The footsteps walked by. Moments later, he heard an oath and the rear door slammed shut. His exit route had just been shut off. But at least it would open again when needed. He eased his way among the boxes, gradually making a route through to the far side where he could observe what was happening on the main floor. With the building not yet fully operational, and the signs of so many power outlets on the walls, it was likely this part of the floor would soon be given over to more electrical equipment.
He nudged a box to one side, giving him a view of a line of benches. Several men sat at stools, each using screwdrivers and what looked like soldering irons, with faint coils of smoke drifting above their heads. In front of each man was an array of plastic boxes, which they reached into at regular intervals.
He moved further along the stack of boxes for a better view. It was more of the same: more benches, more stools, more assembly points. In all he counted thirty men, all hard at work. They were dressed in ordinary clothes, their skin glowing darkly under the strip lights hanging low above the benches. The air above their heads steamed with their rising body heat as it met the colder atmosphere higher up. They all looked like Algerians, but could just as easily have come from a variety of countries in the region.
A bell sounded from a casing on one wall. Everyone instantly downed tools and shuffled eagerly towards the far end of the factory, where an urn was steaming. It was a refreshment break.
One of the workers was clumsy. As he left his workplace, he caught his sleeve on a plastic box close to the edge of the assembly bench. The box teetered for a second, seemed certain to stay, then tipped off the bench and hit the floor with a loud crack. It burst open, sending a deluge of tiny objects scattering across the dark-red floor, the overhead lights giving them the appearance of thousands of silver minnows in a stream.
Amid the ensuing deathly silence, several of the objects skidded and tumbled between the stacks of boxes and fetched up around Rocco’s feet. He looked down. They were tiny silver screws. When he glanced up, everyone had turned and was looking towards the unfortunate man who had caused the spill.
Chief among them was Metz, the security guard who had confronted Rocco in the car park. And standing alongside him, sneering coldly at the worker’s plight, was another familiar figure.
Detective Alain Tourrain.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Metz paced slowly across the floor, the fallen screws crunching like gravel beneath his shoes. He stopped in front of the offender and stared at him. The man, a thin-faced individual in his fifties in a bright-red shirt, flinched and backed away.
‘Come here,’ Metz said quietly, and pointed to a spot in front of him. His intentions were made clear when he shook his other arm and something silver slid down his sleeve into his hand. A thin metal rod.
A soft groan came from the other men assembled at the far end of the factory. They had seen this before.
The worker said nothing, merely shaking his head in supplication.
‘I said, here,’ Metz repeated. This time softer, more menacing.
Behind him, Tourrain sniggered in anticipation.
The man shuffled forward, feet unsteady on the carpet of fallen screws. He twisted his hands together and looked round for support, but none came.
The moment he was within reach, Metz moved. His arm swept up from his side in a vicious swing, and the overhead lights flashed on the silver rod. There was a crack, and the worker screamed and fell to the floor, blood pumping from his shattered mouth. Metz struck again, using the full power of his shoulders. Then again. When he looked up, he singled out two men closest to him. ‘You two… clear up this filth.’
Rocco closed his eyes, sickened by the attack. The man on the floor looked dead. Nobody could survive blows like that to the head. Even Tourrain looked shocked, and had lost his expression of the eager onlooker.
‘Very useful, Metz. Wonderful way to manage a workforce. I hope you’ve got a replacement tucked away in your pocket.’ The familiar voice rang out across the factory and everyone stopped. It was Lambert. He stopped by the body and stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Metz. ‘We needed him, you idiot. Just as we need every man we can get our hands on. Why is it you can’t seem to get that?’ His voice was cutting and deadly, soft, yet even more menacing than Metz’s brutality. The workers recognised this and moved away, not daring to meet his eyes, focusing instead on putting space between them and him.
‘Get back to work,’ he said sharply. ‘Break time is over.’
The workers shuffled their feet, but did as they were told, moving back to their benches and picking up their tools.
Lambert looked directly at Tourrain. ‘How about you?’ he said, his voice carrying over the low hum of the men working. ‘Can you tell me where I’m going to get another worker? Your uniformed colleagues are playing havoc with our production schedules, do you know that?’
‘Hey, don’t blame me,’ said Tourrain, hands in his pockets. ‘I don’t ship them in… I just keep the cops off everyone’s backs as much as I can.’
‘So how is it you didn’t warn us that they were conducting another sweep tonight? Every time they run a search, we’re vulnerable and fall further behind schedule. This contract depends on low costs and regular production.’
‘But you’re protected. They’re not allowed on this site, you said.’
‘That’s correct. But if they suspect something illegal is going on, such as a mess like this, they’ll find a way of coming over the wire without asking permission first. I know how they work.’
Tourrain gave a shrug. ‘You worry too much. The brass here are gutless. They don’t wipe their arses without checking with the Ministry first.’
‘You’d better hope it stays that way. In the meantime, I’m down a worker.’
‘Hey, you’re the one who knocked off Gondrand, not me. He was your supplier.’
‘Pardon me?’ The voice became softer, more deadly, like the whisper of death, and Tourrain looked startled. He backed away, a hand held out in defence.
‘Christ, Lambert, don’t get heavy with me, OK? We’re all in this together. I didn’t say I couldn’t get others; it’ll take time, that’s all.’
‘We don’t have time!’ Lambert sounded furious, but controlled, as if he was holding himself in. ‘We have a tight schedule for this contract; if we don’t keep to it, we’ll have to hire more dayworkers — and they’re more expensive. I need another illegal to keep costs down.’
‘OK, OK.’ Tourrain scowled in thought. ‘I’ll have to draft one over from another factory. There’s a place I know that won’t mind losing a man. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do to get more workers in. Gondrand said the supply lines had gone dead and his contacts had disappeared. It might not be easy to get another one open.’
‘Not my problem,’ Lambert spat. ‘We paid you and your friend Gondrand to keep things running smoothly.’ He stopped and tipped his head to one side. ‘Unless you’re just trying to get more money out of us — is that it? You want us to pay you more?’
Tourrain looked surprised, then fearful. ‘No. Hell, no — I wouldn’t.’
‘That’s a wise decision.’ Lambert’s voice dropped. ‘Just remember what happened to Gondrand when he tried screwing us, too.’
Rocco had heard enough. He began to worm his way back to the rear door, angling between the boxes. One thing was certain: he doubted any of the workers here would be willing to talk to him about what was going on in this place, or what had just transpired. Surmounting the fact that they were illegals, they would be too terrified of what might happen to them if they dared speak out against Lambert, Metz or anyone else involved in this operation.
He stepped clear of the boxes and was almost to the door when a figure appeared around the corner, tailing a broom. Dark skin, dulled, terrified eyes, an air of resigned fatigue, a man assigned to sweep up the fallen screws.