‘Nothing doing, I take it?’ Claude murmured.
‘Not a peep.’ Rocco didn’t mention the light he’d seen during the night. Insubstantial evidence of any kind seen in the dark hours was best treated with caution, and he didn’t want to start grabbing at shadows.
‘So, what was eating you last night when you got here?’ Claude queried. ‘Woman trouble?’
‘I wish,’ Rocco replied, sipping his coffee. ‘It would be easier to deal with.’ He decided it was time to tell Claude about Santer’s call. It was only fair, as Claude might get caught up by association in whatever Farek decided to throw at him; and having the extra pair of eyes and ears of a man he trusted implicitly would be useful if anyone did make an attempt on his life. He gave him a brief summary of the details.
‘Christ, you don’t make life easy for yourself do you?’ said Claude, when Rocco finished speaking. He was aware of the Fareks’ history and the connection, such as it was, that Samir, the dead brother, had with Rocco. It had been a bloody business that had come storming out of nowhere, threatening to cost Rocco his life. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Deal with it. If I can get a lead on who Farek’s likely to send after me it might help. He can’t have too many options; most of his men will be crooks and thugs, not assassins. If he wants to use someone he can trust he’ll need to deal from a good pack – and it won’t be cheap.’
‘How do you find that out, though? He won’t have the same people around him as Sami did, will he? What was that big guy’s name who did all his heavy work?’
‘Bouhassa.’ It was a name Rocco hadn’t thought of in a long while. Sami Farek had relied on him as a bodyguard and killer, but there weren’t too many Bouhassas around.
‘That’s the one. This Farek’s hardly likely to tell you what his plans are, so what will you do?’
‘I know a couple of people I can ask. You know how word gets around: people talk. Whatever he’s planned, it won’t stay secret for long.’
‘Let’s hope you can get a lead on them before they get one on you. What about Massin – are you going to tell him?’
‘No. He won’t pull me off this job just because of a threat from a gangster. Even if he did I can’t hide out forever. Farek will just wait until I show up again.’
Rocco finished his coffee and brioche and walked over to the kitchen where Excelsiore was busy preparing a breakfast tray for Bouanga. He’d been meaning to return the arrow to the bodyguard and had waited for a convenient moment. As he stepped through the door, he heard soft giggling and saw Delicat standing close to Excelsiore, with his hand gently caressing her bottom.
He coughed, and they stepped quickly apart, looking confused.
‘My apologies,’ Rocco said, sensing embarrassment. ‘I wanted to return this.’
Delicat took the arrow without a word. If he was aware that Rocco had taken the arrow to compare with the wound in Vieira’s neck, he showed no sign. He turned and walked away, disappearing through the door to the main hallway, leaving Excelsiore shuffling away into a corner and busying herself at clattering some pots and pans.
As Rocco stepped outside, he saw movement along the track from the road, and a car appeared. The vehicle looked new, a rare enough sight in the area, and came to a stop at the gate. Rocco instinctively reached for his service weapon. He didn’t think anyone wishing ill of Bouanga would make such a civilised approach, and even less so in a new car. But you could never tell; assassins came in all guises and the good ones were paid highly because they could adapt to all circumstances. He waited while the driver climbed out and opened the gate, before climbing back in and driving up to the front of the house.
It was Gerard Monteo from the Ministry. Alongside him, looking stiff as always, sat Massin.
‘Stand by your beds,’ Claude muttered. ‘Hut inspection.’
Rocco smiled. He hadn’t thought they would get away without some form of check-up; anything involving a foreign dignitary, even one with a questionable background, was bound to be high on the list of things that shouldn’t go wrong. And Monteo clearly had an agenda with regard to the Gabonese minister. Part of that agenda would be to make sure everything had been put in place with the local force to make Bouanga as secure as possible, after which he would probably disappear back to Paris and let the cards fall where they may. If anything did go wrong, it would be the local police who would shoulder the blame, not him.
‘Make sure he sees your gun,’ advised Rocco. ‘He’s impressed by weaponry as long as somebody else is holding it.’
Claude hefted his shotgun with a smile. ‘Will do. Can I shoot something while he’s here, just to show we’re ready and able? If I do it close enough I might make him wet his pants.’
‘Let’s not. We have enemies enough in the Ministry, we don’t need any more.’
Rocco walked out to meet the two men. He’d been right about Monteo; as soon as the Ministry man’s eyes slid past Rocco’s shoulder and settled on Claude, who was standing with his gun under his arm, he looked both shocked and anxious.
‘What is he doing?’ he murmured.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rocco said. ‘You’ve already met Officer Lamotte. He’s only dangerous if you try to attack him or go fishing out of season.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Monteo shot a quick glance at Massin, who gave a nod to Rocco but said nothing. ‘This is a nice place. Pleasant spot.’ He looked at the house as if doing so for the first time, then around at the fields, and Rocco wondered why Monteo was acting as if he’d never been here before. Somebody else playing games, perhaps, making out this was a big event. Perhaps he was preparing an extensive report for his superiors on how difficult it was arranging protection for a guest of the state.
‘It’s nice enough,’ Rocco agreed. ‘Let’s hope the opposition don’t find it.’
‘Of course. But it’s very… open,’ Monteo continued. ‘I hadn’t realised.’ His statement seemed rehearsed, as if he was keen to let it be known that he was having second thoughts about the viability of the house being secure enough for Bouanga. ‘Don’t you agree, François?’
Massin didn’t respond, but pursed his lips and studied the building and its surroundings. He wore an expression of misgiving as if, seeing it now, he could also see his future career hinging on the possible outcomes of this place and the people in it.
Rocco wasn’t prepared to make it easy for either of them. They had agreed to this without fully considering the difficulty of the task involved. It would have been easier to protect Bouanga if he’d been safely locked up in a police cell in Amiens, although that would never have happened. ‘Like I said before, all it needs is a sniper up a tree. But I’m sure we’ll cope.’
Monteo continued to look doubtful. ‘François, are you sure you can’t spare anybody else? If anything were to happen to our guest because of… well, lack of resources, it really wouldn’t go down well at headquarters.’
Massin gave Rocco a thankless look for his blunt appraisal, but he was in a corner. If he didn’t do something, anything, now that Monteo had raised the issue, any failure here would reflect badly on him as the senior local man. His response was to throw the ball deftly to Rocco by saying, ‘You’re correct, Gerard. Suggestions, Rocco? You know the men well enough to choose. There must be someone else who could assist you – and I don’t mean Desmoulins; he’s busy.’
‘A couple of Godard’s bruisers from the Gendarmerie Mobile would be ideal. But I don’t expect they’ll be available either.’
‘You’re right. They won’t.’ Massin looked stubborn. ‘There have been threats of union trouble at an industrial complex near Compiègne. Godard will need all the men he can muster.’
‘If I may,’ Claude Lamotte put in, ‘how about Gardienne Alix Poulon? She’s a good shot and knows her way around. She won’t fold at the idea of some action.’
Monteo looked at Claude in astonishment, before turning to Massin. ‘Did he say Alix? A woman? Is he serious?’
&n
bsp; Massin appeared to consider it. ‘What do you think, Rocco? You know her, I believe?’
‘I can’t argue with Officer Lamotte’s description. She lives not far from here, anyway, so being on hand wouldn’t be a problem. She’s also good on her feet and has a clear head.’ Rocco had worked with Alix Poulon before, and she had proved calm and steady, even in the face of threats. The fact that she was Claude’s daughter hadn’t seemed to occur to Massin, or if it had he was ignoring it. She had inherited her father’s pragmatic attitude, and it was allied with an ability to assess a situation quickly and step in before things got out of control.
‘Wait a moment,’ interjected Monteo, no doubt sensing the subject getting away from him. ‘I can’t authorise you placing a woman officer in… well, in danger. What would they say in the Ministry?’
‘What could they say?’ Rocco countered. ‘They’re happy to put women in uniform and give them a gun. They even train them to shoot. Or is it just for show?’
Monteo looked conflicted, and Rocco wondered whether it was the idea of taking the news back to the Ministry that worried him more or the potential threat to a woman officer.
‘I agree. She would be eminently suitable. She’s done good work in the past.’ It was Massin, surprising Rocco and Claude. ‘I’ll get Captain Canet to brief her and issue her with suitable equipment.’
‘Like what?’ said Monteo, fighting a rearguard action.
‘A rifle,’ said Rocco, ‘would be useful.’
‘She’s not going to fight a battle, for heaven’s sake!’
Rocco nodded towards the fields and distant trees. ‘If any threat does come, it won’t come knocking on the front door like a carpet salesman. It’ll be from out there. If they see a cop with a rifle, they might think twice about coming too close. It’s called visible prevention.’
The Ministry man said nothing, giving in in the face of logic.
‘All the same,’ Rocco continued, eyeing Claude with a faint smile, ‘she might need some practice while she’s here.’
Claude grinned. ‘No problem. I’ll set up a few targets for her and she can blow holes in the countryside. Should be fun.’
‘It’s not meant to be fun!’ Monteo snapped. ‘This is serious.’
Massin sighed and said, ‘I think they’re teasing you, Gerard.’ He gave Rocco a look of reproach. ‘Let’s get inside and talk to Mr Bouanga, shall we? I’m sure he’ll be relieved to see we’re taking this matter seriously. Rocco, I know you’re busy here, but I’ll see you back in the office. I’m sure Lamotte can take over guard duties by himself for a short while.’ With that, he turned towards the house and knocked sharply on the front door.
‘That’s going to be interesting,’ Claude murmured.
‘Depends what you’re referring to. Those two meeting Bouanga and company or my next meeting with Massin?’
‘Neither. I was thinking about having volunteered Alix to help out here.’
‘Why? She should be happy enough.’
‘She’s not going to like it; she wants to be in the centre of things, you see. She’s a born organiser and right now she’s busy helping out with preparations for the local section of the Tour de France.’ He looked at Rocco. ‘Will you tell her or shall I?’
Rocco left Claude worrying about who was going to break the bad news to Alix, and drove out of the gate. He stopped on the side of the road and walked into the bushes where he thought he had seen the light last night. The ground here was hard, baked by the sun, and if a vehicle or human had passed this way, they had left no discernible trace. He returned to the car and drove to Amiens. If Massin wanted to see him he might as well be prepared. There had been no indication of what he wanted to talk about, but it was probably going to involve covering his back as usual, and making sure Rocco followed orders to the letter.
He left his car in a space near the station and walked round to the Café Schubert where most of the police took their breaks. It was changeover of shifts and the café was busy. He shouldered his way to the bar and ordered a large coffee, exchanging nods and handshakes with fellow detectives and uniformed officers, before heading for a table near the window, away from the crush.
‘Hey – Rocco,’ a man in a scruffy suit and ragged tie called to him as he passed by. Émile Anselin was a detective nearing retirement. ‘I hear you’re babysitting some runaway politician from Gabon – is that right? Nice work if you can get it.’
Rocco didn’t bother denying it. Rizzotti had said it was all over the station, but it didn’t help having idiots like Anselin shouting it out for all to hear. ‘That’s right, Émile,’ he said with pointed sarcasm. ‘Just don’t go telling anyone, OK? It’s our secret.’ He moved away before the man could stretch out the conversation, leaving a few colleagues shaking their heads in sympathy at Anselin’s lack of tact.
Schubert, the café owner, brought Rocco’s coffee and thumbed the air over his shoulder. ‘Rocco? Telephone call. On the wall at the back.’
Rocco was surprised anyone knew he was here. Somebody in the station, perhaps, tracking through all the likely places he might be. He went through to the passage at the rear of the café and found the handset balanced on a shelf. He picked it up. ‘Rocco speaking.’ He waited but heard only silence. ‘Hello?’ Nothing. Just the crackle of static down the line.
He replaced the handset and caught Schubert’s eye, and raised his hands in query. Schubert looked nonplussed, then gave a shrug before turning back to his work.
When Rocco got back to his table, he found a young woman sitting in the chair opposite, sipping from a glass of water. She was smartly dressed, with short blonde hair and grey eyes, and looked momentarily guilty as if realising she had intruded on someone’s space.
‘Sorry,’ she said quickly, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I needed to escape from the crowd.’ She nodded towards a crush of new arrivals coming through the door and bellying up to the bar, replacing others on their way out. Most were casting furtive or not-so-furtive glances her way, as if she were a rare species in their world.
‘It’s not a problem,’ said Rocco, sitting down and picking up his coffee. Many cops lacked subtlety when sensing outsiders. It was even worse when those outsiders were attractive single women. ‘You picked a bad time to come in here; it’s a changeover of shifts at the local station. It can get a bit intense in here, I’m afraid.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, are you a policeman, too, then?’
Her gaze was disconcerting in an odd way, almost intimate in its focus, and he nodded, wondering who she was. ‘I take it you’re not a local.’
‘Me, no. I’m just passing through. Did I hear that man call you Rocco? That’s an Italian name, isn’t it?’
‘If so, it’s way back in my past. On your way to where?’
But she didn’t reply. Instead she finished her water and glanced towards the door again. ‘I’d better be going. It’s getting busier in here. It was nice meeting you, Inspector Rocco. Thanks for allowing me to share your table.’ She held out her hand and he shook it. It felt cool and firm, with the faintest squeeze of her fingers. With that she stood up and was gone, sliding with graceful ease through the crowd and out into the street.
As she disappeared, Rocco felt a momentary sense of puzzlement. It took a few moments as he replayed the conversation before he realised why. She’d called him inspector. How had she known that? Guesswork because he was in plain clothes, perhaps?
Before he could think about it further, a figure stepped up to the table. It was Jouanne, the young officer he’d spoken to a few days ago. He was now in plain clothes and holding a glass of beer, clearly having clocked off duty.
‘I see she found you then,’ Jouanne said. He had the same knowing smile playing around his mouth that Rocco had noticed before, and seemed to be enjoying the implied familiarity between them.
‘What are you talking about?’ Rocco finished his coffee and stood up. This place had suddenly got too crowded and there was something about
this young officer’s over-friendly attitude that got under his skin.
‘The woman who was asking for you… the one I told you about?’ Jouanne gestured towards the door with his glass. ‘You were just talking to her.’
Eighteen
Marc Casparon was thinking about Rocco’s call and the best way to acquire the information he was after. Since quitting the job he’d broken off all contact with the underworld figures he’d known, as much for Lucille’s peace of mind as his own. The sooner he left that world behind, the better he would feel. Most of his past contacts had operated on the fringes of direct criminal activity. He’d relied on them for snippets of information, even paid them money when needed, but he could hardly call them friends or even trustworthy. Like their fortunes, their loyalties were shallow and fluctuated like the weather.
But there was one man he could approach in absolute confidence. It would come at a price, but that was the free enterprise of the streets; you got only what you paid for. Jean-Luc Madou was the owner of a bar in the Belleville area which was a known haunt used by some of the people around Farek. Madou had let it be known a while back that he was looking to relocate out of the city to safer climes and a slower pace of life, and any piece of income he could generate would help him do that before he got too old.
Caspar finished washing and checked his face in the mirror. The man staring back was less gaunt than he had been, the skin still dark and the close-cropped hair peppered with grey. But even he could see that his eyes had lost the haunted look Lucille had pointed out when they first met. He shrugged on his jacket and left the apartment, and hoped Madou would come up with the information he needed.
He made his way to a side street off Rue de Belleville on the edge of the 19th and 20th arrondissements. It wasn’t Farek’s home turf, but run by a smaller gang which lacked the muscle to take on Farek’s more powerful group, and allowed them to come and go with the minimum of fuss. Caspar knew that using an outside territory was a deliberate policy of the Algerian gangster to filter out any strangers showing an interest in him.
Rocco and the Nightingale Page 9
