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Desmoulins slammed the telephone down and glared at him. ‘Actually, we can and it’s not. You have abused the hospitality of the State, my friend, so you’re no longer welcome here.’ He gave an exaggerated shrug and glanced dramatically at his watch. ‘The good news is, by three this afternoon, you’ll all be back on Algerian soil.’ He gathered together the papers and looked at the guard standing nearby, making sure Yekhlef couldn’t see his face, and winked. ‘Take him to a cell ready to be picked up by Immigration.’

The guard nodded and took Yekhlef away to a holding cell. Desmoulins watched him go, then turned to find Massin glaring at him.

‘Tell me, Detective,’ Massin said with quiet menace, ‘that you were not speaking to the Immigration Service just now. Have you any idea how difficult those people are to stop once they’re set in motion? The paperwork alone will be a nightmare.’

Desmoulins grinned. ‘No problem, sir. That was my wife on the other end. She’s used to that stuff and just plays along.’ Then he walked out of the office as if his work was over.

Two minutes later, he was back to find a trembling Yekhlef pleading desperately with someone — anyone — to listen to him. Massin and Canet were still there, faces inscrutable. ‘Please. I beg you!’ The janitor was almost in tears. ‘Let me explain… I have a wife and children! I did not intend to break any laws…’

‘OK,’ said Desmoulins, looking at his watch again. ‘Explain. But you’d better do it before the bus gets here. Those deportation drivers get really shitty if we keep them waiting.’

Faced with the certainty that he and his family were going to be flown immediately back to Algiers, the janitor began to talk. It wasn’t much, merely that he had been ordered to watch and listen, and to find out Inspector Rocco’s home address. But it was said with a passion and a ring of truth which convinced the policemen that he was telling the truth.

‘Who ordered you to find this information?’ said Canet, at a signalled request from Desmoulins to join in. A uniform with lots of silver on it might be sufficient to scare further answers out of the man.

‘Farek. Samir Farek.’ The name came out in a whisper, barely loud enough for the others to hear. But it was evident that the man had given up any idea of further resistance. ‘He is oualio — a gangster — from Oran, my home city.’

‘He’s here?’ asked Canet.

‘Yes. There is talk that he has taken over the clans and gangs in Paris and the north, but I do not know if this is true. I know only his name and reputation. He is a very cruel man and anyone who says no to Farek has not long to live in this world.’ A tear suddenly erupted out of one of Yekhlef’s eyes and slid down his face, leaving a dark track on his skin. He brushed it away angrily and ducked his head in shame. ‘I could not say no. He would have killed me and my family.’

Desmoulins had another thought. ‘Did you tell your friends about the factory raids the other night?’ Somebody had leaked the news, and it now seemed that they had the culprit.

But Yekhlef shook his head miserably. ‘No. I did not. I was off sick that day. I only heard about it the following morning.’

Desmoulins let it go. It sounded true and would be easy enough to verify.

‘Mother of God,’ said Massin softly, staring at the ceiling. ‘Rocco was right about Farek. As if we don’t have enough problems.’ He turned to the janitor. ‘But why this interest in Inspector Rocco by this… gangster, Farek?’

‘Because his wife ran away from him and she is said to be with Rocco. She and her son. I heard her asking to speak to him in this very place.’ Yekhlef shrugged. ‘It is a question of honour. Farek has lost face with his family and the community. He will not rest until they are all dead… perhaps even the boy also.’

‘With Rocco?’ Massin looked stunned. ‘What the hell does that mean, with Rocco? Is the man out of his mind? He’s taken up with the wife of a criminal?’

‘It’s not what you think, sir,’ said Desmoulins quickly. He signalled for the guard to take Yekhlef away, and when he was out of earshot, continued, ‘We believe Nicole Farek came down a people-trafficking pipeline with the man who was found dead in the canal several days ago. Her husband had taken her passport, so the only way she could escape him was to come to France. She arrived here on the truck driven by the prisoner, Maurat, but Farek followed her. Inspector Rocco is just trying to protect her.’

Massin looked deeply sceptical. He picked up the telephone and dragged the calls list towards him, then dialled Rocco’s number. He listened for several rings, but there was no answer.

‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘He should be here by now.’

Nobody answered him.

CHAPTER FIFTY

You’re a popular guy,’ said the gunman, listening as the phone rang for the second time. He smirked at the two men now sitting where he’d ordered them on the floor by the bed. Their guns were across the other side of the room out of reach. He looked at Mme Denis, who was still sitting up on the bed glaring at him. ‘You. Old lady. Go bring me the telephone. And don’t say you can’t; I know it will stretch all the way in here.’

He made no attempt to help as Mme Denis eased herself with difficulty off the bed, wincing with pain. Still holding the mug of tisane, she shuffled slowly past him, favouring one hip and hissing something uncomplimentary in what Rocco was sure might be old Breton. The man sneered and moved aside just enough to keep her in his line of sight, but with one eye on the two policemen.

Rocco tensed himself ready to move, but the gunman was too careful. He looked like a professional, accustomed to what he was doing. And French, Rocco surmised, by his colouring and accent, drafted in for the job.

The gunman grinned maliciously at Rocco as Mme Denis reappeared in the doorway, holding the telephone.

‘You tangled with the wrong man, Rocco,’ he said. ‘Getting cosy with Farek’s wife was the worst thing you could have done. He’ll be here within thirty minutes, I guarantee. He’s going to have fun with you and your friends; him and his pet gorilla, Bouhassa.’ He looked at Mme Denis and gestured for her to pass him the telephone.

She thrust it at him. But before his fingers could take hold, she dropped it on his foot and hurled the cup of hot tisane in his face.

The man howled with pain and swung his gun wildly, trying to hit her and intimidate the two men into keeping still. But Mme Denis had moved quickly to one side, leaving the way clear for Rocco and Claude to do something.

Rocco was already moving. He didn’t waste time standing up, but rolled frantically across the room, pushing Claude away to add to his own momentum and to prevent the gunman having a sitting target. As soon as his fingers closed around the butt of his MAB 38, he rolled onto his back and aimed instinctively at the doorway, triggering two shots in quick succession. The bullets slammed into the gunman, throwing him back through the opening into the kitchen.

In the deathly silence that followed, as Rocco and Claude got to their feet, Mme Denis looked sombrely at the mug on the floor, now broken in several pieces.

‘I hope you’re not going to ask me to pay for that,’ she said.

By the time Rocco returned to Amiens, leaving a team to clear away the body of the gunman, it was close to noon. Massin had already launched a sweep for Farek and his men and sent urgent bulletins to neighbouring forces and the Interior Ministry, alerting them to the sequence of events. Rocco had been reluctant to leave Mme Denis, but she had shooed him away, showing remarkable tenacity in spite of her experiences. The last he had seen of her, she had Claude shadowing her every move and was getting ready to tell her story to her cronies in Poissons.

Massin met Rocco in the corridor outside the main office, where search teams were being directed by Captain Canet to go through the town visiting the known haunts of Algerians with criminal connections. Several pairs of eyes turned his way through the glass, some admiring, some curious, most expressing sympathy for a fellow officer who had just been forced to shoot a man dead.