Death on the Rive Nord

by Adrian Magson

  For a building which wasn’t yet fully active, Rocco decided, it seemed to be producing an unusually concentrated security response. ‘I was passing and happened to be curious,’ he explained. ‘I don’t normally get inside factories – sorry, assembly plants – very often, and thought I should acquaint myself with one.’

  Lambert nodded in understanding, but gave no sign of bending. ‘No problem. Perhaps when we have time, we can invite you in for a tour? I’m sure something could be arranged.’

  Rocco could tell he wasn’t going to get anywhere. This man was trained to deflect the curious by one means or another. The additional bulldog outside was proof of that.

  ‘Then I’ll have to come back another time.’ He nodded and turned to leave, then stopped, reaching into his pocket. ‘Actually, I have a question you might be able to help me with.’ He took out the photo of the dead man from the canal and held it up for both men to see. ‘It will save my men troubling you again later. Have you ever seen this man before?’

  Lambert took the photo and studied it carefully. Shook his head. ‘No. Sorry. Is he dangerous?’

  ‘Not much. He’s dead. We’re trying to find out where he came from. We think he’s an illegal worker employed in one of the factories around here.’

  ‘Not here, they aren’t.’ Lambert’s face was a blank canvas. ‘We only employ skilled workers.’

  Rocco looked at Wiegheim who, from being impatient and eager to speak before, was now saying nothing. In fact, he seemed suddenly nervous and was sweating visibly, a beading of moisture glistening across his forehead.

  Lambert stepped forward and handed the photo back, partly blocking Rocco’s way. ‘Sorry. We can’t help.’ His tone carried a hint of steel.

  Rocco ignored him. ‘Mr Wiegheim?’

  Wiegheim gave a start, eyes flickering towards Lambert before murmuring quietly, ‘No. I’ve never seen him before.’

  Rocco put the photo away and turned towards the door. And wondered why both men were lying through their teeth.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He left the building and walked towards his car. As he did so, he glanced across to where the canal ran past the corner of the building. A working barge was sliding by, smoke puffing from a blackened stack on its rear structure. It wasn’t the barge that caught his attention, however; it was the tall metal fence separating the building from the canal. There were curved spikes at the top of each metal post, he noticed, bent to prevent anyone climbing into the plant. A professional job guaranteed to dissuade casual burglars looking for easy pickings. On a post above the fence stood the same array of security lights he’d seen at the front of the building. Clearly Lambert took his security duties seriously.

  He heard a scuff of noise close by and turned.

  The second security guard had followed him from the building and was standing between Rocco and his car, arms down by his side, solid and unmoveable. His stance, blank expression and quasi-official uniform reminded Rocco of a member of the CRS – the Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité.

  ‘You should leave,’ the man said bluntly. ‘Now.’

  Rocco stepped towards him, and for the first time the guard seemed to realise how big Rocco was. His mouth opened and he looked unsure of himself, but he stayed where he was. A bully, thought Rocco. But a bully who didn’t want to lose face. He was wearing a small badge printed with his surname: Metz.

  ‘I’m a police officer, Mr Metz,’ said Rocco coolly, staring hard at him. ‘Try throwing your weight around with me and you’ll end up in prison or hospital. Take your pick.’

  Metz hesitated for a second, eyes flicking past Rocco towards the building. As if on a signal, he shrugged and stepped to one side.

  Back at the station, Rocco spotted Desmoulins in the corridor and asked him if he’d ever heard of the Secretariat for Administration to the Ministry of Defence.

  Desmoulins looked blank. ‘Not the Secretariat Administration bit, no. The Ministry of Defence, of course – who hasn’t? You in trouble with the military?’

  Rocco shook his head. ‘Could you look up a company named Ecoboras SA? They’re on a new industrial complex near the canal.’

  ‘I know the place.’ Desmoulins nodded. ‘Friend of mine – an electrician – tried to get a job there and was told to get lost. Not very friendly, all that fencing and floodlights; looks more like a prison camp.’ He looked sharply at Rocco. ‘Have you found something?’

  ‘I’m not sure. They claim to have a contract with the Defence Ministry.’

  ‘There’s a but.’ Desmoulins was quick on the uptake.

  ‘Something jars, that’s all. The plant manager’s name is Wiegheim and they have a security stiff called Lambert who looks like he eats glass for breakfast. I showed them the photo and Wiegheim looked as if he was going to throw up.’

  Desmoulins grinned. ‘Guilty conscience, I bet. I’ll see what I can find out.’

  Rocco was about to leave when he saw Massin approaching. The commissaire pointed towards his office and led the way inside. As soon as Rocco entered, he closed the door behind him.

  ‘Are you bored, Inspector?’ He waved a slip of paper in his hand. ‘I’ve just had an unpleasant call from the Interior Ministry. You’ve been asking questions of a defence contractor. Is this true?’

  Rocco stared at the officer and wondered what the hell was going on. He glanced at his watch. From leaving Ecoboras’s premises to getting here had taken roughly thirty minutes. Yet in that time, Wiegheim or Lambert had managed to put in a protest to the Ministry of Defence about his visit, a protest which had bounced from there to the Interior Ministry, then on down the line to Massin.

  ‘I was curious,’ he said, fighting to hold down his irritation. He could do without Massin looking to jump on his bones for such a minor matter. The fact that the Ministry had been called made him even more convinced that Wiegheim and Lambert were hiding something. But what? He explained his encounter with the men.

  Massin was unperturbed. ‘Ecoboras SA are party to a very important contract for defence equipment handed out by the Directorate General for Armaments, working with the Ministry of Defence. I have no idea what they are making there, nor am I interested. All I do know is that the military is undergoing a huge re-equipment programme, and every branch of the administration is under pressure to complete the contracts as soon as possible. This particular plant has the potential to offer a great many jobs in the area, and the mayor has asked for full understanding and support when it comes to any dealings we might have with the company.’

  The mayor. As if national politics wasn’t enough to be going on with, they now had to defer to local bureaucrats. Rocco sighed. ‘Dealings?’

  ‘Policing matters. We handle them quickly and with minimal intrusion – but only outside the perimeter fence.’

  Rocco was astounded. He was being barred from the place. ‘What if they’re employing illegal workers? Do we ignore that?’

  Massin looked sceptical. ‘They wouldn’t take the risk. In any case, they have an approved security team who will handle all internal matters. Especially inside the building.’ Massin sniffed. ‘Your off-the-cuff visit today doesn’t come under that heading.’

  Rocco tried one last stab. ‘And if I suspect a crime has been committed?’

  Massin’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Do you?’

  He shook his head. Massin was right; all he had were his instincts. Or had he carried his prejudices and suspicions out of the city with him, and was now seeing shadows under every stone? He wasn’t going to get anywhere like this, so might as well let it go.

  For now, anyway.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  As night fell across Amiens and its burgeoning industrial quarter, a group of six new arrivals was ushered into a temporary cabin and ordered to take off their travel-soiled clothes and place them in a large oil drum. They were watched by two men, both with the unemotional detachment and stillness of professional guards.

  The six men were thin and u
ndernourished, their bones prominent where natural body fat had been eaten away over weeks, maybe months, of deprivation and poor diet. Their journey had not helped, beginning on Algeria’s north-lying coast and culminating in a rotting barge just a few kilometres away, where they had been made to wait before being brought here by boat. The holding barge was a precaution, to distance the plant from any direct connection with the men if they were discovered, and as a place where they could wait during the daytime until darkness fell.

  Their discomfort, however, was clearly not their overseers’ problem. Getting them to work was, as was keeping their presence secret from the authorities. Some of the men bore visible scars and abrasions on their flesh, while others rubbed at raw patches of skin where lice had been feeding on them for too long without treatment. Most showed signs of hard labour, their hands roughened and their nails stubby and cracked.

  The senior of the two guards sniffed at the smell of them, the sour tang of stale sweat rising as the warmth of the room increased. It didn’t bother him, though; he’d long ago become inured to the discomfort of others. Instead he sipped from a mug of coffee, smacking his lips with evident enjoyment, amused by their resentful and hungry looks. But the newcomers were careful; they had come across men like this before. Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark blouson and tan trousers, he wore the soft, polished jump boots of the kind favoured by French paratroopers, and was the model they had come to fear most, a long way from this place and in another life. The second man was similar, if shorter, and further down the food chain.

  Once they were all stripped and the tall man could see they had nothing taped or tied to their bodies, he pointed to a pile of fresh, worn clothing on a bench nearby and told them to get dressed. As they began to sort through jackets and trousers, he checked through the small pile of wallets and other personal effects which each man had been forced to place on the floor. Some had been reluctant to part with these treasured possessions, but their resistance had been short-lived when they saw the short length of steel pipe in the hand of the second man.

  The items were pathetically few: some faded photographs or letters; a certificate or permit; relics of a previous life far from here; a pressed flower or a lock of hair; some money folded and refolded but no longer useful in their new home. The man wondered why they had bothered. Scraps of history, they were of no further use to them now than the clothes they had just discarded.

  He gathered up the personal effects and tossed them into the drum. Two of the older men protested, anger flaring at seeing these things being disposed of so casually. To them, these represented the only links they had left with the places they had come from, a tenuous kind of memory but still valued. The other four remained in the background, younger and less sure of themselves.

  The tall man smiled coldly but said nothing. Now he knew who the leaders were; which were the strong personalities in the group and likely to be an influence. Now he could set about sorting them out. Divide and rule; a method as old as the hills.

  He reached into his jacket pocket. When he took his hand out again, the two leading protesters froze instinctively. The others stepped back.

  There were many things which might have surprised them. Kindness was one. Food was another … even sanctuary, no matter how temporary; like the canal boat they had been living on for the past few days since jumping out of the lorry, waiting for the next stage of their journey.

  But not the threat of death. They had seen it too often in too many guises, and most especially from men like these two with their cold smiles and ugly threats. Even the journey here had been a form of extended death threat imposed by the ever-present risk of exposure, but that didn’t mean they accepted it or looked it in the face without a qualm.

  The tall man was holding a gun, with the familiarity of use, the confidence of a professional. With the sureness of one who would use it without a flicker of remorse. He nodded to his colleague, who herded the men out of the cabin into a large warehouse twenty metres away. It smelt new, and echoed with the hollow, disconnected noise of all large, empty places. Sections of metal ducting were hanging from brackets and linked to large blowers, and a steady roar could be heard as the new heating system powered up, although the air here was still cold. The roof was cavernous and high and, to men from the agricultural lands of North Africa, impossibly big and difficult to take in.

  The second guard led them over to the production line. This comprised large tables dotted with stools, each station equipped with a selection of screwdrivers and other hand tools. A conveyor belt ran alongside the tables, leading to an open area near the rear doors of the warehouse, where piles of cardboard boxes stood ready for filling, loading and labelling, and placing onto wooden pallets.

  ‘Welcome to France,’ said the tall man. His contemptuous smile contained no hint of welcome, no sign of weakness. The gun, they noted, had disappeared, the message delivered. ‘It’s time to start work.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘I found someone.’ Claude spoke with a casual air but Rocco could tell he was pleased with himself. He’d rung just as Rocco was about to leave for the office. Feeling frustrated at the lack of progress, he was thinking about the canal again. It had all begun there, and it was the one place from which they had so far gained no help whatsoever. He needed something – anything – to help move this case forward.

  ‘Good for you,’ Rocco replied. ‘You deserve some happiness. I hope she’s a great cook.’

  ‘Not that kind of someone – I mean a witness who saw a truck parked near the canal a couple of nights before the body turned up. I put out some feelers around the villages and he just rang. I think he’s hoping for a reward.’

  Rocco stopped and sat down. This was too good to be true. Out of all the nights on all the roads in all of France, Claude had found—

  ‘Who and where?’ he said, and dragged a pad towards him.

  ‘His name’s Raoul Etcheverry and he lives in Autrey – that’s a village five kilometres from Poissons on the opposite side to where the dead guy turned up. He claims he saw a truck right where we found the bloodstains and the tracks.’

  ‘Raoul Etcheverry.’ Rocco rolled the name around on his tongue while he wrote. ‘Elegant name for these parts.’

  ‘Elegant name for any parts. He’s a retired veterinary surgeon from Lille. He’s also a semi-professional card player. Maybe I could get him to teach me a thing or two.’

  ‘How,’ said Rocco, ‘does a retired vet and semi-pro gambler find himself in the right place to see a truck in the middle of nowhere?’ He was sceptical about sightings such as these, and all too accustomed to people keen to help the police but finding their imaginations or memories working beyond what was a strictly correct recollection of what they had witnessed. But such offers always had to be investigated; even a tiny clue was better than nothing, and it was often the unremarkable point which witnesses considered unimportant that carried the day.

  ‘Easy. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he goes to play poker with a group of other enthusiasts in Amiens. The game goes on until the small hours. He was on his way home at about three, and saw a truck parked at the side of the road.’

  ‘Did he get the registration?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’ Rocco wondered if this was going to be a glorified wild goose chase. It really was too good to be true. Yet stranger things had happened – and finding the truck again would be a major breakthrough. Criminals weren’t above torching a vehicle involved in a crime if there was even a remote chance that it could be traced. ‘How the hell did he do that?’

  ‘He’s a card player. He’s used to numbers. Haven’t you ever played?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ Rocco’s card playing, though, was limited to days gone by in the army and his early days in the police, when it was used as a hedge against the boredom of inactivity between duty calls.

  ‘So, you know it’s all about remembering number sequences. It’s what he does.’

&nbs
p; Rocco stood up. ‘Where is he? I need to meet him.’

  ‘Actually, on his way to Amiens. He’s visiting a friend, and I suggested he might drop by later to make a statement.’

  Rocco made a mental note to get Claude some recognition for this. It was too common among some officers to look down on their rural colleagues, and he wanted Claude to get out from under that mantle of low regard. By anyone’s standards, this was good police work.

  By midday, Rocco was seated in an interview room facing Etcheverry, a former vet, now gambler and seemingly upright citizen.

  ‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Etcheverry,’ he said cordially, ‘and agreeing to make a statement. How did you hear about our enquiry?’ It was an ice-breaker, a device he’d found useful for settling nerves and establishing positions right from the off.

  Etcheverry smiled and clasped two large hands together on the table between them. His fingernails, Rocco noted, were bitten down and slightly grubby, and his clothes had a down-at-heel appearance. A vet fallen on hard times, he decided. He was built like a bear, and made the chair creak when he moved, which made Rocco wonder at the manual dexterity required for veterinary work and playing cards, and how on earth this man coped with both. He decided he knew next to nothing about human motor skills and let it go.

  ‘Through a friend of a friend,’ Etcheverry replied warily. He had a soft, cultured voice and spoke very precisely, leaning forward with his eyes fixed firmly on Rocco’s. It was slightly unnerving this close, and Rocco guessed that intimidation probably played a natural part in the man’s approach to gambling. Mind games, they called it.

  ‘That’s very public-spirited of you.’

  ‘Well, one tries to be a good citizen.’ He grinned almost slyly and ducked his head. ‘One never knows when there might be some recompense, of course …’

  Rocco let that go without taking the bait. Money seemed a big factor in this man’s life. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what you saw.’