Death on the Rive Nord lr-2

by Adrian Magson

  ‘What sort of weapons?’

  ‘Guns. Mostly handguns. Also knives… and a dagger he got from the army, I believe. He handled them like toys, but with a passion. For this reason I became fearful for my son. I decided to leave and tried to get my passport. He would not let me have it.’ She bit her lip and breathed deeply, a long shuddering intake of breath. ‘He told me that if I try to leave him, he will kill me and anyone who tries to help me. He said they will end up like Benmoussa, whether man, woman or child.’

  ‘You couldn’t go to the police?’ Even as he asked, Rocco knew what the answer would be.

  ‘No. He has contacts everywhere.’ She looked at him with a sudden intensity that surprised him. ‘This is a man who has more control, more influence than you can conceive of. He has watchers at airports, seaports and frontier posts. They tell him who goes in and who goes out.’ Her eyes went moist. ‘It was hopeless. I was tied for life to a man who kills and maims and robs and… a man who would one day drag my son into his world and make him just the same. Until the day I discovered he had a weakness — what you call a chink in his armour — which I could use. There was one activity in which he was not involved; something he said was suited only for gutter criminals and those not clever enough or courageous enough to do anything else.’

  Rocco saw instantly where she was going: her way out was via an operation over which Farek had no interest or influence. ‘People-smuggling.’

  ‘Yes. I went to a man who did not care for Samir, and asked him. He told me all about it… how those who want a better life but who have no papers — some of them criminals — can use a pipeline to go to France and other places. It costs money, but I had been putting some away. I also had jewellery from my mother and grandmother, which I could sell.’

  ‘You were taking a hell of a risk. What if your contact had talked?’

  ‘He wouldn’t. He told me that a cousin of his was once a street trader in Oran. Every pitch is for sale, and only with the agreement of Samir. He was accused of using a pitch without permission, and punished.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘There is a man named Bouhassa. He is fat and ugly and repulsive. He beat the cousin so badly he could not walk again. Without the ability to move and carry his goods, he could not work and support his family. He felt so humiliated he killed himself. That is what Samir does to people who cross him.’

  ‘Still risky — especially with a child in tow.’

  ‘Yes. But staying was worse, and in the end, unthinkable. So I arranged our place in the pipeline. It was very simple.’ She almost smiled, and Rocco felt the atmosphere lighten, as if she had seen some promise ahead of her now that she had unburdened herself.

  ‘How many were with you?’

  A momentary hesitation, then, ‘Seven. They were mostly kind, especially to Massi. All they wanted was to find a better life. We were in the same boat, literally.’

  ‘You came here?’

  ‘Yes. By truck from Marseilles to a place with lots of vineyards. One of the men managed to make a small hole in the truck panel, but I don’t know this country, so I couldn’t tell where we were. Then another truck brought us to this canal.’ Her face seemed to shut down suddenly, as if the most recent memories were too close, too vivid.

  Rocco was about to ask her if anything had happened on the truck — an argument between the men, a fight of some kind resulting in a man’s death — but he realised that too many people had passed this way. Hers would not have been the only group coming through here recently. He decided to leave that question for another time and asked, ‘Did everyone get off the truck here?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘As far as I know, yes. It was dark and confusing. The driver was very impatient. Why?’

  ‘No reason. Go on.’

  Nicole rubbed her hands together fiercely as if the narrative had drained her of warmth. ‘It was very long, very tiring. Always dark. We left the truck and crossed the canal, and were met by a man who showed us this boat. He told us to stay here until someone came to collect us.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything about you and Massi?’

  ‘He didn’t notice. We stayed behind the others in the dark. In any case, I don’t think he was too interested. He told us to get on the boat and wait to be picked up, then left.’

  ‘Did he say where you would be going next?’

  ‘No. But the men knew they’d be sent to a factory to work.’ She took another deep breath. ‘Up to that point, I knew Massi and I would be safe as long as we weren’t seen. But once the men who had organised this journey found out, they would have split us up.’ She pointed at a hatchway set in the front wall of the cabin. ‘Through there is a bed. The men let me sleep there with Massi. I waited until they were asleep, then left. It seemed safer for them if I did, anyway.’

  ‘And you bought a car.’

  She looked surprised. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I’m a cop.’ He told her about checking the registration and his chat with the dealer, Gondrand.

  ‘I see.’ She frowned with the memory. ‘The man was a pig. He wanted too much money. When I said I didn’t have enough, he made vile suggestions as if I were a common whore. In the end, I paid with francs and some jewellery… two of my grandmother’s rings. I had to have transport, you see.’

  Rocco understood. He didn’t ask about a licence. He recalled instead the day at the grotto, when she had reacted to seeing the Mercedes.

  She nodded. ‘Samir has one like it. When I saw it, I thought… but it was stupid, of course. He could not have followed me here so quickly, and not in his car.’

  ‘And will he?’

  ‘Yes. He will come. Soon. Samir Farek does not forgive betrayal by anyone, least of all a wife. I know the way his mind works. He will have lost face and his sole interest will be winning back respect among his associates and family.’

  ‘How will he get here?’

  ‘He will follow the trail along the pipeline, name by name. If that doesn’t work, he will go through the Algerian community here in France and use them to find me. And they will. It is his way.’ She sat up, startled, as water suddenly gurgled around the barge. ‘What is that?’

  Rocco stood up and took his gun from his pocket. He checked both ways along the towpath. Nobody in sight. He couldn’t see Claude and guessed he was keeping his head down. He looked down at the surface of the canal to where some leaves were floating by on a surge of water, channelled along the hull by some unseen current. He told Nicole and she relaxed. But it was a reminder that even here, they were not completely safe. Her next words confirmed it.

  ‘Samir has been biding his time. He hates the French, even though he was in the French army and had a lot of influence. But then they left and he had to start again. He wants to become a major “player”, a word he used many times — I think from America. I believe he intends to stay here and build another network, only much bigger than in Oran. Once he links the two, he believes he will be all-powerful.’

  ‘He’s probably not wrong,’ said Rocco, and thought of the appalling outcome of a man like Farek moving in on the established gangs in Paris and Marseilles. It was the way of things: every new gang boss had to be more ruthless and nastier than the one before, just to prove that he could. It would turn the two cities and everywhere in between into a battlefield.

  ‘But first,’ Nicole continued softly, breaking the thought, ‘he will not rest until he has his son back… and I am dead.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  They left the barge a few minutes later. Before parting, Rocco asked Nicole again if she would be safe where she was. Any place he might suggest as a safe haven would be official, therefore requiring paperwork and details and the inevitable dispersal of information. He couldn’t take that risk.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘My friend Amina is not part of the Algerian community. She doesn’t know about Farek, so does not have any fear of him. But she knows what it is to fear someone. We only just met, bu
t I trust her like a sister.’

  ‘Good. Does she have a telephone?’

  Nicole hesitated, so he explained, ‘I might need to contact you urgently if I hear something. You might not have much time. You should be ready to move at a moment’s notice.’

  She saw the sense in it and wrote a number and an address on a piece of paper. ‘It is a telephone in the house, but anyone can use it. Don’t ask for me; ask for Amina and she will find me. I’ll have a bag packed with essentials, just in case.’

  There was no loss of control, he noted, no sudden panic at the idea that her and her son’s lives might come down to a matter of minutes. He was impressed but no longer surprised; for anyone to have made their way through the people pipeline was a feat of some courage. For a woman with a small child, it was heroic.

  He left her to make her way back to where she had parked her car, then walked back to the boat. He was joined along the way by Claude.

  The garde champetre was carrying a shotgun under his arm. He shook his head. ‘Nobody that I could see apart from the woman. She’s pretty. Nice skin.’

  ‘Yes. She says her husband wants to change that permanently. And not because of me,’ he added heavily. They stopped by the boat and Rocco told him about Nicole’s flight from Oran, but left out the full details about Farek. He didn’t want to drag Claude into anything too heavy unless he had to.

  ‘Nothing about a dead man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Clever,’ said Claude. ‘Who would think of looking for illegals out here, huh? Move them into Amiens at night and nobody’s the wiser. Shitty place to keep them, though. Looks like a good shake and this tub would sink like a brick.’

  ‘How deep is it here?’

  ‘Enough to drown. A couple of metres mostly, but there are spots where it’s up to four, maybe five metres deep.’ He jutted his chin at the water. ‘Like out there. See the darker patch? There’s a fault in the canal bed… it fills up with soft sediment but there’s no substance. The barge would sink right into it.’

  Rocco left Claude at the parapet and drove to Amiens. He needed information, and as quickly as possible. He’d already been out of the main intelligence loop long enough to have lost touch with the latest details on big-city criminals and their activities, and the bulletins circulating the office were at best selective, geared predominantly to each region’s list of priorities. It was therefore not surprising that sudden changes in criminal activity did not always arrive until too late. In the criminal underworld, that could mean several regime changes taking place in quick succession, where you were only the boss as long as others thought you were too powerful or too ruthless to challenge.

  He found an empty office and rang Michel Santer. His old boss wouldn’t have the precise information he needed, but he’d undoubtedly know someone who did.

  ‘What do you want?’ Santer came on with his usual sour manner, but it was a thin camouflage to those who knew him well. People like Rocco. ‘What mess have you got yourself into now? I’m not having you back here — it’s peaceful without you making waves and upsetting people. I’m almost enjoying myself.’

  Rocco grinned. In a career spanning the army and police force, there weren’t many people that he’d ever considered close friends. But Michel Santer was certainly one. ‘Glad to hear it. I need some information.’

  ‘Great. No “How are you, then, my old mate?” No cordial greeting and offers of a long lunch. You owe me a few, all the favours I’ve done for you.’

  ‘OK.’ Rocco smiled down the phone. ‘Lunch it is — but not just yet. I’m a little busy.’

  ‘I suppose that will have to do, then. What is it the Americans call it — a rain check? I’ll take a rain check. Go on, then, fire away.’

  ‘I’ve only got a name at the moment. Sounds fairly big in the Algerian underworld and has plans to set up over here. A man called Farek.’

  ‘Farek? Sami Farek?’ Santer’s voice rose a pitch, then dropped suddenly. ‘Are you kidding me? You haven’t heard of him?’

  ‘How could I?’ Rocco kept his voice calm. ‘We don’t get international bulletins out here among the cowpats. Who is he?’

  Santer hesitated, then said, ‘I won’t waste your time, Lucas. I know about as much as you do. But this sounds serious. There’s a man who can possibly help. His name’s Marc Casparon. Everyone calls him Caspar. He just retired from working ten years with the Sud-Mediterranee Task Force, most of it undercover. He was involved in all kinds of shit I don’t even want to think about. He knows Algeria like I know my wife’s bum. Ask him nicely and he might tell you what’s what.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure of it. What’s the problem?’

  Santer grunted. ‘He’s a bit unpredictable, that’s all. There are some who reckon he’s nuts. They might not be wrong. He spent too long underground fighting the drug gangs and didn’t come out so well at the other end. Actually, word is, he didn’t retire — they pulled the rug before he got himself killed. Unfit for active service. That must be a real kick in the balls after everything he did. If I give you his details, just be careful how you go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Remember how some of the men you served with ended up? Like that.’

  Rocco remembered very well. The men who had returned — the so-called ‘lucky ones’ — from the war in Indo-China were radically changed from when they went out. It hadn’t been noticeable at first, even among friends and family. But over the course of time, for many of them, things had started to happen. Losing jobs, unexplained anger attacks, drinking too much, fear of open spaces, fear of enclosed spaces, fear of sudden noises or deafening silence. It was as if they were being steadily taken apart from the inside and nothing anyone tried to do could prevent it. Then came the suicides. Not many at first, but gradually increasing, as if they were being picked off by a deadly mental sniper. Rocco had been luckier than most. He still suffered the night-time blacks, the vivid images bustling with ghosts, but they were mostly bearable. It hadn’t prevented the first major casualty in his life, his marriage to Emilie, and he still had cause to wonder if he’d got off all that lightly in comparison.

  ‘Where can I reach him?’

  Santer gave him a number, then told him to wait a moment. There was a rustle of paper, then he said, ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with a couple of murders down south, would it? I just had a nationwide alert in from one of the gang task forces.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A little ferret named Maurice Tappa got himself taken out in Marseilles, in broad daylight. Then a “person of interest” named Jean-Louis Pichard was found dead at his place of work in an agricultural supply depot near Chalon-sur-Saone. They were both on a watch list of known faces with gang connections. They’re running tests to determine causes of death.’

  Rocco couldn’t see an obvious link to his own investigation, but habit made him ask what the men had been into.

  Santer hummed to himself while scanning the report. ‘Well, they weren’t altar boys, I can tell you that. Undeclared imports is the polite term — on both of them. Tappa’s the juiciest: drugs, arms, low-quality precious metals — now there’s a contradiction for you — oh, and people. Would you believe that — people? Christ, these gangs will find a profit in anything.’

  People. Rocco’s instincts were kicked awake. ‘Where from?’

  ‘It doesn’t say, but my last ten centimes would be on Morocco, Tunisia and anywhere south of there. Wh- oh, Jesus, this is tied in with Farek, isn’t it? It’s got to be.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’ve got a cop’s nose, too, remember — and longer than yours. There’s been a lot of Algerian-linked activity recently, after all the trouble.’

  Trouble. Hell of an understatement, thought Rocco. That ‘trouble’ was going to be bubbling around for a long time to come.

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘It makes sense that the lid had to come off somewhere. Maybe him coming over here is the begin
ning.’ He paused, then added, ‘One thing I heard about Farek: he doesn’t look ethnic Algerian. Something in his genes, I reckon, a French or European farmer who got too friendly with the natives way back. Means you could pass him in the street and you wouldn’t look twice.’

  ‘What does he look like? I’ll contact Caspar, but a description would help.’

  ‘Sorry — I don’t have a photo. But there is one thing: he’s said to be accompanied everywhere he goes by a bodyguard — a fat, bald man in a white djellaba. And I mean fat. Goes by the name of Bouhassa.’

  As Rocco replaced the telephone while attempting to unravel the knots of information he’d picked up over the past couple of days, the office door opened. It was Massin. He didn’t look happy.

  ‘A word.’ Then the senior officer was gone.

  Rocco trailed him back to his office, wondering if he was about to get sidelined to another investigation. He’d managed to forget, in all that had happened, his intention of briefing Massin about what was going on. He had a feeling that omission was about to come back and bite him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘It would be in the interests of the smooth running of this establishment,’ said Massin coolly, ‘if you could explain why you’ve had a man locked up downstairs since last night without specific charges. Perhaps your previous division kept people incarcerated for as long as they liked, but that is not the practice in mine.’ He sat down behind his desk and stared hard at Rocco like a skinny bulldog looking for a snack. ‘And how is it that you find it so convenient to harness the efforts of manpower in the building without going through me first?’

  Rocco guessed he was referring to his talk with Dr Rizzotti and using Desmoulins to get some uniforms trawling for anyone who knew the dead man. ‘I was going to brief you about the prisoner,’ he replied. ‘His name’s Armand Maurat. He’s a truck driver from Saint-Quentin involved in the trafficking of illegals out of North Africa into France.’