Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

In the main office at Amiens police station, Detective Desmoulins frowned and put down the telephone he’d been using. ‘No answer. Rocco must have left already.’ He stifled a yawn. He’d been rousted out of bed after the night duty officer had discovered the emergency calls list missing, and evidence that drawers in the records office had been accessed during the night. He hadn’t wanted to call the senior officers in case he was mistaken, so opted for Desmoulins, a friend.

‘They were fine when I came on at eight last night,’ he had explained over the telephone. ‘I had to amend a couple of files of officers who’ve moved house. And I know nobody else would have used them.’

‘But someone has. You’re sure nobody else was in?’ Desmoulins didn’t doubt the officer’s word but needed to be certain before taking it up a level. The place was, by its very function, often full of criminals, but for security reasons they would not have access to anything sensitive such as the files containing home addresses and telephone numbers of serving officers.

‘Absolutely. And I know the emergency calls list was there last night because I amended that, too.’ He breathed heavily in exasperation. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

Desmoulins was already out of bed and getting dressed as he spoke. ‘Who was in last night? Anyone wandering around who shouldn’t have been? Was a door left open at the back?’

‘No. I was in and out all the time. I like to move around to stop myself falling asleep. Most of the time in the late evening it’s just patrol officers using desks and phones — you know how it is. But they wouldn’t need to look at that kind of stuff.’ He paused, mouth open.

‘What? Who else?’

‘Nobody. The cleaner, I mean, but he’s always on late.’ He swore softly. ‘Christ, surely not.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get him in,’ said Desmoulins without hesitation. ‘Send a car and two to pick him up. Tell them to search his place and don’t let him get rid of anything. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

Now Commissaire Massin and Captain Canet were also in and standing together by the door, eyeing a man sitting slumped in a chair on the other side of Desmoulins’ desk, a uniformed officer standing guard nearby. It was still too early for the civilian support workers and patrol teams to be in, but soon this office would be buzzing with activity.

‘Keep trying Rocco’s number until he gets here, just in case,’ said Canet to the duty officer. He turned to the man in the chair and picked up a sheaf of papers found in the flat he shared with his wife and two children.

‘Listen to me, Yekhlef; we know you’ve been looking at confidential information. And you took these files home with you.’ He waved the papers in his hand. ‘Tell us why and who you passed the information to, and we might not put you and your family straight on a plane back to Algiers.’

Yekhlef didn’t even look up. He shrugged and shook his head, defeated. It was as if he did not understand what Canet was saying.

Desmoulins leant in, one huge hand resting on the table right in front of Yekhlef’s eyes, where he couldn’t ignore it. ‘You were looking for a specific name and address, weren’t you? There’s no other reason for taking those files.’ He studied the man, willing a response out of him. Up close, he could see a tremor building in his thin frame, barely visible elsewhere but noticeable in his fingers, which were clenched tight. The man was terrified. Desmoulins decided to take a stab in the dark. ‘Is it to do with the investigation into illegal factory workers?’

For the first time Yekhlef gave a reaction. He looked up, a puzzled frown on his face. Desmoulins wondered for a moment whether he was wrong. Maybe his theft of the files had been simply looking for information to sell. There was always someone out there looking to get something they could use to their advantage. He picked up the sheaf of papers which Canet had placed on the desk. The pages were folded back at a list of investigators’ names, including his own. Then he froze.

Rocco’s name had been scored underneath by the sharp imprint of a fingernail.

So it was Rocco the man was after. Then he had it. The answer was staring him right in the face and he hadn’t even given it a thought. Christ, he must be tired, he thought shamefully. Tired and slow.

The people pipeline. Rocco had been investigating Maurat the truck driver and his part in bringing in Algerian workers to Amiens. And Yekhlef was Algerian. Evidemment!

He had an idea. He just hoped the others would play along — especially Massin, a stickler for procedure. Slamming the papers back on the desk he reached for the telephone. Dialled a number and waited, then said, ‘Lieutenant Delors in Immigration, please.’

Over by the door, Massin and Canet looked startled. Massin began to step forward, but Canet touched his arm, signalling the senior officer to hold back.

‘Ah, Delors,’ said Desmoulins. ‘You owe me a beer, if I remember. Yes, you do. In the meantime, I need some fast action. I need you to get a secure bus to…’ He consulted a piece of paper containing Yekhlef’s details and read out the address of his flat. ‘… and collect a Mrs Yekhlef — that’s Y E K H L E F — and two children, a boy aged ten and a girl, twelve. Take them to the holding centre at Roissy and I’ll get the paperwork in order. Yes, four to travel, next available flight. What? Well, if they’re at school, you’ll have to pull them out, won’t you? A bientot!’

‘You cannot do that!’ Yekhlef was on his feet in protest. He looked round at the other officers for support, but met blank faces. ‘This is illegal!’

Desmoulins slammed the telephone down and glared at him. ‘Actually, we can and it’s not. You have abused the hospitality of the State, my friend, so you’re no longer welcome here.’ He gave an exaggerated shrug and glanced dramatically at his watch. ‘The good news is, by three this afternoon, you’ll all be back on Algerian soil.’ He gathered together the papers and looked at the guard standing nearby, making sure Yekhlef couldn’t see his face, and winked. ‘Take him to a cell ready to be picked up by Immigration.’

The guard nodded and took Yekhlef away to a holding cell. Desmoulins watched him go, then turned to find Massin glaring at him.

‘Tell me, Detective,’ Massin said with quiet menace, ‘that you were not speaking to the Immigration Service just now. Have you any idea how difficult those people are to stop once they’re set in motion? The paperwork alone will be a nightmare.’

Desmoulins grinned. ‘No problem, sir. That was my wife on the other end. She’s used to that stuff and just plays along.’ Then he walked out of the office as if his work was over.

Two minutes later, he was back to find a trembling Yekhlef pleading desperately with someone — anyone — to listen to him. Massin and Canet were still there, faces inscrutable. ‘Please. I beg you!’ The janitor was almost in tears. ‘Let me explain… I have a wife and children! I did not intend to break any laws…’

‘OK,’ said Desmoulins, looking at his watch again. ‘Explain. But you’d better do it before the bus gets here. Those deportation drivers get really shitty if we keep them waiting.’

Faced with the certainty that he and his family were going to be flown immediately back to Algiers, the janitor began to talk. It wasn’t much, merely that he had been ordered to watch and listen, and to find out Inspector Rocco’s home address. But it was said with a passion and a ring of truth which convinced the policemen that he was telling the truth.

‘Who ordered you to find this information?’ said Canet, at a signalled request from Desmoulins to join in. A uniform with lots of silver on it might be sufficient to scare further answers out of the man.

‘Farek. Samir Farek.’ The name came out in a whisper, barely loud enough for the others to hear. But it was evident that the man had given up any idea of further resistance. ‘He is oualio — a gangster — from Oran, my home city.’

‘He’s here?’ asked Canet.

‘Yes. There is talk that he has taken over the clans and gangs in Paris and the north, but I do not know if this is true. I know only his name and reputation. He is a very cruel man and anyone who says no to Farek has not long to live in this world.’ A tear suddenly erupted out of one of Yekhlef’s eyes and slid down his face, leaving a dark track on his skin. He brushed it away angrily and ducked his head in shame. ‘I could not say no. He would have killed me and my family.’

Desmoulins had another thought. ‘Did you tell your friends about the factory raids the other night?’ Somebody had leaked the news, and it now seemed that they had the culprit.

But Yekhlef shook his head miserably. ‘No. I did not. I was off sick that day. I only heard about it the following morning.’

Desmoulins let it go. It sounded true and would be easy enough to verify.

‘Mother of God,’ said Massin softly, staring at the ceiling. ‘Rocco was right about Farek. As if we don’t have enough problems.’ He turned to the janitor. ‘But why this interest in Inspector Rocco by this… gangster, Farek?’

‘Because his wife ran away from him and she is said to be with Rocco. She and her son. I heard her asking to speak to him in this very place.’ Yekhlef shrugged. ‘It is a question of honour. Farek has lost face with his family and the community. He will not rest until they are all dead… perhaps even the boy also.’

‘With Rocco?’ Massin looked stunned. ‘What the hell does that mean, with Rocco? Is the man out of his mind? He’s taken up with the wife of a criminal?’

‘It’s not what you think, sir,’ said Desmoulins quickly. He signalled for the guard to take Yekhlef away, and when he was out of earshot, continued, ‘We believe Nicole Farek came down a people-trafficking pipeline with the man who was found dead in the canal several days ago. Her husband had taken her passport, so the only way she could escape him was to come to France. She arrived here on the truck driven by the prisoner, Maurat, but Farek followed her. Inspector Rocco is just trying to protect her.’

Massin looked deeply sceptical. He picked up the telephone and dragged the calls list towards him, then dialled Rocco’s number. He listened for several rings, but there was no answer.

‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘He should be here by now.’

Nobody answered him.