Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Saint-Quentin late at night had the look and feel of a graveyard. Rocco had expected more movement somehow, as if the town might harbour a secret nightlife when the more licentious inhabitants came out to frolic. But he was disappointed. Instead, the pale-yellow street lights were struggling to fight their way through a cold mist hanging over the town, leaving it like a deserted film set. Surveillance was always more difficult with little or no background cover, and he regretted bringing the Citroen. An anonymous, family-type saloon car would have fitted in more easily.

He stopped on the western outskirts and nudged Desmoulins, who sat up, rubbing his face. They had changed halfway, giving the detective a chance to get some rest. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to sleep that long.’

‘No problem,’ Rocco murmured. He took a map off the dashboard and handed it to his colleague. He’d written Maurat’s address on the margin and circled the street. In a town this size, they must be fairly close to it.

Desmoulins pointed towards the north side of town. ‘Over that way.’

Rocco took them into a scattering of streets with little movement and few cars. After a couple of turns down mist-shrouded dead ends which the map seemed unaware of, they found themselves in a darkened street where the buildings on either side looked abandoned, as if the area was in the middle of a demolition phase.

Halfway along the street stood a group of young men. They were barely out of their teens and wore black leather jackets and jeans, the new youth uniform of choice. No signs of bikes, though. Pavement bikers.

‘All we need,’ muttered Desmoulins, as a couple of the youths saw them and stepped into the street. One of them belched loudly and tossed an empty beer bottle onto the bonnet of the Citroen, drawing laughter from the others. The bottle hung for a second, balanced precariously, then rolled and dropped to the tarmac, where it smashed.

‘Cheeky bastard!’ Desmoulins growled, and reached for the door handle.

‘Leave it,’ said Rocco calmly, pulling to a stop. There was no way round them, only over. Confrontation was what these kids were after. He’d seen it before: hungry for some excitement, bored by mindless jobs, one wrong look and they’d be over the car like a rash.

The drunk who had tossed the bottle ambled over to the car on Rocco’s side. He banged a fist on the door panel while his friends stood in Rocco’s path and watched. He was short and squat, with powerful arms and a chest straining at his vest. In the glow from the car’s lights, his face was suffused with a nameless anger.

‘Hey — spare some change?’ the youth shouted, and laughed sourly at his own humour. He turned to look at his mates. When he turned back he was holding a large clasp knife in his hand. He began waving it over the Citroen’s paintwork, his tongue sticking out and a wild grin on his face. His intentions were crystal clear.

Rocco lowered his window. He said to the youth, ‘Sure.’ In his hand was the gleam of coins.

But the youth wanted more. In a flicker he was at Rocco’s side, the knife lifting as he saw his opportunity. He signalled to his friends to go round the other side of the vehicle. They did so, leaving the way clear.

‘Out of the car, sucker-’ the youth began. Then he stopped speaking as Rocco’s clenched fist, wrapped tightly around the coins, struck him in the side of the neck with a meaty smack.

Rocco stamped on the accelerator and the Citroen leapt forward, leaving the youth gurgling and clutching his neck, and his friends standing helpless in the middle of the street.

‘Was that really necessary?’ said Desmoulins, dryly. He twisted round in his seat, watching to see if the gang had any way of coming after them. But the injured youth was kneeling in the road, holding his throat, while his friends stood watching, stunned by the turn of events.

‘What did you want me to do?’ Rocco asked calmly. ‘Offer him a lift?’

‘No. I wanted you to let me out to give him a kicking.’ He grinned and turned his attention to the map and gave directions, taking them through a series of turns and narrow streets towards the outskirts of town. They finally reached a road with a line of small, prefabricated bungalows on one side and a dark, featureless expanse of land on the other. Few of the bungalows had cars in evidence, and most of the fabric of the buildings looked neglected and drab under the weak street lamps. A dog watched them roll by before scurrying away into the darkness. There was no other movement.

‘Homely looking dump,’ said Desmoulins.

Rocco saw a doorway with a light overhead and drew to a stop across the street. He saw a number painted on the front porch. This was the place.

Close up, even in the dark, it was no palace. The small front garden was overgrown and dank, the house itself rundown, with shutters hanging limply across the windows, emitting a faint gleam of yellow light through the single diamond aperture in each side.

Alongside the house stood a Berliet truck, the familiar logo with the circle and downwards arrow just visible in the light.

‘Looks like our boy’s home,’ murmured Desmoulins. ‘I’d love to have a look in the back of that truck.’

‘Me too. Watch our backs,’ said Rocco, and got out of the car.

He knocked on the door and listened for sounds of movement. He’d decided to try Maurat’s home address first, in case the driver had finished his shift. There was no sound and no sign of life in the houses on either side. Elsewhere, a door slammed followed by something rattling against a dustbin, and in the distance a train rattled along a track. He knocked again, and was about to return to the car when he heard a rattle from inside.

‘What do you want?’ The door flew open and Rocco turned to see an elderly woman in carpet slippers and an old, faded dressing gown. In spite of her age, she was tall and upright, her eyes firmly fixed on his in a no-nonsense stare.

He asked if Armand was in.

‘No,’ the woman shot back. ‘And don’t bother asking me where he is — I’m his mother; he doesn’t tell me a thing. He’ll be back in the morning.’ She began to close the door.

Rocco put out a hand and stopped it. ‘I need to speak to him,’ he said quietly, glancing over his shoulder in a conspiratorial manner. ‘I’ve got a job of work for him.’

Mme Maurat snorted in disbelief. ‘Really? It’s so urgent you come looking for him now?’ She peered up at him, craning her neck. ‘Mother of God, you’re a big lad. I’ve never seen you before.’

‘Let’s keep it that way, shall we? I need to speak to your son, and it won’t wait. It’s very important — a special load to go out.’

‘Who’s the shy one?’ The old woman’s eyes had swept past Rocco and alighted on Desmoulins sitting in the car. There was nothing wrong with her eyesight.

‘He’s a colleague you also didn’t see. Now cut the crap and tell me where he is.’ He took a note out of his pocket and held it up so she could see it.

Her lined face pinched in resentment at his tone, but she chewed the matter over, eyeing Rocco then the money. Eventually the temptation proved too much. She snatched the note from his hand, then backed up and took a pen and a scrap of paper from a table behind her and scribbled down an address. It was for the Convex warehouse.

‘He’s doing a bit of night work for a friend. Deliveries and stuff. I’m sure he’ll find a way of helping you out.’ She smiled obsequiously, but the meaning wasn’t even skin-deep. ‘Now fuck off.’ This time she slammed the door in his face.

Rocco grinned and went back to the car. Maurat’s home life must be great fun.

‘If her son’s up to anything other than a bit of moonlighting,’ he told Desmoulins, ‘his mother doesn’t know about it. Either that, or she’s a great actress.’

He followed Desmoulins’ directions and drove back the way they had come, turning off before reaching the street where they’d had the confrontation with the youths. They eventually arrived at a commercial estate on the western side of town, and saw a row of warehouses. Only one unit showed any signs of life. The name CONVEX was painted across the fascia, and a thin glimmer of light shone under a closed roller door.

From inside came the high-pitched whine of a forklift truck. Outside under a security light were three skips loaded with discarded packing material.

Rocco stopped a short distance away under the cover of a parked trailer unit. He was just considering what approach to make when a side door opened, spilling light. A tall, thin man in blue overalls scurried out, slamming the door behind him. He looked around, then hurried over to a battered Simca and got in. He drove off with a faint squeal of rubber on the tarmac.

‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ murmured Desmoulins.

‘It’s him,’ said Rocco. There was something about the man’s stance which was identical to the old woman they’d just seen. ‘She tipped him off, the sly old boot.’