Rocco couldn’t help it; the idea that she’d been measuring him like a pig for the slaughter, that he’d come so near to having that thing stuck in his throat without the faintest notion of who she was at the time and no defence, made the hairs move on the back of his neck. That she could talk so easily about it made him wonder again about her sanity. Had she always been mad or had she gradually tipped herself over the edge, driven by the deaths she’d caused? He would probably never know. ‘So why didn’t you?’
‘A bunch of your cop colleagues came in just as I was about to. How about that for poor timing? They blocked the doorway and I knew there was no way I’d ever make it out of the place. I was so annoyed I nearly wet myself. I think Romain did, too, because he didn’t even want me going in there.’
She laughed, but there was something in her voice that made him doubt her words.
‘Poor Romain. I led him such a merry dance.’
Definitely off her head, thought Rocco, and wondered how to take advantage of it before it was too late. Before she struck.
‘You’re lying.’ Keep her talking, he told himself. Keep her guessing and off-balance.
To his surprise, she replied. ‘You’re right. I wasn’t going to – but I wanted to. I mean, really wanted to. Right there and then, even though I prefer to do it out in the open.’
‘So why come anywhere near me? Or is that part of the game for you?’
‘You’re the big beast, aren’t you? The main assignment. And there you were within reach. I wanted to see you up close, to look the mighty Lucas Rocco in the eye and know that one day, maybe not the next or the next, but one day, I was going to get you… and you wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what was coming.’
As she finished speaking, Rocco caught a movement in the trees behind her. It wasn’t much more than a flicker. Claude or one of the other men, perhaps, coming to help him? If so he hoped they’d do something quick. Or was it a bird, dipping towards the water for a drink or to catch one of the thousands of midges hovering close to the surface, a case of different priorities. In the midst of life, we are in…
‘And now I’ve got you.’ Then Nightingale was leaning towards him, her arm drawn back as she prepared to deliver the coup de grâce. As Rocco reared instinctively back on his knees away from her, his eyes cleared and he saw a flash of something in the air, followed by a whisper of sound and another noise he couldn’t quite place. When he looked up the woman was gasping and tugging at something at the side of her neck, the bayonet fallen from her hand.
The object sticking out of her neck was decorated with an unusual yet familiar design with a small trace of feathers set in the end.
Rocco turned his head and saw Delicat standing by a tree close to the water. The little man looked drawn, his clothes dirty and damp and with a long smear of mud down one thigh. He was staring at the woman, unemotional and still, his bow held down by his side.
Rocco rolled away as Nightingale swayed above him. She was trying to pull the arrow loose, grunting with the effort but unable to shift it. She coughed once, and a splash of red appeared on her lips and dribbled down her chin. Then she went quiet and crumpled to the ground, her eyes wide open and somehow outraged, as if this shouldn’t have happened.
Rocco got to his feet and looked towards Delicat, who was standing quite still. ‘Thank you.’
Delicat shook his head. ‘It is nothing. I should have helped your two colleagues, but I was not able to. And you brought Excelsiore and Minister Bouanga back for me.’
‘You know that?’
‘I heard the men at the house talking.’
So Claude had been right. Delicat had been back there, sleeping in the barn.
‘About Excelsiore,’ Rocco said, casting around, his eyes clear enough now for him to spot his gun and pick it up. ‘You need to go and see her. She’s worried about you.’
The little man shook his head. He seemed uncertain, even lost. ‘I cannot. It is impossible for me now.’
‘No, it’s not. Bouanga knows about you and her.’
Delicat looked shocked. ‘How is that possible?’
‘Because he’s not blind.’
‘He will be angry. I have dishonoured him.’
‘Actually, he’s not. He knows how she feels about you, too.’ He stepped around Nightingale’s body and started walking down the track towards where he’d parked his car. He could hear voices drawing nearer and Claude calling his name. He had to get them to locate Jouanne, wherever Nightingale had left him, and call this in. ‘Come on,’ he said to Delicat, ‘I’ll take you there myself and make sure it’s all right. It’s the least I can do.’
Forty-one
‘It’s been a good outcome, Inspector,’ said Massin. ‘A little unfortunate that we weren’t able to hand over a live killer, but I attach no blame to you for that. You did what you had to and the final act was not yours to control. My report shall reflect that fact.’
‘Thank you.’
It was two days later, and Rocco had come into the office to see what was happening and make a statement about the events in the marais. After a night in hospital having his eyes cleansed and his hand bandaged, he’d been glad to get home again to his own space and the familiar sounds of the fruit rats playing overhead. True, he’d also had to weather being fussed over and fed omelettes and chicken by Mme Denis, secured in exchange for all the gory details, but it had been easily bearable. Now it was time to get back to work.
Massin picked up a message sheet from his desk. ‘I have a note here from Inspector Kopa in Neuilly. He wishes you to know that Seb Achay, described as Farek’s number two, has turned on his boss in exchange for a reduced sentence. Farek has been taken into custody and formal charges will follow in due course.’ He looked up. ‘Kopa says you helped with certain details which implicate Farek in the hiring of an international assassin. You must be relieved about that.’
Rocco wasn’t so sure. It was the end of a long road and time would tell if the charges stuck and Farek went down. He had no illusions about what a clever lawyer could do, although he doubted even Farek would walk away from this one. At the very least Farek would find himself displaced among the criminal community, water closing over his head. Until that happened, he’d have to continue to watch his back. ‘It’s a start.’
‘Indeed.’ Massin picked up a sealed envelope. ‘With that in mind I think you’ll want to read this.’ The outside of the envelope bore the rounded triangular seal of the Police Nationale. ‘Take a seat.’ Then he turned and walked over to the window and stared out at the street scene below.
Rocco opened the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper. The contents were straightforward and without embellishment. He was being offered a new job in a division of the National Police called Brigade de Recherche et d’Intervention or BRI for short. Their sole task was to be focussed on the battle against criminal gangs, of which Paris had more than its fair share. If successful, the idea would be rolled out to other major cities across France in an attempt to interrupt and reverse the recent proliferation of gang activity, involving among other things, drugs, robberies and kidnappings.
Rocco looked up. ‘I take it you know what this is?’
‘I do.’
‘Why me?’
Massin turned, his expression blank. ‘Why not? Surely you must know your record speaks for itself. As I understand it, this new division is being set up as we speak. It’s a new line in tackling criminal gangs – not too different from what you were doing before you came here only on a more organised basis, with new budgets, new techniques and equipment.’ He sat down in his chair. ‘You don’t need to make a decision here and now, but it’s something you should think about carefully. It would represent an important step in your career. If you want it, that is.’
Rocco wasn’t sure what to say. It was an initiative that he knew had been talked about for some time, but it always seemed to be one of those proposals that never quite got off the ground. And Massin was
right – it would undoubtedly be a great opportunity for him and a return to the kind of work he knew best.
‘That’s all, Inspector.’ Massin pulled his in-tray towards him, a clear sign that he wished to get on with other matters.
Rocco stood up. He wondered what was going on behind Massin’s reserved expression, whether this was something the senior officer might have been wishing for or had even engineered. To say they had never been close would be understating the situation. They were colleagues, yes, despite their different ranks, but on the most reserved of terms due to their shared history in Indochina. Massin’s attitude towards Rocco on finding they were to work together here in Amiens had been not far short of abrasive. But it had mellowed considerably since then, replaced by a strictly professional atmosphere between them and even a grudging respect.
As Rocco stepped towards the door, Massin said, ‘One thing, Rocco.’
‘Sir?’
‘I would value the courtesy of knowing your intentions, if that were possible? It’s not an order, of course. But it would help me prepare the way for your transfer and replacement… should that be your decision.’
‘Of course.’
‘That said, I hope you choose to stay.’
Rocco held back his surprise, and closed the door behind him. Then he folded the letter into his pocket and walked downstairs.
END
Acknowledgments
My thanks to David Headley, for his continued support as an agent and friend, not just with my other books, but especially in offering to pick up the Lucas Rocco ball and run with it. This is a book I’ve been wanting to write for a long time, and thanks to David and The Dome Press, I’ve now been able to do it – and enjoyed it hugely.
Massive thanks also must go to Rebecca Lloyd, my (new) editor, for her sterling – and so gracious – job on Nightingale. It must be tough jumping into editing an existing series, with all its history, but Rebecca has done it with aplomb and saved me from making all manner of bloopers. I mean, where did all those Citroëns come from?
To Jem Butcher, who came up with the fantastic cover design. Brilliant job!
And, of course, to all the readers who have been asking for another Rocco. Your wish has come true, and I hope you like it.
Published by The Dome Press, 2017
Copyright © 2017 Adrian Magson
The moral right of Adrian Magson to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-9957510-2-6
The Dome Press
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