Death on the Rive Nord

by Adrian Magson

  ‘You make it sound like he had a free hand.’

  ‘He did, but I’m not sure how. I reckon the colons were happy to turn a blind eye while he got rid of a few potential guerrillas, and the army didn’t have to worry about putting down extra smuggling activities on top of everything else they had to do. It was a win-win situation – especially for Farek.’

  ‘And the FLN didn’t mind?’

  ‘That I can’t answer. But there was a question about captured arms which went missing on a regular basis. I figure he might have been feeding them to the FLN in exchange for a whole skin. Since independence, though, he’s been a little lower profile. He left the army and popped up again in Oran, in the north-west, where he’s been building a new little empire. I heard his brothers dropped out of sight altogether. Things must have got too hot for them in Algiers once the army was no longer around to protect them, so they skipped out.’

  ‘Clever. What about family?’

  ‘He’s married. Got a kid, too. Mr Perfect, in fact – on the outside.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘It’s a cover. Word is he plays away a lot … and he’s been looking for a replacement.’

  Rocco found a mental picture of Nicole slipping into his head and tried to ignore it. He definitely didn’t want to go there.

  ‘Why doesn’t he divorce her?’

  ‘It’s a society thing, although I don’t think he’s got a religious bone in his body. He’ll probably dump her when he gets an excuse. It won’t be legal, but it will be final.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ‘Would his wife know about his work?’ In French gang culture, it wasn’t unknown for families to live in ignorance of the breadwinner’s criminal activities, their lives carefully compartmentalised for protection against inter-gang disputes. But most cops acknowledged that the majority of families knew what brought in the money and accepted the risks just like their men.

  ‘Not necessarily. But a man like Farek?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t think he’d care if she knew or not.’

  Rocco hadn’t pressed her on the point, and wished he had. ‘Would he risk coming here?’

  ‘Here to Paris?’ Caspar shook his head, but Rocco spotted a flicker of doubt in the man’s eyes, followed by a glance towards the door. It was too instinctive to be casual, driven by nerves rather than need. He wondered what history lay between Caspar and Farek, if any. He waited as the former cop went through the ritual of stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another. His fingernails were bitten down and ragged, and since arriving, he had developed a deep, vertical crease in his forehead between the eyes. It gave him an oddly bird-like appearance.

  ‘How about France generally? He wouldn’t have much trouble getting in, would he, not with his army service.’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’ A flicker of distaste crossed Caspar’s face. ‘Seems they’ll let anyone in these days. People like Farek are the dregs of humanity.’ He looked at Rocco with a thoughtful air. ‘So what’s he been up to to arouse your interest?’

  Rocco was reluctant to tell him too much, so he shrugged vaguely. ‘His name came up in connection with people-smuggling.’

  Caspar shook his head, a knowing smile on his face. ‘No. Not people. That’s not Farek’s thing. Anything else, definitely. But not that. It’s too messy and there’s not enough profit. For him to come here, it would have to be big.’

  ‘Like what?’ Rocco wanted to ask if a runaway wife might be sufficient reason, but didn’t want Caspar to have reasons handed to him. Better to have his own thoughts and opinions.

  ‘He never moves far from his base without good reason. I know he’s been here in the past, but mostly in the Marseilles region.’ He was breathing fast and staring beyond Rocco at some point on the far wall. ‘I don’t know what would bring him here.’ He paused, then said, ‘You were stationed in Clichy, Santer said. And you worked the Nice area for a while.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rocco had worked all over, but he wasn’t about to make a list.

  ‘Ever go up against Algerians?’

  ‘A few. Them, Moroccans, Tunisians … and some Asian groups. Mostly small-time stuff, though. I worked mostly against French gangs – bank jobs, kidnappings, stuff like that. Why?’

  ‘Because if Farek is coming here, he’ll have help. It’s a family thing. You should be very careful; they don’t play by any of the rules that we know. You think our home-grown scumbags are bad enough, you haven’t seen these people in action. To them, human life means nothing. Killing someone is like stepping on a bug and if anyone gets in the way by accident,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘too bad. They get snuffed. Farek’s main hammer-man is a freak called Bouhassa.’

  The fat man Santer had mentioned. ‘He shot a man called Ali Benmoussa.’

  Caspar looked surprised. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I heard a story. Tell me about Bouhassa.’

  ‘He’s Farek’s enforcer. He does all his dirty work and enjoys it. Great, fat bastard with a head like a cue ball. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do if his boss ordered it. He has a unique way of killing anyone who gets on Farek’s wrong side. He makes them swallow a shot.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘He shoves a silenced gun down the victim’s throat and pulls the trigger. It kills without leaving an outside trace.’

  ‘How? A bullet would go right through.’

  ‘Not his. Bouhassa loads his own shells. They’ve got a low charge and hollow points which he doctors himself.’ He drew a cross on the table, then crossed it again. ‘The damage is all internal; I’ve seen the results. There’s a bit of blood in the mouth, but that’s it. Any bruising to the outside where the victim got taken or beaten looks like they got hit too hard in a mugging or knocked over in a hit-and-run. Same with broken teeth. Most cops and forensic people would miss it or write it off as a random accident, especially if the victim was a known ‘face’. A bust-up between rival gangs … one less to worry about. I’m amazed the silencers never blow up in Bouhassa’s face, but he seems to know what he’s doing. They say he wears safety goggles to protect his eyes, but I don’t know if that’s true.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Give me a shout if there’s anything else I can tell you.’ He finished his coffee and made to stand up, but Rocco put out a hand to stop him. He wasn’t sure if asking for this man’s help was a good idea; Caspar had been through the grinder and come out damaged. But Rocco was short of options and had to use whatever means he had to hand.

  ‘Can you wait while I make a call?’

  Caspar nodded. ‘Sure. Make it quick, will you?’

  Rocco went to the phone in an alcove at the rear of the café and checked his watch. Santer wouldn’t be at work now. He dialled the captain’s home number.

  ‘I’m with Caspar,’ he said, when Santer answered. ‘Can you tell me anything else about the killings down south?’

  ‘Like what? It’s only just come in. I already told you what we had.’

  ‘Were there any witnesses?’ He checked his watch. The local cops should have had time by now to trawl the locals for leads. All it needed was one sighting.

  Santer caught on fast. ‘This sounds more than urgent. Isn’t he playing ball?’

  ‘He is, but I need something to get through to him. He either doesn’t believe or doesn’t want to believe Farek could be over here.’

  ‘Not surprised. He’ll know what the man’s capable of.’

  ‘There’s something else.’ Rocco described what Caspar had said about Bouhassa’s unique method of killing. ‘It might be missed at first sight. Tell them to inspect the throats for blood.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Santer muttered. ‘That’s sick. OK, I’ll call you back. Where are you?’

  Rocco gave him the café number and walked back to the table.

  Caspar was gone.

  Rocco didn’t bother checking the toilets; Caspar would have had to pass by the telephone to get there. He went out into the street, but there was no sign of the man. H
e shouldn’t have left him alone; something must have spooked him.

  As he went back inside to pay the bill, the waiter called him. He was holding the telephone receiver.

  It was Santer.

  ‘You struck lucky. Nothing in Marseilles – it’s too big an area to have finished canvassing yet. But Chalon-sur-Saône is smaller. A flea bite. The local doctor remembers driving past the depot where the man Pichard was killed, and saw two men standing inside the doorway. Strangers, he said. One was wearing a pale djellaba. The doctor’s ex-military, did tours along the Med, so he knows.’

  Rocco breathed deeply, heart thudding. ‘What about the victims?’

  ‘They both had severe burn and blast damage to the inside of the throat. They’ll have to open them up to confirm it, but it looks like Caspar was right. And the doctor in Chalon reckoned the man in the bed sheet is a cast-iron cert for a heart attack.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Fat, he said. Huge. And bald. Sound familiar?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Back in Amiens the following morning, Rocco walked across the car park to the neighbouring building which housed the forensics department, and knocked on Dr Rizzotti’s door.

  ‘Ah, Inspector,’ the doctor greeted him. He reached into a drawer and produced a slip of card inside a plastic envelope. ‘I checked the clothing of that poor unfortunate you brought in from the canal.’ He dropped the envelope on the desk and angled his desk light so that Rocco could see the contents. ‘Not much, as you can see, but interesting. It looks like a map.’

  Rocco studied it carefully. Rizzotti was right. It was a simple drawing done by what looked like ballpoint pen. The card was water damaged and stained, and the image slightly blurred. But it showed two parallel wavy lines, with a short line bisecting them at the right-hand end and an arrow pointing left. In between the wavy lines at the left-hand end was a drawing of what looked like a bullet with a cross alongside it.

  ‘Does it make any sense, Inspector?’

  Rocco nodded. It made absolute sense. The drawing represented the canal and parapet, with directions for the carriers to follow, and the bullet shape was the barge where they were to stop. Simple graphics, no need for language. Clever.

  ‘Thanks, Doctor,’ he said. ‘You’d better keep that in the evidence box. The dead man’s a North African illegal. That’s all I know at the moment.’

  ‘Very well.’ Rizzotti put the envelope and card in his work tray, then noticed Rocco hadn’t moved. ‘Is there something else?’

  ‘Yes. Apart from death, what would happen if a gun fitted with a silencer was pushed down a man’s throat and the trigger pulled?’

  Rizzotti’s mouth dropped open. ‘Inspector, I think you are seriously in need of a holiday.’ He sat back, however, and considered the question, pursing his lips and humming faintly.

  ‘The short answer would be best,’ Rocco prompted him, worried that the medical man was about to launch into a lengthy exposition on the various parts of the human body, most of which would go completely over his head.

  ‘Ah. I see. Very well, then. I suppose if the silencer was, say, in the region of at least fifteen centimetres, extending that from the gun barrel – a pistol, I take it?’ Rocco nodded. ‘Well, that would certainly be enough to place the end of the silencer down near the larynx. The trachea, or windpipe as you might know it, is a tube. It leads to the vital organs in the chest cavity. Quite simply, any normal gunshot would not only vaporise all the soft tissue through burning and the ripple effect of the gases, but depending on the angle of the gun barrel, the bullet would pass through one or more of the most vital organs and out through the body – probably the back.’ He looked at Rocco and lifted his eyebrows. ‘I presume you don’t want me to list the organs affected? There are rather a lot.’

  ‘Thanks. No need. What if it wasn’t a normal gunshot?’ He explained about the low propellant charge and the doctored hollow point shell allegedly preferred by Bouhassa.

  Rizzotti shifted in his seat. ‘My God – that’s … incredible. Well, let me see. You’d still get the same burning, although a lower degree of blast and ripple. As for the bullet …’ He shrugged. ‘If it breaks up to the degree you suggest, then there’s every chance that the fragments would stay inside the body.’

  ‘So the cause of death wouldn’t be immediately obvious.’

  ‘Probably not. But there would be extensive …’ he searched for a word, and looked slightly apologetic ‘… let’s call it a blowback of blood and tissue. Some would undoubtedly escape as a fine mist, even over the person making the kill. But yes, it’s possible that a cursory or hasty examination would miss the cause of death, especially if the exterior evidence was cleaned up.’ He frowned at the idea of a fellow professional making such an error. ‘I could do you a schematic, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, Doctor. I’ll let you know if I need it.’ He thanked Rizzotti for taking the photographs of the dead man, then made his escape. Back in the main office, he rang Caspar, and was surprised when the former undercover cop answered immediately.

  ‘Sorry about last night,’ said Caspar. ‘I had stuff to do.’

  ‘Not a problem. I think Farek’s here and he’s heading north.’ He explained about the initial results from the examination of the two dead criminals.

  There was a lengthy silence, with a pinging noise on the line. Then Caspar said, ‘That’s … not good. What do you need from me?’

  ‘Can you ask around your contacts among the immigrés? That’s where news will travel fastest. Find out if anyone’s seen him yet.’ It was a huge thing to ask but he was short of options. No longer on the force and not in the best frame of mind, from what Santer had said, Caspar wasn’t really geared up to get involved in this kind of thing anymore. But Rocco needed to know where the Algerian gang boss was, and this was the only man who could plug into the community network and reach that information.

  To his surprise, Caspar agreed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But don’t raise your hopes – it could lead to nothing.’ In spite of this caveat, he sounded almost cheerful, and Rocco wondered if it signalled a kind of desperation to stay in the game. A man like Caspar, working and living two lives – often simultaneously – was the type to devote himself exclusively to his work. He must have found letting go almost impossible to bear.

  ‘I won’t. And thanks.’ He hoped he wasn’t going to regret this.

  ‘What I said before about Farek,’ Caspar added. ‘Watch your back. If he sets his sights on you for any reason at all, you’d better find a deep hole to climb into. Because he won’t let up.’

  By noon Rocco was walking along the north side of the canal with Claude, heading away from the ruined barge where Nicole and the other illegals had been kept. With no definite leads to go on, and with his plans stalled while waiting for Massin to get clearance for a trawl of the factories in the area for illegal workers, he had decided to check for himself the ground where the men might have trodden. As he had learnt through long experience, leave no stone unturned when it came to checking detail.

  ‘Doesn’t look like anyone walked along here for a good while,’ said Claude after they had been walking for nearly thirty minutes. They had covered a couple of kilometres and were close to the point where the body had been dragged out of the water. So far all they had seen underfoot was debris from wind-damaged trees and heavy clumps of couch grass concealing what had once been a clear towpath. Claude stopped periodically to examine the ground, peeling aside the grass and lifting debris. But each time he stood up and shook his head.

  Rocco stopped and looked around. They were well away from the road here, as they had been since crossing the parapet, and there had been nowhere to go back across – and wouldn’t be, according to Claude – until they reached the first lock. Penetrating the bordering belt of trees and scrub on the side of the canal would lead only to open farmland, with no access to any decent roads.

  ‘They couldn’t do it in daylight, in any case,’ he added.
‘They’d stand out like undertakers at a white wedding.’

  Rocco agreed. From what Nicole had said the men weren’t in any great shape to go for a lengthy overland trek, and their choice of route after leaving the barge had been strictly limited. ‘It had to have been by water,’ he said, and stared into the canal. It looked glassy and still, and earlier that morning – as it would have been for days now – would have been a degree or two short of having an icy gloss on the surface, especially against the banks where the current was at its weakest. Wading across wouldn’t have been an option even in summer, let alone now and by men ill prepared for this kind of exposure.

  He turned and led the way back to the barge, examining the bank on either side. It was Claude who spotted the first signs.

  ‘Looks like someone tied up here.’ He pointed down at the edge of the canal, where a clump of grass had been torn out of the bank and a heavy dent made in the waterlogged soil. ‘A boat nosed in hard.’

  He was right. The impression in the bank was too big to have been made by a man.

  Rocco stood and let the scenario play out through his mind. A boat, maybe a barge, but more likely something smaller and more manoeuvrable, had come along here and stopped at this point. It would have taken just a couple of minutes for the men to scramble off the old barge and on board their new transport. Then it would have been on its way back along the canal. He studied the impression carefully. It had been made by a boat coming from the direction of Amiens. Had it been from the Poissons direction, the dent would have been the other way round.