Thirty-nine

It didn’t last long. He shook his head and heard a ticking noise from the engine. Or maybe it was one of the wheels spinning. At least he could still hear, surely a good sign. He felt a tickle on his forehead and wiped it away. His hand came away smeared with blood. He struggled against the tilt of the seat cushion and realised that the car had somehow landed on its left side hard against one tree, the other side propped up by a smaller trunk and tilted off the ground. He sniffed the air. Another good sign. He could smell: the warm aroma of pine trees.

And petrol. 

Damn it. The fumes were strong and sharp, invading the interior of the car. He fought against panic. He couldn’t tell how close it was but any fuel spillage in a car crash was bad news.

He reached for the radio. Dead. Like he’d be if he didn’t get out of here. He twisted his body, seeking a way out, his knee and back protesting and his head spinning. The taste of blood filled his mouth and he spat it out. He looked to his left. The tree was a giant, its gnarled trunk invading the compartment as if trying to get at him. The door was gone, ripped away, leaving the hinges like broken teeth. But there was no room to get out past the tree. He looked right and up. That door was still on, but only just, wrenched back and leaving him with a good view up the slope towards the road. The car must have spun in mid-air.

Pity Citroëns weren’t made to fly, he thought dreamily, his vision beginning to fade. He could have been out of here without a scratch otherwise, up and over the trees. He felt almost drunk and shook his head. Not drunk. Concussed. Mustn’t go to sleep. Keep the head clear and try to find a way out. Get to a hospital. Find the truck driver who ruined his car and kill him, very slowly. Bury the body.

Someone was approaching. A figure was scrambling down the bank. A man in a jacket, a cap on his head pulled low. Rocco didn’t recognise him, couldn’t see him clearly enough. Just a figure, a stranger. Hopefully a helpful one.

The man leaned over the open doorway and studied Rocco for a moment. He was unshaven, ordinary-looking. Rocco tried to speak but his mouth wouldn’t work. Useless being a cop if I can’t speak, he thought, and felt a laugh beginning to well up. It stopped in his throat and he thought he was choking. He spat out more blood and took a deep breath, determined not to give in to whatever it was that was taking over his body. The idea of a slow death had never appealed to him. Far better a soldier’s passing: quick, painless – or, at least, as painless as possible – followed by a quick drop into nothing. Blackness. Bugles, drums, goodbye.

‘You’re in a mess, aren’t you?’ the newcomer said, almost chattily. He sounded amused. He was making no attempt to reach in and help Rocco out, but leaned against the side of the car, looking down with no apparent concern. He even had a smile edging the side of his mouth. ‘A bit shaky on the wheel back there, weren’t you? You really shouldn’t drink in the morning, Rocco. Here, have another one on me.’ He produced a bottle of whisky and poured half the contents into the inside of the car, splashing Rocco’s face and chest.

Rocco lifted a hand to shield his eyes and coughed against the harsh taste as some of it entered his mouth.

‘Nothing better for a pick-me-up, I always think,’ the man continued. ‘Don’t feel bad – you won’t be the first drunken cop they find killed himself driving too fast.’

Then he produced a cigarette and a lighter, and lit up, puffing smoke into the air, throwing his head back for a moment to survey the road above.

‘Don’t light up here, you maniac – there’s petrol everywhere!’ Rocco wanted to shout. But although the thought was there the words wouldn’t come. What the hell was wrong with his mouth? Why couldn’t he speak? He tried to shift himself, to get his legs underneath him and push upwards. But he had no strength and he couldn’t even feel his right leg. Damn, that’s bad.

The man noticed him moving and said, ‘No, please. Don’t stand up. We’re all friends here.’ He grinned. ‘Well, this is a fine way to end a great career for a bastard flic, isn’t it? But that’s the way of the world, right? You do your best, work hard, become a regular pillar of the community – not my community, mind you, because there we hate your guts – but there’s always a payback waiting just round the corner.’ He sniggered. ‘Or in this case, right here, on the corner.’ He waved a hand to indicate the road behind him. ‘You have to admit, Rocco, that was a seriously good piece of driving, wasn’t it? Not by you – you were rubbish, let’s be honest. But what do you expect when you drive around boozed up on whisky in a heap of old junk like this? No, I have to say I couldn’t have judged it any finer if I’d tried. Bam – right up the arse and you were off like a rocket. Or should I say a Sputnik? Into orbit … well, for all of three seconds, then you crash-landed like a sack of old scrap metal. Cop down.’ He made a trumpet sound, a parody of the dernière sonnerie, the last post.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Rocco finely managed to whisper, his throat sore and his mouth dry in spite of the blood.

The man showed a line of yellow teeth. ‘Oh, we’re talking now, are we? That’s not good. And there was I thinking you were about to breath your last. Seems like I might have misjudged things. Still, lucky I came prepared, eh?’ He bent out of sight for a moment, then stood up and showed Rocco a wine bottle with a cork in the top. He gave it a shake. ‘Fancy another drink, Rocco? No? Well, I can’t say I blame you. This isn’t what you’d call a good vintage, let me tell you. A bit young for my tastes, not exactly full-bodied, either.’ He took the cork out and tossed it away, then tipped the bottle. A dribble of pale liquid spilled out, splashing over the front seat and running down the fabric towards Rocco. It touched his leg with cold and he recognised the familiar smell.

Petrol.

‘Oops, didn’t mean to do that,’ said the man. ‘Doesn’t mix well with whisky, I suppose. Still, never mind. You won’t be wearing that suit where you’re going, will you? Nice cut, by the way. They told me you dressed well. Where did you get that?’

Rocco wanted to say London, but he didn’t have the energy. ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you doing this?’

The man frowned. ‘Good question. It’s not as if I know you, which I suppose is a little rude of me, us never having been introduced. Let’s say I’m being paid a nice lot of money, and you’ve become a pain in the arse to the person paying me the lot of money. It’s called business and, in case you’ve any doubts … I’m here to kill you.’

‘What’s … name?’

The frown dropped away. ‘I’ll save that ’til last, Rocco, if you don’t mind. But I can give you a hint. Just think of all the people you’ve crossed, and somewhere down the list you’ll be right.’ With that he up-ended the bottle, emptying the contents over the seat and Rocco, the smell choking and overpowering.

Somewhere far away Rocco thought he heard the tinny sound of an engine, but it might have been his imagination, hoping against hope. Traffic along this road was hardly regular and usually limited to slow-moving locals. He tried to move again and felt a sharp pain in his hip. God, don’t let it be busted, he thought, desperately. That’s all I need.

The man looked at his cigarette, but found it had gone out. ‘Damn. I’m always doing that: chatting away about this and that and forgetting to take a regular drag. Never mind, I have more.’ He looked down, patting his jacket pocket in a ridiculous mime, drawing out the agony. ‘Now where did I put them?’

‘Hey!’

The voice floated down to them, full of authority. Rocco looked up, his heart leaping. A stocky figure was standing on the road looking down at them, a grey 2CV behind him. It was Claude Lamotte. He was holding his shotgun, the barrel pointed at the man standing outside the car.

Rocco shifted his hip again, gritting his teeth against the sudden eruption of pain in various parts of his body. At least his head was no longer fuzzy and he could see more clearly. He also understood what was causing the pain in his hip. It was his gun, jammed between him and the seat.

‘Get away from there!’ Claude said, and gestured with the barrel. ‘Now!’

But the man seemed unfazed by Claude’s appearance. ‘You’ll have to come closer to do any good with that arquebuse, old man,’ he replied. ‘Why don’t you go back to your stinking farm and mind your own business?’ He turned back towards Rocco. ‘Bloody peasant. Christ, how do you stand mixing with these people? Still, it won’t be for much longer. In fact, when you think of it, I’m doing you a favour, so you should be grateful.’ He thumbed his cigarette lighter a couple of times, but it failed to catch. He did it a third time and a flame grew on the wick.

Rocco was taking a chance, he knew that, but he had no choice. The man was right about Claude not being close enough, but for the wrong reasons: Claude was a crack shot with the shotgun, so in no danger of missing his target. But, standing where he was, he’d be in danger of hitting Rocco as well.

‘Safe journey, Rocco – wherever the hell you end up,’ the man said. ‘Oh, and to answer your question, Yuri Serban sends his regards.’ He held up the lighter. ‘Adieu.’

That was when Rocco pulled his MAB semi-automatic pistol free from under his hip and squeezed the trigger. There was no time to aim with any finesse but the target was so close he’d have to be unlucky not to at least scare the man to death. The sound was shockingly loud in the confines of the car. He prayed that the flash of the gun wouldn’t ignite the petrol fumes and send him up like a crêpe Suzette.

The shot missed by a whisker, but the man reared back with a look of shock tugging at his face. He dropped the lighter and grabbed for it, his eyes drawn automatically downwards. Rocco ducked low into the seat, knowing what was coming next. As he did so, there was a second, much deeper report from outside the car. The man screamed and slammed into the side of the car before falling away with a soft groan.

Rocco looked around. No obvious flames but there was a definite smell of something burning. He concentrated on getting out, twisting his body to ease his legs free from where the seat had shifted forward, against the dashboard section. He kicked back as hard as he dared, and felt the seat move a fraction. Kicked again, pushing his back against the seat, and felt it give a little more. One more kick and he was free and scrabbling towards the open air, seeing Claude skidding down the bank from the road, gun at the ready.

‘Lucas – you all right?’ the garde champêtre yelled. He puffed across to the car, placing his gun on the ground to help Rocco get free. ‘Is anything broken? You’ve got blood on you.’

Rocco nodded. He hadn’t fallen on his face, so he figured everything was as sound as could be expected. He was probably going to be one big bruise for a couple of weeks, but he’d got off lightly. Which was more than could be said for the Citroën. He turned towards the front of the car where the man who’d tried to kill him was lying, groaning in agony. Claude’s shot had hit him in the lower legs, the buckshot shredding his trousers and revealing a mass of peppered skin beneath, oozing blood.

‘He had the cheek to call my gun a blunderbuss!’ Claude muttered angrily. He nudged the man with the toe of his boot, raising a squeal. ‘I should have aimed higher. And he was going to roast you alive, wasn’t he?’

‘Glad to see you’ve got your outrage in the right order,’ Rocco finally muttered, wincing at a lancing pain in his back. ‘He was sent by a man called Yuri Serban. Check him over for papers, will you.’

‘Sure. Can you stand up all right?’

‘If I can’t, just drag me away by my hair.’

While Claude checked the man for identification, Rocco turned and looked at the Citroën, one hand on the side to hold himself upright. It was a wreck. Damn, but he’d been fond of this car. It had been reliable, comfortable and had got him out of a few scrapes in their time together.

He heard a soft ‘whump’ and saw smoke seeping from under the bonnet. Whatever had been smouldering had finally decided to get serious. He limped over to where Claude was examining the man’s pockets and summoned enough energy to help drag him away from the burning car, ignoring the screams.

When they were at a safe distance, Claude showed him a cheap leather wallet containing an identity card, a wad of folded notes and a few other bits and pieces including a card for a cheap night club in Paris.

‘Pierre-Yves Dinal,’ he read out. ‘Rue Riblette. I know that area – it’s near the Père Lachaise. With his lifestyle I wonder if the maggot has had the foresight to book himself a plot?’

Rocco grunted. The only foresight known to Dinal was probably on the barrel of a gun. Père Lachaise cemetery was one of the largest in Paris, and it reminded him that prior to joining the police, Claude had been a taxi driver and knew the city better than most.

Above them on the road, a car drew up and stopped. Rocco recognised M. Paulais, the stationmaster from Poissons, as he jumped out and made as if to scramble down to meet them. Claude stopped him.

Rocco said, ‘Tell him to ring Desmoulins in Amiens to send an ambulance and support officers.’

Claude did so. Paulais nodded without a word, jumped back in his car and was gone with a squeal of tyres.

Rocco had slumped down against the slope, his legs finally giving way with the onset of shock. Claude joined him. ‘What now, Lucas? This is serious stuff, sending someone to kill a cop.’

Rocco nodded. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but this attempt had ramifications far beyond the man named Dinal, currently lying nearby and groaning softly. Men like him rarely had their own enemies, operating instead on instructions from others, but proving Serban was his boss might be a problem. He had to get more than just a name muttered by a would-be killer in a moment of high drama.

He stood up with help from Claude and hopped closer to Dinal. The man’s eyes opened a fraction as Rocco’s shadow fell over him, and he fell silent.

Rocco dropped to his knees alongside him and prodded him in the chest to make sure he had his full attention. ‘Serban, you said.’

‘Wha–?’

‘The man who paid you to do this.’

‘I don’t remember what I said. Must have been the shock of that old goat shooting me. Go screw yourself, Rocco, I’m not talking.’ Dinal’s eyes blazed with pain, anger and an in-built need to play the tough guy. It was likely that he wouldn’t crack easily.

‘Claude,’ Rocco called. ‘Is there anything else in that wallet?’

That woke Dinal up. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘What are you doing with that?’

‘Shut up,’ Rocco told him.

Claude stepped over to join them. ‘Not much. Rubbish, mostly. There’s a card from a cheap and nasty dive called the Perroquet Bleu, which is not somewhere you’d want to take your dear sainted mother, quite a lot of cash for a man in his nasty line of business … and, hellfire!’ he paused in surprise. He was holding the money in his hand, and from the middle took a slip of paper. He showed it to Rocco.

It bore Rocco’s name and home address, written in elegant script, the ink a distinctive shade of violet.

Rocco held it up in front of Dinal’s face. ‘Interesting item, this. Do you know who wrote it?’

Dinal said nothing, his eyes flicking sideways.

‘Never mind, I think I have an idea.’ Rocco turned to Claude. ‘Do you know the Blue Parrot?’

‘I should do. Had to drop a few clients there in my driving days … and scoop them up afterwards. Not a nice place.’

‘Is it what I think it is?’

Claude nodded. ‘Yes. It’s been a gang hang-out for years. Why?’

‘I’m wondering what might happen if we make an anonymous phone call to the club and drop a word in their ear that M. Dinal, here, has been talking to us about his activities … and telling us about a few of his friends in the Blue Parrot. What do you think?’

They both looked at Dinal, who stared up at them in puzzlement, before giving them a sneer. ‘Yeah, like they’d believe anything you cops say!’ He tried to laugh but it lacked conviction.

‘You’re right,’ Rocco agreed. ‘But you know what Chinese whispers are like: by the time it goes through several mouths and gets to the ones who care, it’ll be a lot more colourful than we can make it. And more believable.’ He leaned forward, seeing the first real signs of doubt in Dinal’s face as the thought sank in. ‘I’m willing to bet that this isn’t your first job like this. Took a bit of planning, I imagine, which means a man with your skills will be in demand.’

‘You’ve got no chance, Rocco. Get lost.’

‘No? See, I’m just wondering how many of your previous employers are going to sleep easy at night once we set the whisper running that you’ve become very … chatty.’

‘You won’t do that – you can’t!’ Dinal replied.

‘You think? You just tried to – what was it you said he wanted to do to me, Claude?’

‘Roast you alive,’ Claude replied.

‘That’s right, roast me alive – and get me written off as a drunk. The thing is,’ Rocco continued, ‘we’ll also let it be known where you’re being held. And I have to say, M. Dinal, the cells in Amiens are not what you’d call first class when it comes to security. Especially at night.’ He got to his feet with some difficulty and dusted off his trousers. ‘What do you reckon? Talk and we’ll get you in a secure unit … or stay the big brave boy and face the consequences. It’s up to you.’

He turned and began to walk away with help from Claude. He’d taken three paces before Dinal shouted.

‘Wait!’