Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

It was a rerun of the other night. Cold and misty, damp underfoot and no night to be out walking by the canal, Rocco pulled up his collar and turned to check that he was alone. The water slid by on his right, silent and black, throwing off faint, yellow glints where a distant light was reflected off the oily surface.

He trod carefully, checking off the outlines of familiar landmarks as they loomed up in the dark, and wondered how the raids were going. Alix had questioned his plan and the dangers involved of going alone, but hadn’t argued with his suggestion that she find herself a team to attach herself to in order to cover herself if anything went wrong.

‘It’s illegal, what you are planning,’ she warned him. ‘If they catch you, being a cop won’t protect you. The Defence Ministry trumps the Interior Ministry on these matters. They’ll just throw you into a cell and forget you ever existed.’

‘You sound as if you know a bit about it.’

‘I do. I was a PA in a branch of Defence Security before I applied to join the police. Anything involving the military and breaches of security surmounts all other matters.’ She shrugged. ‘We are a nation of paramilitaries.’

Fortunately, she had agreed to keep quiet and let him go. If he’d made a mistake by taking her into his confidence, he would soon find out.

He passed through the cutting and came to the building fronting the canal where the geese were housed. Slowing to ensure he made no sound that might rouse them, he stepped carefully on the hummocks of grass between the remnants of the towpath’s ancient surface. Once past the building, he stopped and waited, tuning into the night and reacquainting himself with the sounds of water gurgling, the hum of distant traffic and the rustling of night creatures going about their business. From here on, he was entering the danger zone, where any foot traffic was probably confined to illicit workers and their guides, and anyone not expected here would be regarded as a problem to be disposed of. A loud splash occurred up ahead and he eased to the ground, relaxing when he heard the protesting honk of a coot or moorhen disturbed from its sleep.

After a few moments he carried on until he reached the lock, where he stepped carefully across the gates and jumped down the other side. Moments later he reached the slope and the fence surrounding the Ecoboras site and hunkered down again, watching for movement in the shadows behind the factory. Satisfied that nobody lay in wait, he moved along the slope, then took off his coat and uncoiled a thick rope from around his shoulder with a grappling hook attached. He replaced his coat and, using it as cover, checked his watch with a brief flick of the flashlight.

Three minutes to go. He’d cut it fine.

The remaining seconds ticked away while he sat listening to the noises from inside the factory: the ring of metal, the murmur of voices and the high-pitched hum of a forklift. Outside the building he picked up other sounds: of vehicles passing along the road at the front, the occasional car horn, and a police siren. Flashing lights reflected through the mist, but nothing came close enough to worry those inside the factory.

At least, not yet.

The crash, when it came, was loud. A squeal of brakes was followed by a solid thump and the smashing of glass, and a car horn added to the drama. With no time to lose, Rocco stepped up to the fence and tossed the grappling hook arcing over the top, then threw his weight on the rope to make sure it was going to hold him. Satisfied he wasn’t going to be dumped on his arse, he pulled himself up hand over hand and swung his legs up, hauling himself past the downward-facing points in the fence and resting on the top.

This was the time of maximum exposure; he wasn’t yet fully committed, but there was really no going back. He could already hear shouting in the distance, and the sound of running feet, and picture the scene unfolding in front of the factory gates. The guard, alerted by the accident just metres away, would automatically come out of his hut to investigate, and would now be deliberating on whether he should go through the gates to help.

Rocco rolled across the curved top, trying to see the ground below. The guard would be weighing civic responsibility, of which he probably had little, against the danger of upsetting Lambert, his boss, by leaving his post. If he had any sense he’d ignore the crash, although basic human curiosity would make him at least take a look.

Moving to the edge of the fence, he pushed forward into the dark, falling for a brief second before landing on the ground with a faint grunt. Then he was up and running across the open space where a wide shadow fell between two sets of floodlights.

He reached the building and looked back. He could just about see the rope and hook but only because he knew where to look. Hopefully, anyone else coming past here would be too focused on looking for movement inside the wire, not outside.

At the front of the building, the wail of a police siren split the night and a wash of blue light showed faintly through the darkness.

He grinned. When he’d outlined his plan to Rene Desmoulins earlier that afternoon, the detective had jumped at the chance to help. It had required close timing, but all he had to do was crash the car, an abandoned vehicle which had never been reclaimed, then make himself scarce before the police arrived. With the number of officers and cars out that night, it would not take long. Desmoulins had also supplied the rope and grappling hook, borrowed from a friend in the police training section.

Rocco slipped along the building until he came to the skip he’d hidden in the other night. It held the same smell of plastic and paint thinner, and was still covered by a tarpaulin. He hauled himself over the lip and settled down to wait for his moment. He checked his watch. The raids should now be well under way and occupying the attention of everyone involved.

A door opened close by, and the hollow sound of laughter echoed briefly into the night, followed by footsteps. Something heavy clattered into an adjacent skip and a man muttered an oath in a language Rocco didn’t recognise. He peered over the lip of his skip in time to see a figure disappearing through the rear door. A flare of light flooded the area briefly before being cut off. But he could now see a yellow gap down the edge where the door hadn’t quite clicked shut.

He relaxed. He now had a way in.

A car engine approached, and a horn beeped once. He made his way carefully to the front of the skip and checked his field of view. The security guard was

standing by the barrier, muffled in a heavy coat and hat. He’d just raised the pole to admit a pale-coloured Citroen DS 19. Lambert.