Death on the Rive Nord

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The operation kicked off at 23.00 hours precisely, with a fleet of vehicles spreading out from various locations around the town, carrying uniformed officers, detectives and personnel from the Immigration Service.

Massin oversaw the details like a military campaign, marshalling men and vehicles by the clock, mindful that his division would be under scrutiny from various quarters, both as soon as the first factory was breached and in the aftermath once the press, unions and other political bodies got word of events.

Rocco watched as the station yard emptied and men went about their tasks, and was impressed by Massin’s command of detail. But then, he reminded himself, the former army CO had been through the elite military academy of Saint-Cyr, where organisation and strategy were high on the curriculum for officers with ambition. If you could plan a battle, making a sweep through a few factories should be child’s play.

Desmoulins wandered across to where Rocco was eyeing a large chart on the wall of the briefing room. The chart showed the layout of three factory sites to be searched. They were mostly small operations employing unskilled staff, ranging from food production to assembly works. But that was the secret: unskilled staff on low wages working long hours. Nobody would be surprised by such places working throughout the night to fulfil desperately needed orders.

Each suspected building had been placed under surveillance during the late afternoon to monitor activity and identify any vehicles arriving or leaving, and to gauge what was going on inside. When the search teams got a signal from an officer on watch, they would go straight in and close down the site. Buses would be on hand to take away anyone suspected of not having the correct documentation, along with those running the factory.

‘I seem to have got left behind,’ said Desmoulins cheerfully. ‘What about you?’

Rocco shrugged. He’d been careful not to get himself assigned to any particular group, staying well back when personnel were being selected. Evidently he wasn’t the only one. He wondered how he could get the detective out of the way without being too obvious. What he was planning depended on all the noise and distraction being focused elsewhere. He didn’t need witnesses.

‘You’ll never manage by yourself, you know,’ Desmoulins murmured. He had a knowing expression on his face. ‘And it’ll take too long for your mate Lamotte to get here from Poissons. Besides,’ he puffed out his barrel chest and flexed his arms, which were already straining the fabric of his shirt, ‘I’m way stronger.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Rocco, although he did.

‘Sure you do. You’re going over the wire, aren’t you? Into the Ecoboras place.’ He waited for Rocco to say something, then added, ‘I would if it was me. With all the shit and shouting going on elsewhere, who’d notice one man popping over a little fence?’

Rocco gave it some thought. He liked Desmoulins and had found him a reliable and genial character. The detective was a good thinker and seemed well above the petty politics going on in this place. For most of his working life, he’d found it hard to put personal trust above the professional kind customary among colleagues sharing a dangerous occupation. Somehow it always seemed easier not to put too much in anyone. He sighed. Maybe it was about time he broke the habit.

‘What are you suggesting?’ he said finally.

‘Easy.’ Desmoulins grinned. ‘You know the army assault courses and the high wall, where someone always had to be the base man?’

Rocco nodded, knowing what was coming.

‘Well, that was me. Every time.’ He looked Rocco up and down, assessing his size and weight. ‘I could punt you over, no problem. You probably wouldn’t even touch metal.’ He turned away and grabbed his coat, picked up a flashlight. ‘Your car or mine?’

Ten minutes later, they were crossing the second set of lock gates which Demai had shown them, and jumping down the other side. The thunder of water roared in Rocco’s ears and the spray rose once again to touch his face with icy fingers. Behind him the town was hidden under a familiar layer of cold mist, and only the occasional sound of vehicles drifted through the night air.

He rounded the curve of the canal, stepping carefully until he saw the first glare of floodlights. This close to the factory, a faint hum carried through the air. Rocco stopped and watched for movement, looking obliquely at the shadows and eyeing the water for signs of boats. Nothing moved. The surface of the canal was still, like black ice. He signalled to Desmoulins and continued until they were close to the security fence, then stepped off the towpath into an area of deep shadow where the lights couldn’t penetrate. From here, there was a good view of the gate in the fence. It was shut and padlocked.

He turned and moved along the rear of the factory, ducking beneath the level of the bank to avoid the glare of the lights. When he came to another block of shadow, he stood up and pressed close to the metal fence, studying the outwards curve of the bars at the top. They were designed to prevent access over the top, since few people wanted to risk catching their clothing on the spikes, and most lacked the strength to haul themselves up by armpower alone.

Rocco took off his coat and tossed it on top of the fence. Desmoulins braced himself and cupped his hands, then nodded for Rocco to step into the stirrup. The moment Rocco did so, he huffed briefly, then heaved upwards, using his weightlifter’s shoulders to power Rocco upwards with almost childish ease. With a kick of his leg, Rocco rolled over the top curve of the fence and dropped down on the far side, pulling his coat with him. Scanning the building to make sure there were no signs of movement, he jogged across to a collection of large rubbish bins, where he settled down to catch his breath. When he looked back, Desmoulins had dropped out of sight.

In a house barely a kilometre away, Nicole Farek went to the telephone in the hallway and waited to make sure nobody was listening. She had been out during the day, listening among the mothers and grandmothers gathered near the schools, shops and nurseries in the town, eager to catch any gossip spreading among the immigrant community. With Massi beside her, it had been simple to blend with the groups, another mother trying to make her way in a strange world. Most of the talk had been about the shortage of good job opportunities and housing, the difficulties in getting an education for them and their children, and the increasing numbers of other new arrivals which were making a strained situation even worse. But there had been an undercurrent, too, and Nicole had soon caught the familiar name.

Farek.

He was here, in France. The news had travelled fast, rippling out through the Algerian community and spreading by word of mouth, the way bad news always does. Farek the gangster was here. He had come from Oran to bring the clans together. Not everyone understood what that meant exactly, but there was a sense in the air that it might not be good.

For families it spelt the worst kind of news. Life was already hard here; you didn’t need to see the newspapers to know that. You could pick it up in the street by reading the faces of the women struggling to make ends meet. Many of the men, however, especially the young, had a different agenda. They wanted change and they wanted it now. Not for them the slow grind of manual work, the gradual improvement over a lifetime. Coming here had promised so much, they didn’t want to wait.

Someone like Samir Farek could provide that change.

It was their right.

Nicole felt a tug of fear in her chest and reached for the telephone. It wouldn’t take long for Farek to find her now. Someone, somewhere would hear something and talk. And she couldn’t kid herself that people weren’t already wondering who she was, this lone woman with a small boy, who’d appeared out of the pipeline. By far the biggest threat was the men who had travelled with her. They were right here, too. Living, working, sleeping, talking. Desperate for a way to earn money.

And if one way to do that was the promise of a reward for finding a woman and a boy, they would remember her in an instant.

She dialled the number from memory.

The phone was picked up. A man’s voice, official and brusque. She asked to speak to Inspector Rocco.

‘Rocco? He’s not here. Call back tomorrow.’

‘Is he at home?’ She remembered the village, Poissons, where they had met. He’d said he lived there. How difficult would it be to find a policeman in a small place like that?

‘I can’t give you that information. Tomorrow.’

She felt like screaming with frustration at the bland response.

Tomorrow, then. She would find him. First she had to get back to Massi, then get ready to move.