Death on the Rive Nord

by Adrian Magson

  Unfortunately, Rocco knew that there was no way of proving it without an admission from the detective himself or one of the men organising the workers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The phone ringing kicked Rocco out of a troubled sleep. He pushed back the blankets, wincing at the chill in the air of his bedroom. He hadn’t used the wood burner for a couple of days and the house was like a cold store. Much more of this and even the fouines up in the attic would leave home in search of warmer premises.

  He groped for the handset, his head like cotton wool. ‘Yes.’ It was all he could think of to say. He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock. Jesus, no wonder he felt light-headed. Probably Massin calling another council of war to pursue the leak in the building. He’d have been hugely embarrassed by the operation’s failure, especially if the other regions had been successful, and he’d be looking to collect a scalp somehow to show the men at the Ministry.

  Rocco almost felt sorry for him.

  He stood up and grabbed his coat off the chair where he’d left it last night, shrugged it around his shoulders and trailed the phone and wire through to the kitchen. Coffee. He needed coffee.

  It was Desmoulins, sounding tired. ‘Lucas, you need to get in here.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You went to speak to Gondrand the other day, right? About a car you’d seen – a Peugeot?’

  ‘What about it?’ Nicole’s 403. It seemed a long time ago now. Ancient history, almost.

  ‘Gondrand’s been hit. The car lot’s been destroyed. They reckon it was a firebomb.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘The old man’s dead.’

  The Gondrand car lot looked like a war zone. A heavy pall of smoke hung over the area around what had once been Victor Gondrand’s pride and joy, and the smell of burning rubber choked the atmosphere from a good kilometre away. As Rocco climbed out of his car he saw smouldering pennants hanging from their support wires and heard the tortured groan of overheated metal and the crackle of burning plastic echoing in the bitter morning air. Firemen in shiny helmets and heavy boots were dousing the smouldering remains of vehicles, but the heat from the burnt hulks was considerable, made worse by occasional flashes of renewed fire as the heat found remnants of fuel and oil in the tanks and engine blocks.

  A group of children watched the proceedings in silence, jumping at each pop of fuel. They were wrapped in heavy coats and zip-up suede boots, and Rocco could only assume they had been sent out to watch the excitement by their parents. Go watch the big fire, kids. Give us some peace.

  Desmoulins was talking to a fireman. Rocco walked across to join them and shook hands. ‘Early start. What happened?’

  The fireman rubbed a grimy cheek. ‘Looks like someone used petrol bombs – Molotov cocktails – to set it all off.’ He nodded towards the watching children. ‘One of the kids over there said he couldn’t sleep. He was drawing pictures on his bedroom window and saw some men drive up in a car. They got out with a box and lobbed burning bottles in among the cars. They were parked close together, so it wouldn’t have taken much to spread quickly. You ask me, someone didn’t want anything to survive.’

  ‘And Gondrand?’

  Desmoulins looked grim and pointed at what was left of the office building. ‘Victor’s in there. It’s still too hot to get him out. We haven’t been able to get hold of Michel.’

  Rocco thought about the time. ‘Was Victor working early or late?’

  ‘He was a work freak. Stayed late, started early, didn’t have much in the way of hobbies or interests. They must have known he was in there, though. The lights would’ve been on.’

  Lucas looked at the children and wondered if they had seen anything else useful. In his experience, kids often had better recall than adults, images sticking in their minds but lasting only a short while before the temptation to colour the facts began to take over. He walked over and stood looking down at them.

  ‘Which one of you saw it happen?’ he said. There were nine of them, ranging from a five-year-old to a girl in her early teens. They all stared at Rocco with wide eyes, and one of the little girls began to whimper.

  Rocco sighed and sat down on the ground before them. He’d heard it diminished the threat of a grown-up and brought you down to their level, which they could deal with more easily.

  ‘I did.’ It was a small boy on the extreme edge of the group. He was shrouded in a large coat with big, blue buttons, and his skinny legs were sunk into an oversized pair of brown, suede ankle boots with a zip running up the front.

  Rocco nodded. ‘That’s good. What’s your name?’

  ‘Rémi.’

  ‘Rémi. That’s a good name. My father’s name was Rémi.’ It wasn’t, but Rocco was after quick results, not a comparison of family history.

  The boy seemed unimpressed. He shivered in the cold and said in a rush, ‘Some men drove up in a black Peugeot and got out. They had a crate of bottles. Then one of the men lit matches and they started throwing the bottles at the cars.’ He sniffed loudly and added, ‘I won’t get into trouble telling you, will I?’

  Rocco smiled. ‘No. You won’t get into trouble. You’re very good at noticing things. Can you tell me what any of the men looked like? Were they tall, short, thin, fat … stuff like that?’

  ‘They were Arabs,’ said the boy fiercely. Then he turned and ran across the road to a house with a green front door and disappeared inside. The door slammed shut.

  Rocco looked at the rest of them. ‘Anyone else see the men like Rémi did?’

  They shook their heads and looked bored.

  Rocco stood up and looked round for a uniformed officer. He needed someone to speak to Rémi’s parents, and for men to canvass the houses for any other witnesses.

  But first he needed to speak with Michel Gondrand.

  He collected Desmoulins and got him to drive to Gondrand’s home address. It turned out to be an impressive three-storey house in a village several miles out of Amiens. The drive held a Mercedes and a trailer with a powerboat standing in front of a two-car garage. Behind the garage was a large greenhouse, and beyond that a wooden summer house with a large dovecote crowning the shingle roof. The garden was extensive and laid with flower beds and a selection of trees and bushes. Rocco couldn’t picture Michel as the gardening sort, but maybe he was doing the car dealer an injustice.

  He walked up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. He tried the door. Locked tight.

  He looked at Desmoulins. ‘Is Gondrand married?’ It was a family-size home, but you never could tell. Checked his watch. Still only seven-fifteen. It was early for a no-answer, especially with the car in the drive.

  ‘Married, yes. No kids, though.’ Desmoulins lifted an eyebrow. This didn’t look good.

  They walked round the side of the house to a rear door. It was open and led into a kitchen and large utility room complete with every possible convenience. It seemed that whatever Mrs Gondrand might have lacked in a husband with little charm, she had everything else in her life.

  Except life itself.

  A blonde woman Rocco assumed was Mrs Michel Gondrand lay on her face in a pool of blood by the sink unit. She wore a blue dressing gown which was hitched up around slim thighs, as if she had been flung forward with some force. A blue slipper with a quilted motif hung from one foot, while its twin lay near the door to a hallway. Rocco bent and checked her pulse, but knew by the amount of blood on the floor that she was beyond help. He looked for the source of the blood and saw a hole in the back of her neck, beneath her hair. A small-calibre gunshot, but still deadly.

  He stood back, reading the scene and picturing the sequence of events. The gunman had come through the back door. He’d surprised Mrs Gondrand and pushed her to the floor, then shot her once. Callous. Wasting no time.

  Desmoulins went out of the door into the hallway. He was back moments later.

  ‘Through in the study,’ he said grimly. ‘Michel. Another head shot.’
<
br />   Rocco went through and found himself in a room decorated like something out of a magazine editor’s idea of a man’s study, complete with leather chairs, a desk and lots of books. A drinks table near the door held an impressive array of bottles and crystal glasses, with a mixer flask and ice bucket.

  Michel Gondrand was lying behind the desk in a foetal position, knees close to his chest and one arm curled round his head. An entry wound just behind his right ear was messy with blood and white bone matter. He was dressed in trousers and shoes and looked ready for work.

  Rocco walked carefully around the room, checking out the furniture. Barring the bodies, everything looked normal, although he had no idea what normal was in this household. He pulled open the middle drawer of the desk and found an envelope full of money lying in clear view of anyone who might have been looking for cash. In addition, Gondrand still wore a Breitling watch on his wrist and some expensive-looking cufflinks.

  He touched Gondrand’s neck. Cold. Death had occurred hours ago.

  If robbery wasn’t the motive here, what was?

  ‘Get a team in here,’ said Rocco. He picked up a slim, leather address book and flicked through it while Desmoulins got on the phone. The book contained lots of addresses and telephone numbers, some business, others private. A few numbers, he noted, had neither names nor addresses, and were identified only by initials. He handed the book to Desmoulins. ‘Take a look through that when you get a moment, will you? See if you can identify anyone.’

  Rocco left him to it and toured the house, checking the other rooms. The car business must have been doing well. The Gondrands had lived in some style, with no shortage of expensive furnishings and lots of gadgets. Michel evidently played golf, and with the powerboat out front, enjoyed his toys, too.

  Everywhere was clean, tidy, and showed no signs of having been disturbed. Whoever had killed the Gondrands had come in, done what they had to do and left again. In, out, focused. No distractions. Professional. The word in this context depressed the hell out of him.

  The bathroom held almost as many toiletries for men as it did for women: cologne, aftershave, hair oil and other creams Rocco had never seen before. Vanity, thy name was Michel Gondrand.

  The master bedroom overlooked the garage. He looked outside, caught a glimpse through the window of the garage interior, and the gleaming wing of a car. It looked sporty. Another of Michel’s playthings or Mrs Gondrand’s runaround?

  Then he turned and saw the safe.

  It was sunk into the floor in the corner, half-hidden beneath a washing basket. He nudged the basket to one side and tried the handle of the safe. The door swung upwards, revealing a pile of documents and more cash in paper bands.

  He skimmed through the documents. They were mostly deeds referring to three plots of land on the outskirts of Amiens. There were no details of the locations, just plot numbers and official references. He doubted they would yield much, but the family lawyer would no doubt make sense of them. There was, however, one unexpected item: a colour photograph. It showed a plot of muddy ground with what were the footings of a large development and piles of building materials scattered around. In the background a group of men were in conversation, either unaware or uninterested in the camera taking the photo.

  On the back of the photograph someone had scribbled: Ecoboras SA.

  Back downstairs, he found Desmoulins checking out the drawers in the kitchen.

  The detective shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. Just family stuff. You find anything?’

  Rocco nodded and waved the deeds and the photograph. The paperwork included details of Gondrand’s legal adviser. He’d give him a call. ‘Some stuff I need to look at.’

  ‘Great. We finished here? The others will be here anytime.’

  The wail of a siren was already approaching and Rocco didn’t want to stay here any longer than it took to hand over to the officer in charge. There were too many things going on and he was beginning to feel as if he was floating with tiredness. He could tell by the way Desmoulins was squinting that he was feeling the same. And that was no state in which to try solving a bizarre series of events like these. First the body in the canal; then the Gondrand car lot being very comprehensively firebombed with the old man inside; now the younger Gondrand and his wife shot dead. Executed.

  He couldn’t work it out. Where the hell had this come from? A competitor, jealous of their success? Or someone who felt cheated on a deal? That was a possibility, if what Desmoulins had said about the younger Gondrand was right. The competitor angle didn’t really fly, though; there were no other dealers of a comparable size in the area, just a few small garages trading in the occasional used vehicle. Times were tough everywhere and there hadn’t exactly been an explosion of wealth in the region. But that raised an interesting question: had Gondrand really managed to live so well just on the sale of cars – and on a shared income with his father? Or had he enjoyed another source of revenue?

  Then a cold feeling ran down his back.

  Samir Farek, gangster, killer and angry husband … was here in France, on the trail of his wife. That same wife – Nicole – had bought her car from none other than Michel Gondrand.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  It was just after seven when Nicole Farek pulled the Peugeot into the kerb by the police station and got out, telling Massi to be a good boy and stay where he was. He nodded sleepily, too tired to be excited by anything so early in the morning – even the proximity of policemen with guns, which always made his eyes go wide in wonder.

  She locked the car and entered the building, stifling any thoughts about her lack of documentation. She would have to worry about that if it arose. She saw a man behind the desk, yawning over a stack of forms. He looked drawn and pale, and was sipping at a mug of coffee. In a corridor to one side, a cleaner was slopping water across the floor tiles with a large mop. Both men looked up as if surprised to see anyone walking in so early in the day.

  ‘Inspector Rocco?’ she said to the desk officer.

  He shook his head. ‘Not here yet. Who wants him?’

  She sensed the cleaner was listening. He was dark-skinned, possibly Algerian, with a single, heavy eyebrow over a bulbous nose, and Nicole turned away and said quietly, ‘What time will he be in? I have to speak with him.’

  ‘No idea. There’s been a call – he’s probably gone to that. Can I take a message?’

  She turned her head, saw the cleaner staring at her, his mop still. She felt a stab of alarm, even though she knew she was jumping at shadows. He wouldn’t know her – how could he? Just a nosey janitor trying to liven up his boring job.

  She thanked the officer and walked outside, her stomach churning with indecision and a growing sense of frustration. She was fast running out of options; she couldn’t stay around here – not now she knew Farek was in Paris. And if she stayed with Amina any longer, she would be placing her in harm’s way. But where else could she go? She looked around, trying to gain inspiration from the surrounding buildings. Then she noticed a man on the pavement across the street. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, dark-skinned and black-eyed, like the janitor inside. He seemed vaguely familiar.

  And he was watching her.

  She hurried back to the car and got in, feeling sick. Just then a moped clattered by and pulled into the kerb, the rider a youth in a cheap coat. The man on the pavement jumped on the pillion seat and it roared off down the street, bouncing wildly under the combined weight.

  She breathed a sigh of relief, felt the nausea recede. She was letting her imagination run away with her, seeing Farek’s men everywhere. But it had made up her mind for her. She had to go. Now. And there was only one place she could think of.

  Poissons. It was away from here and Farek couldn’t possibly know about it. And sooner or later, Rocco would return home.

  Two hundred metres down the street, the man on the back of the moped swore loudly and banged the rider’s shoulder. ‘Stop! Stop here!’

  ‘Why?�
�� The moped wobbled and the rider hauled on the brakes, putting both feet out to maintain balance.

  ‘Here.’ The passenger, whose name was Malik, gestured towards a workmen’s café sandwiched between two empty buildings. He barely allowed for the moped to stop before leaping off the back and hurrying across the pavement.

  ‘Where are you going? We’ll be late!’ The two men were employed as casual cleaners in a restaurant near the cathedral, and the owner was ruthless when it came to replacing staff who showed up late.

  ‘I have to make a phone call,’ Malik threw back. ‘Two minutes.’ He hurried inside and made for the telephone at the rear. He felt excited, and was biting his lip in expectation and not a little fear. He wasn’t sure which affected him the most – the prospect of a reward for reporting what he had just seen … or the likely outcome if he’d made a mistake. But he knew deep down that he couldn’t be wrong. He dialled a number from memory.

  ‘Yes.’ It was the voice of his cousin, who lived in northeastern Paris. He was a man of few words, and not one to cross with foolishness or wasting his time. His cousin worked for Lakhdar Farek, also not a man to cross. It was Lakhdar who had announced that anyone who knew her must look out for his brother Samir’s disloyal whore of a wife and that a reward would be paid for the person reporting such a fact if it led to her capture.

  ‘I have seen Farek’s bitch!’ Malik blurted out, a little louder than intended, fired by excitement at being able to give up his lowly cleaning job. He hunched his shoulders and turned to the wall, his voice dropping. ‘I have seen her just now.’

  ‘Where?’ No surprise in the voice, only a calm acceptance that it was so. Malik had known Nicole Farek as a young girl.

  ‘Here in the street – in Amiens. Just now, moments ago!’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘As I am of my own father’s honour. I swear.’ For a brief second Malik wavered, his mind flicking across what might happen if he was wrong. Better not to think about it. ‘It was her, I swear.’