Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There was an urgent knock at the door of the office Rocco was using. It was Desmoulins.

‘Got the information on the truck Etcheverry saw,’ said the detective. ‘He was spot on. It’s registered to Armand Maurat. He’s an owner-driver, works out of Saint-Quentin running small haulage all over. Mostly last-minute stuff the bigger firms can’t factor into their schedules. When he’s not doing that he works as a stand-in driver for a general haulier called Convex. Among other things, they’re contractors for a bunch of the smaller champagne houses.’

Rocco stood up. At last, something positive. A glass of champagne would go down very well right now; just the thing to get him firing on all cylinders. Some hope.

‘Where is he at the moment?’

‘According to a woman at his home address, he’s at a warehouse, doing some night work. She sounded old and cranky. I told her I was checking on a load.’

Rocco looked at his watch. Nearly six. He wondered how long Maurat would be around before he picked up a load and disappeared on a trip to God knew where. They couldn’t risk alerting the man by ringing first, and it was almost guaranteed that if he was involved in the death of the man in the canal, his radar would have him up and running the moment he heard the police wanted to talk to him.

‘How far to Saint-Quentin from here?’

‘Eighty kilometres — about an hour thirty if we’re lucky. It’s a straight road but there are roadworks on the way.’

‘We?’ Rocco looked at him, then considered the sense in having another pair of eyes and ears along. He nodded and pulled on his coat. ‘This might be a late night; you’d better warn your wife.’

Desmoulins grinned happily, keen to be out of the office. ‘No problem. She’s got her sister staying anyway; I doubt she’ll even notice.’

Ten minutes later, they were in Rocco’s car with Desmoulins at the wheel. Rocco was already half asleep, falling back on the usual cop’s instinct to get some rest while he could, in case it wasn’t possible later.

He didn’t notice the cream-coloured Peugeot pulling up as they left, nor the attractive young woman in a headscarf, locking the door and hurrying inside.