Death at the Clos du Lac (2013)

by Magson, Adrian

  There was a brief hesitation, then Stefan said, ‘The other patient, Tourlemain; he wasn’t a nice man. He pretended to take his drugs, too, but not all the time.’ Stefan’s voice had dropped, as if he’d run out of the will to barter further. ‘I hated him. Or maybe I was scared of him. He was a brute … a bully. The security guard, Paulus? He was there to keep him in line … and protect him.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Tourlemain boasted once that his life was in danger … that he’d got a big price on his head and there were people who’d like to see him dead. He acted as if it was something to be proud of. He was a gangster. I don’t know about these things, but he had this aura … a kind of power. He scared me – and I think he frightened Drucker a lot, too. Every now and then some men would come to talk to him. They’d take him into a back room and be there for a couple of hours. The day before, they’d reduce his drugs so he could talk, but give him just enough to keep him subdued. And Paulus would be there, of course, to lean on him.’

  ‘Who were the men who came to see him?’

  ‘I don’t know. We were all kept out of the way when they came. But I recognised the type.’

  ‘Type?’

  ‘Cops. But not ordinary ones, in uniform.’ Stefan looked at him. ‘Men like you.’

  ‘So who was he?’

  Stefan hesitated one last time, then gave a huge sigh. ‘The name in the record file said Bruno Betriano.’

  Rocco’s blood went cold at the name, and Desmoulins swore quietly in the background. No wonder Stefan and Drucker had been scared of him. Bruno ‘The Bear’ Betriano was a ruthless gang leader born and raised in the slums of Marseilles. He’d long had a brutal grip over much of the trafficking through that port of drugs, people and arms, and had been bad news for years, a thorn in the side of the authorities and competitors alike. Yet the police had had little success in bringing him to book, for which there was, to most observers’ minds, only one rational explanation: Betriano had local politicians and policemen in his pocket. Yet nothing had been proved.

  He was untouchable.

  And like Stefan Devrye-Martin, he was supposed to be dead.

  ‘What happened to the others in this new place?’

  ‘No idea. Probably where I left them. I didn’t believe what we were being told, not after seeing the way Simon ended up, so I left. As soon as everyone was asleep I walked and kept walking. I had some money and managed to contact a friend, and ended up here.’ He sighed. ‘Fat lot of good it did me.’

  ‘Did they say why they’d moved you from the Clos du Lac?’

  Stefan shook his head. ‘Not really. But I heard one of them saying that they needed to clear the place out and start afresh … and something about getting one of the rooms ready.’

  ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I bet some other poor bastard was going to find out soon enough.’

  While Rocco was questioning Stefan, a telephone call was being patched through to an extension in the depths of the Interior Ministry. It was picked up by Delombre.

  ‘Where are you?’ he said, when he heard the name of the caller, then listened as the man told him about keeping watch on Rocco as he’d been instructed, and how Rocco and another man had driven fast from Amiens to Pontoise. They had parked out of sight before entering a house in the Rue des Noces, Rocco via the front, the other man through the rear.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About thirty minutes ago.’

  Damn. Delombre swore silently. There could only be one reason for Rocco to have gone anywhere at high speed. Devrye-Martin. Had to be. And he’d had more than enough time to lean on the little fat man and squeeze whatever he knew out of him. This business was fast running out of control. Levignier should have let him deal with Rocco earlier, for once and for all. ‘You should have called sooner. They’re still there?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, but I’m working alone—’

  ‘Forget it. Did you see who they called on?’

  ‘No. Whoever it was kept too far back, like he was frightened to show his face. Or her. I’ll ask around.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ Delombre smiled, grimly satisfied in one respect: Rocco had led them right to Devrye-Martin’s door, just as he’d hoped.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ his man asked.

  ‘Stay on them and call me when they leave. Don’t blow your cover.’

  He put down the phone and checked a wall map, then dialled an internal number. After issuing brief instructions, he opened a desk drawer and took out a semi-automatic pistol in a holster and strapped it on.

  About 30 kilometres to Pontoise. Allowing for traffic, his men should be there in less than half an hour. It might be tight, depending on how much talking Devrye-Martin was doing. But even if Rocco left before they got there, there was only one road he could be taking back to Amiens. It was time to apply a bit of pressure to the country cop; to frighten him into backing off. And no matter what Levignier said, if things got a little heated in the process, and someone caught a bullet … well, too bad.

  As for himself, he was in no hurry. Pontoise was a leisurely drive away. It was time to do what he was good at.

  That was to make sure the little pervert Devrye-Martin never spoke to anyone ever again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘So what were they up to in that sanitarium?’ said Desmoulins, as they drove back towards Amiens. ‘Assuming it’s true about Betriano.’

  Rocco shrugged. ‘There’s only one thing: it was a government safe house. Two embassy employees with no hands and severe traumatic problems; one pervert who faked his death with official knowledge and sold out his mates; a problem employee in the Foreign Affairs Ministry who knew too much … and a gangster who reportedly died in a fight, but didn’t. No wonder they’re all on drugs; if word got out who was in there, and that it was all with official collusion, it would be enough to bring down half the staff of the Interior Ministry.’ And if Levignier and his department had even an inkling of what Stefan knew, he didn’t rate the man’s chances of staying free for very long.

  ‘So what do we do?’

  While he’d been talking, Rocco had been watching their rear mirror. He’d now seen the same car pop up three times on their tail. It was a dark-blue Peugeot, ordinary-looking and unremarkable, with three men inside. But something about the way it sat squat and firm on the road was disturbingly familiar.

  It was a pursuit vehicle and it was following them.

  ‘We’ve got company.’

  Desmoulins checked the mirror and came to the same conclusion as Rocco. ‘It looks official. You think they’re after us?’

  ‘I’m certain of it.’ What he didn’t know, however, was what their intentions were. Right now, he decided, might be a good time to have the car radio Massin kept trying to have installed in his car.

  He checked the road ahead. They were approaching a huddle of houses. It was hardly big enough to qualify as a village, but the end wall of the first building on the right was bare of windows, and held a giant handcrafted Ricard advert. It was a café, a whistle-stop for farmers and truck drivers.

  He began to brake and said, ‘Go in and call Godard. Give him our location and ask if he’d like to send out a couple of men for a training exercise.’ Sous-Brigadier Godard headed up the local unit of the Gendarmerie Mobile, the equivalent to the CRS – the riot police – who were responsible for, as he liked to put it, anything involving trouble.

  Desmoulins smiled. ‘Christ, Lucas, they’ll post you to a mud hut in Gabon for this.’ But he jumped out of the car as soon as Rocco stopped and walked into the café.

  The pursuit car had stopped, too, and was sitting three hundred metres back.

  Minutes later, Desmoulins came back out, carrying two yellow bottles of Pschitt soft drink and a paper bag of brioches.

  ‘Late breakfast and a bit of cover,’ he explained. ‘We’re cops, after all; we eat on the move.’ He handed Rocco a brioche and said, ‘Godard s
aid bless you. He’s sending three men to do an intercept. Give them time to get moving and they’ll wait for us the other side of Beauvais and do a stop-and-search on those clowns behind us.’ He unscrewed the Pschitt and took a drink. ‘Teach the buggers to follow us.’

  ‘Did you tell him they’re probably official?’

  ‘Yes. He said all the better and don’t worry about it.’ He grinned. ‘I think he gets easily bored when things are quiet.’

  They finished their drink and brioche, allowing the minutes to drift by. If the car behind them gave up and left, they could call off Godard’s men. If not, the plan was still on.

  Rocco dusted off his fingers and started the engine, and got back on the road. The pursuit car stayed where it was. But ten minutes later it was back, a recognisable dot in the distance, matching their speed.

  ‘They must know who we are, wouldn’t you think?’ said Desmoulins.

  ‘In this thing? Bound to.’ There was no mistaking Rocco’s car, which Levignier would have seen at the Clos du Lac. The Traction was big, black and impossible to hide. It made surveillance for the men in the Peugeot an easy job.

  Through Beauvais and out the other side, all the time with the Peugeot just in sight, they reached a straight stretch of road with little traffic. A car coming the other way blew past. It was unmarked and unremarkable, but Desmoulins raised a discreet hand and the driver flicked a finger to show he’d seen them. They were members of GM – Godard’s Gendarmerie Mobile.

  ‘The unit leader’s name is Patrice,’ Desmoulins commented. ‘They say he eats barbed wire for breakfast.’

  Rocco let his speed drop gradually, allowing the Peugeot to draw closer. Behind it, the car containing the GM officers had turned and was coming up fast. The road in each direction was clear.

  The men in the Peugeot didn’t know what hit them. The GM car drew level, then hit the siren and slammed on the brakes, slewing to a stop across their front and driving them into the side of the road. Before the men in the Peugeot could react, the doors of the GM vehicle sprang open and three men in black uniforms without insignia jumped out, guns drawn.

  It was all over within seconds.

  Rocco eased to a stop and reversed to within a hundred metres. Then he and Desmoulins got out and walked back down the centre of the road towards the Peugeot.

  The men inside watched them come, their hands in plain sight.

  The GM car engine was ticking quietly in the silence as it cooled. The Peugeot’s engine had cut out, its nose tilted over the edge of a drainage ditch where the driver had been forced to pull it round to avoid a collision. Two of Godard’s men had snapped open the doors and were standing with their weapons trained on the occupants, while the third, the one Desmoulins had called Patrice, was checking the boot. He was tall and heavy across the shoulders. He turned as Rocco arrived and gestured at the inside.

  ‘Take a look, Inspector. You think we can charge them with carrying dangerous items in public?’

  Rocco looked. A special short-barrelled shotgun lay nestled in a metal box, with two boxes of spare cartridges and three tubular objects with ring-pulls. Smoke canisters. Behind the box lay a sledgehammer and a large tyre iron, and a box containing two gas masks with filter tubes on the front. Siege equipment.

  ‘It’ll do for a start,’ Rocco agreed. ‘Unusual equipment for changing tyres.’

  Patrice nodded. ‘I’ve seen canisters like these before. They look new – experimental. Wish we had them.’

  ‘No doubt you will one day. Who are these three?’

  ‘They don’t want to say.’ Patrice smiled. He was as tall as Rocco, with a broken nose and some serious scar tissue around one eye. The smile gave his face a malicious twist. ‘Perhaps they’re shy.’

  Rocco nodded. ‘Get them out and down on the ground.’

  Patrice turned and ordered the three men out of the car. They hesitated for a moment, until one of his men grabbed the nearest – the driver – and yanked him out from behind the wheel like plucking a feather. The other two followed without argument and were quickly ordered face down on the road where they were patted down. The search produced three wallets, three automatic pistols and a large clasp knife. Patrice stripped out the magazines before throwing the guns onto the back seat of their car. He tossed the knife into the ditch and handed the wallets to Rocco.

  Rocco told the driver to stand up. The man did so with a grunt. He was in his late forties, overweight and looked crumpled, as if he’d been up all night.

  ‘Who are you and what are you doing?’ Rocco asked.

  ‘We’re on official business,’ said the man. ‘And you’re in deep shit.’ He glared at the others. ‘Just like the rest of you. Bunch of fucking cowboys.’

  ‘Hey.’ Patrice gave him a gentle slap on the back of the head. ‘Easy on the insults, fella. We’re sensitive types. Have you filed a movement report for this area?’

  The man scowled. ‘Have we what? What’s a movement report? We can go anywhere we please.’

  ‘Not according to bulletin GN 0345 issued last year. It states that all security personnel have to advise regional offices of their presence on-territory. Failure to do so renders the offender …’ he paused meaningfully and looked at the other two men on the ground ‘… and those under his command, immediate severance from the service and suspension of pension rights.’ He turned and looked at Rocco with a wink. ‘Isn’t that so, Inspector?’

  ‘So I gather.’ Rocco opened the man’s wallet. An official card inside named him as Daniel Bezancourt, team leader of a security detail in the ISD.

  ‘Hey – wait!’ It was one of the men on the ground, looking over his shoulder at Rocco. ‘What’s that shit about us losing our jobs? You can’t blame us for that – we were just following orders.’

  Rocco squatted down beside the man. ‘Really? Whose orders would that be?’

  ‘Shut your mouth, imbécile!’ Bezancourt snapped. ‘Can’t you see they’re pulling your dick? There’s no such bulletin.’

  ‘Let’s talk.’ Rocco grabbed the man’s arms and yanked him to his feet, and marched him away several paces out of earshot. The man was short and squat, and his face didn’t reach Rocco’s chin. He was forced to tilt his head back to look at him. Whatever he saw seemed to frighten him. He flinched. ‘Now then,’ Rocco said softly, ‘just between you and me, whose orders?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ the man muttered, eyes flicking back towards his colleagues, who were both watching intently.

  ‘Of course you can.’ Rocco let go of him and dusted down the man’s shoulders and straightened his jacket collar. He took out the two remaining wallets and checked the photo inside. ‘Gerard Gautery?’ The man nodded. ‘Good. Now look, Gerard, I mean, if it was Commander Levignier who gave you the order, what’s the secret? He’s your boss, isn’t he?’

  Gautery stared up at him, eyes flicking between Rocco and his team leader, trying to figure out who represented the bigger danger. He evidently decided it was Rocco.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Of course. We spoke only the other day, as a matter of fact – at the Clos du Lac.’

  The name was clearly familiar to Gautery and he relaxed. ‘Oh. Well, in that case it was Levignier, yes. Well, sort of.’

  ‘What do you mean, sort of?’

  ‘He’s got an assistant, named Delombre.’ He swallowed and threw another glance towards his colleagues. ‘He’s a creepy guy – only I never said that, right?’

  ‘Never heard of him. What does he look like?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him up close.’

  ‘But you know he’s creepy.’

  ‘Yes. But it’s not just me that says it. Some say he’s an ex-Legion battle freak who spent too long in the desert fighting the Arabs, and it went to his head. He doesn’t walk so much as float. Eyes like a dead fish.’

  ‘Sounds a charmer. And he works for Levignier.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Fine.’ Rocco pat
ted him on the shoulder. ‘That’s very helpful. You can rejoin your colleagues.’

  Gautery scurried away to stand alongside Bezancourt, who threw him a venomous look, while Rocco pointed to the third man still lying on the ground. Desmoulins hauled him to his feet and marched him across to Rocco, who repeated the same questions. This man was made of sterner stuff, however, and confirmed his own name but nothing else.

  ‘Tough nut, huh, Mr …’ he consulted the last wallet ‘… Mr Cropeq?’

  ‘Tough enough.’

  ‘So where does your name come from – eastern Europe?’

  ‘Hungary, if you must know.’

  ‘Nice country, I’m told. Cultured. You enjoy your work?’

  ‘When I’m allowed to do it.’ The message was clear, and Rocco smiled and patted the man on the shoulder so that the others could see. He’d got him talking long enough; Bezancourt wouldn’t know which one had said anything. An old cop interview trick. ‘Of course. My apologies. Thanks for your help. You can go now.’

  Cropeq hesitated, as if unsure, then turned and walked away.

  ‘You mouthy pricks,’ Bezancourt muttered darkly, but clamped his lips shut when Patrice stepped up and gave him a warning look.

  ‘Let them go,’ said Rocco, handing the men their wallets. ‘Make sure they go back to the city.’ He gave Patrice a nod of thanks, adding, ‘Good work.’ This was to ensure that if any flak should come their way, it was Rocco issuing the orders.

  ‘You going to tell me what that was all about?’ said Desmoulins, climbing back in the car.

  ‘I got a name,’ he replied. ‘And I fired a warning shot. Now I just need to wait for the reaction.’ He also needed to find out who this Delombre character was. From the way Gautery had described him, he wasn’t good news.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Delombre parked in a side street between two canvas-sided delivery trucks and switched off the engine. He knew where his man would have been stationed, watching the house where Devrye-Martin was hiding, and he was no longer there. Just as well; Delombre preferred to work unseen, even by his own contacts.