Claude looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, Lucas. I’m an idiot. It’s not my place to worry about her. She’s a grown woman. I just…’
‘Worry about her?’
‘Yes. Pathetic, isn’t it, because she’d flay the skin off me if she knew. But what’s a man to do in my position?’
‘Don’t ask me, for a start,’ Rocco murmured. ‘I’m no expert.’
A police van arrived and the driver hopped out and saluted. ‘We’ve come to mark out the scene, Inspector. Dr Rizzotti is on his way, and there’s a message for you from Captain Canet.’
‘What about?’
‘There’s been a big fight in town. A bar’s been wrecked and he thinks you might be able to help.’
The Canard Dore was more than wrecked. It looked like a tornado had gone through the place after a carpet-bombing. What wasn’t broken seemed scarred and ripped beyond repair; half the furniture was on the pavement outside, having taken the plate glass windows and net curtains with it, and the front door was hanging from the hinges. Inside, the drinks-bottle shelves had been swept clean, a coffee machine flattened and the full-length wall mirrors had been hammered into fragments. The cash till was lying upside down in the sink, a scattering of coins and notes on the floor and drainer, and the pinball machine was lying flat on its belly like a beached whale, the glass splintered and the light display gutted. Only the counter, built of solid hardwood, seemed to have survived intact, although the surface was awash with spilt alcohol and embedded with fragments of broken glass. The aroma of beer and spirits was heavy in the air, mixing with a tang of stale sweat and cheap tobacco.
The bar owner, Andre Mote, was sporting a large bruise over one eye and a bloodied shirt, and sitting in a corner looking murderous. The object of his anger was a group of five men who had been corralled in a corner of the bar by a number of tough Gardes Mobiles and a muscular Detective Rene Desmoulins. With batons drawn, they looked as if they were itching for an excuse to teach the fighters a lesson.
‘Why are they still here?’ said Rocco to Sous-Brigadier Godard, the head of the group.
‘It was easier keeping them confined here than trying to transfer them to the station on a charge of fighting, only to have a magistrate let them go. And there are too many civilians around to do it safely.’ Godard, a big man with a battle-scarred face, had the scepticism of many policemen, but was good at his job. He was right, too. If this lot were transferred to the street without taking precautions, they’d cause mayhem.
Rocco nodded. ‘Good thinking. But this wasn’t a fight — it was open warfare. Now they’re subdued, get them cuffed and back to the station and lock them up. I’ll be along in a while.’
‘They’re foreign visitors, Lucas. English. Won’t there be repercussions if we lock them up?’ He rubbed his fingers and thumb together, referring to the recent ‘advisory’ bulletins circulated to all forces by the Interior Ministry regarding the treatment of visitors from overseas, and how the economy depended on not alienating foreign currency and those with the willingness to spend it.
‘Maybe.’ Rocco thought the advice applied less to areas like Picardie, and more to the tourist resorts in the south where visitors had money to splash around. ‘Just make sure they don’t fall down any stairs on the way. It won’t do them any harm to taste a bit of French jail comfort for a couple of hours.’ He knew that Godard was referring to Commissaire Massin, their boss, and his known fear of causing waves which might reach his superiors in Paris. ‘And you can leave Massin to me.’
Godard grinned. ‘D’accord. Can I cuff them really tight?’
‘After what they’ve done here, I’d insist on it.’
He waited while Godard organised his men and swiftly got the five Englishmen restrained before they could resist. Four of them made do with mild protests, but one man, who seemed to be their leader, pulled his wrists away and swore at Godard. He stood up, showing an impressive breadth of shoulders and a beaten pug face.
‘Piss off, Froggy. Nobody puts them things on me.’
Godard turned and scowled at Rocco. ‘What did he say?’
Rocco said, ‘I think he called you a frog-eater and an ugly son of an ugly bitch. You going to stand for that?’
‘No. I’m not. Can you look away, please?’ As soon as Rocco did so, Godard signalled to two of his men and they closed in on either side of the Englishman. Grabbing him by the arms, they slammed him unceremoniously against the wall and cuffed his hands behind him, then turned him around for Godard to plant a heavy knee into his groin. The Englishman gasped and his face lost all its colour.
‘And that, Monsieur Rosbif,’ Godard muttered, ‘is how we treat animals like you.’ He prodded the man’s shoulder. ‘And for your information, if you could speak our language, anyway, which you obviously cannot, I don’t eat frogs.’ He signalled to his men to take the five men away.
‘How many of them were involved?’ To Rocco it was academic, but it was useful to know for the record how many men Mote had seen causing the damage.
‘All of them,’ growled Mote. ‘All English, all drunk and violent, like pigs. Animals!’ His eyes glittered with anger and bruised pride. He brushed his face with damaged knuckles. ‘Mostly it was the big one. I want them arrested and charged, Inspector. Do you know how many years it has taken me to build this business, me and my wife? Hein?’ He slapped his chest with the flat of his hand and stared around at his wife for her support. Mme Mote, a mousy-looking woman in a floral apron, nodded dutifully and patted her husband’s hand, then dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. She had a large mole on her chin with a single hair sprouting from it, which Rocco found himself suffering an irrational desire to point out to her.
‘Charges will follow,’ he assured Mote. ‘What started it?’
He listened with detachment as the story unfolded. It was a well-worn route to strife: someone had drunk too much, remarks and gestures had been made, the owner had refused further drinks and a brawl had ensued. It was nothing unusual for the establishment, Desmoulins had earlier confided. The Canard Dore wasn’t known for its upscale clientele and had been the location of more than a few bar brawls. But this damage was of a greater scale than normal.
‘I’ll say.’ Rocco had seen the results of far worse bar fights than this, especially in Marseilles when visiting naval ships were in and men had been too long at sea on service rations. But for Amiens, it was extreme.
‘I’ll have someone come round to take statements and assess the damage,’ he said finally, when Mote had finished his story. ‘You’ll have to apply for compensation, but the court will probably make it a condition of their sentence.’
‘You mean in return for their release?’ Mote didn’t sound very surprised. Maybe, thought Rocco, the idea of money to refurbish the bar would be enough to salve his feelings and let the matter drop.
‘We’ll see what the magistrate says.’
Outside, he found a uniformed officer waiting for him.
‘Inspector Rocco? Captain Canet would be pleased if you could return to the station. The five men charged with the assault are all English.’
‘I know. So?’
The man shrugged. ‘You are the only person with that language, sir. We have to take their statements… but…’ He hesitated.
‘But what?’
‘They are being difficult, sir. Even with Sous-Brigadier Godard’s men to help. They seem happy to just sit there laughing at us.’
‘The fresh air must have woken them up.’ Men in Godard’s unit — often mistaken for the national Compagnies Republicaines de Securite (CRS) — were used when strength in numbers was needed. If even they were having trouble, then the leader of the Englishmen must have stirred his men into making a fuss.
‘Two of them are pretty big, sir — possibly ex-boxers. The others are just drunk.’
‘I noticed.’
Fifteen minutes later, Rocco was talking to Captain Eric Canet, in charge of the uniformed officers. The captain looked mildly
unsettled, as if facing a problem he didn’t much relish dealing with.
‘We don’t need this, Lucas,’ he breathed. ‘We need to get rid of these louts as soon as possible. The magistrate has agreed to deal with them at a special sitting in the morning. He’ll impose a fine and compensation big enough to please the bar owner, after which we can wave them goodbye. But I think you should talk to them; warn them off coming back.’ He handed Rocco a filing tray piled with wallets, passports and envelopes containing money and other personal effects.
‘If they’ll listen.’ Rocco looked around. ‘Where’s Massin?’ The commissaire had a nose for bad news and was usually quick to stamp on trouble taking place in his precinct. Rocco was surprised he wasn’t already out here handing out advice.
‘He’s been called to a conference in headquarters. Something about a security review… or should I say, another security review. Perronnet went with him.’ Commissaire Perronnet was Massin’s deputy, and clung to him like a tick. It was the job of a commissaire like Massin to attend numerous meetings which seemed on the surface to have little to do with day-to-day policing, but a lot to do with a visible national readiness after years of doubt. It also gave him the opportunity he craved, which was to consort with the upper levels of the police force and the Interior Ministry in the hopes of gaining a more favourable posting. ‘I’d like to get this done before he comes back,’ Canet added dryly, ‘then we can all go back to the usual levels of violence and mayhem.’
Rocco nodded. It was a wise move. The less Massin had to complain about, the better all round. ‘Right. I’ll see them in a minute. But don’t let on that I speak English.’
He turned as Desmoulins wandered up, sporting a livid bruise on one cheek.
‘What happened to you?’
The detective sniffed in disgust. ‘I must be getting slow. The big bastard caught me with a backward head butt as we were getting him in the van.’ He waited until Canet was out of earshot, then added, ‘But he tripped on the way back out, so we’re even. Clumsy fella.’
‘Clearly. Also not aware of when he’s caused enough trouble.’ He had a random thought about the ramming incident involving the truck and the Citroen. ‘Three things I need you to check on: put someone on ringing the hospitals here and in a thirty-kilometre radius. Ask if they’ve taken in any road accident victims, dead or injured.’
‘Sure. Anything specific?’
‘We’re looking for anyone with facial damage, loss of teeth — that kind of thing.’
‘Is this from the call earlier this morning?’
‘Yes. Something odd is going on, but it could be nothing. Second, get someone to check the garages in the area for a military-style Renault truck and a black Citroen DS brought in showing crash damage. Check the barracks, too, see if they’re missing a truck. And third, find out if anyone has applied for a permit to film on public roads in the region.’
‘Got it. You going to talk to the English?’
‘In a while. Let them stew a bit longer.’
‘You want me there?’
Rocco smiled at Desmoulins’ readiness to pitch in where trouble loomed. ‘Thanks, but Godard and his men are a lot uglier.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘Remember, nobody says nothing unless I give the nod.’ Tasker glared at each of his companions in turn: Fletcher, the grey-haired and heavily jowled bruiser; the two bottle throwers, Jarvis and Biggs, ex-soldiers in their thirties; and Calloway, tanned, slim and looking out of place in their company. They were gathered around a table bolted to the floor, in a holding cell big enough to take all five men. Most looked hung-over and jittery to varying degrees. ‘If any of these monkeys manages to find someone who speaks English,’ Tasker continued, ‘- which I doubt — we came over for some fun, got pissed and it got out of hand. End of story. We all clear?’
They nodded, either too cowed or too tired to argue.
Tasker sat back, satisfied they’d follow instructions. Biggs and Jarvis were green but would go with the flow. Fletcher had done some jail time, so he knew what the score was when it came to being patient. And Tasker had served a couple of terms himself, several years ago, one for involvement in a bank robbery. He’d put it down to experience; it was one of many bank jobs he’d done, but the only one he’d been hauled in for and convicted.
‘How long is this going to take?’ breathed Calloway, studying his nails. Of them all, he seemed the most calm and untroubled. ‘Only I have a date lined up for tomorrow that I’d rather not miss.’
‘Tough shit, pretty boy,’ Tasker replied nastily. ‘You’ll have to give it a miss, won’t you? Just sit tight until I say so or there might be an accident happening in this cell any moment soon.’
Calloway looked unaffected by the man’s air of menace, but shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do. Anyone else got anything to say?’ Nobody replied. ‘Good. Now, they got to let us go soon, so we ain’t got long.’
Calloway looked doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t know French cops. They don’t play nice when it suits them, and those boys in blue weren’t being too gentle, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Tasker shrugged. ‘So what? We’re still in one piece, aren’t we? It’s no worse than a dust-up down Brick Lane. You take the bruises and you get the money. They might not let us go today… but they have to sometime. We sit here until they do, then we go home.’ He grinned without humour. ‘It’s all part of the plan — and you’re being paid well for it, so don’t screw it up.’
The threat in his voice was a chilling reminder of his authority, and the men said nothing. Out in the corridor, they heard footsteps approaching. The door was unlocked.
A uniformed officer stepped in and stood in the doorway. Big and ready, he was holding a short baton in both hands. Two others stood just behind him, similarly armed. The lead man pointed at Tasker with the business end of the baton and beckoned.
Tasker folded his arms and sat back. ‘You want me, Pierre, you’ll have to come in and get me. Only you might have to get used to wearing your little stick through your nose.’
The officer hesitated, unsure of what the Englishman had said. But the body language was clear enough. The three officers made a move to step forward, then a voice murmured behind them and they stepped aside.
Another man entered the room.
Rocco stopped just inside the door and looked around at the five prisoners. They stared back, clearly surprised by his appearance. What they had no doubt expected was a group of heavies coming in in force; what they were seeing was a taller-than-average man, dark-haired and tanned, with broad shoulders, dressed in a good-quality, long, dark coat and trousers and expensive shoes. And seemingly unconcerned by their number in the confined space.
‘Well, well. Look what the cat’s brought in.’ Tasker was the first to speak. ‘Fe fi fo fum… I smell a senior frogeater.’ He kept his eyes on Rocco but his next words were clear enough. ‘Shtumm, boys, remember.’
Rocco moved further inside the room. He was holding a handful of British passports. Flicking them open, he studied the contents at length, allowing the silence to build. Then he compared faces with photos, going from one man to the next, staring them in the eye and noting their reactions. When he was finished, he slapped the passports shut and put them away, then studied the state of the men’s hands.
The big man, Tasker, was clearly the leader. Every group of individuals had one — even a group of violent drunks. And authority radiated off this man like an electric current. He was forty-five years old, married and listed as a businessman. He had the brutal appearance of a barroom brawler, although his suit looked expensive, if flash, as did the large gold rings on his fingers. Somewhere along the road of his life, someone had flattened his nose, and he had developed layers of old scar tissue over his eyes and was missing half of one eyebrow. He’d probably been a good puncher in his time, thought Rocco, eyeing his big shoulde
rs and bunched knuckles, but with a poor defence. And judging by the fresh cuts and abrasions on his hands, he had been using those knuckles only a short while ago.
The second big man, Fletcher, was older at fifty-one. He had the dull eyes of a follower and a hard-man body going to seed around the edges. His clothes were also flashy, but cheap. He, too, was nursing cuts to his hands. Two younger men named Biggs and Jarvis were working hard at ignoring Rocco, but failing. They looked fit, like former soldiers or athletes, but beginning to go soft, their fingers yellowed by nicotine and reddened with scratches and cuts. Both were listed as customer managers. And then there was a man named Calloway, occupation professional driver, more French than English by appearance and somehow aloof from his companions. And smarter.
Rocco couldn’t think when he’d last seen such a mixed bunch, and decided it would have been back in Paris. They would have been criminals, too, just like this lot, of that he was certain.
‘For your information, Mr Tasker,’ he said in English, looking at the big man, ‘my name is Rocco. Inspector Rocco. That’s a strange word, “shtumm”. Is it London slang?’ He held Tasker’s gaze but the man looked too surprised to say anything. ‘Is there a particular reason why your friends should remain quiet?’
‘Terrific.’ The soft murmur came from Calloway, on hearing Rocco’s easy grasp of the language.
Tasker glared at him, but said to Rocco, ‘Go screw yourself, copper.’
‘See, that is what I do not understand,’ Rocco replied, and looked at each of the men in turn. He walked up and down, forcing them to follow him with their eyes, each turn taking him closer and closer until he was right in front of them, and they were having to crane their necks to see his face. ‘Five… friends, come to France and have a little fun. They drink too much of our wine and beer — even a bottle or two of cognac, according to the bar owner — and end up drunk. So drunk they completely ruin a bar.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens, of course. Even here we are not immune to the odd fracas. But then the men prove… difficult when taken in for questioning.’
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