Twenty-nine

The interview room at the Lille station was small, airless and grim, as if any hint of life or colour had been drained out of it by the years of bad news, violence, death and stories of lives gone horribly wrong. When Rocco stepped through the door, he saw Fontenal slumped in a hard-backed chair looking aggrieved, with a uniformed officer standing behind him.

The prisoner brightened up visibly when he recognised his visitor. ‘Alors, Rocco,’ he murmured, and went to stand up, but the officer clamped a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back down.

‘It’s all right,’ said Rocco. ‘You can leave us.’

The officer nodded and left the room, and Fontenal heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God. It’s good to see a friendly face at last. That one was getting on my nerves. They’re a nightmare up here, I swear. Anybody would think I was Al Capone, or that I’d slaughtered a bagful of kittens!’

‘You were carrying a gun, you moron,’ said Rocco. ‘What do you expect? If I hadn’t recognised you in time at that old café, you’d be dead by now. How would Edith feel about that?’ He sat down in the other chair. ‘I haven’t come to get you out, so don’t get your hopes up. But I might put in a good word for you if you can help me out.’

Fontenal assumed a criminal’s stock expression of instant suspicion. ‘Yeah? Who do I have to turn in for that? You know I’m not a snitch, right? Not for anything or anyone so don’t even ask.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Rocco said with heavy sarcasm. ‘You have such high moral standards.’ He took a packet of cigarettes and matches out of his pocket and tossed them on the table. ‘Have a smoke and listen because I don’t have long.’

Fontenal grabbed both and lit up, puffing eagerly, then gave a satisfied smile. ‘Thanks, Rocco – you’re a gentleman. How can I help?’

‘Georges Peretz. What does the name mean to you?’

‘Peretz? I know him, yes. Never worked with him, but I see him from time to time. He’s been around a while. Does a bit of driving and odd jobs here and there. Why?’

‘Driving and odd jobs. So not what you’d call a gang leader, then. A planner. An ideas man.’

Fontenal laughed. ‘What old Georges? God, no. I mean, he’s not stupid but he was never top of the class at school, if you get my meaning. He’s more your simple follower of orders, not like us independent operators.’ He smiled and took another puff of his cigarette.

Rocco was tempted to point out that Georges, the follower of orders, was currently out and free to do what he liked in the world, unlike certain independent operators he could think of. But he decided against it. Rubbing Bam-Bam’s nose in it wouldn’t help.

‘Whose orders does he follow?’

‘Eh? What do you mean?’

‘Let me put it more clearly.’ Rocco did so carefully, tapping the table for emphasis between each word. ‘Who does he work for?’

‘Ah, that. I don’t know. Seriously. I mean, I’ve been out of the loop down there for a while. Ivry and that area. People and circumstances change. It’s a constantly shifting scene, you know?’

‘Who said anything about Ivry?’

Fontenal’s Adam’s apple bobbed wildly. ‘Pardon?’

‘You said Ivry. Peretz lives in Bercy, in the 12^th arrondissement, the other side of the river.’

Fontenal dragged in a large lungful of smoke, playing for time, and coughed violently, leaning forward and banging his chest. When he regained his composure, he said, ‘Okay, so he lives in Bercy. I don’t know why I said Ivry. They’re next to each other, of course. My mistake.’

Rocco wasn’t fooled; he’d seen Fontenal and too many others go through the same performance, hoping to come up with a convincing answer to a tricky question. ‘You’re right, Bam-Bam. Your mistake.’ He picked up the matches and cigarettes and made to stand up. ‘Good luck tomorrow, because you’ll be in Paris first thing, alongside all your independent operator mates. Let’s hope they’re still feeling friendly towards you.’

‘Eh? Why shouldn’t they?’

‘Well, think about it: they’ll all know about your latest little escapade here in Lille, won’t they? Word travels fast about that sort of thing, especially a guy with a gun bringing down the ceiling of a bank. That’ll give them a laugh.’

Fontenal looked sour. ‘Yeah, don’t remind me. It was bad luck, that.’

‘I’m sure. But what will they say when they hear you’ve been chatting to the flics?’

‘What? Rocco, wait.’ Fontenal’s mouth worked hard, as if it were an effort to force the words out. ‘That’s a bit low, isn’t it? You know what would happen if they thought I was a snitch. I’d end up in the river tied to a block of concrete!’

‘Undoubtedly. So talk.’

‘All right, I’ll tell you – but only because you’ve always played straight with me. If it gets out that I said anything I’ll be dead before the day’s out. This is a serious person I’m talking about.’

‘As long as you tell me the truth.’ Rocco dropped the cigarettes back on the table as a sign of good faith.

‘Sure. Of course.’ Fontenal scrabbled for a new cigarette and lit it with the stub of the old one. He blew out the smoke in a nervous gust, eyeing Rocco with a squint as if he might suddenly disappear. His voice dropped as he said, ‘Georges works for Yuri Serban.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Seriously? Christ, Rocco, you have been out of circulation. Serban’s bad news. Not like some of the bigger boys, the Africans or the Corsicans, but he’s got a short fuse and doesn’t let anyone get one over on him. He runs a couple of small clubs, some gambling dens, a few girls, a taxi firm – lots of small stuff. But between you and me I reckon he’s got his eye on the big time.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because I know the type – and I’ve heard stuff.’

‘What sort of stuff?’

‘He’s clever. He’s been playing it small so far, see, so nobody gives him a second glance – cops or the bigger gangs. But, bit by bit, he’s building a busy little empire for himself. You know what it’s like: it’s never long before a crim like that starts to get more ambitious. And Serban’s ambition is to move closer to the centre and take over someone else’s turf. Why do you want to know about him, anyway?’

‘Where does he operate?’

‘So far, strictly on the outskirts, south-east suburbs. Ivry-sur-Seine area. He puts out the picture of not wanting to mix it with the bigger boys, preferring to do his own thing, so they leave him alone.’

In Rocco’s experience, most big city gang leaders liked to consolidate wherever they could, which meant taking over smaller groups if they thought a territory showed promise. Leaving one operating nearby long enough to get more established was almost unheard of.

‘Why haven’t they moved in on him?’

‘Because they know he’s got friends who’ll back him up. Not gang members, but guys from the same background who aren’t afraid of a fight.’

‘Why would that worry them?’

Fontenal shrugged. ‘Because most of them are headcases and out-of-town and nobody knows what they look like. You can’t fight faces you don’t know, can you? And none of the big boys want to start an international fight because it gets the cops interested and doesn’t make a profit.’

‘You say background. What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but I’ve heard Serban’s family’s from Romania, a long way back. The way I heard it is they do feuds in a big way over there. Hurt one family member and you get the whole clan on your back for ever.’

‘Has he ever been inside?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s clever, makes sure he doesn’t get too ambitious and hurt the wrong people. Not unless they cross him, at least.’ He seemed to realise what that statement implied and looked alarmed. ‘Hey, remember – you won’t tell anyone about this, will you? He’ll go after Edith if he can’t get to me. I’m not kidding, Rocco – he’s got a thing about people talking out of turn.’

Rocco waved a hand to calm him down. He stood up, realising that Fontenal was unlikely to say anything more. ‘Nobody will know outside this room, I promise.’ He nodded at the cigarettes. ‘You can keep those. I’ll see what I can do about putting in a good word with the magistrate. It won’t be much, though, because of the gun.’

Fontenal nodded, subsiding in his chair. ‘Fair enough. My own fault, that. Thanks, Rocco. I appreciate it.’ He grinned and squinted through the smoke. ‘You couldn’t give Edith a call for me, could you? Just a quick one to let her know I’m all right? She probably doesn’t know about this yet and she’ll be worrying.’ He told Rocco the number to call.

‘I’ll see what I can do. You don’t deserve her, you know that?’

‘That’s what she’s always saying. I’m starting to believe it.’

Rocco thanked Pouillot for his help and got the name of the magistrate handling Fontenal’s case. Her name was Laure Ordon. He asked for the use of a telephone and gave her a call.

‘You’re optimistic, aren’t you, Inspector?’ said Ordon. She sounded young and confident, clearly unfazed by a call out of the blue. ‘He and his friend were armed. That’s not going to help their case.’

‘I know. But Fontenal has given me information that might help with another case I’m working on. It should be worth consideration, don’t you think?’ He was guessing he didn’t have to tell her that informants were key in solving many cases, and the knowledge that ‘an informant’ had received some consideration in a sentence for providing inside information might persuade others to come forward in future.

‘I suppose, although it depends what this other case is, frankly.’ Her tone of voice lacked enthusiasm, and he decided he had to take a chance on giving out a name. He’d been ready for that very question and figured it was worth the risk to mention it. ‘Jules Petissier.’

‘What? The Assize Court Petissier?’ Her tone went up a peg or two. ‘You’re investigating that? I thought it was attempted suicide.’

‘It probably was. But there are secondary circumstances which may have driven him to it.’

‘What sort of information did Fontenal give you? Did he name someone?’

Rocco smiled. She must have known he wasn’t going to tell her, but it hadn’t stopped her asking. Magistrates loved gossip as much as anyone else. ‘I can’t say at this point. Let’s call it a possibility.’

‘Well, I’ve met Fontenal, Inspector, and I’d be amazed if he moves anywhere near the right circles for that kind of detail. Still, if it’s a possibility, I’ll put the fact forward in his defence but I’m not promising anything.’

He thanked her and rang off, grateful for magistrates who were prepared to consider the bigger picture.

Next he rang Edith, Fontenal’s long-suffering partner, and told her the bad news. She responded with the expected wail of despair, but rapidly became pragmatic and asked for details of where he was being held.

‘Did you say Rocco?’ she asked. ‘François mentioned you before. He said you were okay.’

‘You mean for a cop?’

‘Yeah, for a cop.’ She laughed. ‘Thank you, anyway. I’ll see where he ends up and pay him a visit. If you see him, tell him he’d better be wearing a crash helmet when I get there because he’s going to need it.’