Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER NINE

He arrived back home in Poissons to find Claude waiting for him, pacing up and down impatiently, eager for the chase. Mme Denis, his immediate neighbour, elderly and grey-haired, was keeping watch from her garden. She waved cheerily, signalling all was well, but scowled at Claude. Rocco returned the smile, aware that petty rivalries here were a way of life and had to be managed carefully.

‘I think I know where our swimmer may have entered the water,’ the garde champetre announced urgently, ignoring Mme Denis’s look. He jumped in the passenger seat before Rocco could kill the engine and stretched, showing an expanse of hairy belly. While Rocco was in Amiens talking to Rizzotti, he had instructed Claude to check the canal all the way back as far as the last lock on the other side of Poissons. If the dead man had been tipped in approximately where the barge owner had first noticed his vessel misbehaving, there might be signs on the banks or the towpath. Even dragging a body a short distance left some marks behind. All one had to do was look closely.

‘Where?’

‘I’ll show you.’ He pointed back towards the village and gave Mme Denis a casual salute as they roared off. She frowned and stomped off into the house.

Ten minutes later, Rocco stopped his car where Claude indicated. They were on an empty stretch of road bordering the canal, with fields undulating away on either side, empty save for a few cows chewing disconsolately on meagre tufts of grass. Claude got out and led the way through a wooden gate to a parapet which acted as a footbridge over the water. He pointed at a metal railing embedded in the concrete. Brownish stains showed on the metal and rough brickwork, and further down, a piece of cloth had been caught on a protruding bolt head.

‘I saw it by chance,’ Claude admitted. ‘If you were to tip a body over here,’ he demonstrated heaving a heavy load over the parapet just above the bolt head, ‘it might catch as it went down.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, it might be nothing to do with the poor unfortunate-’

‘It is,’ said Rocco. Even from here he could see it was a match for the material of the dead man’s trousers. ‘The weight would be enough to rip the material. Well spotted.’

While Rocco held him, Claude leant through the railing and managed to recover the scrap of cloth. Then Rocco went back to the car for his boots. They checked the canal for a hundred metres on both sides, studying the area close to the banks where reeds flourished and the current was at its most static. He was hoping to find something which might have been swept off the body as it moved along, but the water was too murky from the recent flow of rain running off from the fields. Whatever evidence might have been there had long gone, covered by a cloud of shifting silt. He returned to the area inside the gate, but found nothing of significance other than their own footprints in the soft ground. He was about to give up when he noticed a handful of torn grass stems lying to one side. Breaking a stick from the hedgerow, he bent and turned the grass over. There were brown stains on the underneath, where the rain had not penetrated and washed them clean.

Dried blood.

‘Somebody ripped this up to wipe their hands.’ He stood back and studied the immediate area, and saw a stake with a white triangle on top lying crushed into the earth at the bottom of a long depression.

‘Looks like a vehicle parked here,’ said Claude. ‘Heavy one, too, like yours.’ He nodded at Rocco’s black Citroen Traction, where the front tyre had sunk into the soft, water-soaked soil.

Rocco agreed. ‘Heavier, though. Bigger tyres, too. A truck.’ The tread of his car tyres had sunk by maybe six centimetres; this depression was considerably deeper and wider. He tugged at the stick, which had been broken in the middle and bore a faint zigzag pattern of a tyre across its surface. ‘Ever seen a marker like this before?’

Claude shook his head. ‘It’s not official, I know that. And I’m pretty sure none of the locals would use anything like it. You think it’s relevant?’

Rocco stood up. ‘Not sure. But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the years, if something looks out of place, it’s because it is. That makes it relevant.’

‘The Calypsoa sailed to Barcelona with a cargo of rope.’ Bouhassa heaved himself into the passenger seat of an old Renault van. Farek was at the wheel, waiting. The vehicle tilted under the fat man’s weight, the springs creaking in protest. He was breathing heavily and sweating profusely after walking just a hundred metres. He reached for a bottle of water under the seat and took a long drink. ‘After that she goes to Greece to pick up a cargo of cement, then heads for Lebanon.’

‘I don’t care what she carries or where she is supposed to be going,’ muttered Farek. ‘I want to know what passengers were on board and are they going to put into a port which isn’t on the list.’

He was staring at a shabby, brick-built dock administration office overlooking Oran’s Vieux Port. Across from the building was the quayside with a line of weathered and rust-flaked vessels tied up in a row. A steady roar of motors battered the air as cranes and winches loaded and unloaded cargos, and men shouted a relay of instructions from the decks. A smell of diesel and motor oil overlaid with the rank stink of stale seawater drifted in through the Renault’s windows, and the shriek of seabirds scavenging for food echoed around the dockyard.

Nobody paid Farek or Bouhassa any attention. Vans like this were commonplace and therefore unremarkable, entirely appropriate for this place. It was one of several Farek kept for moving around when he needed to pass unnoticed; anything cleaner or newer, such as the Mercedes, would have attracted too much attention for what he was about to do.

‘Why do you care?’ asked Bouhassa. He knew how his boss felt about his wife. She was little more than a convenience.

‘I don’t.’

‘Yet you are going to all this trouble to find her.’

Farek felt a prickle of irritation, but ignored it. Bouhassa was probably the only person in all of Oran who could voice such an opinion without immediate and violent retribution. They had been through much and in Farek’s eyes that counted for something. ‘She knows too much,’ he said softly after a few moments. ‘She has seen too much. Such a woman, in her anger, can be dangerous to us all.’

Bouhassa shrugged. So, she was to be disposed of. Fine by him. He had never had relationships, had never seen the need. They were complications he could do without. He swilled water around his mouth for a few seconds, then swallowed noisily and belched. ‘The agent said there are no passengers apart from an engineer going to Greece. I saw the man — he is of no account. The agent also said his friend the police chief would not like questions being asked. I think maybe he has forgotten who you are.’

Farek agreed. To use the local chief of police as a defence was a stupidity. Farek had been paying him for months, and controlled him absolutely. But it showed there had been a shift of perceived power here in the city since the French left. It was a perception he would have to change. He checked his watch. Midday. Activity around the boats was already dropping off and men were heading away for somewhere cool to take their lunch, laughing and joking.

‘Is it still Selim?’ He knew most of the officials on the waterfront, but it had been a while since he’d needed to come down here in person. Normally his lieutenants dealt with the day-to-day movement of goods through the port and across the country’s borders. Selim was the senior agent, and ruled his fiefdom with official backing. It was the duality of things here that allowed the legitimate and non-legitimate movement of goods to carry on virtually side by side, unhindered as long as the due fees were paid.

‘Yes. He has grown rich and fat.’ If Bouhassa was aware of the irony in that statement, he didn’t show it.

Farek knew all about Selim’s ‘administration’ charges on everything going through the port. The amount for shipments not covered by the correct paperwork was usually larger, to take account of officials also taking a slice for looking the other way, and depended on the value of the cargo. Selim’s take over the years was sufficient to have made him a wealthy man. ‘It has been this way for a long time,’ Farek murmured almost philosophically, before adding dryly, ‘maybe too long. Bring the gun.’ He climbed out of the van and approached the building with Bouhassa in tow. He felt no guilt at what he was about to do. Neither sadness nor regret. It was business.

Personal business.