Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rocco headed out on the Abbeville road and soon arrived at the Gondrand dealership, an oasis of brightness in a drab line of houses and small businesses. It stood on an extensive patch of gravelled ground with a small office building at one end and streamers fluttering from poles like a circus event. There were some two dozen cars of every description on view, and the impression Rocco got was that Gondrand had taken the American high-volume approach to car sales, with lots of glitz and gleaming paintwork to draw in the customers.

Inside the front office a man in a dark blazer was leafing through a calendar showing smiling women in scant costumes, his feet up on the desk. When he saw Rocco, he tossed the calendar to one side, patently beyond embarrassment, and stood up without haste. He eyed Rocco’s clothes with a commercial gleam in his eye and a professional smile sliding into place.

The younger Gondrand, Rocco decided. He was close-shaven, skin shiny and soft-looking. Pampered.

‘Your father in?’ Rocco asked.

‘Maybe. Who’s asking?’

‘Police.’

‘Right.’ The gleam disappeared and a blank mask dropped down in its place. ‘Well, I’m in charge of day-to-day operations here. What’s it about, Sergeant…?’

‘Inspector. And your father would be fine.’

Gondrand nodded and seemed about to argue, but turned and went through a door at the end of the room. He returned seconds later, visibly annoyed, with an older and fleshier version of himself in tow.

‘Inspector Rocco, isn’t it?’ said Victor Gondrand. He beckoned Rocco to follow him inside and gave his son a steely look, closing the door firmly and indicating a visitor’s chair. The office was small and neat, with little clutter, the domain, Rocco decided, of a professional businessman. And no girlie calendars.

‘How do you know my name?’ queried Rocco.

Victor smiled. ‘It’s good manners, Inspector. It’s not a huge town, so it makes sense to at least know who I might be dealing with, especially a business like ours.’ He sat down, but not behind his desk. Instead, he dragged up a second visitor’s chair and sat near Rocco. ‘What can I do for you? I take it you don’t want to buy a car.’ He glanced out through a small window looking out on the front of the lot, where Rocco’s Citroen was parked.

Rocco decided that this was one Gondrand he might get to like. ‘I’m looking for the driver of a Peugeot four-O-three,’ he explained, and listed the details.

Gondrand made a note on a pad from his desk. ‘Is the driver in trouble? The car’s not stolen, I can be certain of that. We don’t handle that stuff.’

Rocco didn’t argue. He was enough of a cynic to know that not every car on the road had a valid history, and it was too easy for dealers like Gondrand to let details ‘slip’ here and there for the sake of a quick deal. ‘I’m following up an enquiry, that’s all.’

‘No problem. Would you like coffee, a drink, maybe?’ Gondrand stood up and nodded towards a percolator in the corner, with a tray of drinks alongside.

Rocco was surprised. ‘You can check right now?’

‘Of course. Business is good, Inspector, but not so good I can’t keep track of what we sell. My son is less… shall we say, detailed in his approach. Quick turnover, in, out and never look back. It’s not a business method I share, to be honest, but it seems it’s the new way of doing things in this trade. What can you do, eh? Progress, they call it.’

‘My sympathies. In that case, I’ll have a coffee.’

Gondrand nodded and poured a cup, passing Rocco a small container of milk and some sugar cubes. ‘Help yourself. I’ll just be a moment.’

He sat and pulled a file box towards him and began to flick through the cards, whistling a faint tune. Seconds later, and before Rocco had taken his first sip of coffee, he gave a grunt of triumph and held up a card.

‘ Voila. A 1960 Peugeot,’ he read. ‘Four-O-three, licence number as you said, dah-dah-dah, not bad condition, fifty thousand on the clock, one owner, sadly deceased. Sold three days ago to a Mme Nicole Glavin.’ He scowled. ‘Odd. There’s no home address.’ He looked up and gave a forced smile. ‘My apologies, Inspector. This isn’t right. Could you excuse me for one moment?’

He left the office and closed the door, and Rocco decided Gondrand fils, as the only other employee, was in for a shock. He waited, hearing the sound of raised but restrained voices, and wondered why Nicole Glavin hadn’t told him her full name. Too much information on a first meeting, perhaps. Cautious.

Moments later, Victor Gondrand returned. He looked flushed, his mouth set in a rigid line.

‘My sincere apologies, Inspector. My son assures me he completed all the documentation correctly, but did not make a note of the customer’s address because she declined to give him one. She claimed she was staying with friends and had not yet acquired a permanent home.’ He lifted his hands in the air with an expression of disgust and added, ‘Like I said, not good with details. I don’t know what to say.’

Rocco waved it away. It was a dead end. But at least he now had a full name. ‘Don’t worry. These things happen.’ He finished his coffee and decided to leave the Gondrands to fight it out between them. If the bureaucrats at the town hall wanted to join in because due process hadn’t been followed, that was up to them. He shook hands with Gondrand and headed for the door. Then, for no particular reason, a thought occurred to him. He stopped. ‘How did she pay for the car?’

Gondrand glanced at the record card and looked surprised. ‘Cash. Would you believe it? She walks in off the street and buys a car just like that. Merde!’ He grinned easily. ‘I wish there were more like her!’

On the way back to the office, Rocco spotted a collection of industrial buildings in a new development, the like of which were springing up all round the region in answer to the demands of a growing economy and inward investment from countries like the United States. Remembering Tourrain’s acid comment, he turned in and drove slowly around the site, following a curving road which took him past a variety of buildings and vacant lots. Most of the units were shells awaiting completion, with show boards on the front listing, for potential tenants, the basic facilities on offer. One or two had groups of workmen unrolling electric cables, while others were at the groundwork stage, with stacks of construction materials awaiting their turn in the process of converting open ground to fully functioning commercial plants.

One of the structures stood apart from the rest. Sitting on the periphery of the complex and already complete, it was the largest of them all and surrounded by an impressive array of austere metal fencing dominated by tall poles every few metres, each holding an array of floodlights. A security cabin and striped barrier were built into the fence, and a guard was staring out through the front window at Rocco’s car. On one corner of the site was a stretch of canal, a touch of light relief against the drab and intimidating appearance of the building and its fencing. A panel across the fascia gave the company name of Ecoboras SA.

Rocco pulled up to the barrier and waited while the guard stepped out and approached with casual indifference. He was dressed in a dark-blue uniform and jump boots, and walked with the insolent confidence of security guards everywhere.

‘This is a restricted area,’ he said without preamble. He made a lazy, circular motion with his hand for Rocco to turn round and go away. No questions, no greetings, no explanation.

‘Is that right?’ Rocco considered it for a moment, then dug out his badge and held it up. ‘I’d like to see the site manager.’ He didn’t like private armies of any kind, no matter what their function. And being treated like an intruder got under his skin.

The guard looked at the badge and shrugged, deliberately unimpressed. But he walked to the barrier and lifted it.

‘Go to reception,’ he said, as if he couldn’t care less. ‘They’ll tell you the same thing.’

Rocco drove beneath the barrier and parked in front of the building, wondering whether the guard and the fence were a reflection of corporate ego or a genuine need for intimidating security. He pushed back a glass door and found himself in a small reception area. The air smelt of fresh paint and plastic. A single desk and two modern, tubular chairs were the only items of furniture, with a small, framed certificate bearing an official-looking seal hanging on an otherwise plain wall.

‘Can I help?’ A young woman was sitting behind the desk.

Rocco flipped his badge and asked to see the manager. ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’

‘A security matter. It won’t take long.’

The young woman slipped out from behind the desk and disappeared through a side door, leaving Rocco to study the certificate on the wall. As well as the seal, it bore a lengthy title from something called the Secretariat for Administration of the Ministry of Defence. Underneath was the company name. Before he could read the fine print, the door opened and the young woman was back, closely followed by a man in a smart blue suit. He was in his fifties, short, pear-shaped and with an air of impatience.

‘How can I help, officer?’ The man held out a limp hand. ‘Marcel Wiegheim — operations manager. Is something wrong?’

‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Rocco. ‘Forgive the intrusion, but I was wondering if I could take a look around.’ He smiled. ‘Call me curious; I’ve never been in one of these new factories.’

‘It’s an assembly plant, Inspector. We’re a clean environment here.’ Wiegheim’s eyes flickered. ‘But I’m afraid I won’t be able to let you in. This is a restricted area.’

‘So your guard told me. Restricted by whom?’

‘The Ministry of Defence.’ Wiegheim fluttered a hand at the certificate on the wall. ‘We are under contract to the government and nobody is allowed in without authorisation from them.’ He gave a thin smile, and for someone so short, managed to peer down his nose at Rocco. ‘That includes the police. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Actually, no. What are you making here?’

‘Assembling. It’s an assembly plant.’

Rocco felt his irritation go up a notch. This man was pushing all the wrong buttons. ‘I stand corrected. Assembling, then.’

Wiegheim shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t reveal that. You will have to speak to the Ministry. In any case, we aren’t up and running yet; the assembly lines are still being completed.’

As if to reinforce the point, there was a loud clatter of metal hitting the floor, and a shout. Wiegheim flinched as if he’d been stung.

Before he could say anything, the door in the wall opened and a tall, lean man appeared. As he walked across to join them, Rocco noted a cat-like grace in his movements. A big cat. As tall as Rocco, he had the broad shoulders of an athlete and the healthy glow of someone who was not confined to an office all day.

‘Mr Lambert is our director of security,’ said Wiegheim, and chuckled for no good reason. ‘We are required to employ professional safeguards while we are under contract, and he has a long record in providing the very best security advice to operations such as ours, including in the military.’ He turned to Lambert, saying, ‘Inspector Rocco is with the local police. I was just explaining the situation here.’

Lambert nodded and offered his hand. His grip was firm, with a ridge of wrist muscle showing beneath a plain blue shirt.

‘Is there a reason for your visit, Inspector?’ he asked with a genial smile. ‘We aren’t breaking any by-laws, I hope?’

‘None that I know of.’ As he spoke, Rocco noticed movement outside the building through the window. Another man had appeared. This one was stocky and hard-looking, with a stiff, brush-like haircut and dressed like the gatehouse guard in a dark shirt and trousers and black boots. He stood quite still, staring at Rocco with a complete absence of expression. Hired muscle.

For a building which wasn’t yet fully active, Rocco decided, it seemed to be producing an unusually concentrated security response. ‘I was passing and happened to be curious,’ he explained. ‘I don’t normally get inside factories — sorry, assembly plants — very often, and thought I should acquaint myself with one.’

Lambert nodded in understanding, but gave no sign of bending. ‘No problem. Perhaps when we have time, we can invite you in for a tour? I’m sure something could be arranged.’

Rocco could tell he wasn’t going to get anywhere. This man was trained to deflect the curious by one means or another. The additional bulldog outside was proof of that.

‘Then I’ll have to come back another time.’ He nodded and turned to leave, then stopped, reaching into his pocket. ‘Actually, I have a question you might be able to help me with.’ He took out the photo of the dead man from the canal and held it up for both men to see. ‘It will save my men troubling you again later. Have you ever seen this man before?’

Lambert took the photo and studied it carefully. Shook his head. ‘No. Sorry. Is he dangerous?’

‘Not much. He’s dead. We’re trying to find out where he came from. We think he’s an illegal worker employed in one of the factories around here.’

‘Not here, they aren’t.’ Lambert’s face was a blank canvas. ‘We only employ skilled workers.’

Rocco looked at Wiegheim who, from being impatient and eager to speak before, was now saying nothing. In fact, he seemed suddenly nervous and was sweating visibly, a beading of moisture glistening across his forehead.

Lambert stepped forward and handed the photo back, partly blocking Rocco’s way. ‘Sorry. We can’t help.’ His tone carried a hint of steel.

Rocco ignored him. ‘Mr Wiegheim?’

Wiegheim gave a start, eyes flickering towards Lambert before murmuring quietly, ‘No. I’ve never seen him before.’

Rocco put the photo away and turned towards the door. And wondered why both men were lying through their teeth.