He took two of the tablets and washed them down with water, then turned to the wound. The sight of it terrified him and almost made him throw up again; it was swollen and ugly and a thin trickle of blood was seeping slowly down his side. He grabbed the sulpha powder and sprinkled some across the opening, then replaced the towel wadding, folding it carefully into place and wincing when he caught the edge of the wound where it was most tender. It would have to do for now. As long as he didn’t have to move too much he could stand it for a while longer until he figured out what to do.
Lilou was moving in her sleep in the back of the van, as she often did, and he waited for a sign that she’d noticed what he was doing. But after a moment her breathing became quiet and steady.
That wouldn’t last once he told her, he realised. She was already stressed enough over not finding Rocco at the house and him shooting the two cops, saying that they should have known about the first and that the shooting had been unnecessary. How she’d react when she heard he’d caught a bullet didn’t bear thinking about. He felt the tablets beginning to have an effect, his eyelids becoming heavy. The pain was receding to a bearable but constant ache, so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. He’d find a friendly doctor willing to treat him in exchange for some ready cash and a promise of silence, and they’d be off into the blue just as soon as this last job was done.
The job, he thought, his mind wandering. They still had to complete the job. But they would. Rocco couldn’t hide forever. All they had to do was come up with a new plan. Lilou would help. She was good at planning.
As sleep took over, he was thinking about the different ways he could finish Rocco off. That would make up for the pain like nothing else; that and the admiration of Lilou as he completed their assignment.
Twenty-seven
The atmosphere at the station was like a morgue, with every available officer out in search of the abductors of Bouanga or setting up road blocks and questioning motorists. In Rocco’s opinion it was too little too late; if the people who’d done this had any brains, they’d be a long way beyond any cordon by now, or keeping their heads down in a remote location and waiting for the dust to settle.
It lent the normally busy office a faintly surreal atmosphere, as if all the usual inhabitants had been lifted out and spirited away en masse. Even the air smelled almost clean, with none of the usually heavy fog of cigarette smoke hanging overhead. Claude and Alix followed him in shortly afterwards and made for separate desks to write their reports, both as surprised as he by the quiet. It gave Rocco a chance to write his, sticking to the basic facts without adding any unnecessary details.
In spite of his efforts at clear thinking, Rocco soon found the events of the past few days intruding like flashes of lightning. Each one, it seemed, from the cottage break-in, the mystery woman in the café who had pretended not to know him, the murder of Vieira and the threats to his own life, and now the disappearance of Bouanga and the shooting of the two officers, seemed to be ganging up to confuse the hell out of him.
He thought them through one by one in an attempt to break the puzzle down to its separate components. He couldn’t do much about the mystery woman, which was odd, but not worth losing sleep over. If she had something to say, but was cautious, maybe even frightened of coming forward for any reason, there was little he could do about it unless he saw her again. Until then, he pushed it to the back of his mind.
The squatting at Poissons was hardly earth-shattering, although the village inhabitants, especially Mme Duverre, would no doubt disagree. In such a small and remote community, it would stand out purely because it was so unusual. It wasn’t the first shocking event to hit Poissons, and certainly not the worst; that dubious honour belonged to the murder of a young woman in the marais, followed closely by the death of a local scrap metal man who’d blown himself up with some wartime ordnance after trying to kill Rocco. Those two, in police terms, ranked much higher in the order of magnitude. Fortunately, since nothing appeared to have been stolen from the cottage and the only offence was one of trespass, it would have to take its place on the long list of odd events that went unsolved in every police district throughout the country. Burglaries were a common factor in most towns and cities, and were only likely to become more common in the country as time went by and populations spread out from the urban areas.
As for the alleged threat from Lakhdar Farek, there was little he could do about it other than to keep his eyes open and be on his guard.
With the Bouanga affair, the despatch of an Interior Ministry investigation team had taken that out of his hands. Unless he was tasked with joining in to help with the search, it looked certain that it was going to be kept that way, no doubt because, as Massin had said, there would be political ramifications once the details got out that Bouanga had been here. He had fled his own country in questionable circumstances, and been offered secret protection in France, which Rocco could only guess might mean some difficulties between the two countries in future trade terms. How that might compare with the reaction from the general population once it was known that France had harboured a man of Bouanga’s alleged reputation was anybody’s guess.
Which left the murder of JoJo Vieira. It was unusual enough that the dead man had arrived as if by magic and been dumped in a ditch not far from Poissons. It had an added dimension, however, with Caspar’s revelation that Vieira had been on his way to seek Rocco’s protection from the same Lakhdar Farek.
He stood up and walked over to the large wall map of the area. Someone, probably René Desmoulins, had stuck a pin in the spot where the body had been found, along with a slip of paper showing the basic details of the time, cause of death and location, and a file number for further reference. Rocco picked up another pin and stuck it in the spot where Les Sables was located. It didn’t help clarify his thoughts, merely indicating the regularity with which unexpected and seemingly unconnected events occurred in close proximity to each other.
He traced a route from Paris across country to where Vieira’s body had been found. It wasn’t a straight line by any means, and a city rat like Vieira would have soon been out of his depth on the narrow roads and in open countryside. If he accepted that Vieira couldn’t have known where Rocco lived, it was more likely that he’d been making for Amiens, which was about the same distance and on a more direct line than Poissons.
Yet whoever had killed him had managed to find him down a narrow country lane. Was that pure chance or had the killer followed him with extreme patience, waiting for his chance to strike?
He took a walk around the office, stopping for coffee on the way. What kind of killer did Farek have on his books who would have that kind of patience? From what Caspar had said, neither Borelli nor Abdhoun sounded as if they possessed that level of self-control. Like most killers they preferred to let anger and machismo dictate their actions. The Corsican had beaten someone close to death in a rage over a woman, even though he must have known whom he was dealing with in such a small community; and the Algerian, Abdhoun, sounded younger and even more volatile so even less likely to wait patiently for the ideal opportunity to strike a target. He would be more likely to go in hard and messy just to get a name for himself.
That left a professional hunter; somebody capable of following a target undetected, of planning their moves and melting into the background even in open countryside. Someone who was accustomed to biding their time.
He picked up the phone and dialled Santer’s number.
The captain answered immediately. ‘Lucas. I hear all hell’s broken loose in sunny Picardie. What are you doing up there?’
‘I wish I knew,’ he replied. ‘But that’s not why I’m calling. Can you run a check on a couple of names for me? I need to know if they’ve been out of town in the past few days.’ He gave Santer the two names, Borelli and Abdhoun, and what little he knew from Caspar’s description.
Santer grunted. ‘Yeah, I’ve never had the pleasure but I’ve heard plenty from one of the g
ang boys. They’re a nasty addition to the other thugs and miscreants up here and looking to move up the chain. Not that it’ll do them any good. Last I heard the Algerian’s already upset Farek’s second-in-command, Seb Achay, which won’t do him any favours; Achay’s a tough nut and wants to hold on to his position. Borelli’s a bit too handy with his fists, which could bring down too much attention from the local cops. Why are you interested in these two, anyway? You’re not thinking they lifted your politician-in-hiding, are you?’
‘No. From what you and Caspar have said it doesn’t sound their style. I’m just looking at the murder of JoJo Vieira. If they never left Paris it lets them off the hook.’
‘I see. That’s not good. Still, I’ll ask around, just in case anybody’s heard. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll get back to you.’ Santer rang off and Rocco sat down and waited while ruminating on the puzzles before him.
Santer was even quicker than he’d promised. ‘Good news – and bad. Abdhoun’s out of the picture. He’s been in hospital for the past five days with serious stab wounds to the chest and stomach. He got in a bar fight with a couple of past acquaintances from Oran. According to my guys on the street he’s lucky to be alive and certainly not in any condition to travel anywhere, much less kill anybody.’
‘And Borelli?’
‘He’s still around and been seen on a regular basis strutting with Farek’s crew. If he’s been out your way, he’s found another form of travel that takes no account of time or space, if you know what I mean.’
‘Thanks, Michel – I owe you a meal sometime.’
‘That you do, my son. In fact, now you mention it, I know of a nice place which serves an excellent langoustine in garlic butter followed by smoked salmon, and a decent chilled Chablis to go with it. You’d like it, I promise.’
Rocco grinned. Santer never forgot his stomach for long. ‘I’ll bear it in mind. You said you had some bad news.’
‘Well, only by implication. If we’ve discounted these two no-goods being responsible for Vieira’s death, it means there’s somebody else out there who knows what they’re doing. And if they’re acting on Farek’s behalf, you could be next on the list. It’s a pity you don’t have the inside track on what Farek’s been thinking.’
Rocco had already been thinking about how to get that information. It occurred to him that JoJo Vieira would have been close enough to Farek’s circle for a while, at least, to have picked up any rumours and bits of gossip about the crime boss’s intentions. He would certainly have stayed as close as possible because his own safety was at risk as long as he was providing inside information to the police. At the first hint that he was suspected of talking to them he would have headed for the hills, as was finally proven by his flight from Paris. Unfortunately, Vieira was no longer in a position to provide the answers Rocco wanted. But it prompted a thought.
‘Do you know who was handling Vieira as an informant?’
‘I do, actually. The team is headed up by a mate of mine. They’re deliberately isolated from normal duties while it’s going on, because the outcome is potentially so high-profile. Bringing down Farek will also bring down a raft of others. Why do you ask?’
‘I’d like to talk to him. He might have something he hasn’t thought relevant. And frankly, at the moment, I’m treading water.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you. I need to get this done quick, though, so I’d rather it wasn’t cleared through channels.’ Any kind of inter-departmental clearance would take days, not hours, and would probably end in a refusal on jurisdictional grounds.
‘Still ready to bend the rules, huh? Leave it with me and I’ll call you with a time and place.’
Rocco dropped the handset and walked back to the map on the wall. He placed another pin, this time on the town of Dieppe, in Normandie. A channel port, it was roughly eighty kilometres from Amiens and just over an hour away.
Did the same person who killed Raballe also kill Vieira? It didn’t sound like the same modus operandi, with one shot and the other stabbed; but who knew?
There was only one way to find out: he’d have to take a look for himself.
Twenty-eight
The town of Dieppe sat quiet and settled in the late morning sun, the light glancing off the roofs and windows and forming a haze out over the channel. Sea birds formed clusters, wheeling against the sky in their search for easy pickings down below. Beyond the town the sea was a glistening blue-grey backdrop dotted with boats inshore, while further out was the smoke trail and flashing wake of a ferry headed towards the English coast.
Rocco had been here once before, but not in connection with his job. Then he’d hoped to enjoy a few days’ vacation, looking to unwind away from the city with Emilie, his wife. Now ex-wife. He experienced a momentary regret as he recognised some of the landmarks, and, beyond the town, the dark blue of the water. Back then he’d been trying to mend the increasingly visible cracks in their relationship, cracks that seemed to widen almost daily. After returning from military service in Indochina, he’d joined the police force much against Emilie’s wishes. She’d been living with the danger in his military life, she’d said tearfully, and the possibility that he wouldn’t come home one day. Now the police. It had been a step too far.
The stay had been a long way short of successful, and painfully short-lived. They had separated not long afterwards.
He shook away the memories and focussed on finding the town’s Hôtel de Police. Parking outside in a reserved spot, he flashed his card at a uniformed cop on the front entrance, who nodded him through. He approached the desk and asked for Detective Franck Joncquet, with whom he’d had a strained conversation before leaving Amiens. Joncquet had announced himself as the detective in charge of investigating Raballe’s death, but had lost no time in making it very clear that he didn’t appreciate a detective from another force showing an interest. The matter was, he’d insisted, being dealt with and would soon be wrapped up.
Rocco had met men like him before, keen on protecting their bailiwick and anxious to keep outsiders away. For them, it was tantamount to calling into question their capabilities.
Ten minutes later, after an apology from the desk sergeant for being kept waiting, Joncquet appeared, chewing on a baguette and in no apparent hurry, his belly straining against his shirt front. He was in his fifties, but looked older, with a scrub of greying hair and an over-blown moustache. His suit had seen better days and Rocco recognised a man coasting down to his retirement and anxious not to push himself too hard along the way.
‘So you’re Rocco?’ Joncquet stopped in front of him. He viewed Rocco with evident displeasure, no doubt for the benefit of the desk sergeant who was watching with interest. ‘I’ve heard about you: the big shot from the city come to clean up for the country paysans, is that right?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Well, you’re wasting your time with this one. Raballe was killed in an accidental shooting, probably by a two-two calibre. It hit him in the throat. No way back from that.’
‘I’d like to verify that, if I may.’
‘Why? I even know the kid who did it; little shit’s been told before about shooting off his rifle in the open but he doesn’t listen. His papa’s a councillor and he thinks he’s untouchable.’ He took another bite of his baguette, crumbs cascading down his shirt front and scattering on the floor.
‘Let’s hope you’re right, Detective.’ Rocco agreed calmly. ‘But this case has possible connections to the disappearance of a foreign government minister from a safe house just yesterday and the shooting of two cops, one of them dead. It’s being investigated by the Ministry of the Interior. I think you at least owe me the courtesy of showing me what you’ve got so far. Don’t you?’ It wasn’t quite the whole truth, but Rocco was counting on this mess of a man not questioning it. What he was also counting on was the police grapevine having passed information along about Bouanga’s disappearance and the shooting of the two officers,
something Massin would certainly have put into motion.
‘What?’ Joncquet stopped chewing and threw a glance at the desk sergeant. ‘How can there be a connection? We’re a long way from your patch. Anyway, it’s the first I’ve heard of it.’
There was a dry rustle of paper and they turned to see the sergeant waving a telex. ‘We got a call earlier today,’ he said, ‘and a level red bulletin just came in an hour ago about the two cops. I sent copies around the building.’ He nodded at a notice board on the wall. ‘It’s up there, too.’
‘Yeah, I saw it.’ Joncquet looked annoyed and threw the sergeant a nasty look. It was evident that there was little liking or respect between them. It put the detective in a difficult situation. A level red bulletin was an all-eyes notification which he should have read as a matter of urgency and clearly hadn’t. He was also in danger of word getting to his superiors that he wasn’t being helpful to a fellow detective, which might make his retirement look suddenly less exciting.
‘Detective Joncquet, I don’t want to cause waves here,’ Rocco said easily, to give the man an out. ‘But if you can tell me what you’ve got so far, and allow me to look at the body and talk to your pathologist or whoever wrote up the forensic report, it would help our investigation and I can report back to the Ministry and close the file to everybody’s satisfaction.’
Jonquet took the bait. Without a word he gestured with his baguette and led Rocco back the way he’d come. As Rocco passed the desk, the sergeant gave him a look which said ‘nicely played’.
Joncquet took him through to a separate section of the building, where a technician in a white coat and rubber boots was hosing down a metal table, the water sluicing into a drain in the centre of the floor. The room would have made Rizzotti green with envy, Rocco thought, seeing the equipment on display. But it remained to be seen if the work done here was up to the doctor’s same high standards.
Rocco and the Nightingale Page 15
