The place he was looking for was the unimaginatively named Bar Madou, sandwiched between a dry-cleaning business and a Vietnamese restaurant. Both these businesses were owned by Farek, part of his growing empire spreading across Paris and run by nominal owners who were happy to play the part in exchange for a stake of the income. All three addresses were served from a narrow cut-through at the rear, giving Farek and his people a way out if the café were ever raided.
Jean-Luc Madou was behind the bar as usual. He scowled when he saw Caspar, his eyes flicking both ways to check who was in before relaxing and giving Caspar a barely perceptible nod which meant it was safe to approach. Safe for Madou, that was.
Caspar checked the room, which was a seedy yellow, courtesy of decades of heavy smokers and little effort in the way of decoration. It was standard for this kind of business, with a football machine, a small jukebox and customer-proof furniture, and a smell of stale beer and coffee. He counted five customers, none of whom he knew. Three old men were obvious barflies, grouped together in ageing solidarity, and the couple in one corner looked like tourists, hunched over drinks while experiencing a taste of the neighbourhood low life to take back home with them to tell their friends and families. He hoped for their own sakes that they left soon and went somewhere more salubrious; hanging around here too long would make them easy targets for the neighbourhood con artists and panhandlers.
Madou leaned across as Caspar climbed onto a stool, and whispered, ‘You’re joking, aren’t you, coming in here? You’ll get my throat cut. Anyway, I thought you’d left the cop life behind. What’s happened – are you bored?’
‘I love you, too, Jean-Luc. And this is a private matter, so nothing to do with the cops. Anyway, I figured you’d skip out the back if I called first.’
‘Right, so you’ve come here to insult me, have you?’
‘Don’t worry, it won’t take long and I’ll be gone.’
‘You’d better. There’s a lot of trouble brewing and I’ve been getting some odd looks ever since I put this place up for sale.’
‘Really? How’s that going?’
Madou shrugged. ‘Not so good. I’ve had one or two people show an interest, but the offers were rubbish.’ He poured a cognac and slid it across the counter. ‘As long as there’s a fee involved, that one’s on the house.’
Caspar took a sip. The premises may have been careworn and in need of a decent paint job, but Madou had always carried a decent line in spirits. ‘If I get the information I need, you’ll get paid, don’t worry.’
Madou moved along the bar to wipe some beer foam off one of the pumps, a signal for Caspar to follow. He did so and decided to get straight down to business. Madou was evidently unsettled, and a frightened man was only good for a short while before he would say anything to get a guy like Caspar off his back.
‘Farek,’ Caspar said shortly. ‘Who’s he using for the heavy stuff?’
Madou looked surprised. ‘Christ, you don’t want much, do you? Ask me who’s moving stolen goods or who’s putting a bank team together… that I could tell you.’ He hesitated. ‘How heavy, exactly?’
‘A contract.’
Madou pushed his cheeks out and looked around the bar before answering. ‘There’s a couple of men he keeps around for heavy work, although I don’t think they’ve done anything like what you’re talking about – at least not up this way.’
‘Borelli and Abdhoun from down south; I know about them. Anyone else?’
Madou didn’t answer immediately. Caspar could see his brain working hard, no doubt filtering through the names of those he could finger and those he should leave well alone.
‘Is this to do with a cop?’ he asked finally.
‘It might be.’
Madou leaned closer, bringing a strong smell of fried onions and neck sweat. ‘I hear Farek had a thing about some police captain called Raballe, used to work out of Cambrai. They crossed paths a couple of years ago and Farek always swore he’d take him down. The word around the bars is that Raballe got hit recently. Is that right?’
Caspar nodded. ‘Correct. But he’s not the only cop Farek has it in for.’
Madou sighed like a leaking balloon and his eyes flickered with nervousness. ‘Give me strength – you’re not talking about Rocco, are you?’ When he didn’t get an answer, he nodded. ‘It has to be. Raballe was a minor sore to Farek, but Rocco… now there was a major grudge. You know why, right? He did for Farek’s brother, Sami.’
‘Not true. That wasn’t Rocco; it was one of the other gangs looking to take advantage.’
‘Who cares? Farek doesn’t. As far as he’s concerned, Rocco was responsible and he’s had a big target on his back from the moment Sami went down.’ Madou breathed heavily and stood back as two men walked in.
Caspar watched them in the mirror on the back wall. They looked like Algerians, and he ducked his head into his brandy. He didn’t recognise them but the atmosphere in here might suddenly get a little unfriendly if they were Farek’s men. However, they barely gave Caspar a glance and called for beers, and Madou went away to serve them. There was no exchange of money, and the two men moved away to sit in the corner. When Madou came back he was looking wary.
‘Two of Farek’s new guys, just up from the south. Hustlers, the pair of them. The word is he’s been recruiting ready to stage a big takeover. Most of them are from Oran in Algeria; men he knows he can trust.’
‘Is that what all the chatter’s about?’
‘Not entirely. Some guys have been lifted and it’s thought a snitch with inside information is feeding names to the cops. It’s made everyone jumpy.’
‘Including you?’ Caspar hadn’t seen Madou this spiky in a long time. The bar owner was usually laid back, happy to keep his own counsel and stay out of business that didn’t concern him. Right now, though, the stress was coming off him in waves.
‘Damn right, me too. I’ve already had a few pointed questions and I think somebody’s tried to finger me as a source.’
‘And?’
‘So far nothing. Just questions from guys connected to Farek, like I say, pointed, as if they were trying to spook me. Farek himself was in here a couple of days ago, in fact, and acted fine. He doesn’t do that if he suspects someone’s been talking out of turn.’ He hesitated, looking around the bar.
‘Out with it, Jean-Luc,’ Caspar murmured. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
‘Farek’s taking a hard line on anyone he suspects might be talking to the cops. Two of his guys, low-level operators he used for muscle work, have already disappeared because of suspicions about them circulating on the street. I think it was bullshit but that’s how bad things are.’
Paranoia, thought Caspar. A common disease among the criminal classes – at least those with any kind of imagination. It couldn’t happen to nicer people.
‘Are we done?’ Madou was eyeing the two Algerians. ‘Those two will do or say anything if they think it will get them in good with the boss. They don’t know you or me from the Pope’s cousin, but that won’t stop them trying to score a point or two through hearsay.’
‘I get it. One more question. I knew about the two you mentioned. Would Farek use them for Rocco or do it himself?’
Madou pulled a face. ‘You think Lakhdar would risk taking on that big ape? Not a chance. He might have the ambition but I doubt he’s got the balls, no matter how loud he talks. He’ll call in someone from outside.’
‘Like who?’
Madou hesitated, then said, ‘I heard a whisper a couple of days ago that he’d got someone on a retainer, but there’s no word on who. A stranger, I heard: a new face. Expensive and very skilled. He won’t hang about, though; he’ll do the job and get shipped out again immediately. It’s the way the pros work: in and out and don’t come back. The good ones, anyway.’
‘Might it be this new person who took down Raballe?’
‘No idea. It could be, I suppose, a sort of dry run for the bigger event. It might even have be
en Borelli. He’s been looking to prove himself up here, get a reputation in the gangs while he’s young enough and able to hold his own against the opposition.’
‘Why not Abdhoun?’
‘Because Borelli wouldn’t have stood out in Cambrai, not like Abdhoun.’ He grinned, showing a line of tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Not many Arabs in Cambrai, so I’m told. I’ve never been there, so I wouldn’t know.’
Caspar didn’t bother telling him that Raballe had moved, and had been killed in Dieppe, not Cambrai. It wouldn’t have mattered to the bar owner, anyway. What was done was done and it merely proved that Farek’s reach was as long as he needed it to be.
‘So this new person. Come on,’ he insisted, ‘I need something.’
‘How much?’
Caspar slid his hand across the counter and pushed a fold of notes under a bar towel, where it sat in a puddle of beer. ‘A name and a description. Anything you can get. There’s a number on the top note. Make it quick, though, because I get the feeling time’s running out.’
‘Okay, keep your shirt on. I’ll call you. Same number?’
‘No. I’ve moved on, too. You won’t find it listed anywhere, so don’t look.’
Madou nodded, folding the paper into his shirt pocket, followed by the notes. As he did so the door opened and a man stepped inside the café. He was short and stocky, with a bald head. He wasn’t looking towards the bar, but had turned to look at a newspaper on a nearby table.
‘Christ, no.’ Madou hissed. ‘It’s Achay. Out back, quick.’ He made a sharp motion with his head. ‘Down the corridor and turn left.’ He snatched up Caspar’s glass and placed it out of sight beneath the bar, then moved away, scrubbing at the counter with his cloth and making conversation with one of the other customers.
Caspar didn’t need telling twice. He turned and walked out, following the corridor and turning left to the rear door. Seconds later he was in a back alley and walking away.
Caspar made his way across the city to Rue Victor Méric, an itchy feeling on the back of his neck. Something about the newcomer to the café had been vaguely familiar, but he hadn’t seen his face clearly enough to recognise him. Madou, though, had been seriously spooked, and that meant the man was someone important in the Farek hierarchy, possibly a new face since Caspar’s time in the force. He had to switch streets and double back a couple of times and walk through a department store to the rear exit before he began to feel sure that he wasn’t being followed.
The area around Rue Victor Méric was familiar because he’d worked it on and off over the years. He was surprised that a low-grade crim like JoJo Vieira had elevated himself to shopping here, and could only assume that he’d been scouting out a possible target for thievery and had happened to see a jacket he liked. The fact that he’d bought it instead of stealing it was a new one, but maybe he’d got cash from a recent informant-fund payout burning a hole in his pocket.
The shop was narrow-fronted, with a single window showing a faceless mannequin in a smart suit, and a selection of shirts, ties and accessories, such as braces and belts. The name L’Homme was curled across the fascia in green-and-gold script, with the name of the owner, H. Aprahamian on a small plaque above the door. The window glass was clean and the doorway swept clear of leaves and dust.
He pushed open the door and was greeted by an elderly man behind the counter, busy pinning the sleeve of a dark blazer. He was thin and stooped, with a wisp of hair over each ear and thick spectacles perched on the end of his nose. The interior of the shop was narrow and long, with an array of drawers and hangers taking up all the available wall space.
‘Monsieur Aprahamian?’
‘Yes,’ the shop owner stopped what he was doing. ‘Are you the police?’
Caspar was surprised. With his years working undercover and having to assume personas that reflected the milieu he was moving in, he’d become accustomed to being mistaken for someone on the opposing end of the scales from the police. He wondered if retirement from that world was beginning to soften his appearance in ways he hadn’t thought. ‘Do I look like a cop?’
‘It was just a guess.’ The man smiled. ‘How may I help you?’
Caspar explained why he was there, and slid a piece of paper across the counter. It bore the invoice number Rocco had given him and the name J. Vieira.
Aprahamian nodded. ‘I remember the jacket, certainly. It was a special order which was never collected, so I was forced to put it in the window. It was an excellent garment and was only there for one day before a customer came in and said he wanted it. He did not seem concerned with the price, either.’
‘Can you remember anything about him?’
‘Most certainly. He was not my usual kind of customer because he seemed ill at ease in my shop. To be honest, his clothes were very cheap and not at all well made, and I was a little suspicious – perhaps unfairly so. However, he had cash and seemed keen to spend it, so I obliged.’ He shrugged and gave a wry smile. ‘We all have to make a living, do we not?’
‘I don’t suppose you have an address, if he was a cash customer?’ It was a long shot but worth trying.
Aprahamian barely hesitated. ‘Actually, I do. Normally, of course, for a cash sale I wouldn’t. But he tried it on and asked me to take the sleeves up. To be honest the jacket was a little too big for him, but he insisted, so I worked on it overnight. I offered to deliver it and he agreed and gave me his address, but then changed his mind and said he’d come and collect it.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘He paid up front, too, which I requested, and came back the following day.’ He turned and picked up an order book, leafing through the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘Ah, yes. Here it is. Not too far from here.’ He read out an address in Saint Ouen and Caspar made a note. He knew the street, in a ratty area close to the river that had long been marked out for redevelopment but always seemed to miss the call. Just the sort of place somebody like Vieira would call home.
‘Is he in prison?’ Aprahamian asked.
‘No. He’s dead.’
‘Oh. Then I am sorry for his family.’
Caspar desperately wanted to visit the St Ouen address and get whatever information he could. But he needed to get out to Orly first; he’d already spent longer on this than he’d expected, and would have to deal with it later. If he turned up late for the security review, he’d probably find they’d called in somebody else.
Nineteen
‘Are we all set up to go?’ Lilou sounded nervous, her voice tight. It was a common reaction when they were ready to do a job, like winding up a clockwork toy. But once they made their first move she would settle into a state of cool control, her mind entirely focussed on what they had to do.
Romain nodded and checked their surroundings. They were in the Citroën van, parked in a quiet side street of small warehouses and lock-ups in the eastern part of Amiens. Other commercial vehicles around them provided useful cover, making theirs just one van among several. Anybody chancing on them would make the obvious assumption: that they were discreet lovers after a little privacy.
The engine ticked and clicked as it cooled down, the only background noise to intrude on their thoughts. Lilou had driven them out to the house for a quick look, then back again to prepare for the next part of the plan. Romain had made the call to Farek earlier, and had just been to a nearby café and called again to confirm the arrangements.
‘All set,’ he said. ‘Farek found four guys, all Congolese illegals. It means they’ll do anything to earn some quick cash and ask no questions. They’re on their way from Paris right now.’
‘What if they recognise Bouanga? He’s a public figure – or was. Isn’t Congo right next to Gabon? They might balk at lifting him once they see who he is.’
‘You think? I wouldn’t worry about it. They’ll do the job, that’s all we need.’
‘But I do worry. It’s the unplanned events that can screw with our plans, you know that.’
‘Lilou, I doubt these people w
ould even recognise their own mothers. They’re here without papers, jobs or money. They don’t care a sou about who their target is. They’re cheap thugs looking to earn enough cash to get high then move on.’ He sniffed with contempt. ‘Cheap and disposable.’
‘Can we rely on them to do the job properly, though?’
Romain shrugged. ‘Probably not, but they’re all we’ve got. If they foul it up we can always blame Farek; he picked them. They’ve had their instructions. They go in at midnight and anyone who gets in their way is history. Once they’ve grabbed Bouanga, they get out and make for the rendezvous. In any case it doesn’t matter if they do screw up, they’re only there to cause a diversion so we can get to Rocco. What’s the worst they can do? We’ll be busy doing our job.’
‘I suppose.’ She gave a faint smile and leaned towards him, breathing against his cheek and humming with pleasure. It was a sign that she was feeling good about the plan, in spite of her concerns. ‘It was a good idea to do it this way. Anything that makes our job easier means we can collect the rest of our fee and be gone. Like the man near Dieppe. That was easy money.’
He smiled at her. ‘You said the same about Vieira. Getting a little arrogant, aren’t we?’
She made a moue at him, her lipstick shiny. ‘No. Just saying, that’s all. I reckon this Rocco, big as he is, will be just as easy. I have faith in us. In you, especially, my big boy.’ She kissed him and laughed, but it was a sound still edged with a brittle quality.
He patted her leg in reassurance, aware that the light-hearted veil was a thin cover for how tightly-strung she was feeling. Up and down like a fairground ride was how he’d once thought of her; up was good but down was wildly unpredictable. Her moods could vary in a moment from joyful and coquettish, to total detachment and frostiness, when even his easy humour would fail to reach her. He had come to recognise which phase was dominant in spite of the outward signs. But to focus too much on it would push things too far and prove disastrous. Like prodding a hornets’ nest: if you didn’t have to, better to leave things well alone.
Rocco and the Nightingale Page 10
