Six

‘Sorry I can’t dress it up better than this,’ Santer continued, ‘but I figured you wouldn’t want me to, anyway. I’ve just heard there’s a marker out on you.’

A marker, the alternative name for a contract or a hit. Most cops picked up at least one during their career, more if they really became a thorn in the side of someone who took being sent down personally. Most threats came from low-level criminals they’d put away, trying to make up for their own failings with verbal displays of bravado. Not even their criminal colleagues took them seriously, and the threats rarely came to anything. But some were real and had to be taken as they were meant. Rocco, like others, had helped put away many a low-life and a few of the bigger fish in his time. Not all of them bore a grudge, or were open about it if they did, some even accepting the pitfalls of their profession. But he could name maybe three men off the top of his head who had issued threats he’d taken seriously, any one of whom might follow them through one day.

‘Who?’

‘You remember Samir Farek?’

Rocco experienced a moment of surprise. Farek. Algerian, head of a gang based in Oran and now dead, shot by an unknown sniper. Known as Sami by his friends, it was a far more genial sounding name than he’d ever deserved. He’d come to France on the hunt for his wife, who’d run away with their young son, and had sworn to kill Rocco for helping her. Rocco had barely known the woman or even whom she was married to, only that if Farek, a vicious criminal with many contacts and a long, vindictive memory, ever caught up with her, she would be in trouble. Fortunately, the man hadn’t lived much longer.

‘I remember. So?’

‘After his death, his brother Lakhdar went away for a spell for theft and fraud. By the time he got out he was ready to take over Samir’s operations, as we expected. He’s been looking after the business ever since, cleaning out some of brother Sami’s old mates and bringing in new blood. Anyway, just lately he’s let it be known that he’s coming after you for Samir’s death. You know what these thugs are like: all muscle and no brains. It’s an honour thing, intended to show him in a good light with his horrible family and his growing band of morons.’

‘Growing?’

‘He’s staging a comeback. The word is he’s recently taken over a couple of the gangs operating between Paris and Marseille by quietly displacing their leaders.’

‘Seriously?’

‘At least five known chefs have disappeared in the last few weeks: three from Paris, two further south. There’s not a trace of them anywhere, so I’ll leave you to join up the dots.’

Rocco wasn’t surprised. Once a gang chief always a gang chief. There was no walking away and retiring to a quiet life in the country, even if you wanted to. Sooner or later somebody would decide you were better off out of the picture. Permanently. As to the honour thing, it was a smokescreen. The Fareks and their kind were big on the word, a twisted version of the real thing and more correctly filed under the title of revenge.

And that was what Farek wanted: revenge for his brother, who’d been shot by an unknown sniper during a confrontation with Rocco. Although the killing had undoubtedly been at the hands of powerful criminal enemies who didn’t want to run the risk of Farek talking to the police, his family and criminal entourage preferred to look on Rocco as the root cause.

‘How real is this threat? He must know he’ll get pulled in if he tries anything.’

‘He should do, but who said any of his kind deal in logic?’

‘It doesn’t really sound like him, though.’ From what little Rocco knew of Lakhdar, he was more into business dealings and paperwork than ordering or carrying out a killing.

‘Lakhdar’s changed. He’s grown out of Sami’s shadow. Seeing his brother losing face like he did, it seems to have affected him. But he’s got to prove he has the balls to those around him and this could be his way of doing it.’

‘By settling old scores.’

‘Correct. And you’re one of them.’

‘Who else?’

‘The gang chiefs I mentioned, a couple who were thought to have had a hand in Samir’s murder. But getting rid of them was considered small fry, as well as being strategic.’

‘Whereas knocking off a cop will show what a big, bad man he is.’

‘Exactly. You’re not just any cop, though, are you? You’ve got a profile. A bit like big-game hunters who want to bag a lion.’

‘Fine. Thanks for the comparison, boss. I’ll keep my eyes open.’ Boss. He hadn’t called Santer that in a while, but it had a habit of sneaking back in.

‘Lucas, he won’t come at you head on. Like I said, he’s no longer in thrall to anybody, which includes any of the other gangs now, and with this honour thing driving him, he won’t stop – he can’t.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Farek’s no hero; he won’t come calling with a gun in his fist. He’ll get someone in to do it and sit proud and loud in his office so he’s got an alibi. We’re pretty sure he did that with another former cop recently.’

‘Anybody I know?’

‘I don’t think so. He was a captain in Cambrai, name of Raballe. He used to work the northern smuggling routes into Paris until he retired last year. He crossed Lakhdar a couple of times and shut down an operation we think must have cost Lakhdar dear because he swore he’d get even with him. We thought it was the usual bullshit at the time, Lakhdar talking big to impress his friends, the way they do. But Raballe took it seriously. My guess is he knew Lakhdar well enough to think he wasn’t just blowing hot air.’

Rocco sensed what was coming. ‘What happened?’

‘As soon as Raballe handed in his papers he moved to a village outside Dieppe, to his brother’s place. I heard it’s a middle-of-nowhere kind of place that you won’t find on any map. He settled into a quiet life, probably thinking he was safe. But he was found dead two days ago while walking his dog. He’d been shot in the neck. The locals think it was some idiot with a rifle blasting off in the woods but I’m not so sure. It seems too coincidental. We can’t tie it to Farek because he’s got himself a watertight alibi for his movements, but he’s the one who did all the shouting, so we can’t ignore it.’

‘If Raballe was so well hidden, how did Farek find him? It’s a big country.’ Especially, thought Rocco, if an ex-cop like Raballe had taken the threat seriously enough to duck below the radar. Working the drug gangs would have made him more than capable of making sure he could never be found if he didn’t want to be.

‘It certainly is… unless you’ve got someone on the inside who can keep track of a former cop’s movements.’ Santer sounded sick at the notion. Criminals having a contact within the police wasn’t unusual, except that it usually involved the flow of information going in, not going out. ‘He’d left his new address on file for pension purposes, and so we could get in touch if anything cropped up from one of his old cases.’

‘Do you know who gave it out?’

‘We think so. There’s an officer rumoured to have got himself into debt with some serious people. He’s close to retirement and working as a supervisor here. He suddenly came into a nice legacy and began splashing money around. Not that it’ll do him any good; the roof’s going to drop on his head any day now.’

Rocco thanked him for the warning and disconnected, then took a stroll around the garden and thought about the likelihood of Lakhdar Farek carrying out his threat. In the over-heated atmosphere of the criminal underworld, threats were almost a currency of their own, issued to gain position, to warn off competition and even to curry favour among followers who wanted a strong man in the lead. Not going through with a promise to take down a named cop wasn’t like a politician breaking his word, which was par for the course in the shifting world of political power-plays. In Farek’s world it would seriously call into question his courage and willingness to take risks. And that made a man vulnerable.

He wondered if he should tell Massin of this development. Having a viable threat made against a police officer was a serious problem, especially if it affected that officer’s performance and that of his colleagues. Many senior officers would expect to be told, if they hadn’t already heard. On the other hand, what was Massin going to do about it? He could hardly put Rocco on temporary leave or assign him a bodyguard; nor could he make a move against Farek himself. Making threats against officers was nothing new, and proving there was genuine intent would be impossible.

He went back inside and took his handgun from a drawer in the bedroom, the MAB D snug in its webbing holster, and checked the load. He didn’t carry it with him every day, although he was supposed to. Unlike some colleagues, he’d never formed an unbreakable attachment to guns, perhaps a hangover from his army service. From now on, though, he’d better make sure he had it with him at all times.