Death on the Rive Nord

by Adrian Magson

  There was another bang, louder this time and closer. The boxer coughed once, his hand sliding off Caspar’s shoulder.

  Jesus – he’d been shot by his own man!

  It was all the opportunity Caspar was going to get or need. He tore loose and ran straight down the hallway and crashed through the door, eyes tight shut and hands in front of his face, showering himself with bits of rotten wood and broken glass. He felt a stab of cold where his cheek was sliced through by a sliver of glass, but he ignored it. There was too much to lose now by stopping.

  He was in an enclosed space smelling of damp and cats. Dark shapes showed up vaguely in the ambient light, a devil’s scrapyard containing an old bicycle, wooden boxes, bits of furniture, an ancient hip bath. The crap of a lifetime abandoned to the elements. He continued running for the end of the space like a forward going for a try. Every house like this had a small gate opening onto a cut-through at the back. It was standard layout in streets like this. Another shot followed him but went wide, spitting chunks of brick from the wall on his right.

  Someone shouted.

  By the time he reached a street with traffic, he was losing blood and coughing painfully. Then he saw a cop car cruising towards him. It was the best sight he could have wished for, and he staggered out into the middle of the road, only then remembering that he was half naked.

  But free.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Rocco and Nicole talked long after the meal was over and Massi had been put to sleep in Rocco’s bedroom overlooking the rear garden. It was late for coffee but Rocco needed the boost of caffeine, so he put water on to boil and filled the percolator while Nicole checked on her son.

  When she came back, she sat at the table watching him. She looked tired and he told her she should get some sleep.

  ‘I will,’ she said. ‘Soon enough.’ She nodded at the door to the attic. ‘What’s up there?’

  ‘Only the rats.’

  ‘Rats?’ She looked alarmed. ‘How horrible!’

  ‘Fruit rats.’

  ‘Ah. Les fouines. I’ve heard of them. Are they dangerous?’

  ‘Only if you get between them and their next piece of fruit.’

  ‘You’ve never cleared them out?’

  ‘Why should I? They were here before me. I’ve got used to them, anyway. They don’t argue back.’

  She giggled and watched as he poured coffee and added a measure of cognac from a bottle he’d taken from a cupboard.

  ‘For medicinal purposes,’ he explained. ‘It’ll help you relax.’

  She didn’t argue, but sipped the coffee and nodded approvingly. ‘My grandmother always drank brandy when she was feeling unwell. She said it never failed.’ She glanced around the room and picked up a heavy Pernod ashtray from a sideboard. ‘Please, smoke if you wish. I don’t mind.’ She placed it before him.

  ‘I don’t, much. But thanks.’

  ‘Really? I thought all policemen smoked incessantly.’

  He shrugged. ‘I have one occasionally.’

  She glanced at the brandy bottle. ‘You drink, instead?’

  ‘Every now and then; a good Brouilly or a whisky, maybe. To be honest, it doesn’t do that much for me.’

  She looked at him over the rim of her cup. ‘So what does do that much for you?’ Then she blushed furiously and put her cup down in confusion. ‘I’m sorry – that was … rude.’

  ‘No need to apologise,’ he replied, and wondered why he felt so tongue-tied. ‘I seem to spend most of my time working, and I only drink when I’m really stressed and can fall over safely. Does that make me boring?’

  She shook her head, eyes unblinking and deep. She said softly, ‘No. Not at all.’

  ‘How did you know to come here?’ Rocco felt a rush of heat to his face and wished he hadn’t asked such a dumb question. They had been this close all evening, but now, with just the two of them, the space seemed to have shrunk dramatically and he was acutely aware of her perfume.

  She gave a shiver as if uncomfortable at being dragged back to reality. ‘I asked at the shop. I told the woman I needed a policeman and had heard there was one in the village. At first she told me about the garde champêtre but I said I needed the inspector. She sent me straight down here.’ She paused before adding, ‘I made sure there was no … family, before I came.’

  Rocco nodded. A wife might have complicated matters, an attractive young woman and a child turning up out of the blue like that. It explained the bizarre attitude of Mme Drolet at the co-op earlier. Jesus, were they all in league and trying to marry him off?

  ‘Your neighbour was very sweet. She was a bit unsure at first, but with Massi in the car, she knew I wasn’t here to harm you. It must be nice to have people looking after you in this way.’

  They stared at each other, both blinking at a skittering sound overhead. And suddenly, the moment, if there had been one, was gone.

  ‘Where is your car?’ He hadn’t seen the Peugeot outside; he’d have remembered it too easily.

  ‘In the first shed. It was just big enough. I thought … maybe it would be less embarrassing for you if I was discreet.’

  The shed. One of two he never used. ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘So what made you come?’

  She explained about the gossip she’d picked up, how the gangster known among the Algerian community as ‘Farek’ was on his way and looking for his runaway wife and child. How word would have gone out to look for a woman and boy travelling alone.

  ‘Someone will have already spoken, I’m certain,’ she explained. ‘Maybe even one of the men I travelled with. I couldn’t take the chance of staying with Amina and putting her in danger.’ She shrugged, turning her cup slowly on the tabletop. ‘Actually, I didn’t know where else to go. When we met up on the hill, you made this place sound so remote, so … safe.’

  Rocco reached for the phone and dialled Claude’s number. Poissons might be safe normally, but he wasn’t betting on it remaining so for long. He’d known other fugitives who had tried hiding in remote locations, only to have a face appear like a long-forgotten bad memory and bring the past hurtling back at them.

  ‘It’s Lucas,’ he said when Claude answered. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll come now.’ Just like that. No questions, no arguments.

  ‘The local garde, Claude Lamotte,’ Rocco explained to Nicole. ‘He’s a good man. If a strange duck flies over the village, he’ll know immediately.’

  They waited until the familiar clatter of a 2CV stopped outside, followed by the tinny slamming of a door. Rocco let him in.

  ‘Evening.’ Claude nodded at Nicole and shook hands. He seemed unsurprised to see her here and Rocco guessed that word had already got out. Rocco the resident cop has a female visitor. Watch this space.

  ‘Nicole Farek,’ said Rocco, ‘Claude Lamotte.’

  ‘Farek? Ah, of course.’ Claude demonstrating that he was a man of the world and knew what was what. He looked longingly at the percolator, so Rocco poured him a cup, adding a generous measure of cognac. Then he explained about Samir Farek’s journey from Oran and the likelihood that the gang leader would pitch up in the area before very long.

  ‘You really think he will find this place?’ Claude looked doubtful. ‘How?’

  ‘Because he has a network of people looking,’ said Nicole. ‘It is Samir’s way: he frightens simple people into doing what he says and they dare not disobey. Eventually, someone in the Algerian community will talk … about me, about Massi – about anyone they think is unusual. There are not too many single women with a small boy arriving in this area. I should have thought more carefully before coming here. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Rocco. ‘You didn’t have many options.’ He glanced at Claude and said, ‘Can you keep an eye out for unknown vehicles in the area? We might not get much warning of their arrival. It could mean long hours.’

  Claude grinned. ‘Suits me. Anything’s better than housework.’ He finished his coffee an
d explained, ‘My daughter’s coming home for a visit. Well, one of them, anyway. She was married the last I heard, but,’ he puffed out his lips, ‘now she is not. So, I am making the house into a home again … or trying, anyway.’ He shrugged casually but Rocco sensed an undercurrent of excitement beneath the show of detachment. Claude, a widower, rarely spoke about his daughters, who had both left home to make their own lives.

  Claude nodded at them both. ‘I’d better be going.’ Then made his way out.

  The hum of a vehicle engine dragged Rocco out of a light sleep. He was in the back of the Citroën on the drive, wrapped in a blanket. After the warmth of the house and meal, it was like ducking under a cold shower. But there was too much to lose by assuming Farek wouldn’t come. If he didn’t turn up tonight he would do so tomorrow or the night after that.

  He slid low in the seat as the side-wash of headlights brushed across the house, the sheds and the interior of the car, chasing shadows into the darkness. They were approaching from the square by the co-op. He peered at his watch. Two o’clock. Beyond his house lay nothing but fields for several kilometres until you hit the village of Danvillers. Who the hell drove from Poissons to Danvillers at this time of night?

  He slid the MAB 38 from his pocket and waited for the car to slow. It was travelling at a measured pace, but that didn’t mean it was Farek. The engine sounded powerful. It drifted by without stopping, tyres crunching on soil washed off the slope across the road by the last rain. Rocco lifted his head and caught a glimpse of two men against the reflected aura of the headlights. Neither looked towards the house.

  He ducked out of the car and quietly shut the door, then crouched down, waiting. If they had dropped a man further down the lane, he wouldn’t be long in coming for a closer look.

  Fifteen minutes later he was still waiting and feeling foolish.

  He stood up, bones protesting, and returned to the house, where Nicole was waiting at the kitchen table. She was barefoot and seemed unperturbed by the chill settling on the room now the fire had died down. Her coat was wrapped tightly around her, but he couldn’t help but imagine that she wore very little underneath.

  It was an unsettling thought. He went up to the attic to join the fruit rats, closing the door firmly behind him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Morning brought a renewed cold snap and a layer of frost on the garden. Rocco was wide awake at six and went out to set fire to the pump. It involved packing straw around the base where it came out of the ground, then lighting it to melt the ice in the pipe. He was watched by a wide-eyed Massi from the safety of the kitchen. He took the filled jug indoors, then told Nicole to lock the door behind him and stay inside.

  ‘Where are you going?’ She touched his arm and he realised that the coming of day with its cold, clear light had filled her with a renewed sense of fear. She was right to worry; this house was no fortress and would be easy to penetrate by a determined attacker.

  ‘Just taking a look,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t go far.’ He checked his gun and stepped outside. It was cold and clear, with an unusual clarity to the air. He walked out of the front gate and looked to his right towards the village. The lane was empty, scarred by the trench where the new water pipes had been laid but not yet covered. An elderly lady appeared down near the square, carrying a small milk churn and wrapped against the chill in an enormous, black overcoat. To his left, the direction the car had driven earlier, the lane disappeared into open countryside.

  He walked past the front of the orchard, eyeing the trees. They were rarely cultivated, and full of fruit in summer, a haven for fat, lazy insects and greedy birds. Now there was nothing moving, as if the cold had beaten down every living thing. Even the grass was flat, the long, frost-covered blades now curved downwards under the weight of winter’s approach.

  He stepped off the lane and listened, his antennae tingling.

  Not a sound.

  He swivelled, wondering if he’d somehow lost touch with the usual sounds of a Poissons morning: a cock crowing, a cow bellowing to be milked, the clatter of an early tractor chugging out to the fields to collect a herd, the chatter and cheeping of birds in the trees.

  But there was none of that.

  He walked back through the gate and checked the rear garden, where it butted onto a field rarely used and given over to weeds and wild flowers. If there was anything moving out there, it was being very careful not to be seen. He scanned the field all the way across, mentally dividing it into sections and checking each one, as he’d been trained in the army when searching for snipers. He was looking for signs of a recent passage made through the icy grass, where it would show darker against the pale grey.

  Nothing.

  Yet something didn’t feel right.

  He went to the front door. As he was about to go inside, he saw Mme Denis standing at the fence between the two properties. She beckoned him across, looking unusually furtive, even for her. She was fully dressed, bundled in layers against the cold.

  ‘Nice young woman,’ she said. But he could tell that wasn’t what she wanted to talk about. Her next words confirmed it. ‘Someone’s been watching you.’

  ‘Who?’

  She kept her eyes on Rocco’s face and said, ‘Don’t turn your head, but look past me. Do you see the thicket across the lane – halfway up the slope?’

  He flicked a glance past her head, taking in the lane and the undeveloped piece of land opposite, which was a mixture of tall, spindly acers, untamed chestnut and clusters of blackthorn, the tips of the branches bleached with frost.

  ‘What am I looking for?’ He couldn’t see anyone but hadn’t expected to. If a watcher had been sent, they would have gone to ground by now with the coming of light.

  ‘He’s not an angry husband, I know that much.’ Mme Denis handed him some eggs in a bag. ‘I saw a man standing up there when I got up at four to make some tea. I don’t sleep so well some nights – a condition of age. You’ll be the same one day, if you survive that long. He was standing among the trees but I saw him move. Must be cold up there.’ She narrowed her eyes in warning. ‘And before you treat me like a mad old woman who’s lost her grip on reality, young man, you never asked me what I did during the war.’

  Rocco smiled. Warning him of snoopers one second, challenging him to doubt her the next. Among other things,

  she was part of what made living here such a pleasure. Outwardly crusty on occasion, she had a warm heart and he wasn’t surprised that she had made Nicole and her son so readily welcome.

  ‘You’re right, I never did. I figured it was none of my business.’ He waited for her to say something, but she merely cocked her head, waiting. ‘So what did you do during the war?’

  ‘Mind your own business. Now get in there and look after your guests.’ With a sly wink, she turned and hurried back to her cottage, shooing away some chickens trying to follow her inside.

  Rocco went inside and told Nicole that they would have to leave – and soon.

  ‘Why?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Is it Farek?’ She looked round for Massi, who was busy listening for the fruit rats at the attic door.

  ‘Not yet, but he sent a watcher. In the trees across the lane.’ He put down the eggs and picked up the telephone. When Claude answered, he explained about the man Mme Denis had seen.

  ‘That explains it,’ said Claude. ‘I saw a car from out of the area parked outside the café last night. I thought it might be a traveller but it was too late to wake them up and ask. I’ll be right down. Leave the back open.’

  Rocco put down the telephone and found Nicole staring at him. Perhaps the full realisation of what she was facing had finally hit her. Farek, her husband, was never going to let go of this. He would keep coming, no matter what, and if he couldn’t come himself, he’d send men who could. It would be like holding back the tide.

  He wondered what it was all for.

  ‘Why is he chasing you?’ The question came out sharper than he’d intended, the tho
ught given voice. She looked surprised, which made him feel like a bully, but it had to be asked.

  She blinked. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I told you why: he wants me back. Or dead.’

  ‘Yes. Honour. I understand that. But why else?’

  Her reaction was to close down, her eyes going cool and distant, and her body retreating from him. ‘I don’t know. He’s obsessive … driven by the need to control. Like most men.’

  ‘That I also get. Although most men don’t have gunmen working alongside them. Most men don’t put a bullet down someone’s throat just because they disagree with what they say.’ He waited, but she remained silent. ‘Farek’s put the word out on you – just as you said. He’s followed your trail, gathering up the men who arranged it along the way.’

  ‘Gathering?’

  ‘Killing. That sounds more than an outraged husband to me. Are you certain there’s nothing else he wants you for?’

  ‘Like what?’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You don’t understand the place he comes from … the society that bred him. Revenge and honour are all he understands. All any of them understand. I don’t know what else to tell you.’ She shook her head in frustration and turned to look for her son. ‘Massi. Come.’ She looked back at Rocco and said with cool formality, ‘I think we should leave. I’m sorry to have brought this on you. It was unfair of me.’

  She turned and walked through to the bedroom, tugging Massi with her.

  Rocco went to stop her, but the telephone jangled. It was Michel Santer calling from Clichy. He sounded troubled.

  ‘Lucas? I don’t know what you’ve got yourself into but I think you need to get out of there.’