‘Actually, I was thinking of going to Paris.’ Rocco explained that he’d been thinking about the Vieira killing, and how it might tie in with Raballe’s death, simply because the orders would have come from the same person.
Massin gave him a sharp look. ‘If you’re suggesting going to speak to this Farek man, Inspector, I forbid it. He’s already the subject of an investigation and I can’t have you getting involved.’
‘That wasn’t my intention. I’d like to speak to the unit involved with handling the flow of Vieira’s information. Vieira may have been a street thief, but he was no fool. By one account he was on his way to see me to give me some information in return for his safety. If he’d heard something about the planned assassinations, he might have mentioned it to the unit but it hasn’t filtered out yet. I gather they’ve been keeping things close to their chests to prevent Farek finding out the name of their informant.’
Massin chewed it over, eyes scanning his desk in search of answers. Finally he nodded. ‘Very well. Do it. But don’t tread on anybody’s toes.’
Twenty minutes later, after a call to Santer to confirm details of the meeting, Rocco was on his way to an address in Neuilly, in the north-western outskirts of Paris, to see the head of the unit dealing with JoJo Vieira and the Farek investigation.
‘His name’s Georges Kopa,’ Santer had told him. ‘His unit’s been billeted out in an abandoned print works to keep them away from other officers and allow them free rein to pursue their investigation in isolation. He’ll give you whatever he can, but he can’t promise much.’
Rocco wasn’t expecting answers to drop into his lap, but right now, any activity was better than none. Sitting down and waiting for Farek’s killers to call on him was a surefire way of ending up with the same fate as Raballe.
He found the print works, surrounded by wooden hoarding and plastered with notices announcing the imminent development of the area into shops and housing. He knocked on the door and waited. Two minutes later it was opened and he was asked for his card by a surly individual in workman’s clothing and boots who directed him to an office on the first floor. It held three desks and some old filing cabinets, all of which looked as if they’d been there since the building was first put up. An older man was working at one of the desks, sorting out a pile of papers.
‘Rocco?’ Inspector Kopa was a slim man with thinning hair and doleful eyes, wearing a gun on his hip. He stood up from behind a battered desk covered in paper, and shook hands. ‘Santer says I can trust you, which is good enough for me.’ He smiled, adding, ‘You wouldn’t have been allowed inside the building otherwise. He also said to remind you that you owe him big for this, although I don’t need to ask what that means. With Santer I figure it has to involve food.’ He indicated his colleague. ‘Jules, my number two.’
Jules nodded but said nothing. He had the sour look of a man who’d been disappointed too many times and learned not to trust anybody at first or even second glance.
Rocco nodded back and took a seat while Kopa poured coffee. ‘This place is a bit out of the way, isn’t it?’
Kopa shrugged. ‘It had to be. You heard about the mole who fed out Raballe’s address to Farek? Don’t worry – it’s common news down here. The thing is, we figured Farek was clever enough not to have just one insider; he’d have another in reserve. So we got permission to isolate the unit from our usual office and keep everything to ourselves while we were building a solid case. Santer told me about your history with the Fareks and how you took down Sami, so I reckon you know they’ve got their tentacles everywhere.’
‘Pretty much. But it wasn’t me who took down Sami.’
‘Yeah, I think everybody knows that. But I doubt Farek cares. In fact I think he’s already dealt with the two men who arranged it.’ He took a sip of coffee and lit a cigarette. ‘You know what it’s like with vermin like him: he’s been shouting the odds about you for so long it would look bad for him if he suddenly changed his tune and let you off the hook. It’s all about face with people like him. Any sign of weakness and the other rats will move in for the kill. Anyway, how can I help?’
‘You heard about Vieira’s murder?’
‘I did. That was a shock. We thought JoJo would stick it out but being beaten up must have spooked him. One minute he was around, the next he’d dropped out of sight.’ He stubbed out his cigarette, leaving a plume of grey smoke rising in the air and ghosting off the ceiling. ‘To be honest we’d got as much as we were likely to get from him, anyway. I know that sounds harsh, but you know how it works with informants.’
‘I do. They don’t last long.’
‘Not if they can’t keep their mouths shut. We figured JoJo had already pushed his luck by talking to the wrong people and splashing his money around. We’d warned him to back off but he wouldn’t listen. Any ideas on who did it?’
‘That’s what I was hoping you might help with. The word I’ve picked up is that Farek’s brought in a professional team from somewhere down south.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘A man and a woman. The man goes under the name of Nightingale. I think he did for JoJo and Raballe, using the same weapon and MO.’
Kopa whistled softly. ‘If we could prove that, Farek would be in line for the guillotine. And you think JoJo knew something?’
‘Possibly. I know he was coming to see me because he thought I could protect him, and he had information to trade.’
Kopa lifted an eyebrow. ‘Who told you that?’
‘His sister told a friend of mine that he’d mentioned my name just before disappearing.’
‘Miriam? I know her. She’s dead straight.’ He looked at Rocco, his expression suddenly tight. ‘A friend, you say? You sure it wasn’t you she told?’
At the desk across the room, Jules had stopped shuffling papers and was watching, the atmosphere in the room suddenly tense.
‘Not me, I promise. I was busy in Dieppe, checking Raballe’s death.’ Rocco waited it out, knowing what was happening. They were suspicious that somebody – namely himself – had been intruding on their turf unannounced. For normal cops it was a discourtesy and, as in Joncquet’s case in Dieppe, might be seen as acceptable if it pushed forward their investigation. But for men like Kopa and his colleague, who were operating in a bubble of strict secrecy and close to wrapping up a big case, it was dangerous and a potential threat to weeks, maybe months of work if word of what they were doing got out.
‘Who’s this friend, then? He must be local to have got to Miriam.’ Kopa sat back in his chair, a clear indication that if Rocco didn’t answer, their meeting was over and done.
Rocco hadn’t wanted to mention Caspar’s help if he could get away with it, but he saw no way round it. Some cops instinctively distrusted colleagues who’d been laid off with stress-related illnesses, as if they, too might become infected. It was illogical, but it was the way things were. ‘Marc Casparon.’
Kopa nodded. ‘Caspar? Yeah, I know him. He was a good man. I thought he’d gone private.’
‘He has. He does me a favour now and then when I need it.’
Kopa relaxed. ‘Fair enough.’ He leaned forward and shuffled some papers for a moment. ‘JoJo mentioned you, as it happens. He asked about you a couple of times, in fact. Did you know him, maybe from when you worked up here?’
‘No. I never met him.’
‘It was a bit strange. We just thought he was reaching, you know – looking to get some kind of credit by saying he knew this top cop who’d taken down Sami Farek. But he never said he’d try to get to you or why.’
‘As a crook, JoJo was strictly third-class,’ said Jules, speaking for the first time. ‘He did low-level criminality and wasn’t particularly good at it. It was like he’d never really got the knack, you know? Like a sheep dog that doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do. Good at running but crap at following the whistle.’
‘But he must have had his uses?’
‘Absolutely. I’m not denyi
ng he brought us some useful stuff. He was sneaky and clever at being in the background around people like Farek and his scummy potes without being noticed. If he had a strength, that was it.’
‘Part of the fittings,’ said Rocco. He’d known others who could merge into the background like that; hell, Caspar for one, and he was a cop.
‘Exactly. It’s how he was able to pick up information the way he did. It wasn’t always gold dust by any means, but it helped fill in the picture. He also knew which buttons to push to get us listening and chasing our tails. That was his downfall.’
‘How so?’
‘He got greedy. In the end he’d spun us one too many lines, telling us what he thought we wanted to hear, and was running out of chances.’
‘Like what?’
‘He was taking up way too many man hours, checking out some of the rubbish claims he was making about potential jobs Farek’s crews were involved in. His information was getting sketchy, too. I reckon it was because he was being excluded once they figured he might be a snitch. I’m amazed he wasn’t dumped sooner, to be honest; Farek doesn’t usually waste time dealing with people he doesn’t trust.’
Kopa said, ‘Jules was all for cutting him loose and so was I in the end.’
‘But you still used him?’
‘Less and less. The information always sounded right, but he was a good talker. A few of the rumoured jobs were genuine but low level, not even worth following up because we knew Farek would have covered himself. The others were JoJo just pulling our strings with make-believe to get some extra money. We were on the point of dropping him when he took off.’
‘See this?’ Jules picked up a fistful of paper, mostly scrap, of the sort you’d find at the bottom of a waste basket in a busy office. ‘He brought that in the day he went and dumped it on us. Said it had some real gold we could use if only we could be bothered to look. Cheeky little sod.’
‘And did it?’
‘No idea. He was pissed at the time and started getting hands-on with a female colleague. He also stank the place out as if he hadn’t washed in a week, so we showed him the door. If you ask me, he’d outlived his usefulness.’
Rocco felt a touch of anger at the callousness shown by the man, but held back from judging him. Dealing with people like JoJo Vieira was never an easy ride. Criminals lived and breathed cynicism in their everyday lives, saw themselves as being marginalised and hounded by the police and their own kind, so when they did encounter people who might be able to help them, they harboured nothing but suspicion because that’s how they saw themselves judged by others.
In the face of this apparent dead end, Rocco felt his enthusiasm beginning to drain away. He’d had no idea what to expect from these men, but he’d been hoping for something – anything to forge a link between Farek and the murders of JoJo Vieira and Detective Raballe.
Jules huffed in ill-concealed irritation and stood up. He dropped the papers on the desk in front of Rocco and said, ‘Here. You know the kind of stuff we’re looking for. Take a look for yourself while you’re here. Who knows, you might find something useful to take back to whatever-it-is backwater you’ve come from.’ With that he turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Kopa looked nonplussed. ‘Sorry, Rocco. That was uncalled for. He’s having a tough time at the moment, with retirement coming up in six months. He hates fishing and gardening and can’t stand the idea of working with guard dogs and building sites. And I heard yesterday his wife threatened to kick him out if he doesn’t get another job.’
‘Too much time spent on this case?’
‘This and others. He’s a career cop, same as you and me, and can’t let go at five o’clock like an office worker. It’s what gets most of us in the end, right?’
Rocco knew the situation all too well. ‘You’re right.’ To show willing he picked up the papers Jules had dropped and began to leaf through them. Most of it was fit for burning: scribbled notes to or from unnamed people suggesting times and places that seemed to have a code of their own; receipts for meals, mostly involving several people but no names; copies of shipping or consignment notes for goods brought into a warehouse district out towards Orly airport; crumpled bills… and an envelope holding half a dozen black and white photographs. Rocco leafed through them. Most were unfocussed and contained nothing of any worth.
But there was one that brought him up short.
It was a shot of the interior of a restaurant, with lots of fancy mirrors and ornate ceilings, and waiters in the background in white aprons and dark bow ties. Very Parisien, very chic. The kind of establishment frequented by the rich and influential and much too expensive and exclusive for the masses, he guessed. He turned the photo over. There was nothing on the back, no indication of where or when it had been taken.
He held it up for Kopa to see. ‘Do you know this place?’
Kopa peered at it and nodded straight away. ‘That’s Place Carnot. It’s along Boulevard Malesherbes in the 17th arrondissement. Very high-end and supposed to be nice if you can afford it, which I can’t. Why?’ He stood up and came round the desk, sensing something important.
Rocco was looking at the faces. Four men and two women, all dressed smartly for a party. The odd thing was, none of them were looking at the camera, but at a waiter to one side holding a large menu board, as if in the act of reading out the specialities of the day. ‘Do you know these people?’
Kopa pulled a face. ‘Farek, of course, you know,’ he said, pointing at a man on the far left of the photo, dark-eyed and smiling as if he owned the world. He was dressed in a smart dinner jacket and Rocco immediately saw the resemblance to his dead brother, Samir. ‘His current number two, Seb Achay, is next to him.’ Achay was short and balding, with a prize-fighter’s nose and sharp, button eyes. He was standing slightly back from the others with his arms folded, which Rocco thought was telling; maybe he didn’t want to be there.
‘He doesn’t look happy.’
‘Achay? He never does. He was born miserable, the little runt, and came out nasty. Rumour has it that he sees himself as the next boss but Farek’s not moving over.’ He tapped the photo. ‘I don’t know the two women, so they’re probably just sweet filling for the evening. The next man is a moneylender named Tuquet. We’re pretty sure he’s been bank-rolling Farek’s expansion plans. If so he probably knows more than anyone else about his network. I wouldn’t mind being able to get him in a cold dark place and see what he could tell us. I don’t know the young guy, though. One of Farek’s minders, probably, staying close to protect his boss.’
Rocco took a deep breath, of the sort that always came up when he sensed himself on the brink of something important. ‘I thought you’d know all his current crew.’
‘We should, you’re right. But this one’s a new face. Hang on – Jules!’
Seconds later Jules appeared in the doorway, munching on an apple. ‘What?’
‘Take a look at this, will you. You know Farek’s people. Who’s the young guy on the far right?’ He took the photo and held it out. The man he was talking about was about thirty years of age with dark eyes and hair, and the kind of looks some people might have classed as handsome, were it not for a weak slant to his mouth.
Jules looked at it carefully, then shook his head. ‘No idea. Doesn’t ring a bell, anyway. He looks Italian. The restaurant’s Place Carnot, I can tell you that. A member of staff, maybe? Where did you get it?’
‘Among those papers you gave me,’ said Rocco. ‘Any idea from the people in it when it might have been taken?’
Jules dropped his apple in a nearby bin, his interest stirred. ‘Yeah. Not from the people, though. They had the interior remodelled just recently. It was finished about three weeks ago, with all those fancy mirrors put in instead of paintings. Must have cost them a fortune.’
‘So it would have been taken sometime since then?’
Jules scowled in frustration, no doubt at the knowledge that he’d had this phot
o close at hand and had never looked at it. ‘You’re right. Why the hell did Vieira bring it in here?’
‘Good question.’ Kopa was watching Rocco carefully. ‘You know something, don’t you?’
Rocco nodded. ‘Not something, but someone.’ He took the photo back and pointed at the young man and, next to him, a young woman. The last time he’d set eyes on the man, he’d been standing in Café Schubert in Amiens, telling Rocco that the woman next to him in the photo had just walked out of the door of the café.
‘I believe this young woman is an associate and spotter for the man next to her.’
‘A spotter? Does that mean what I think it does?’ Kopa looked surprised. ‘So who’s the man – or should I say, what?’
‘He’s a professional assassin known as Nightingale.’
Or, as Rocco knew him, Officer Jouanne, recently on guard at the Amiens station.
Thirty-two
Rocco headed back to Amiens as fast as conditions would allow. Late afternoon traffic was already building, and he was conscious of being away from the office for too long in case of any breaking news. He’d left Kopa and Jules staring at the photograph from Place Carnot after getting Jules to run off a few extra copies.
‘The thing I don’t understand is,’ Jules had said, ‘if this Nightingale is a pro, why would he allow someone to take a photo of him? That’s professional suicide for an assassin, surely.’
‘He probably didn’t know it was being taken,’ Kopa had countered. ‘They’re not even looking at the camera. I bet this was Farek playing smart: get a picture of his new hitman just in case he ever needed to trade it in, a favour for a favour. He’s a man who thinks ahead.’
Rocco and the Nightingale Page 18
