town. It shouldn’t take too long to cover all the usual places.’ He grinned sharply. ‘I could put Tourrain on it; that would spoil his day.’

  ‘Good idea – if you want the job done badly.’

  He rang Claude and put him on asking around for any sightings of a truck or van over the nights prior to the body being pulled from the canal, especially along the road near the parapet. It was, as he’d said to Desmoulins, a long shot, but worth a try.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rocco headed out on the Abbeville road and soon arrived at the Gondrand dealership, an oasis of brightness in a drab line of houses and small businesses. It stood on an extensive patch of gravelled ground with a small office building at one end and streamers fluttering from poles like a circus event. There were some two dozen cars of every description on view, and the impression Rocco got was that Gondrand had taken the American high-volume approach to car sales, with lots of glitz and gleaming paintwork to draw in the customers.

  Inside the front office a man in a dark blazer was leafing through a calendar showing smiling women in scant costumes, his feet up on the desk. When he saw Rocco, he tossed the calendar to one side, patently beyond embarrassment, and stood up without haste. He eyed Rocco’s clothes with a commercial gleam in his eye and a professional smile sliding into place.

  The younger Gondrand, Rocco decided. He was close-shaven, skin shiny and soft-looking. Pampered.

  ‘Your father in?’ Rocco asked.

  ‘Maybe. Who’s asking?’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘Right.’ The gleam disappeared and a blank mask dropped down in its place. ‘Well, I’m in charge of day-to-day operations here. What’s it about, Sergeant …?’

  ‘Inspector. And your father would be fine.’

  Gondrand nodded and seemed about to argue, but turned and went through a door at the end of the room. He returned seconds later, visibly annoyed, with an older and fleshier version of himself in tow.

  ‘Inspector Rocco, isn’t it?’ said Victor Gondrand. He beckoned Rocco to follow him inside and gave his son a steely look, closing the door firmly and indicating a visitor’s chair. The office was small and neat, with little clutter, the domain, Rocco decided, of a professional businessman. And no girlie calendars.

  ‘How do you know my
name?’ queried Rocco.

  Victor smiled. ‘It’s good manners, Inspector. It’s not a huge town, so it makes sense to at least know who I might be dealing with, especially a business like ours.’ He sat down, but not behind his desk. Instead, he dragged up a second visitor’s chair and sat near Rocco. ‘What can I do for you? I take it you don’t want to buy a car.’ He glanced out through a small window looking out on the front of the lot, where Rocco’s Citroën was parked.

  Rocco decided that this was one Gondrand he might get to like. ‘I’m looking for the driver of a Peugeot four-O-three,’ he explained, and listed the details.

  Gondrand made a note on a pad from his desk. ‘Is the driver in trouble? The car’s not stolen, I can be certain of that. We don’t handle that stuff.’

  Rocco didn’t argue. He was enough of a cynic to know that not every car on the road had a valid history, and it was too easy for dealers like Gondrand to let details ‘slip’ here and there for the sake of a quick deal. ‘I’m following up an enquiry, that’s all.’

  ‘No problem. Would you like coffee, a drink, maybe?’ Gondrand stood up and nodded towards a percolator in the corner, with a tray of drinks alongside.

  Rocco was surprised. ‘You can check right now?’

  ‘Of course. Business is good, Inspector, but not so good I can’t keep track of what we sell. My son is less … shall we say, detailed in his approach. Quick turnover, in, out and never look back. It’s not a business method I share, to be honest, but it seems it’s the new way of doing things in this trade. What can you do, eh? Progress, they call it.’

  ‘My sympathies. In that case, I’ll have a coffee.’

  Gondrand nodded and poured a cup, passing Rocco a small container of milk and some sugar cubes. ‘Help yourself. I’ll just be a moment.’

  He sat and pulled a file box towards him and began to flick through the cards, whistling a faint tune. Seconds later, and before Rocco had taken his first sip of coffee, he gave a grunt of triumph and held up a card.

  ‘Voilà. A 1960 Peugeot,’ he read. ‘Four-O-three, licence number as you said, dah-dah-dah, not bad condition, fifty thousand on the clock, one owner, sadly deceased. Sold three days ago to a Mme Nicole Glavin.’ He scowled. ‘Odd. There’s no home address.’ He looked up and gave a forced smile. ‘My apologies, Inspector. This isn’t right. Could you excuse me for one moment?’

  He left the office and closed the door, and Rocco decided Gondrand fils, as the only other employee, was in for a shock. He waited, hearing the sound of raised but restrained voices, and wondered why Nicole Glavin hadn’t told him her full name. Too much information on a first meeting, perhaps. Cautious.

  Moments later, Victor Gondrand returned. He looked flushed, his mouth set in a rigid line.

  ‘My sincere apologies, Inspector. My son assures me he completed all the documentation correctly, but did not make a note of the customer’s address because she declined to give him one. She claimed she was staying with friends and had not yet acquired a permanent home.’ He lifted his hands in the air with an expression of disgust and added, ‘Like I said, not good with details. I don’t know what to say.’

  Rocco waved it away. It was a dead end. But at least he now had a full name. ‘Don’t worry. These things happen.’ He finished his coffee and decided to leave the Gondrands to fight it out between them. If the bureaucrats at the town hall wanted to join in because due process hadn’t been followed, that was up to them. He shook hands with Gondrand and headed for the door. Then, for no particular reason, a thought occurred to him. He stopped. ‘How did she pay for the car?’

  Gondrand glanced at the record card and looked surprised. ‘Cash. Would you believe it? She walks in off the street and buys a car just like that. Merde!’ He grinned easily. ‘I wish there were more like her!’

  * * *

  On the way back to the office, Rocco spotted a collection of industrial buildings in a new development, the like of which were springing up all round the region in answer to the demands of a growing economy and inward investment from countries like the United States. Remembering Tourrain’s acid comment, he turned in and drove slowly around the site, following a curving road which took him past a variety of buildings and vacant lots. Most of the units were shells awaiting completion, with show boards on the front listing, for potential tenants, the basic facilities on offer. One or two had groups of workmen unrolling electric cables, while others were at the groundwork stage, with stacks of construction materials awaiting their turn in the process of converting open ground to fully functioning commercial plants.

  One of the structures stood apart from the rest. Sitting on the periphery of the complex and already complete, it was the largest of them all and surrounded by an impressive array of austere metal fencing dominated by tall poles every few metres, each holding an array of floodlights. A security cabin and striped barrier were built into the fence, and a guard was staring out through the front window at Rocco’s car. On one corner of the site was a stretch of canal, a touch of light relief against the drab and intimidating appearance of the building and its fencing. A panel across the fascia gave the company name of Ecoboras SA.

  Rocco pulled up to the barrier and waited while the guard stepped out and approached with casual indifference. He was dressed in a dark-blue uniform and jump boots, and walked with the insolent confidence of security guards everywhere.

  ‘This is a restricted area,’ he said without preamble. He made a lazy, circular motion with his hand for Rocco to turn round and go away. No questions, no greetings, no explanation.

  ‘Is that right?’ Rocco considered it for a moment, then dug out his badge and held it up. ‘I’d like to see the site manager.’ He didn’t like private armies of any kind, no matter what their function. And being treated like an intruder got under his skin.

  The guard looked at the badge and shrugged, deliberately unimpressed. But he walked to the barrier and lifted it.

  ‘Go to reception,’ he said, as if he couldn’t care less. ‘They’ll tell you the same thing.’

  Rocco drove beneath the barrier and parked in front of the building, wondering whether the guard and the fence were a reflection of corporate ego or a genuine need for intimidating security. He pushed back a glass door and found himself in a small reception area. The air smelt of fresh paint and plastic. A single desk and two modern, tubular chairs were the only items of furniture, with a small, framed certificate bearing an official-looking seal hanging on an otherwise plain wall.

  ‘Can I help?’ A young woman was sitting behind the desk.

  Rocco flipped his badge and asked to see the manager. ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’

  ‘A security matter. It won’t take long.’

  The young woman slipped out from behind the desk and disappeared through a side door, leaving Rocco to study the certificate on the wall. As well as the seal, it bore a lengthy title from something called the Secretariat for Administration of the Ministry of Defence. Underneath was the company name. Before he could read the fine print, the door opened and the young woman was back, closely followed by a man in a smart blue suit. He was in his fifties, short, pear-shaped and with an air of impatience.

  ‘How can I help, officer?’ The man held out a limp hand. ‘Marcel Wiegheim – operations manager. Is something wrong?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Rocco. ‘Forgive the intrusion, but I was wondering if I could take a look around.’ He smiled. ‘Call me curious; I’ve never been in one of these new factories.’

  ‘It’s an assembly plant, Inspector. We’re a clean environment here.’ Wiegheim’s eyes flickered. ‘But I’m afraid I won’t be able to let you in. This is a restricted area.’

  ‘So your guard told me. Restricted by whom?’

  ‘The Ministry of Defence.’ Wiegheim fluttered a hand at the certificate on the wall. ‘We are under contract to the government and nobody is allowed in without authorisation from them.’ He gave a thin smile, and for someone so sho
rt, managed to peer down his nose at Rocco. ‘That includes the police. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Actually, no. What are you making here?’

  ‘Assembling. It’s an assembly plant.’

  Rocco felt his irritation go up a notch. This man was pushing all the wrong buttons. ‘I stand corrected. Assembling, then.’

  Wiegheim shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t reveal that. You will have to speak to the Ministry. In any case, we aren’t up and running yet; the assembly lines are still being completed.’

  As if to reinforce the point, there was a loud clatter of metal hitting the floor, and a shout. Wiegheim flinched as if he’d been stung.

  Before he could say anything, the door in the wall opened and a tall, lean man appeared. As he walked across to join them, Rocco noted a cat-like grace in his movements. A big cat. As tall as Rocco, he had the broad shoulders of an athlete and the healthy glow of someone who was not confined to an office all day.

  ‘Mr Lambert is our director of security,’ said Wiegheim, and chuckled for no good reason. ‘We are required to employ professional safeguards while we are under contract, and he has a long record in providing the very best security advice to operations such as ours, including in the military.’ He turned to Lambert, saying, ‘Inspector Rocco is with the local police. I was just explaining the situation here.’

  Lambert nodded and offered his hand. His grip was firm, with a ridge of wrist muscle showing beneath a plain blue shirt.

  ‘Is there a reason for your visit, Inspector?’ he asked with a genial smile. ‘We aren’t breaking any by-laws, I hope?’

  ‘None that I know of.’ As he spoke, Rocco noticed movement outside the building through the window. Another man had appeared. This one was stocky and hard-looking, with a stiff, brush-like haircut and dressed like the gatehouse guard in a dark shirt and trousers and black boots. He stood quite still, staring at Rocco with a complete absence of expression. Hired muscle.