Death on the Rive Nord

by Adrian Magson

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Marc Casparon is in Val-de-Grâce military hospital in the fifth arrondissement. He’s in a bad way.’

  Rocco’s gut went cold. ‘How bad?’ His worst fears were being realised. Caspar had pushed his luck too far.

  ‘Not sure yet. He’d been shot and badly beaten, with at least two broken ribs and possibly some internal damage. A patrol car picked him up half naked in a street south of Belleville. Fortunately the driver recognised him and got him into hospital before he bled to death.’ Santer paused. ‘Tell me you didn’t ask him to go undercover for you.’

  ‘I had to. I needed to know what Farek was doing.’

  ‘Fuck Farek! Lucas, I told you Caspar’s a psychological mess. He shouldn’t even be out on his own, never mind playing spies with people like Farek and his kind. He’s burnt out. He probably gave himself away the moment he turned up at that meeting.’

  ‘Did Farek do it to him?’

  ‘Who else? Him and his idiot brother, Youcef, and the fat, murderous prick, Bouhassa.’ Santer sounded tired, as if the last few hours had sapped his strength. ‘That’s not all. We’ve been getting calls from all over, through undercover officers in the gang task force, snitches and others. Word is that Farek’s now top dog in town. He’s taken over.’

  ‘Jesus, how?’ Rocco was stunned. He knew from experience that the resident North African gangs in Paris had been established over many years and had proved far from easy to dislodge. Many had tried in the past and failed. But they had been French or Corsican. Like many gang cultures, family ties in the Algerian gangs counted for almost everything and the bond between generations and familial branches was impossible to break. Surely even Farek couldn’t have simply walked in and done just that without a shot being fired? ‘Where’s the local opposition?’

  ‘Don’t ask me how, but he faced them down. He called a meeting of gang leaders in Belleville and read them the riot act. One man stood up against him – a clan chief from Saint-Etienne. He was dragged out by Bouhassa and nobody’s seen him since. Farek’s brothers, Youcef and Lakhdar, are right in there with him, too, and they’ve got a lot of soldiers to back them up. They boxed very clever; they set it up over time, then Samir walked in and took over.’ He sighed ruefully. ‘Caught us all with our pants around our ankles.’

  ‘It won’t last.’ Rocco knew that these things were never permanent. Sooner or later, another clan would emerge, better prepared, talking tougher, acting more ruthlessly, prepared to do whatever it took to gain control.

  ‘I know. As soon as the others find where they dropped their couilles, it’ll all go to shit. It’ll be open warfare. We don’t need this.’

  Santer was right. Gang conflict was a recipe for disaster. It tied up police time, kept the hospitals busy patching up the victims caught in the crossfire, and usually ushered in a load of new faces which had to be studied and identified.

  ‘Anyway, that’s not why I’m calling,’ Santer continued. ‘Caspar stayed with it long enough to say that Farek’s got your name and is tying you in with his missing wife. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes. She came looking for help.’

  ‘Jesus, you really pick your battles, don’t you? Where is she right now?’

  ‘Here with me.’

  ‘Then you’d better get moving. Caspar only got away because they all went off in a rush and left him tied up. He says if you catch up with Youcef, give him a kick or two; it was Youcef who did the number on his ribs and it’s a cert that he also killed Caspar’s informant, Saoula. We had a neighbour identify the body a few hours ago. There was a nice clear imprint on one cheek from a signet ring. Find it on Youcef’s hand and he’ll be for the chop.’

  ‘OK. I’ll look out for him.’

  ‘Look out for all of them. Samir Farek’s coming after you and he’s making it really personal.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The canal heading west from Poissons was sluggish and still, the polar opposite of an ideal escape route. It was as if the morning chill had sapped all its energy and turned it to the consistency of treacle. Likewise, the trees overhanging the water were white and sparkling with ice in the weak morning sunlight, waiting for the day’s promise of warmth to get them moving again.

  Rocco watched as an ancient barge with a wooden aft cabin chugged away from the bank, its chimney streaming with dark smoke from the wood stove inside. The noise of the engine sounded too loud in the thin air, echoing off the trees as if shouting for attention, and he wondered if this wasn’t the craziest notion.

  He caught a brief glimpse of Nicole in the rear doorway, her face pale as she stared back at him. She, too, had been dubious of the wisdom of this plan, echoing his own doubts about running away slowly.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be best to drive as fast as possible – by car?’ she had asked, staring at the barge as it wallowed by the bank. Claude had led them down through the village, cutting through the houses along a series of footpaths and hedgerows which only the residents were familiar with. Eventually, they had arrived at the prearranged meeting point to find a cheerfully grinning Jean-Michel waiting for them. He was in his late sixties and thin as a stick, wrapped in a heavy jumper and puffing on a black pipe, a man at peace with the world.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ said Claude. ‘Jean-Mi knows what he’s doing. He’ll keep you safe as long as you do what he says.’

  Jean-Michel, a former policeman, a friend of Claude’s and part-time bargee, had arrived within an hour of being summoned, eager to get out on the water and join in the piece of subterfuge put together by Claude and Rocco.

  Having decided against heading out of Poissons by road, Claude had come up with the one way of moving Nicole and Massi without being seen: the canal. The irony – that this was the same method used by Nicole to arrive here – was not lost on anyone.

  ‘It’ll be slow but safe,’ Claude assured Rocco. ‘And Jean-Mi owns a shotgun. He was a champion shot when he was in the service, too; he won’t let anyone get close.’

  Jean-Michel had promised to stay with his passengers for as long as was needed. If forced to move, he would simply head out on the canal, looking for the numerous cut-offs he knew of in which to lay up until the danger was gone.

  Rocco hadn’t liked the idea of them being out of touch for long periods, but with firm promises of regular contact through Claude, he had finally relented. As a way of keeping track without using locations, he had suggested using the various lock numbers as pointers.

  Claude had agreed. ‘Good idea. I know the numbers and can get to them quickly if I have to.’

  Now, heading back to the house with Claude leading the way, Rocco saw the sense in the plan. He had impressed on Claude the dangers for everyone of keeping Nicole and her son in Poissons, and the need to get them out of the village while he kept a step ahead of Farek. Once he left the house, and Farek’s men realised it was empty, they would leave the area and carry their search elsewhere.

  He and Claude arrived at the edge of the field behind Mme Denis’s house and hunkered down, watching for signs of movement. Everything seemed normal but Claude was shaking his head, visibly unsettled. It turned out to be for the same reasons Rocco had noted earlier.

  ‘No bird noises,’ he whispered. ‘The orchards and hedges are usually full of them, taking the last of the fruit before winter. Something’s disturbed them.’

  They gave it another ten minutes, then Claude beckoned Rocco to follow him, moving carefully along the hedge until they arrived at the orchard. From here, the house would be between them and the thicket where Mme Denis had spotted the watcher, and if they were careful, they could get inside without being seen. As they got ready to move through the fence into Rocco’s garden, Claude froze, holding out a warning hand.

  Rocco stopped, peering past the other man’s shoulder, and felt his gut lurch.

  Mme Denis was lying on the ground by his front door.

  She was still bundled in her heavy coat but looked frail, a s
tick figure without the vitality she always displayed. Nearby was an upturned wooden garden trug, the contents spread across the gravel.

  Rocco swore silently. She’d been bringing him vegetables from her underground store. Probably trying to show that everything was ordinary, that life went on, acting out a friendly visit to put off whoever was watching the house.

  Now she had paid dearly for her courage.

  ‘I can’t wait here,’ he said, drawing his gun. ‘She could be badly hurt.’

  Claude nodded and drew his own automatic. ‘I’m with you. What do you want to do?’

  ‘I’ll go get her, you watch my back. If anyone shows up who shouldn’t, shoot them. Ready?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Rocco stood up and checked the ground ahead. Once through the fence, he’d be moving through long grass and over uneven ground. But he couldn’t afford to waste time. If Mme Denis was hurt, lying on the ground in this cold would soon finish her off. He had to get her inside in the warmth.

  He took off, jinking between the worst of the grassy clumps and avoiding the treacherous hollows, one eye on the house. If anyone stepped out right now, he was going to shoot first and worry about who it was later. A friend wouldn’t have left the old woman lying out front.

  He reached the prone figure of his neighbour without getting shot and hunkered down beside her, relying on Claude to cover him. He bent and touched her face.

  She was warm and breathing.

  He motioned for Claude to come in and cover him, and scooped up the old lady in his arms and walked towards the house, gun pointing at the door. It wouldn’t be an ideal shooting position, but better than being unprepared.

  Claude arrived on the run, breathing heavily, and kicked at the door, flinging it back with a bang. He charged inside, spinning to check the room, then beckoned Rocco in after him.

  Rocco didn’t stop, but took Mme Denis through to his bedroom where Nicole had slept and placed her gently on the bed.

  ‘We need to raise her body temperature,’ he said, noting the gentle rise and fall of the old lady’s chest. Her face was unhealthily pale, with a large bruise showing on one cheek, but she looked otherwise unhurt. Her eyelids fluttered as she began to come to.

  ‘Tisane,’ said Claude. ‘I noticed a clump of leaves outside on the ground. I’ll heat some water.’

  Ten minutes later, with Mme Denis wrapped in blankets and trying to sit up, Claude held out a large breakfast mug of greenish liquid and encouraged the old lady to drink.

  She took a sip and immediately pulled a face. ‘Mother of God, who made this vile muck?’ she demanded.

  ‘I did!’ said Claude, and looked wounded. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘You boiled the leaves, that’s what’s wrong.’ She took the cup in her hands and sipped some more, then shook her head. ‘Cabbage water. I can’t believe it – a so-called countryman and garde champêtre who can’t make a simple tisane!’ But she gave Rocco a faint smile and rolled her eyes. ‘Good job I’m tough, isn’t it?’

  Rocco shook his head, relieved that she was taking it so pragmatically. ‘Tough’ didn’t come close. Many people half her age would have been out for the count. He pointed at the bruise on her face. ‘You gave us a fright. What happened?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied. ‘I was bringing you some vegetables and had just bent down to put them on the front step when I heard a noise and someone hit me from the side. I don’t recall anything else.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘No. Just a shadow to one side. I didn’t see a face, if that’s what you mean.’ She grimaced and looked sour. ‘Cowardly, attacking an old woman. What is this world coming to? Let me see him and he’ll be sorry he ever came near me.’

  Just then, the telephone began ringing in the kitchen. Rocco turned to answer it, wondering who could be calling at this time.

  He stopped dead.

  A man in a hunter’s jacket and boots was standing in the doorway. He was heavily built and pointing a pistol at them. He had a smile on his face, showing even, white teeth and the sallow tan of someone from the Mediterranean region, and looked accustomed to handling his weapon.

  ‘Leave it,’ he said, eyes flicking between Rocco and Claude. He pointed the gun barrel at Mme Denis. ‘Put your weapons on the floor. Right now. Or I’ll shoot this aggressive old bitch in the head.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  In the main office at Amiens police station, Detective Desmoulins frowned and put down the telephone he’d been using. ‘No answer. Rocco must have left already.’ He stifled a yawn. He’d been rousted out of bed after the night duty officer had discovered the emergency calls list missing, and evidence that drawers in the records office had been accessed during the night. He hadn’t wanted to call the senior officers in case he was mistaken, so opted for Desmoulins, a friend.

  ‘They were fine when I came on at eight last night,’ he had explained over the telephone. ‘I had to amend a couple of files of officers who’ve moved house. And I know nobody else would have used them.’

  ‘But someone has. You’re sure nobody else was in?’ Desmoulins didn’t doubt the officer’s word but needed to be certain before taking it up a level. The place was, by its very function, often full of criminals, but for security reasons they would not have access to anything sensitive such as the files containing home addresses and telephone numbers of serving officers.

  ‘Absolutely. And I know the emergency calls list was there last night because I amended that, too.’ He breathed heavily in exasperation. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

  Desmoulins was already out of bed and getting dressed as he spoke. ‘Who was in last night? Anyone wandering around who shouldn’t have been? Was a door left open at the back?’

  ‘No. I was in and out all the time. I like to move around to stop myself falling asleep. Most of the time in the late evening it’s just patrol officers using desks and phones – you know how it is. But they wouldn’t need to look at that kind of stuff.’ He paused, mouth open.

  ‘What? Who else?’

  ‘Nobody. The cleaner, I mean, but he’s always on late.’ He swore softly. ‘Christ, surely not.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get him in,’ said Desmoulins without hesitation. ‘Send a car and two to pick him up. Tell them to search his place and don’t let him get rid of anything. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

  Now Commissaire Massin and Captain Canet were also in and standing together by the door, eyeing a man sitting slumped in a chair on the other side of Desmoulins’ desk, a uniformed officer standing guard nearby. It was still too early for the civilian support workers and patrol teams to be in, but soon this office would be buzzing with activity.

  ‘Keep trying Rocco’s number until he gets here, just in case,’ said Canet to the duty officer. He turned to the man in the chair and picked up a sheaf of papers found in the flat he shared with his wife and two children.

  ‘Listen to me, Yekhlef; we know you’ve been looking at confidential information. And you took these files home with you.’ He waved the papers in his hand. ‘Tell us why and who you passed the information to, and we might not put you and your family straight on a plane back to Algiers.’

  Yekhlef didn’t even look up. He shrugged and shook his head, defeated. It was as if he did not understand what Canet was saying.

  Desmoulins leant in, one huge hand resting on the table right in front of Yekhlef’s eyes, where he couldn’t ignore it. ‘You were looking for a specific name and address, weren’t you? There’s no other reason for taking those files.’ He studied the man, willing a response out of him. Up close, he could see a tremor building in his thin frame, barely visible elsewhere but noticeable in his fingers, which were clenched tight. The man was terrified. Desmoulins decided to take a stab in the dark. ‘Is it to do with the investigation into illegal factory workers?’

  For the first time Yekhlef gave a rea
ction. He looked up, a puzzled frown on his face. Desmoulins wondered for a moment whether he was wrong. Maybe his theft of the files had been simply looking for information to sell. There was always someone out there looking to get something they could use to their advantage. He picked up the sheaf of papers which Canet had placed on the desk. The pages were folded back at a list of investigators’ names, including his own. Then he froze.

  Rocco’s name had been scored underneath by the sharp imprint of a fingernail.

  So it was Rocco the man was after. Then he had it. The answer was staring him right in the face and he hadn’t even given it a thought. Christ, he must be tired, he thought shamefully. Tired and slow.

  The people pipeline. Rocco had been investigating Maurat the truck driver and his part in bringing in Algerian workers to Amiens. And Yekhlef was Algerian. Evidemment!

  He had an idea. He just hoped the others would play along – especially Massin, a stickler for procedure. Slamming the papers back on the desk he reached for the telephone. Dialled a number and waited, then said, ‘Lieutenant Delors in Immigration, please.’

  Over by the door, Massin and Canet looked startled. Massin began to step forward, but Canet touched his arm, signalling the senior officer to hold back.

  ‘Ah, Delors,’ said Desmoulins. ‘You owe me a beer, if I remember. Yes, you do. In the meantime, I need some fast action. I need you to get a secure bus to …’ He consulted a piece of paper containing Yekhlef’s details and read out the address of his flat. ‘… and collect a Mrs Yekhlef – that’s Y E K H L E F – and two children, a boy aged ten and a girl, twelve. Take them to the holding centre at Roissy and I’ll get the paperwork in order. Yes, four to travel, next available flight. What? Well, if they’re at school, you’ll have to pull them out, won’t you? A bientôt!’

  ‘You cannot do that!’ Yekhlef was on his feet in protest. He looked round at the other officers for support, but met blank faces. ‘This is illegal!’