Twenty

The third-floor security guard, Brasseur, had watched from along the landing as Rocco left Bourdelet’s office and walked back down the stairs. The investigator hadn’t been inside very long, which meant he’d found nothing to speak of or had quickly discovered something important.

He saw Tellier approaching and called him over.

‘What’s the idea, being all pally with the big cop?’ he muttered. ‘You made me look a fool – you should have backed me up. I was only having a bit of fun.’

Tellier shook his head slowly, not intimidated by Brasseur’s bullying approach. He’d come across the type too many times before. ‘You should learn to read people better,’ he said bluntly. ‘Rocco’s not someone you want to mess with. And given that he’s been handed the authority to investigate Bourdelet’s death, he carries more weight than you or I will ever do. On the basis of that letter he could have had you arrested for obstruction.’

Brasseur didn’t get the message. ‘Are you kidding? He’s a country cop, that’s all. That letter just makes him think he can punch above his weight. Or do you know better? You seemed cosy enough the two of you, like a kid with his favourite teacher.’

‘All I know is he was decent to work with and a good cop.’ He started to walk away, then stopped and turned back. ‘You weren’t on the force so I don’t suppose you’ll have heard of a man named Samir Farek.’

‘No. Should I have?’

‘He was a gang leader here in the city, had a base in the Belleville area. He was a vicious bastard and was heading for the top of the tree, disposing of anyone who got in his way. He had a brother named Lakhdar, who was just as bad but with more brains.’

‘So?’

‘Lakhdar hired an assassin to take him out. Rocco took them all down. There were others, too, before that. The reason he got transferred up north was on some Interior Ministry assignment, not because he was stupid or incapable.’

Brasseur wasn’t impressed. ‘Yeah, yeah – now I’m bored. Look after the desk, I’m going for a smoke.’ He walked away along the landing and entered the small room where the security personnel rested when they weren’t on duty. He checked nobody was approaching, then picked up a phone on the desk and dialled a number in the south-west of the city.

It rang twice before being picked up. As usual there was no greeting. Brasseur licked his lips before saying, ‘I’ve got the information you wanted. The cop handling the Bourdelet suicide is called Rocco. Lucas Rocco. He’s based in Amiens. It’s up north.’

‘I know where Amiens is. Go on.’

‘He’s been and gone. Showed up all important and throwing his weight around but didn’t get much. The security section had been in just before he got here and removed anything important from Bourdelet’s office.’

There was a pause, then the man on the other end said, ‘You know for sure that he found nothing? Were you in the room with him?’ The voice was soft, but something in the tone made Brasseur go cold around the shoulders. He realised he’d said too much.

‘No. Sorry, I mean … I don’t think he’d have got much.’

‘You’re paid to report, not to think.’ There was a click and the line went dead. Brasseur put the phone down and remembered to breathe again. He took out a cigarette and sucked in a lungful of smoke, his hand shaking. He needed a drink. Just a small one. He also wanted to turn the clock back and not be involved with the man on the other end of the phone. But it was too late for that. A bad gambling habit had been enough to put him in debt with no way out.

Less than eight kilometres away from where Brasseur was steadying his nerves, Yuri Serban stood up and stared out of his window at his base in Ivry-sur-Seine. There wasn’t much to look at, but that was the way he liked it. Ordinary buildings in an unremarkable neighborhood where nothing much ever happened. It allowed him to operate without wondering if the doors were going to be kicked in at any minute by the heavy boots of theCRS. The Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité were well known for their forceful methods. Being made to hand responsibility to people he didn’t trust, such as Brasseur, was never easy, but staying ahead in the information game was vital. Gathering information from a variety of sources to which he didn’t get easy access was part of the business he was in. Information was like gold: difficult to come by, but worth the investment if it produced results. Sometimes the sources and informants failed at the simplest of tasks, sometimes they came up with something worthwhile. Right now, he was trying to decide on which side of the divide this latest information fell.

Serban had heard the name Rocco before. He couldn’t recall the precise facts, but he had a feeling Rocco had been a thorn in the side of certain gangs in the north of the city. He rang a contact in a research section of the local police. This man was an officer who enjoyed regular payments into a bank account in return for useful nuggets of information. He gave the man Rocco’s name and waited for him to call back. It didn’t take long. He listened in silence, making an occasional note, then thanked his contact and replaced the phone.

Another key aspect of his business was deciding when to get involved and when to pull back. Even more critical was knowing when to cut his losses. With a small operation like his, it would be easy to overstretch his resources, placing him in a vulnerable position and open to attack. He wasn’t sure about this man Rocco. To continue with the project meant dealing with a tough investigator not known for giving up easily, if his contact was to be believed. On the other hand, calling time on a potentially useful source of income risked having another group step in and take over. And his pride would not allow that to happen.

His pride.

It was something which burned bright inside him, demanding much, seeking more, but always kept in check due to an innate sense of caution. He’d seen too many others in his position end up face down in a gutter after overestimating their abilities. There were many routes to success, but the man who found a new method of sourcing money from, or influence over, others was likely to come out on top. Until recently he’d been happy to trundle along doing his own thing his own way, staying out of trouble. But this scheme brought to him by the man known as Maître had stirred something inside him. He wanted more, even if things so far hadn’t gone quite as planned.

Caution told him that if Rocco was as good as his reputation, it might be safer abandoning the project and getting out. But something inside him wouldn’t let go that easily. What if he could take it over himself? As part of the original proposal, he’d made sure of learning more about the background behind the three letters. On seeing the names of the targets, he’d been instinctively wary. They were all high profile, and only the president himself, surrounded by a phalanx of bodyguards and the best resources France had to offer, would have presented a greater risk.

He dialled another number.

‘Rocco?’ The man sounded surprised, his cultured tones unaffected. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. He has a reputation for fighting criminal organisations much larger than yours, but I believe he’s been posted out into the middle of nowhere. I wouldn’t concern yourself, Yuri. If they brought in such an outsider it’s because they want to make sure the investigation falls flat and stays out of the media. From what I’ve heard Rocco is no lover of the press, so I doubt he’ll talk. In the end, when he gets nowhere, the Interior Ministry will tell him with great relief to drop it. Case closed, end of a potentially damaging scandal.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Serban. ‘What about the other targets?’

There was a slight pause. ‘What about them?’

‘You said there would be others if these first three failed to make a return.’

‘Ah, those. They’re of little interest to me. I’ll have to think about it.’

‘Are you saying you’re willing to pass up a lucrative business?’

‘Let’s say they don’t have quite the … relevance of the first three. They were in the background as make-weights. Don’t worry, Serban, you won’t lose out. If I decide not to proceed further, you’ll still be paid, I promise. I think you’ll be pleased with the amount.’

There was a click and the line went dead.

Serban dropped the phone into its cradle and breathed deeply. The other man had just made a big mistake: he’d underestimated Serban’s ambition. Serban stood up, forcing himself to remain calm. He’d see how the other targets played out first, before making a decision. Perhaps he needed to make the man who called himself Maître a surprise visit.

Maybe it was time, he thought, eyeing the distant horizon. Time to spread his wings and move up in the world.