Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

‘Would his wife know about his work?’ In French gang culture, it wasn’t unknown for families to live in ignorance of the breadwinner’s criminal activities, their lives carefully compartmentalised for protection against inter-gang disputes. But most cops acknowledged that the majority of families knew what brought in the money and accepted the risks just like their men.

‘Not necessarily. But a man like Farek?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t think he’d care if she knew or not.’

Rocco hadn’t pressed her on the point, and wished he had. ‘Would he risk coming here?’

‘Here to Paris?’ Caspar shook his head, but Rocco spotted a flicker of doubt in the man’s eyes, followed by a glance towards the door. It was too instinctive to be casual, driven by nerves rather than need. He wondered what history lay between Caspar and Farek, if any. He waited as the former cop went through the ritual of stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another. His fingernails were bitten down and ragged, and since arriving, he had developed a deep, vertical crease in his forehead between the eyes. It gave him an oddly bird-like appearance.

‘How about France generally? He wouldn’t have much trouble getting in, would he, not with his army service.’

‘No. I suppose not.’ A flicker of distaste crossed Caspar’s face. ‘Seems they’ll let anyone in these days. People like Farek are the dregs of humanity.’ He looked at Rocco with a thoughtful air. ‘So what’s he been up to to arouse your interest?’

Rocco was reluctant to tell him too much, so he shrugged vaguely. ‘His name came up in connection with people-smuggling.’

Caspar shook his head, a knowing smile on his face. ‘No. Not people. That’s not Farek’s thing. Anything else, definitely. But not that. It’s too messy and there’s not enough profit. For him to come here, it would have to be big.’

‘Like what?’ Rocco wanted to ask if a runaway wife might be sufficient reason, but didn’t want Caspar to have reasons handed to him. Better to have his own thoughts and opinions.

‘He never moves far from his base without good reason. I know he’s been here in the past, but mostly in the Marseilles region.’ He was breathing fast and staring beyond Rocco at some point on the far wall. ‘I don’t know what would bring him here.’ He paused, then said, ‘You were stationed in Clichy, Santer said. And you worked the Nice area for a while.’

‘Yes.’ Rocco had worked all over, but he wasn’t about to make a list.

‘Ever go up against Algerians?’

‘A few. Them, Moroccans, Tunisians… and some Asian groups. Mostly small-time stuff, though. I worked mostly against French gangs — bank jobs, kidnappings, stuff like that. Why?’

‘Because if Farek is coming here, he’ll have help. It’s a family thing. You should be very careful; they don’t play by any of the rules that we know. You think our home-grown scumbags are bad enough, you haven’t seen these people in action. To them, human life means nothing. Killing someone is like stepping on a bug and if anyone gets in the way by accident,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘too bad. They get snuffed. Farek’s main hammer-man is a freak called Bouhassa.’

The fat man Santer had mentioned. ‘He shot a man called Ali Benmoussa.’

Caspar looked surprised. ‘How did you know?’

‘I heard a story. Tell me about Bouhassa.’

‘He’s Farek’s enforcer. He does all his dirty work and enjoys it. Great, fat bastard with a head like a cue ball. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do if his boss ordered it. He has a unique way of killing anyone who gets on Farek’s wrong side. He makes them swallow a shot.’

‘Explain.’

‘He shoves a silenced gun down the victim’s throat and pulls the trigger. It kills without leaving an outside trace.’

‘How? A bullet would go right through.’

‘Not his. Bouhassa loads his own shells. They’ve got a low charge and hollow points which he doctors himself.’ He drew a cross on the table, then crossed it again. ‘The damage is all internal; I’ve seen the results. There’s a bit of blood in the mouth, but that’s it. Any bruising to the outside where the victim got taken or beaten looks like they got hit too hard in a mugging or knocked over in a hit-and-run. Same with broken teeth. Most cops and forensic people would miss it or write it off as a random accident, especially if the victim was a known ‘face’. A bust-up between rival gangs… one less to worry about. I’m amazed the silencers never blow up in Bouhassa’s face, but he seems to know what he’s doing. They say he wears safety goggles to protect his eyes, but I don’t know if that’s true.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Give me a shout if there’s anything else I can tell you.’ He finished his coffee and made to stand up, but Rocco put out a hand to stop him. He wasn’t sure if asking for this man’s help was a good idea; Caspar had been through the grinder and come out damaged. But Rocco was short of options and had to use whatever means he had to hand.

‘Can you wait while I make a call?’

Caspar nodded. ‘Sure. Make it quick, will you?’

Rocco went to the phone in an alcove at the rear of the cafe and checked his watch. Santer wouldn’t be at work now. He dialled the captain’s home number.

‘I’m with Caspar,’ he said, when Santer answered. ‘Can you tell me anything else about the killings down south?’

‘Like what? It’s only just come in. I already told you what we had.’

‘Were there any witnesses?’ He checked his watch. The local cops should have had time by now to trawl the locals for leads. All it needed was one sighting.

Santer caught on fast. ‘This sounds more than urgent. Isn’t he playing ball?’

‘He is, but I need something to get through to him. He either doesn’t believe or doesn’t want to believe Farek could be over here.’

‘Not surprised. He’ll know what the man’s capable of.’

‘There’s something else.’ Rocco described what Caspar had said about Bouhassa’s unique method of killing. ‘It might be missed at first sight. Tell them to inspect the throats for blood.’

‘Jesus,’ Santer muttered. ‘That’s sick. OK, I’ll call you back. Where are you?’

Rocco gave him the cafe number and walked back to the table.

Caspar was gone.

Rocco didn’t bother checking the toilets; Caspar would have had to pass by the telephone to get there. He went out into the street, but there was no sign of the man. He shouldn’t have left him alone; something must have spooked him.

As he went back inside to pay the bill, the waiter called him. He was holding the telephone receiver.

It was Santer.

‘You struck lucky. Nothing in Marseilles — it’s too big an area to have finished canvassing yet. But Chalon-sur-Saone is smaller. A flea bite. The local doctor remembers driving past the depot where the man Pichard was killed, and saw two men standing inside the doorway. Strangers, he said. One was wearing a pale djellaba. The doctor’s ex-military, did tours along the Med, so he knows.’

Rocco breathed deeply, heart thudding. ‘What about the victims?’

‘They both had severe burn and blast damage to the inside of the throat. They’ll have to open them up to confirm it, but it looks like Caspar was right. And the doctor in Chalon reckoned the man in the bed sheet is a cast-iron cert for a heart attack.’

‘Why?’

‘Fat, he said. Huge. And bald. Sound familiar?’