Rocco switched off the radio, glad someone else was having a tough day. After checking in by phone to the office, to make sure there hadn’t been an outbreak of gang warfare while he was asleep, he decided to go to Paris. He had two reasons for making the trip: one was to see Santer and catch up with the long-promised lunch, the other was to dig around for whatever information he could find on Ardois – or was it Rotenbourg? Stefan had been very cagey. They were the only names he had, but they were better than nothing. He rang Santer and agreed to meet him at a restaurant within the Clichy area, then set off for the capital.
On the way, he remembered to call in at the village café to arrange drinks for the men putting in the pipes to his house and that of Mme Denis.
The owner, Georges Maillard, greeted him at the door. He brought the smell of last night’s beer and cigarette smoke hanging in the air around him, and a stained roll-up hung from his lip, unlit. He was a large man with uncontrolled hair, a professional beer belly and a two-day beard, and in Rocco’s limited acquaintance with him, seemed to wear a permanent air of disillusion.
‘My licence is all in order, Inspector,’ he grated automatically.
‘Glad to hear it. But I’m not here about that.’ Rocco explained about the workmen Delsaire had hired to connect the water pipes, and handed over some money. ‘If they come in, this should cover a few drinks each.’
Maillard’s eyebrows rose a notch or two, and his expression brightened. ‘That’s very generous of you, Inspector. And there’s no “if” about it; they’ll have smelt the money the moment you took it out of your pocket.’ He peeled off two notes and handed them back. ‘You won’t need that much. This’ll see them happy enough.’ He stuffed the money in his shirt pocket and rubbed his face with a meaty hand. He looked uneasy and glanced past Rocco’s shoulder before speaking. ‘Um … since you’re here, Inspector, there’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s a bit delicate.’ He backed away inside and closed the door.
At the far end of the bar room, a man was setting up a large white screen held in place on wires. A projector stood on the floor by the bar, trailing wires, alongside a stack of film reels. The man nodded at Rocco but said nothing.
‘It’s all right – he’s deaf. It’s film night tomorrow night. You should come – it’s a Fernandel double – his Don Camillo stuff. Supposed to be excellent.’
‘Thanks,’ said Rocco. He’d seen some of the posters on walls and telegraph poles around the village. The idea of sitting here watching a scratchy film on a wobbly screen, surrounded by locals catching up on the latest gossip had its merits, but not right now. ‘Maybe next time. What’s on your mind?’
‘Right. Well, these men have been coming in over the past couple of days. Three of them. Never seen them before, but I don’t think they’re from anywhere around here. They have a few drinks, a laugh, chat, the way customers do. But I’ve always had the feeling they were waiting for something … as if they were checking me out, you know?’
‘You think they’re planning to rob you?’ Rocco had an idea how tight margins were for bar and café owners, many of whom had other lines of business to keep themselves afloat. But he couldn’t imagine Maillard’s place – even if it was the only café in Poissons – being a target for robbers.
Maillard shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He swept a hand around the interior, which was clean, but had seen better days. The decor probably hadn’t changed in three decades and the last coat of paint had been varnished over by years of cigarette smoke. ‘Hell, look at the place. You see cash coming out of the walls?’ He shrugged fatalistically and continued, ‘Anyway, the last time they called, they told me they’d got a whole load of drink going cheap from a restaurant gone bust in St Quentin. Wine, spirits, beer – all good quality.’
Rocco had heard it a hundred times before. ‘Let me guess: no paperwork, no questions asked?’
‘Right. And cash in the hand.’ He rubbed fingers and thumb together.
Rocco was frowning. Investigating the back-door peddling of cut-rate alcohol wasn’t strictly his problem. But living in such close proximity in a small village like Poissons meant he couldn’t simply ignore it as if it didn’t exist, especially if he was being asked for help. ‘It’s a long way to come from St Quentin,’ he said, ‘to sell cheap drink. It must be a good deal.’
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Maillard sniffed. ‘I must be the only café owner in Picardie to pass up such an offer. Well, don’t get me wrong, I’m not pretending to be a saint, and I’m not averse to making a few francs on a deal if I can. But these three are different; they don’t look the sort to take no for an answer, if you know what I mean.’
‘Have they threatened you in any way?’
‘No. Not as such. But I felt threatened. Is that the same thing?’
‘Near enough. Why – what happened?’
‘One of them had a gun. I saw it under his coat – like I was meant to.’
Armed peddlers of hooch? It wasn’t unknown, but usually in the cities, not all the way out here. Somebody must be desperate to unload it. ‘How did you leave it with them?’
‘They’re coming back this evening about seven – with a van. They said to have the cash ready.’ He shrugged. ‘Like I have any choice in the matter.’
‘Does anybody else know?’
Maillard shook his head. ‘Are you kidding? If I’d told some of the soaks around here, they’d think it was Bastille Day and New Year all in one. I’d have a queue back as far as the Mairie.’
‘Good. Keep it that way. I’ll call in around seven.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As Rocco was on his way to the city, a meeting was taking place in an annexe not far from the main Interior Ministry. There were three men present: Josef Girovsky, Marcel Levignier and the man called Delombre. A guard on duty outside the door was to ensure that there would be no interruptions.
‘I am reliably informed,’ Girovsky began accusingly, ‘that the policeman Rocco is still taking too much of an interest in our business.’
Levignier shifted in his seat. ‘I don’t see how that can be; he’s been instructed to finish his investigation and move on. In any case,’ he added primly, ‘there is nothing for him to see. The patients have been moved on and the place is empty.’
‘And Drucker is beyond reach,’ said Delombre softly. His eyes glittered as both men turned to look at him. He was enjoying the moment but ended their suspicions by conceding, ‘Not that far beyond reach, sadly. As for Rocco, I’m sure I can put a more permanent stop to his investigations if you want me to. Just say the word.’
‘No,’ Levignier murmured. ‘Not yet. We cannot go round killing policemen for doing their job. It would arouse too much interest, and we don’t need the heat.’
‘As you wish,’ Delombre replied with a shrug. ‘But once gone, the problem’s over. Period, as the Americans would say.’
‘Can’t you simply order him to stop?’ Girovsky put in forcefully. ‘He’s a public servant, isn’t he?’
‘Like us, you mean?’ Levignier gave a dry smile. ‘Actually, it doesn’t work like that. There are lines of command, layers of authority. I can’t order him to do anything, even if I wanted to … although,’ he added dryly, ‘I might sometimes try. All I can do is suggest.’
‘Then suggest. Suggest he stops his infernal digging! You talk of lines of command. Can’t you lean on his senior officer?’
‘Of course.’
‘Would it stop him?’
‘Yes, it would. He would have to obey.’
‘There’s a “but” in there.’ Girovsky looked frustrated. ‘Thank God I don’t have to run my businesses this way.’
Levignier adjusted his jacket sleeve and wondered why he was having to justify his actions to this self-important idiot. Probably because this idiot could, with his current exalted position within French industry and a long list of important ‘friends’, get Levignier shoehorned out of his job if he so chose. He s
ighed and explained, ‘Men like Rocco are like hungry dogs: they will obey a direct order, but they never lose the hunger. Rocco would always wonder why he was taken off a live investigation, why he wasn’t allowed to finish his job. It would be like an open sore, always there. Eventually, someone would listen to what he had to say.’
‘So what the hell do we do? He’s going to ruin things if he’s allowed to carry on. Discussions are approaching a critical stage and we cannot afford distractions. The Chinese are paranoid about any bad publicity getting in the way of future trade deals. A hint of scandal right now would derail everything we’ve achieved so far. And the Americans and British are waiting in the wings to scoop up anything we drop.’
‘They know the details of the discussions?’ Levignier queried. ‘I thought it was still highly confidential.’ His tone was waspish, as if realising that he was not as well-informed as he’d thought.
‘They’re bound to know something by now. Nothing stays secret for long where international trade is concerned – especially something of this magnitude.’ Girovsky straightened his tie with a fussy movement of his hand. ‘What the Americans don’t look for, the Taiwanese will almost certainly suspect and make capital out of, given a chance. They stand to lose too much to let it lie without a fight.’
‘Which is why action has been taken against a certain party – action, I remind you, that was instigated by yourself and your colleagues.’
‘It was drastic, but necessary.’ The Pole waved a hand as if anxious to brush the subject away. ‘And don’t pretend that you don’t stand to gain considerably in status and position if all goes well in the next few days and weeks. I know how these things work in government corridors. We’re not so different, you and I.’
‘I know very well what I am,’ Levignier said shortly. ‘And it’s nothing like you.’
Girovsky’s mouth twisted. ‘Touchy, I see. Well, never mind. I have no illusions, even if you do. These plans, if realised, will see France race ahead of our competitors and take a lead in the arms race for the next twenty years. The figures are eyewatering and the country needs this deal in particular. The Chinese are the future, believe me.’
‘That’s quite a sales pitch,’ said Levignier. ‘But you don’t have to convince us, Mr Girovsky. We do what we are told, which means whatever is in the best interests of France. Don’t forget that.’
Girovsky nodded. He took a deep breath, as if realising he’d been making too much of the statement. ‘Of course. Forgive me – but there is so much riding on this for all of us … it makes me forget myself.’ He glanced at Delombre, who had remained silent while the scene was played out. ‘But I do not discount this gentleman’s … contribution. So far we have kept everything under control. But having a rogue policeman nosing around because of other elements could bring the whole edifice crashing down. As I said, the Chinese are highly sensitive to bad news and will not hesitate to back out if there is any embarrassment threatened.’ He looked keenly at Levignier and said heavily, ‘You mentioned the best interests of France; well, let me remind you, the consequences for France if these negotiations fall through are too dire to contemplate.’
‘For France … or for you?’ Delombre murmured nastily.
Girovsky flushed with indignation. ‘I resent that! I, too, work for the glory of France, not for lining my own pockets!’
Levignier stopped further discussion by simply raising a hand. He was silent for a few moments as he thought the matter through. He knew when he was being played, but knew also that there are some games you cannot afford to win. And Girovsky, backed by many high-powered friends, was playing a winning hand with his use of patriotism as a driving factor. ‘Very well. We’ll stop him another way. The only way.’
Delombre brightened immediately. ‘So I get to bag a cop after all, then? That would be a first.’
‘Enough,’ Levignier growled, without looking at him. ‘This is no joke.’
‘So what are you proposing?’ Girovsky queried.
‘You’ll see. We’ll appeal to his baser instincts, let’s leave it at that.’
The Pole looked mystified, but acquiesced.
Delombre, on the other hand, sat back. A faint smile was edging his lips, as if he knew that his services were not going to be called off for long. He could tell by the desperation in the atmosphere, especially with the Pole. Levignier, too, was more anxious about this affair than he had seen him before, and had a great deal to lose. Talking would only go so far. Then action was needed.
It was why he was here, after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘I’m overworked and underpaid as usual, since I’m sure you’ll get round to asking eventually.’ Captain Michel Santer picked up a portion of bread and tore off a length of crust. ‘But my wife quite likes me this week and my dog thinks I’m his real father, so what can I complain about?’
He and Rocco were in a small family-owned restaurant near the Guy Môquet métro. It was just far enough away from the Clichy Commissariat, and in an establishment guaranteed not to attract any of his police colleagues. Not that he or Rocco had anything to hide; but he knew enough about the way his friend worked to judge that discretion was often the safest bet.
‘Job-wise,’ he continued, chewing the bread, ‘things are going to hell, though. There’s not enough budget, courts are logjammed, which makes bringing cases take forever; we’re facing another influx of workers from the south, not all of them interested in real work; and we’ve had two kidnaps, three bank jobs and a number of gang-related killings all in the last ten days. I tell you, the world’s going insane. Why can’t people withdraw money from the banks in the usual way?’ He grinned at the old cop joke. ‘How about you – still enjoying lousy roads, empty fields and the smell of cows on heat?’
‘Compared with what you’ve just described, I’d rather have what I’ve got, thanks. And as far as I know, cows don’t go on heat. Who’s been kidnapped?’
‘Oh, some junior diplomat outside an apartment near Rue Legendre. Not his own place, incidentally, but belonging to a young woman who is most definitely not his wife but the niece of a senior army officer with strong Catholic morals. Daft bugger.’
Rocco grinned. ‘The officer or the diplomat?’
‘Both. The other kidnap was an industrialist’s wife taken along Avenue de Friedland. Both lifted off the street in broad daylight, no reliable witnesses, no descriptions, smooth as butter. The Ministry are pointing the finger at a gang of Sicilians with a known modus operandi: lift someone high-profile, send back a body part along with something the family will recognise to show it’s serious, then wait for offers.’
‘Sounds extreme. Does it work?’
‘Christ, yes. You’d be surprised how much is paid without argument on the strength of a gift-wrapped finger in a dinky little Galeries Lafayette box.’
Rocco had seen similar tactics before. In France, crimes with a sense of style somehow appealed to a certain section of the population. Outrageous bravado, a hint of carnival or théâtre, suitably laced with a snub to authority, usually did the trick and earned the criminals a degree of sympathy. But it only lasted so long before their excesses began to take over.
‘We had the first two a couple of months back,’ Santer continued. ‘They both turned up alive and kicking in a warehouse out near Roissy – minus a finger each. Of course, we get the blame for not catching the kidnappers or preventing it in the first place, but some people just set themselves up for it.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘The press, of course, have given the gang a name: Les Lafayettes – which is going to do nothing to stop or help catch them.’ He shook his head. ‘They’ll end up having songs sung about them, you watch. Are you going to tell me what you’re up to? Not planning on knocking off Monsieur le President, are you?’ He chuckled and reached for another piece of bread. He was referring to Rocco’s earlier investigation into an assassination attempt on President de Gaulle, which had come close to finding Rocco himself embroiled in the a
ffair and accused of taking bribes.
Rocco poured them both some water. ‘I’m looking for information on a man named Ardois, possible first name Simon. He was between forty-five and fifty-five, probably worked for the government in some capacity.’
‘You make that sound like the past tense, as in deceased.’
‘He got himself killed.’ Rocco described the man’s death in the therapy pool, and the likelihood that the name Ardois might be false. ‘I’m stumbling in the dark on this and not likely to get any help from official sources.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because the place he was at is a government sanitarium. Very few patients, or whatever they call them, which is why I think he was a state employee.’
‘I’ve heard about those places. Not for us lowly drones, though, are they? I hear they’ve got a couple near Bordeaux. Think of all that peace and quiet … and St Emilion. God, it’s not fair.’ He shook his head sadly and sipped some water, then pulled a face and signalled for the waiter to bring the menu. ‘So, in short, you thought I might be able to use my many contacts to do your work for you, is that it?’ He gave Rocco an arch look. ‘You think I carry a crystal ball in my pocket?’
‘I figured that if anybody in the whole of Paris would know who to ask, it had to be you.’
‘Flattery is the subversive tool of the idle seducer.’
‘Very profound. Who said that?’
‘I did.’ Santer looked pleased with himself and mildly surprised. He scanned the menu briefly, then closed it with a snap and said, ‘I don’t know why I’m looking at this – I know what I want: ragoût de sanglier with spinach. And I’ll have some of that Merlot you keep at the back.’ At the waiter’s lift of an eyebrow, he added, ‘Yes, I know it’s a little light to go with the boar, but my friend is paying and I feel like being unconventional today.’
Death at the Clos du Lac (2013) Page 11
