Rocco was relieved; he’d been given a soft ride by the men, along with many looks of approval, proof that news of the shooting had spread through the ranks.
He explained to Alix about the lead-up to the shooting, about Farek and his arrival in France on the heels of Nicole and Massi, and the news that the gang boss appeared to have simultaneously made a clean sweep of the clans in Paris and the north, establishing an empire for the taking. ‘Farek doesn’t mess around. He’s ruthless and has little respect for the law. He sent a man to watch us but he overstepped himself. We were lucky,’ he concluded.
‘His wife and child have been staying with you?’ The grey eyes were softer now, but the question was probing.
‘Just for last night. We got them out early this morning. They’re safe.’
‘They must be in shock after everything that has happened.’
He shrugged. ‘They’re holding up well. The boy thinks it’s a big adventure, although he’s very quiet. As for Nicole,’ he shrugged. ‘She’s just glad to be alive. I hope we can keep her that way.’
Alix sipped her coffee, wincing at the bitterness. ‘You like her.’
‘She’s in trouble and asked for my help. But I don’t need complications.’ He wondered how true that was and realised that the explanation had come without being forced, and therefore felt relieved. Nicole was pretty and strong and exotic, powerful attractions for most men. But she wasn’t part of this world – not his world, at any rate. She belonged somewhere else, in a life far away from daily reminders of violence and danger.
‘So what is this sweep tonight? Captain Canet mentioned that I might be needed if they pick up any women workers.’
‘It’s a feint,’ he explained. ‘Not a real operation.’ He told her about the leak of information about the last raids, and that the suspect might be a serving officer. ‘If we’re right, and the raids come up empty at the specific factories named, it will flush him out.’
‘Will we be in on the raid?’
‘Not if I can help it.’ Rocco had another agenda in mind altogether, but that had already been thrown into disarray by Alix’s presence. He wondered how he might get her involved with one of the sweep units without Massin questioning his actions.
‘Am I in the way?’ Alix asked perceptively. ‘I know I’m not a real cop … not as far as most of you are concerned, anyway. But I do have a job to do and I can’t do it standing on the sidelines.’
He nodded, appreciating her honesty, and studied her face. He didn’t have time to mess around with long-winded explanations just to get her off his back. He was going to have to trust her to keep her mouth shut.
‘I need you to lose yourself for a few hours this evening,’ he said finally, and hoped he wasn’t about to drop himself into a career-ending hole. ‘I have something to do which I wouldn’t want you involved in.’
‘Something illegal?’
‘No. But it could get messy. I wouldn’t want you to get caught in the bureaucratic crossfire.’
‘So it’s something Commissaire Massin wouldn’t approve of.’ She had a faint smile at the corners of her mouth and he couldn’t quite make out whether she was laughing at his caution or amused out of a sense of co-conspiracy.
‘Probably not.’ She was quick, he had to give her that. Too quick, maybe. He was going to have to trust her. ‘I’m going to break into a factory where a man died.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
It was a rerun of the other night. Cold and misty, damp underfoot and no night to be out walking by the canal, Rocco pulled up his collar and turned to check that he was alone. The water slid by on his right, silent and black, throwing off faint, yellow glints where a distant light was reflected off the oily surface.
He trod carefully, checking off the outlines of familiar landmarks as they loomed up in the dark, and wondered how the raids were going. Alix had questioned his plan and the dangers involved of going alone, but hadn’t argued with his suggestion that she find herself a team to attach herself to in order to cover herself if anything went wrong.
‘It’s illegal, what you are planning,’ she warned him. ‘If they catch you, being a cop won’t protect you. The Defence Ministry trumps the Interior Ministry on these matters. They’ll just throw you into a cell and forget you ever existed.’
‘You sound as if you know a bit about it.’
‘I do. I was a PA in a branch of Defence Security before I applied to join the police. Anything involving the military and breaches of security surmounts all other matters.’ She shrugged. ‘We are a nation of paramilitaries.’
Fortunately, she had agreed to keep quiet and let him go. If he’d made a mistake by taking her into his confidence, he would soon find out.
He passed through the cutting and came to the building fronting the canal where the geese were housed. Slowing to ensure he made no sound that might rouse them, he stepped carefully on the hummocks of grass between the remnants of the towpath’s ancient surface. Once past the building, he stopped and waited, tuning into the night and reacquainting himself with the sounds of water gurgling, the hum of distant traffic and the rustling of night creatures going about their business. From here on, he was entering the danger zone, where any foot traffic was probably confined to illicit workers and their guides, and anyone not expected here would be regarded as a problem to be disposed of. A loud splash occurred up ahead and he eased to the ground, relaxing when he heard the protesting honk of a coot or moorhen disturbed from its sleep.
After a few moments he carried on until he reached the lock, where he stepped carefully across the gates and jumped down the other side. Moments later he reached the slope and the fence surrounding the Ecoboras site and hunkered down again, watching for movement in the shadows behind the factory. Satisfied that nobody lay in wait, he moved along the slope, then took off his coat and uncoiled a thick rope from around his shoulder with a grappling hook attached. He replaced his coat and, using it as cover, checked his watch with a brief flick of the flashlight.
Three minutes to go. He’d cut it fine.
The remaining seconds ticked away while he sat listening to the noises from inside the factory: the ring of metal, the murmur of voices and the high-pitched hum of a forklift. Outside the building he picked up other sounds: of vehicles passing along the road at the front, the occasional car horn, and a police siren. Flashing lights reflected through the mist, but nothing came close enough to worry those inside the factory.
At least, not yet.
The crash, when it came, was loud. A squeal of brakes was followed by a solid thump and the smashing of glass, and a car horn added to the drama. With no time to lose, Rocco stepped up to the fence and tossed the grappling hook arcing over the top, then threw his weight on the rope to make sure it was going to hold him. Satisfied he wasn’t going to be dumped on his arse, he pulled himself up hand over hand and swung his legs up, hauling himself past the downward-facing points in the fence and resting on the top.
This was the time of maximum exposure; he wasn’t yet fully committed, but there was really no going back. He could already hear shouting in the distance, and the sound of running feet, and picture the scene unfolding in front of the factory gates. The guard, alerted by the accident just metres away, would automatically come out of his hut to investigate, and would now be deliberating on whether he should go through the gates to help.
Rocco rolled across the curved top, trying to see the ground below. The guard would be weighing civic responsibility, of which he probably had little, against the danger of upsetting Lambert, his boss, by leaving his post. If he had any sense he’d ignore the crash, although basic human curiosity would make him at least take a look.
Moving to the edge of the fence, he pushed forward into the dark, falling for a brief second before landing on the ground with a faint grunt. Then he was up and running across the open space where a wide shadow fell between two sets of floodlights.
He reached the building and looked back. He could j
ust about see the rope and hook but only because he knew where to look. Hopefully, anyone else coming past here would be too focused on looking for movement inside the wire, not outside.
At the front of the building, the wail of a police siren split the night and a wash of blue light showed faintly through the darkness.
He grinned. When he’d outlined his plan to René Desmoulins earlier that afternoon, the detective had jumped at the chance to help. It had required close timing, but all he had to do was crash the car, an abandoned vehicle which had never been reclaimed, then make himself scarce before the police arrived. With the number of officers and cars out that night, it would not take long. Desmoulins had also supplied the rope and grappling hook, borrowed from a friend in the police training section.
Rocco slipped along the building until he came to the skip he’d hidden in the other night. It held the same smell of plastic and paint thinner, and was still covered by a tarpaulin. He hauled himself over the lip and settled down to wait for his moment. He checked his watch. The raids should now be well under way and occupying the attention of everyone involved.
A door opened close by, and the hollow sound of laughter echoed briefly into the night, followed by footsteps. Something heavy clattered into an adjacent skip and a man muttered an oath in a language Rocco didn’t recognise. He peered over the lip of his skip in time to see a figure disappearing through the rear door. A flare of light flooded the area briefly before being cut off. But he could now see a yellow gap down the edge where the door hadn’t quite clicked shut.
He relaxed. He now had a way in.
A car engine approached, and a horn beeped once. He made his way carefully to the front of the skip and checked his field of view. The security guard was standing by the barrier, muffled in a heavy coat and hat. He’d just raised the pole to admit a pale-coloured Citroën DS 19.
Lambert.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The head of security got out of his car and spoke to the guard. They both turned and looked towards the road where the crash had occurred. A police light was flashing off the adjacent buildings and Rocco could almost read the body language of the guard as he explained what had happened. Then Lambert climbed back in his car, shaking his head, and drove through the barrier. For a brief second, as Lambert’s face was caught in the floodlights overhead, Rocco was sure the security man was looking towards the skip where he was hiding, but told himself it was a trick of the light. Seconds later, Lambert’s car disappeared from sight.
Rocco watched the security guard, waiting until the man decided it was safe to relax now the boss had gone inside. As soon as the man turned and walked back into his hut, his night-sight now compromised by the floodlights outside, Rocco lifted the tarpaulin and pulled himself over the side of the skip. He dropped to the ground, and half a dozen strides later he was standing by the rear door.
His initial plan had been to wait for someone to come out and slip inside for a look. But now he didn’t need to bother. He grasped the handle and tugged gently, feeling the door break free of the wooden surround. The strip of light widened, and he glanced towards the front corner of the building. The security cabin was now out of sight, but if the guard saw a spread of light as Rocco opened the door he might assume that it was a worker dumping waste.
He hesitated, straining for the sound of footsteps inside. Satisfied nobody was close by, he opened the door and slipped through, pulling it closed behind him. He waited for the sound of an alarm, ready to turn and run.
Nothing.
He was standing in a narrow corridor formed by twin stacks of cardboard boxes several feet high. High overhead, an array of lights threw an uneven glow over everything, creating a play of shadows large enough to hide a small car. He scanned the boxes, which were stamped with a meaningless jumble of letters and part numbers, and probably contained component parts for assembly. The walls above the stacks were dotted with power trunking and ventilation pipes, with what he could see of the lower walls dotted with electrical sockets and cables. The floor had been finished in a dark-red gloss, sectioned off in bays to one side by white lines with stencilled numbers. The ceiling was thirty feet above his head, with the beginnings of a mezzanine flooring being built around the edges. Beyond the boxes he could hear the hum of machinery and the stop-go whine of a forklift truck. Above the mechanical noises was a constant babble of voices, and occasionally, laughter. The air smelt of oil and a faint tang of burning, and he guessed it was part of the production process. Everything was fresh and new, with a clean, glossy appearance.
Footsteps sounded nearby and Rocco slid into a recess between two stacks of boxes. It seemed inconceivable that the security measures outside would come to a stop at the door; with contracts for government work, he assumed there would be precautions taken within the building as well, even if the open door he’d just come through gave lie to that.
The footsteps walked by. Moments later, he heard an oath and the rear door slammed shut. His exit route had just been shut off. But at least it would open again when needed. He eased his way among the boxes, gradually making a route through to the far side where he could observe what was happening on the main floor. With the building not yet fully operational, and the signs of so many power outlets on the walls, it was likely this part of the floor would soon be given over to more electrical equipment.
He nudged a box to one side, giving him a view of a line of benches. Several men sat at stools, each using screwdrivers and what looked like soldering irons, with faint coils of smoke drifting above their heads. In front of each man was an array of plastic boxes, which they reached into at regular intervals.
He moved further along the stack of boxes for a better view. It was more of the same: more benches, more stools, more assembly points. In all he counted thirty men, all hard at work. They were dressed in ordinary clothes, their skin glowing darkly under the strip lights hanging low above the benches. The air above their heads steamed with their rising body heat as it met the colder atmosphere higher up. They all looked like Algerians, but could just as easily have come from a variety of countries in the region.
A bell sounded from a casing on one wall. Everyone instantly downed tools and shuffled eagerly towards the far end of the factory, where an urn was steaming. It was a refreshment break.
One of the workers was clumsy. As he left his workplace, he caught his sleeve on a plastic box close to the edge of the assembly bench. The box teetered for a second, seemed certain to stay, then tipped off the bench and hit the floor with a loud crack. It burst open, sending a deluge of tiny objects scattering across the dark-red floor, the overhead lights giving them the appearance of thousands of silver minnows in a stream.
Amid the ensuing deathly silence, several of the objects skidded and tumbled between the stacks of boxes and fetched up around Rocco’s feet. He looked down. They were tiny silver screws. When he glanced up, everyone had turned and was looking towards the unfortunate man who had caused the spill.
Chief among them was Metz, the security guard who had confronted Rocco in the car park. And standing alongside him, sneering coldly at the worker’s plight, was another familiar figure.
Detective Alain Tourrain.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Metz paced slowly across the floor, the fallen screws crunching like gravel beneath his shoes. He stopped in front of the offender and stared at him. The man, a thin-faced individual in his fifties in a bright-red shirt, flinched and backed away.
‘Come here,’ Metz said quietly, and pointed to a spot in front of him. His intentions were made clear when he shook his other arm and something silver slid down his sleeve into his hand. A thin metal rod.
A soft groan came from the other men assembled at the far end of the factory. They had seen this before.
The worker said nothing, merely shaking his head in supplication.
‘I said, here,’ Metz repeated. This time softer, more menacing.
Behind him, Tourrain sniggered in ant
icipation.
The man shuffled forward, feet unsteady on the carpet of fallen screws. He twisted his hands together and looked round for support, but none came.
The moment he was within reach, Metz moved. His arm swept up from his side in a vicious swing, and the overhead lights flashed on the silver rod. There was a crack, and the worker screamed and fell to the floor, blood pumping from his shattered mouth. Metz struck again, using the full power of his shoulders. Then again. When he looked up, he singled out two men closest to him. ‘You two … clear up this filth.’
Rocco closed his eyes, sickened by the attack. The man on the floor looked dead. Nobody could survive blows like that to the head. Even Tourrain looked shocked, and had lost his expression of the eager onlooker.
‘Very useful, Metz. Wonderful way to manage a workforce. I hope you’ve got a replacement tucked away in your pocket.’ The familiar voice rang out across the factory and everyone stopped. It was Lambert. He stopped by the body and stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Metz. ‘We needed him, you idiot. Just as we need every man we can get our hands on. Why is it you can’t seem to get that?’ His voice was cutting and deadly, soft, yet even more menacing than Metz’s brutality. The workers recognised this and moved away, not daring to meet his eyes, focusing instead on putting space between them and him.
‘Get back to work,’ he said sharply. ‘Break time is over.’
The workers shuffled their feet, but did as they were told, moving back to their benches and picking up their tools.
Death on the Rive Nord Page 24