Death on the Rive Nord (26 page)
He led them indoors, where the wood burner was pumping out heat and a pleasant smell of something spicy was filling the air. It was the most comfortable atmosphere he’d experienced since coming here.
‘You’ve been busy,’ he said. Plates had been set out on the table, with glasses of water and hunks of crusty bread. ‘I hope you don’t mind. It was the least I could do. I had to see you … and I couldn’t stay in Amiens.’ She made sure Massi wasn’t in earshot and added sombrely, ‘Farek is coming. Sooner or later he will find me.’
‘I know.’ Rocco looked around, wondering how to discuss the subject without alarming the boy. They were, after all, discussing his father. He noticed a neat cardboard box on the table tied with coloured string.
Nicole saw him looking and blushed. ‘Oh, that was a small gift for descending on you like this.’ She tugged the string and the box opened to reveal three fruit
tartelettes
nestling inside. ‘And I bought some chicken, too. Your village shop is marvellous.’ She nodded towards a casserole bubbling on the wood burner. ‘Your lovely neighbour let us in and gave me some vegetables. She seemed suspicious at first but I think she only has your welfare in mind.’
‘I think you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘And I appreciate your efforts. I’ve got some wine to go with that somewhere.’ He looked at Massi, who was eyeing the cakes with big, round eyes. ‘Maybe we can talk afterwards.’
‘Yes, of course. Would you like to eat now? I’m sure we’re all hungry.’
Rocco found a bottle of
vin de pays
and poured two glasses. They ate in awkward silence, Rocco acutely aware that the place was a bachelor’s mess and wondering where this was leading. He was also conscious that sitting here enjoying an excellent casserole and a glass of wine with an attractive woman was in danger of being overshadowed by events gathering like a dark cloud in the corner of the room. Samir Farek would not stop until he had found his wife, and it was only a matter of time before he picked up her trail. Criminals, even more than the police, were adept at building networks of informers and contacts. Sooner or later, one of them would come forward with the information the Algerian gang boss was looking for.
He wondered how Caspar was doing and thought it a bad sign that he hadn’t yet heard from the former undercover cop. Maybe he’d asked too much of him.
Caspar was thinking the same thing and asking himself how he’d come to this point. More crucially, he was wondering how he was going to get out of the deepest shithole he’d ever stumbled into. It had been several hours since Farek and his men had left, and in all that time he’d heard nothing other than the distant sounds of traffic and kids playing. He’d tried getting free of his bonds, but without success. Whoever had tied him up knew what they were doing and had made the knots tight. Now the kids had gone and the traffic had decreased, and the bead of light through the shutter was fading with the approaching night. It was surely only a matter of time before the men returned and his worries would all be at an end.
He shook his head, which was a mistake. The pain since Youcef had knocked him out of the chair had been a constant, throbbing reminder of his plight, relieved only by his falling asleep with exhaustion after trying to work his
way free. Now it was back with a vengeance. A remote part of his brain questioned vaguely if the police academy would be interested in running a course on escape techniques from rooms in deserted houses. The psychology experts he’d been encouraged to see recently would have a field day explaining the mental ramifications of that one.
He wondered what had caused Farek and his crew to decamp so quickly. At first he’d thought it might be a police raid, come to rescue him. But that was stupid; he was no longer answerable to anyone, so how could they know what he was doing? If they did, how would they even begin to look for one man in one of Europe’s busiest capitals?
He felt a stab of pain in his left gut and leant sideways in an attempt to ease it, the chair creaking loudly. He took a deep breath and hissed as the pain was repeated. Something must have got busted when he fell over. A rib, probably. Wrong angle, body twisting, normally strong bone giving way under intense pressure. He hadn’t noticed it before, with the headache pounding inside him, but now it was adding to his discomfort.
The chair creaked again as he sat back up. Fucking thing; the noise was going through his head like a badly tuned violin. How could wood make that kind of racket, high-pitched and relentless?
Then he laughed. In spite of the pain that brought, the action made him almost happy. Fuck, he really was way past his best, just like they’d said. Maybe it
was
time he retired, took up knitting or gardening, something which didn’t call for too much active brainpower.
He eased his bottom from side to side, his naked skin numb with cold. The movement set up a frantic squealing
in the chair beneath him. Jesus and Mary, he’d been sitting here for hours now on a crappy piece of furniture that was literally falling apart, and
he hadn’t even noticed
!
He started rocking back and forth, tears running down his face. Then he changed direction, going left to right. Stop. Careful. Not too far left. If you’ve got a broken rib and land on it again, it’ll get worse and puncture something. Like your heart, you arse. He went right a bit, then forward and back, working on the joints in the chair, teasing them as hard as he dared, each move more forceful than the last. It was a normal wooden chair with three slats down the back and spindles running between each leg. Probably held together by cheap donkey glue that had dried out thirty years ago. How strong could it be, for Christ’s sake?
A noise intruded on the creaking. He stopped. A car engine somewhere close by. A door slammed, metallic and heavy. A big engine. Too powerful-sounding to be coincidental, too big to be a neighbourhood runaround.
Farek was back.
Caspar threw himself with desperation back into his rocking motion, jamming his body as hard as he could down against each joint of the chair, trying to force them apart almost by willpower. He heard voices, then a door opening and slamming back, the impact echoing through the house like a gunshot. He estimated that he was at the rear of the building, and had probably thirty seconds of useful life remaining before the men reached him. After that, all bets were off and he’d find out at first hand what Bouhassa’s reputation was built on.
With a supreme effort which made the veins of his forehead stand out, he heaved against his bonds and threw himself backwards, tipping the chair until it reached the point of no return. He crashed to the floor, the shock sending shooting pains through his shoulders, neck and head, making him want to throw up. But there wasn’t time. He shook himself, feeling something grinding painfully into his back. Then he rolled sideways, expecting the familiar restraint of his ropes … and
continued rolling as the chair fell apart noisily beneath him.
He heard a shout, and heavy footsteps on bare boards. A man’s voice asking where they had left him, and another, indistinct, saying something about the back room. Doors slammed as they checked the other rooms first.
Caspar felt a surge of hope. If the men didn’t know where he was tied up, it couldn’t be Bouhassa or the mental giant. That meant ordinary gang members, sent here with a simple job to do. He twisted desperately, ignoring the pain in his side and flailing at the coils of rope which had now loosened around him but clung like strands of sticky weed. He eventually scrabbled free and hurled the rope away. It landed in one corner, loud on the bare floorboards. Too loud.
A man’s voice queried the noise. He was too close for comfort.
Now Caspar was acting purely on instinct. He bent and grabbed a loose spindle. It had split away from the joint, leaving a sharpened end, a spear of aged and hardened wood. He looked around, assessing his options. There was no other way out of the room except for the door, not now the men were here. A few minutes earlier and he’d have gone for the shuttered window, but that would take too long. He turned to the door.
It slammed back just as he reached it.
A heavyset man stood in the opening. He had a boxer’s broken nose and wore a cheap suit and thick-soled shoes. Built like a brick blockhouse, he held a knife in his hand and had a grin on his face as if he was about to have some fun.
‘Hey – Dede! Come look,’ he yelled. ‘We got a rat in a trap.’
Caspar didn’t have time for niceties. He drove the
sharpened spindle into the man’s face, then snapped it down, knocking the knife out of his hand. The boxer screamed and clutched his eyes, blood flowing through his fingers. He staggered back and flailed his other arm, trying to grab hold of Caspar as he barged past.
Caspar turned instinctively to his right and kept moving. He was in a dank hallway with a haze of light at the end. Bare boards, no furniture, no carpet. Street lights throwing an unhealthy glow through the open front door. Enough to show three steps up to another level and then he’d be out in the open and away.
Then another figure stepped out of a doorway along the hall. He was pointing a gun at Caspar and grinning.
Caspar turned and ran. Forward was a no-go; that left back … but away from the room. If there was a front hallway, there must be one to allow access to the rear.
He heard a loud bang and something plucked at his jacket, throwing him off balance against the wall. He staggered and regained his footing, feeling light-headed but still capable of movement. A good sign. Saw a door ahead of him, top half frosted glass, bottom half wood panelling, distant light showing through the glass. A hand reached out from the room he’d just left as the boxer tried to stop him, his breath gusting in anger and pain, the smell of cheap cologne very close. The huge fingers fastened around the shoulder of Caspar’s jacket and his momentum dragged the man from the room. But he was already slowing, the boxer’s bulk too heavy to pull against.
There was another bang, louder this time and closer. The boxer coughed once, his hand sliding off Caspar’s shoulder.
Jesus – he’d been shot by his own man!
It was all the opportunity Caspar was going to get or need. He tore loose and ran straight down the hallway and crashed through the door, eyes tight shut and hands in front of his face, showering himself with bits of rotten wood and broken glass. He felt a stab of cold where his cheek was sliced through by a sliver of glass, but he ignored it. There was too much to lose now by stopping.
He was in an enclosed space smelling of damp and cats. Dark shapes showed up vaguely in the ambient light, a devil’s scrapyard containing an old bicycle, wooden boxes, bits of furniture, an ancient hip bath. The crap of a lifetime abandoned to the elements. He continued running for the end of the space like a forward going for a try. Every house like this had a small gate opening onto a cut-through at the back. It was standard layout in streets like this. Another shot followed him but went wide, spitting chunks of brick from the wall on his right.
Someone shouted.
By the time he reached a street with traffic, he was losing blood and coughing painfully. Then he saw a cop car cruising towards him. It was the best sight he could have wished for, and he staggered out into the middle of the road, only then remembering that he was half naked.
But free.
Rocco and Nicole talked long after the meal was over and Massi had been put to sleep in Rocco’s bedroom overlooking the rear garden. It was late for coffee but Rocco needed the boost of caffeine, so he put water on to boil and filled the percolator while Nicole checked on her son.
When she came back, she sat at the table watching him. She looked tired and he told her she should get some sleep.
‘I will,’ she said. ‘Soon enough.’ She nodded at the door to the attic. ‘What’s up there?’
‘Only the rats.’
‘
Rats
?’ She looked alarmed. ‘How horrible!’
‘Fruit rats.’
‘Ah.
Les fouines
. I’ve heard of them. Are they dangerous?’
‘Only if you get between them and their next piece of fruit.’
‘You’ve never cleared them out?’
‘Why should I? They were here before me. I’ve got used to them, anyway. They don’t argue back.’
She giggled and watched as he poured coffee and added a measure of cognac from a bottle he’d taken from a cupboard.
‘For medicinal purposes,’ he explained. ‘It’ll help you relax.’
She didn’t argue, but sipped the coffee and nodded approvingly. ‘My grandmother always drank brandy when she was feeling unwell. She said it never failed.’ She glanced around the room and picked up a heavy Pernod ashtray from a sideboard. ‘Please, smoke if you wish. I don’t mind.’ She placed it before him.
‘I don’t, much. But thanks.’
‘Really? I thought all policemen smoked incessantly.’
He shrugged. ‘I have one occasionally.’
She glanced at the brandy bottle. ‘You drink, instead?’
‘Every now and then; a good Brouilly or a whisky, maybe. To be honest, it doesn’t do that much for me.’
She looked at him over the rim of her cup. ‘So what does do that much for you?’ Then she blushed furiously and put her cup down in confusion. ‘I’m sorry – that was … rude.’
‘No need to apologise,’ he replied, and wondered why he felt so tongue-tied. ‘I seem to spend most of my time working, and I only drink when I’m really stressed and can fall over safely. Does that make me boring?’
She shook her head, eyes unblinking and deep. She said softly, ‘No. Not at all.’
‘How did you know to come here?’ Rocco felt a rush of heat to his face and wished he hadn’t asked such a dumb question. They had been this close all evening, but now,
with just the two of them, the space seemed to have shrunk dramatically and he was acutely aware of her perfume.
She gave a shiver as if uncomfortable at being dragged back to reality. ‘I asked at the shop. I told the woman I needed a policeman and had heard there was one in the village. At first she told me about the
garde champêtre
but I said I needed the inspector. She sent me straight down here.’ She paused before adding, ‘I made sure there was no … family, before I came.’
