Thirty-five

Two minutes passed agonisingly slowly, with only intermittent shots coming from the gunmen. Rocco was just beginning to think something was wrong when three whistles sounded, followed by two flash-bangs going off in quick succession on the far side of the building. The explosions and flashes of bright light raised a lot of shouting and more shooting from the men inside. Three seconds later, two more explosions followed, this time within the room itself and rattling the fabric of the building.

Rocco and Desmoulins were already on their feet, ready to go, and in the light spotted a gunman by the door, firing wildly into the darkness. It was now or never. Rocco went first, slipping over the windowsill and dropping to the concrete floor of the room. Even as he dropped he knew that Bouanga and Excelsiore wouldn’t be able to make an exit this way; it was too high up to climb and there was nothing to stand on. They would have to leave through the main door, which meant getting past their guard.

He turned to check them out and saw them sitting close to one corner, but in the poor light and the drifting smoke from the flash-bangs he had no idea if they were still alive. He focussed instead on the gunman, who was reloading his gun and shooting out into the night. Then the man seemed to sense the threat and spun round, bringing up his gun and shouting a warning.

Desmoulins opened fire first, knocking him off his feet, and Rocco ran to see to the hostages. He was relieved to see they were alive and moving, if terrified, with only their hands tied. He lifted them to their feet.

‘We’re going out that door,’ he said clearly, pointing to the entrance where the gunman had fallen. ‘As soon as we get the all-clear, follow me and keep going. Don’t stop unless I tell you and don’t look around. Understood? You’re going to be all right.’

They both nodded, eyes wide, and clung to each other.

Desmoulins had run over to check the body of the gunman and kick his gun away. He signalled to Rocco to bring the hostages to the door, where they huddled against the wall.

By now the shooting had died down, with only intermittent shots from either side. Rocco waited for a beat of more than two seconds’ silence, then gave three long, loud whistles.

‘All opposition down!’ It was Godard’s voice. ‘It’s safe to go.’

Rocco slapped Bouanga on the shoulder as his signal to move and led them out of the door to join two of the Arras officers waiting outside to usher them up the yard towards the main gate and safety.

Rocco saw Godard and Classens outside the next building, and went over to join them. Two officers were standing inside the building, weapons drawn and standing over two men on the floor. One was dead, the other had a wound to his shoulder and was moaning softly, his arms outstretched and his face to the floor as if he was trying to blend into the concrete.

‘The dead one ran out and opened fire,’ reported Godard. ‘Classens put him down. The other one was already down without a weapon. Good luck for us but not for him.’

‘Well done. There’s another one inside, also dead.’ He looked at Classens. ‘You’d better get an ambulance on the way here and tell your boss it’s all over.’

The officer seemed to have trouble tearing his eyes away from the wounded man on the floor, but he finally nodded. ‘What about this maggot?’

‘What about him?’

‘He gets a cushy bed in hospital, does he? It won’t bring our mates back, though, will it?’

‘No, it won’t. But he’s going to be the one who provides information on the others, and on the man who paid them. You’ve done your bit by your mates, so let it go.’

Classens sighed, then backed down, the sharp light of anger fading from his eyes. ‘Yes. Sorry. I’ll call it in. The brass will be on their way already, I expect, after all the gunfire.’

The last thing Rocco needed right now was a collection of senior officers getting involved. He signalled to Desmoulins and took him to one side. ‘Take the wounded man to one of the smaller rooms. The grittier the better.’

Desmoulins nodded. ‘Will do. There’s an old workshop next door. It’s empty but grim. What are you going to do?’

‘I want to talk to him. Once he’s in the system he’ll be untouchable. I want to get what I can out of him before the Ministry or the lawyers get involved. He might know something the man in custody doesn’t.’

Desmoulins looked worried. ‘You’re not thinking of leaving him with the Arras guys, are you?’ He looked around and his voice dropped. ‘They’re pretty strung up about their mates being shot. I reckon give them half a chance and they’ll send him to join his friends.’

‘We can’t let that happen. He’s our only hope of finding out what’s behind this. I want him unsettled so he’ll talk. It’s ten to one he knows nothing about how we treat suspects in France, so he’ll be wondering what’s going to happen.’

He went over to Godard, who was checking through the contents of the kidnappers’ pockets.

‘Have you found anything?’

‘Not much. A few sweets, some leaves which I’m guessing is the ncassa stuff they chew, some cigarettes, and three identity cards that look fake. There’s hardly any money, though, just a few francs. If they were paid to lift Bouanga, they wouldn’t have had time to spend any, so where is it?’ He handed an identity card to Rocco. ‘This is the one who survived.’

Rocco looked at the card, which gave the man’s name as Patrick Pembele. The printing was sub-standard and the photo faded and grainy. It certainly looked fake, but it was all he had for the moment.

‘Perhaps there wasn’t going to be a final payment. I doubt they’re the brightest buttons. They probably took a token down-payment with the promise of a big pay-out on completion. Let’s see if we can find out. Do you have any camo paint among your equipment?’

‘Sure. Always do, although we haven’t had cause to use it recently. Why?’

Rocco told him what he wanted, and Godard smiled. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll get Lavalle togged up. Aside from me he’s the biggest and ugliest. Give me a few minutes and we’ll be with you.’

Rocco walked towards the workshop Desmoulins had mentioned. Before entering he pulled his coat collar up around his chin and took out his gun. Then he stepped inside.

Desmoulins was holding a flashlight and standing over the prisoner, a young man with a wasted frame and a bony face. He was in handcuffs and sitting on an old wooden storage box. He looked frightened, one leg bouncing uncontrollably. His eyes went wide and rolled away when Rocco appeared with his gun held down by his side.

‘What are you doing with me?’ the man asked, his voice a dry croak. He held up the handcuffs as if he expected Rocco to release him.

Rocco waved a hand and made a shushing noise. The man’s shirt was wet, he noticed, and the air smelled strongly of vomit. His upper arm was covered in blood.

Rocco stepped around the room, deliberately taking his time as if inspecting the structure for signs of wear and tear. It was filthy dirty after many years of being abandoned, with swathes of cobwebs hanging from the walls, a liberal scattering of rodent and bird droppings and a deep chill in the air in spite of the warmth of the dying day. A large iron pedestal which he guessed had once held a drill stood at one end, and scarring on the oil-stained concrete floor showed where a lathe or similar machine had stood, the retaining bolts still protruding like fingers pointing at the ceiling.

‘Why am I being kept here?’ the man asked. His French was heavily accented, but good. ‘This is not right.’

‘Why not?’ Rocco countered, still walking around.

‘Because this is not a police station. You have no right–’

‘Really?’ Rocco cut him off, this time turning to face him. ‘Do you think we should treat you to coffee and cake, perhaps? Offer you a hot shower and a nice big meal? Mr Patrick Pembele.’

‘I don’t understand.’ The man’s eyes welled up and he swallowed hard, staring at Rocco’s pistol. ‘I don’t understand what you want of me.’

‘Pembele. That’s your name, isn’t it? It says so on your identity card.’

‘Pembele. Yes.’

‘So why did you kill the policeman?’ The words seemed to bounce around the room, but that was as far as they went, the thick walls absorbing the sound like blotting paper.

‘What? Policeman? I did not kill anyone, I swear! That is a lie!’

‘At the big house – where you kidnapped Bouanga and the woman. Two policemen, dead.’

‘No. No.’ He shook his head, the word dying off in a keening sound. ‘I did not. Please.’

‘So who did it? One of your friends? Tell me which one and you’ll be allowed to go.’

‘No, not me… not my friends.’

‘Really? But you were all high on… what do you call it – ncassa? How would you remember what you did? Do you really want to stay here in this place?’

Pembele looked up. ‘No. You cannot do that.’

‘Give me a name and I’ll let you out of here.’

There was the sound of footsteps outside the door. Rocco turned and saw two tall, dark figures standing in the gloom, belted, booted and buckled, carrying guns. Their faces were streaked in camouflage paint, which made them look cold and threatening. Godard and Lavalle, huge, intimidating and without expression, their eyes fixed on the prisoner.

Behind him Pembele gave a faint cry of despair and began to sob. Rocco turned back to the prisoner and signalled for the two men to go. Their job was done.

‘You attacked the house, Mr Pembele. Yes?’

A long pause and a sob. ‘Yes.’

‘And the policemen were shot, yes?’

The man nodded slowly. ‘But not by me, Mr Policeman. We did not kill anybody, I promise you.’ He swallowed again, then whispered, ‘It was the other.’

‘Other?’

‘The man who was there before us. The white man.’

Rocco exchanged a look with Desmoulins. At last they were getting somewhere.

‘What was this man’s name?’

‘I do not know. He did not tell us that. He was very angry and waving his gun and we thought he was going to kill us all. He had already shot the two policemen and we were frightened we were going to be next.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘He was white and… young, I think. It is not easy for me to tell. He was in blue, like the policemen, but not the jacket. A shirt only.’

‘Blue?’

‘Blue, yes.’

It tallied with what the prisoner in Arras had said. To make absolutely certain, Rocco took out the photo from the Place Carnot and held it in front of Pembele’s face. ‘Is this the man?’

Pembele scanned the photo, squinting in the poor light thrown by Desmoulin’s torch. ‘Yes. This one.’

‘Point.’

Pembele did as instructed, moving his hands awkwardly together. His finger came to rest on the face of Jouanne. ‘But there was another with him, also,’ he added.

‘What?’

‘Another person, but we did not see him. He was in the van.’

‘What van?’

‘I could not tell the colour – it was too dark. But it was outside the gates when we arrived. The man, this white man, he was waiting for us by the front door. He had already placed the old man and the woman in a room and locked the door. These, he said, were the ones to be taken. One of my friends went to relieve himself and that’s when he saw the dead policeman in the big shed.’ The words were flowing now, unstoppable and desperate, and Rocco could tell the man was finally spilling everything he knew, eager to please.

‘Why was the man angry – did he say?’

A shake of the head. ‘No. Only that it had been a waste of time. I do not know what he meant and was too scared to ask. It was none of our business. We just wanted to have our money and do what we had been told in Paris.’

‘That’s where you were hired?’

‘Hired?’

‘Promised money if you did this thing.’

‘Ah, yes. In a café near the Gare du Nord. Café Terminus. An important man, a chef, said we had to go first to a café in Amiens, where the angry man would be waiting to give us money.’

Chef. A boss or leader. To men like this, any man with the bearing of authority and offering money with a promise of more would fit that title. It confirmed what the man in custody had said. ‘Then what?’

‘Then we would go to the house in the night and take the old man and keep him somewhere until we were told to let him go. It would be two, maybe three days only, he said, then we would be paid in full and could return to Paris. But we did not know this angry man would be here also.’ He nodded at the photo.

‘Did you know Mr Bouanga before you came here?’

Pembele frowned. ‘I do not know this Bouanga person. The chef said the other man would give us instructions. If his name is Bouanga, then he did not say.’

‘How did you know him, then – when you met him in Amiens?’

‘We did not. But he knew us. He asked if we were from Congo and we said yes. That was all.’

A simple password, thought Rocco. But it worked. ‘This chef who gave you instructions, do you know his name?’

Another shake of the head. ‘No, but he is there in that photo. You did not know this?’

Rocco didn’t need to look to know who he was talking about.

‘Point.’

Pembele did so, his finger resting on the face of Lakhdar Farek.

Rocco looked up to see someone standing in the doorway. It was Godard.

‘I just checked on the hostages. They’ve been examined by a medic at the gates. Bouanga’s a bit knocked about but nothing’s broken. I’ve sent them back to Les Sables with two of my guys. They will stay with them overnight until we get replaced. I suggested a hotel to Bouanga but he asked to go back to the house.’

‘Thank you.’ He sensed Godard wanted to say more. ‘What?’

‘The Arras guys are getting restless.’ He nodded at Pembele. ‘They want to know why you’re keeping this one in here instead of handing him over. They see it as their collar.’

‘You heard what he said?’

‘Enough. A white man was the shooter – is that true?’

‘Yes. You might want to tell the men that before they do something they’ll regret.’

Godard smiled. ‘They won’t, don’t worry. Not while I’m here.’

‘Good. You can also tell them that we know who paid him, too. This man’s evidence will get the killer convicted, and the man at the top responsible for the whole sorry business. But he has to make it into court to testify.’

‘Is it anyone I might know?’

‘You’ve heard the name Farek? His brother.’

‘I remember. So why was he involved? I thought this was a political job.’

‘No. It was a convenient smokescreen. This was aimed to get at me.’