Twenty-seven

Moteurs Gregnard was in a ramshackle building in a back street away from the centre of Sarcelles, and Rocco was hard pushed not to form preconceptions about the place before he saw the inside. The jumble of buildings in the surrounding area were dilapidated and looked mostly deserted, and there was an air of defeat hanging over them that seemed to emanate from the ground up, as if the area was waiting for the wrecker’s ball to move in and lay waste to every brick and timber. Aging vehicles were parked along the front of the premises, and two men in grubby vests and oil-stained trousers were sitting outside next to a single fuel pump, puffing on cigarettes.

So far Rocco had seen no through traffic of any description, and it wasn’t difficult to see why: who would want to risk coming down such a dead-end street in what was surely a road to nowhere? He saw Desmoulins climb out of his car further down the street and waited for the detective to join him.

‘I’ve walked past a couple of times,’ said Desmoulins, sliding into the passenger seat, ‘but couldn’t see a yellow van. That’s not to say there isn’t one – there’s a space at the rear where they could probably get a dozen vehicles or more.’

‘Are those two oily vests the only employees?’

‘I think so. They came out after three men arrived about fifteen minutes ago. They’ve been out there ever since.’

‘Under orders, I expect. What did the three visitors look like?’

‘Cheap suits, street swagger and trying to look tough. Late twenties to early thirties. They pitched up in the green Simca across the street, and an older man met them at the door. I think it was Gregnard himself. Looks as if they were expected.’

Rocco studied the Simca. It didn’t look new but was highly polished and sat low on the springs, with a row of fog lights across the front as if it had been prepped for the Tour de France Automobile Rally, idiot amateur division. ‘How did the local force feel about you coming here?’

Desmoulins pointed down the street. ‘The ratty blue Peugeot with the red wing? There are two detectives inside in case we need any help.’

Rocco looked at him. ‘Did you ask them to come?’

Desmoulins smiled. ‘I didn’t have to. The moment I mentioned Gregnard, they almost jumped in their car before I’d finished speaking. They’ve been trying to pin him down for a long time. They’re pretty sure he’s been moving stolen goods around the city, quite apart from providing vehicles for raids and fake documentation to just about anybody who can stump up the cash. It must be a lucrative business because, although the garage is a dump, the locals told me Gregnard has a very nice house at the posh end of town, and can be seen splashing money around on a regular basis.’

‘So, we’re among friends?’

‘We are. I told them it’s just a chat for now but they said if we need help, just whistle.’

‘Come on, then. Let’s go and disturb Monsieur Gregnard’s day, shall we?’ Rocco climbed out and led the way along the street. They were watched every step of the way by the two men, who stamped out their cigarettes and got to their feet. One of them, the taller of the two, scooped up a length of metal bar and swung it experimentally from side to side with a swishing sound.

‘Sit down, boys,’ said Rocco, and flicked back his coat to show his gun, while Desmoulins held up his ID card. ‘We’re here for a chat, so why not be sensible and have another smoke? I’m sure your boss won’t mind.’

The men sat down again, the tall one dropping the bar on the ground. The shrug as he did so was a face-saver which said they could have done something if they’d wanted to, but they weren’t paid to confront the cops.

The interior of the garage smelled of oil, damp and cigarettes. Compared to the outside it was surprisingly clean, the floor oil-stained but clear of rubbish. There were two ramps, an inspection pit and long benches along the side walls covered in tools and car parts. Racks above them held a variety of tools and above them a selection of colourful automobile plaques. The overall appearance was of a professional set-up in sharp contrast to the second-rate exterior.

Rocco had seen this kind of place before: a dump to outsiders but capable of turning out high-level work for the right kind of customers.

An office was visible through a glass-panelled screen covered in auto parts stickers. Four men were seated around a desk, the air around their heads clouded with smoke. Whatever they were discussing looked serious. The odd man out was a heavy-set, older individual in his fifties dressed in an expensive-looking sports jacket and shirt. He was stabbing the air with a fat forefinger.

Gregnard, thought Rocco, and he was laying down the law about something. It was a good time to catch him off-guard. He stepped up to the door and knocked, then pushed it open.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said calmly. ‘But we need to talk.’

Gregnard dropped the pointy finger and growled, ‘Who the hell are you? Piss off and come back next week. We’re busy.’ He glared towards the outside, no doubt wondering why his men hadn’t intercepted these intruders.

The three visitors weren’t quite so patient. They took it as their cue to stand up and look tough. Rocco did the trick with his coat while Desmoulins flashed his card. It worked wonders. They went to sit down again but Rocco stopped them.

‘Don’t bother staying,’ he said. ‘We don’t need an audience.’

Gregnard looked surprisingly untroubled at this and didn’t argue. He nodded at the three younger men and said, ‘Just think about what I said, right? Not here, not now, not ever.’ He stood up and watched them leave, then turned to Rocco and shook his head, ‘I was about to toss them out anyway. You saved me the trouble. Young punks think they can come in here and make a silly offer for my business? They need to grow some balls first. What is it you two want? Rocco, isn’t it?’

Rocco was surprised. ‘Have we met?’

‘No, but I’ve seen you around. Down in Clichy, wasn’t it? It’s been a while.’ He sat down and gestured at the empty chairs. ‘Why not make yourselves comfortable? Where have you been?’

‘I’ve been working elsewhere,’ said Rocco. ‘My colleague is Detective Desmoulins. Are you having trouble with those three?’

Gregnard gave a spit of laughter. ‘You’re joking. Them? They’re voyous, that’s all. Street thugs. Good on talk and scaring old ladies, but nothing in the tank.’ He scratched at his face, which was covered in a three-day stubble. ‘They’re looking for a base and for some reason thought I’d be ripe for a takeover. They were wrong. What can I do for you, Inspector?’

‘I hear you have some vehicles for hire, is that correct?’

‘Sure. Why – you looking for a wedding limousine?’ His smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I don’t have one in the yard but I can always get one for the right kind of money.’

‘Thanks, but not yet. How about a small van, a 2CV in PTT yellow?’

Gregnard pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. ‘Not sure I can do that. Why so specific? You thinking of a change of profession?’

‘The registration records show you as the owner,’ said Desmoulins. He took a slip of paper out of his pocket and pushed it across the desk.

Gregnard didn’t bother looking at it, playing the cool customer. ‘I hire out lots of vehicles, but I don’t recall every one. It might be mine, it might not. So what?’ His tone was still civil but getting harder, and Rocco recognised a man trying to think fast on his feet.

‘We’ve had reports of that vehicle having been seen in connection with two suicides and another near-fatality. All three incidents appear to lead right back here. To you, Monsieur Gregnard. What do you say about that?’

Gregnard shrugged and tilted back on his chair, his belly rising above the desk. ‘So what? A vehicle hired from me just happened to be in an area when a couple of losers decided to kill themselves. Doesn’t mean I know anything about it. Do you go after the SNCF when some idiot walks across the track in front of an express?’ In spite of his brash words he didn’t sound overly confident.

‘You admit it does belong to you?’

His eyes flickered nervously. ‘Yeah, but so what? I hire them out, I don’t see what people do with them. I didn’t even know about any suicides.’

‘Not personally, no,’ said Rocco. ‘But you’ll have heard of one of them. And that’s where a whole load of trouble is going to come down on you. Believe me, we’re the polite squad, unlike the ones coming along behind.’ He was bluffing, because it was ten to one that nobody would be coming along after him and Desmoulins. But he was counting on Gregnard not knowing that.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Gregnard stared at them in turn. He was beginning to sound edgy, as if realising that this had been a build-up to something he hadn’t seen coming.

‘Jean-Pascal Bourdelet. Late Secretary of State for Finance. Does that ring a bell?’

There was a long silence, with Gregnard’s mouth forming into an ‘o’ while he digested the words. It took a few seconds, then he fell forward on his chair, the feet slamming into the floor as the implications finally hit home. He’d evidently read the newspapers.

‘Putain! What’s that you say? Are you winding me up?’

‘Your car,’ said Desmoulins, pointing at the piece of paper, ‘was seen to deliver a letter to Bourdelet’s house just minutes before he drove to his office and shot himself in the head.’ He smiled and leaned forward. ‘Come on, you know how it works: if there’s a connection, all we need to do is look closer. A lot closer. Can your business stand that kind of scrutiny?’

Rocco stood up, deciding on a bit of play-acting of his own. They’d got Gregnard unsettled, now all they had to do was push home the advantage. Gregnard looked surprised by the sudden move and reared back in his chair.

‘I’d like to take a look round your yard,’ said Rocco. ‘See what you’ve got for hire, check a few vehicles over. Desmoulins here was a master mechanic before he joined the force.’

Gregnard looked faintly alarmed at the idea. He shook his head but didn’t move. His expression had turned sour, as if he’d been backed into a corner. He muttered, ‘That won’t do any good. It’s not there.’

Rocco sat back down. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Where is it?’