Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The sweep was a go. Rocco was amazed.

He’d come in after an early-morning phone call expecting another day of prevaricating, only to hear that Massin had called an emergency briefing. Someone in the Ministry had finally taken the decision to authorise a search for illegal workers. All uniforms had been mobilised and told to stand by, complete with buses for anyone without papers to be taken into custody, and with suits from the Immigration Service in attendance from Lille to oversee the inspection of papers. The general feeling was that the suits weren’t likely to have their work cut out.

‘This operation will be strictly low-level, aimed at finding those workers without papers, the gang bosses who run them and the people who brought the workers into the area.’ Massin shuffled papers and looked briefly out over the room, looking like a man trying to assimilate the orders received from the Interior Ministry and translate them for staff. ‘This operation is being replicated in towns such as Strasbourg, Lille, Lyon, Marseilles and the commercial belt around Paris. We begin at twenty-three hundred hours tonight and the operation ceases at O-three hundred. All leave is cancelled as of now. Any questions?’

Nobody had. They were all trying to think about what would happen when they descended on the factories later that day. Most would be shut, but as they knew well, many had lights burning at all hours, ostensibly to complete orders at a time when productivity requirements were high. But was it as simple as that, or were they using the cover of night to use a cheaper, underground workforce? It was a question most patrol officers had asked themselves from time to time, but without the authority to go in and ask, they had been forced to leave well alone.

‘Let me emphasise something,’ Massin continued heavily, the light glinting on his spectacles. ‘This is not a public announcement. If news of this gets out, we’ll be hounded by the press, the unions, the factory owners and pressure groups from all sides… quite apart from alerting the gangs and workers involved.’ He paused. ‘I do not want any leaks. Any officer found discussing it with anyone outside this room will be arrested and will feel the full weight of the law. Am I clear?’

A murmur of assent, with a few surprised looks between officers who knew that keeping something like this quiet all day would be a minor miracle. Detective Tourrain, Rocco noted, was barely suppressing a smirk the size of a dinner plate. For a man who had little regard for illegal workers, it was probably at the prospect of being able to get out there and drag them into custody.

‘There is one important condition to this operation.’ Massin dropped the papers by his side and looked around the room, eyes finding and settling on Rocco with an expression almost of regret.

Great, thought Rocco. Here it comes.

‘One factory will not be subject to this sweep. The Ecoboras plant. My orders are that it is not to be included and not to be approached. As an important subcontractor to the Ministry of Defence, its work is regarded as too sensitive to be disrupted. Clear?’ He nodded, adding, ‘That’s all. Organise your men.’

Rocco watched the room empty, and found Massin approaching him.

‘The matter of the criminal, Farek,’ said Massin. ‘It has been referred back marked ‘No action’. As I suspected, we have no grounds to stop him coming here. He has committed no crime in France and the Algerians say they have no record, either.’ He looked sceptical, adding, ‘No doubt if they looked harder they might find something, but there is nothing I can do.’

Rocco nodded and left the room with Massin’s eyes boring into his back. He was angry but not surprised. Politics again, interfering with the business of law by sheer inaction. Well, there were ways round that.

He went in search of Desmoulins, but before he could find him, he was approached by one of the desk officers.

‘Inspector? There’s a man named Caspar asking for you. Says it’s urgent.’

Rocco followed the man to his desk and picked up the telephone. ‘What have you got?’

‘Farek’s in Paris. He’s called a tent meeting.’

‘What the hell’s that?’

‘Search me. Something from way back, apparently, like a council meeting of elders or tribal leaders. Only this one is between gang bosses.’

‘Where?’

‘Belleville. Eight this evening.’

Rocco knew it well. A working-class neighbourhood, it was a frenetic and mostly friendly mix of Jews and Muslims from across the North African divide. Kosher bakeries sat side by side with halal butchers, with almost no trouble between the two. It was an ideal location for Farek to meet with others of his kind. There would be eyes on every corner and outsiders would stand out like tourists at a burial service. Any police presence would be detected within minutes and word would fan out, sending everyone scuttling for cover.

‘These gang bosses… can he really make them get together as easily as this?’

‘Looks like it. There’s been a rush of faces and names moving into Paris all day, from all over the north and central region. They probably see him as a force to be reckoned with. Don’t forget, he’s got a fair bit of influence through the deals he’s done in the past… and a hard reputation. He’s also got two brothers to help him out with identifying the locals.’

Rocco was surprised. ‘I thought they were out of it.’

‘Me too. But it seems not. From the chatter I heard, I got the impression they’ve been working away quietly, setting up contacts, businesses, front companies and the like. Leastways, one of them has. The other’s a dick.’ Caspar explained the difference between Lakhdar the wheeler-dealer and Youcef the mindless thug. ‘If Farek’s planning a takeover, he’s being smart. He’s confronting the bosses on their own turf with no warning. He’ll be offering deals, working relationships. Coming with gifts to win them over.’

‘And if that doesn’t work?’

‘It’ll be war.’

‘For real?’

‘Farek wants it all. But he’s a realist. He knows he can’t trust anyone for long in his business, so he’ll come in strong and show them the alternatives: the bitter and the sweet. The only people he does deals with are cops and officials; they take too long to replace once they’re in position. Gang bosses, though… they can be removed in a second. His only problem is that there’s always another one coming along behind.’

‘Can you get in the meeting?’ It was another dangerous thing to ask of Caspar, but if they could find out what was going on, they might get one step ahead of Farek and his plans.

‘I’ll try.’ Caspar sounded cautious. ‘I got word about it from a contact last night, but I think I was made by a watcher. I told my contact to duck out and ring me this morning, but I haven’t heard from him since and he’s not picking up the phone.’

‘Name?’

‘What?’ Caspar was instinctively defensive. Undercover cops never reveal their sources.

‘If you haven’t heard from him I can have someone run a check of the overnight reports. In case he’s run into trouble.’ The nightly log of activity in the city recorded deaths explained and unexplained, assaults, hospitalisations and arrests.

‘Oh. Right.’ A long pause while Caspar digested the possibilities. Then, ‘His name’s Karim Saoula. He’s a pimp who deals a few drugs… low-level stuff. Keep it quiet, though, can you? He’s OK. I owe him.’

‘Sure.’

‘There’s one other thing.’

‘Go on.’

‘It might be nothing, but I heard Farek’s wife has run off. Could be he’s on the warpath about that, too. Big loss of face for a man in his position.’

‘I thought he didn’t care about her.’ He didn’t mention Nicole; Caspar knowing she was here wouldn’t help, especially if he was to run into trouble.

‘He doesn’t. But who knows what goes on in the mind of a man like him?’

Rocco rang off and dialled Michel Santer. If anything bad had happened, providing Saoula hadn’t been buried in concrete somewhere, Santer would be able to find out. Santer picked up on the third ring and Rocco gave him the name.

‘Jesus, like I’ve got time to be your run-around,’ Santer muttered, noisily scattering paper across his desk. ‘Ah. Here we are. Let me see…’ He hummed names and incidents as he ran down a list. ‘Doesn’t look like anything’s turned up in the last twelve hours. A quiet night all round. Oh, hang on.’

Rocco waited.

‘This could be your man. One North African male, identity unknown, residence ditto, found dumped in an alleyway behind the Gare de l’Est. Beaten to death. I’ll see if I can get him identified.’

‘Thanks. If it is, can you get word to Caspar? Saoula’s one of his.’

‘Will do. Is this going to get me a gold star anytime soon?’

‘Of course.’

He rang off with Santer’s laughter echoing down the line, then sat back and thought about what Caspar had told him. Something wasn’t right about this. Would a man in Farek’s position risk being caught travelling through France by opposition gangs or the police, just so he could catch up with a runaway wife he didn’t want anyway? Even to save face, he was taking a huge gamble on not being seen… or sold out.

The other oddity was why the power struggle and why now? There had been no rumours, no build-up, none of the usual minor gang skirmishes preceding a major takeover. Farek might have been a big wheel in Oran, but that was far away and a small city. In France, he was just a name. It was almost as if this thing had happened overnight. Even Caspar seemed perplexed, and if there was anyone plugged into the community who should have known about it, it was him.

He considered talking to Massin again about stopping Farek, then decided against it. It was too late for that; the man was already here. He’d caught them all on the hop.