Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Metz paced slowly across the floor, the fallen screws crunching like gravel beneath his shoes. He stopped in front of the offender and stared at him. The man, a thin-faced individual in his fifties in a bright-red shirt, flinched and backed away.

‘Come here,’ Metz said quietly, and pointed to a spot in front of him. His intentions were made clear when he shook his other arm and something silver slid down his sleeve into his hand. A thin metal rod.

A soft groan came from the other men assembled at the far end of the factory. They had seen this before.

The worker said nothing, merely shaking his head in supplication.

‘I said, here,’ Metz repeated. This time softer, more menacing.

Behind him, Tourrain sniggered in anticipation.

The man shuffled forward, feet unsteady on the carpet of fallen screws. He twisted his hands together and looked round for support, but none came.

The moment he was within reach, Metz moved. His arm swept up from his side in a vicious swing, and the overhead lights flashed on the silver rod. There was a crack, and the worker screamed and fell to the floor, blood pumping from his shattered mouth. Metz struck again, using the full power of his shoulders. Then again. When he looked up, he singled out two men closest to him. ‘You two… clear up this filth.’

Rocco closed his eyes, sickened by the attack. The man on the floor looked dead. Nobody could survive blows like that to the head. Even Tourrain looked shocked, and had lost his expression of the eager onlooker.

‘Very useful, Metz. Wonderful way to manage a workforce. I hope you’ve got a replacement tucked away in your pocket.’ The familiar voice rang out across the factory and everyone stopped. It was Lambert. He stopped by the body and stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Metz. ‘We needed him, you idiot. Just as we need every man we can get our hands on. Why is it you can’t seem to get that?’ His voice was cutting and deadly, soft, yet even more menacing than Metz’s brutality. The workers recognised this and moved away, not daring to meet his eyes, focusing instead on putting space between them and him.

‘Get back to work,’ he said sharply. ‘Break time is over.’

The workers shuffled their feet, but did as they were told, moving back to their benches and picking up their tools.

Lambert looked directly at Tourrain. ‘How about you?’ he said, his voice carrying over the low hum of the men working. ‘Can you tell me where I’m going to get another worker? Your uniformed colleagues are playing havoc with our production schedules, do you know that?’

‘Hey, don’t blame me,’ said Tourrain, hands in his pockets. ‘I don’t ship them in… I just keep the cops off everyone’s backs as much as I can.’

‘So how is it you didn’t warn us that they were conducting another sweep tonight? Every time they run a search, we’re vulnerable and fall further behind schedule. This contract depends on low costs and regular production.’

‘But you’re protected. They’re not allowed on this site, you said.’

‘That’s correct. But if they suspect something illegal is going on, such as a mess like this, they’ll find a way of coming over the wire without asking permission first. I know how they work.’

Tourrain gave a shrug. ‘You worry too much. The brass here are gutless. They don’t wipe their arses without checking with the Ministry first.’

‘You’d better hope it stays that way. In the meantime, I’m down a worker.’

‘Hey, you’re the one who knocked off Gondrand, not me. He was your supplier.’

‘Pardon me?’ The voice became softer, more deadly, like the whisper of death, and Tourrain looked startled. He backed away, a hand held out in defence.

‘Christ, Lambert, don’t get heavy with me, OK? We’re all in this together. I didn’t say I couldn’t get others; it’ll take time, that’s all.’

‘We don’t have time!’ Lambert sounded furious, but controlled, as if he was holding himself in. ‘We have a tight schedule for this contract; if we don’t keep to it, we’ll have to hire more dayworkers — and they’re more expensive. I need another illegal to keep costs down.’

‘OK, OK.’ Tourrain scowled in thought. ‘I’ll have to draft one over from another factory. There’s a place I know that won’t mind losing a man. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do to get more workers in. Gondrand said the supply lines had gone dead and his contacts had disappeared. It might not be easy to get another one open.’

‘Not my problem,’ Lambert spat. ‘We paid you and your friend Gondrand to keep things running smoothly.’ He stopped and tipped his head to one side. ‘Unless you’re just trying to get more money out of us — is that it? You want us to pay you more?’

Tourrain looked surprised, then fearful. ‘No. Hell, no — I wouldn’t.’

‘That’s a wise decision.’ Lambert’s voice dropped. ‘Just remember what happened to Gondrand when he tried screwing us, too.’

Rocco had heard enough. He began to worm his way back to the rear door, angling between the boxes. One thing was certain: he doubted any of the workers here would be willing to talk to him about what was going on in this place, or what had just transpired. Surmounting the fact that they were illegals, they would be too terrified of what might happen to them if they dared speak out against Lambert, Metz or anyone else involved in this operation.

He stepped clear of the boxes and was almost to the door when a figure appeared around the corner, tailing a broom. Dark skin, dulled, terrified eyes, an air of resigned fatigue, a man assigned to sweep up the fallen screws.

It was too late for stealth. Rocco straightened up, walked past the startled man, and opened the door. He stepped through and pulled it closed behind him, his instinctive timer for unfolding disaster beginning its countdown. Odds-on the man would wonder who the tall stranger was. He might reason that a white employee was another one of the bosses here, and therefore of no concern to him. Or he might see an opportunity to win points by raising the alarm.

He chose the second option.

As Rocco stepped clear of the building, a shout came from inside, followed by a chorus of calls and the clang of an alarm bell.

Rocco measured the distance to the fence, judging the likelihood of scaling it before any of the guards appeared. No chance. He could already hear the sound of running footsteps approaching from the front. That would be the gate security guard. Given the right circumstances, he’d counted on using a spare pallet to boost himself over from this side. But that option was now dead. Instead, he turned and ran for the skip he’d used before and slipped underneath the tarpaulin. Squirming down beneath the layers of debris and construction cast-offs, he closed a hand over his nose against the swirl of dust rising to meet him and waited to see if his luck would hold.

A murmur of voices approached and moved past. Someone gave a cursory prod into the skip with a length of wood, then a shout from nearby distracted them.

The rope and grappling hook had been spotted.

Other voices issued orders until Lambert’s voice called for quiet and organised a sweep of the outside of the perimeter fence and along the canal. Rocco heard a rattle as the gate in the fence was unlocked and the voices faded as the guards moved away.

A vehicle approached the front of the building. It slowed momentarily, then came on and stopped. A car door slammed and the vehicle moved away. Then the hum of the heating system ceased and silence descended on the site.

They were listening for him. They knew he was still around.

But they hadn’t locked the gate behind them.

He felt the beginnings of cramp in his leg where his calf muscle was twisted. Stifling the desire to stay where he was, he eased himself upwards until he could see over the edge of the skip. He could just see the security guard sitting in his hut, but nobody else. They must be out of sight behind the building. As he moved to straighten his legs and get a clearer view, his shoulder brushed against something. It was a small strip of aluminium sheeting. Before he could stop it, it slid gracefully from his shoulder, paused on the edge of the skip, then fell to the ground with a sharp clatter.

A dog barked, the sound descending to a growl deep in the back of the animal’s throat, and Rocco felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. It was close, barely fifty metres away. Men he could handle; dogs, though, were altogether different.

And now they knew exactly where to look.

There was nothing for it. With the guards now fully alert, he would have to make a run for it and take his chances. But he needed an edge. He felt around his feet and came up with a short length of aluminium piping. It would have to do. Taking a deep breath and lifting the tarpaulin, he heaved himself over the edge of the skip. He hit the ground at an angle and grunted with pain as his shoulder collided with a short stack of wooden pallets.

He turned and ran towards the fence.

Shouts came from behind him, and a torch beam flicked across the ground between him and the fence. It wavered for a moment, then came back. Suddenly his own shadow was in front of him, stretching out to touch the wire before he did.

Then came another bark and a snick-snick sound. It was the dog chasing him across the tarmac.

There was no time for finesse. More voices were joining in, and he could see movement in his peripheral vision as someone angled across to intercept him. He charged through the gate, slamming it shut behind him just as the dog jumped. It crashed against the mesh with a yelp and snarled in frustration, flicks of spittle touching Rocco’s face.

He took the pipe and pushed it through the mesh of the gate, then leant his full weight against it, bending it round the upright and forcing it into the mesh on the outside. They would get it free eventually, but not before he’d got a good way along the canal.

He jogged away, listening for sounds of pursuit, but there were none.

He came to the lock and moved quickly across the top of the gates and down the other side. Stopped dead.

Two men were on the towpath, blocking his way.