Forty-two

Yuri Serban evidently had an abundance of faith in his ability to stay out of trouble, in spite of what he’d sent his man Dinal to do. He was where Caspar had suggested Desmoulins and Claude might find him, holding court in the Bacau restaurant.

‘Not very imaginative, is he?’ commented Claude, from the passenger seat of Desmoulins’ car. After checking his office and finding it empty, they had proceeded to the restaurant where an obvious bodyguard was standing outside, scanning the street.

‘Like a lot of his kind, he thinks he’s untouchable,’ said Desmoulins, and grinned. ‘I think he’s in for a shock.’ He opened the car door. ‘Fancy a coffee while we check out the opposition?’

‘If you’re buying, I’m ready.’

‘Good. What’s your favourite film?’

‘Eh?’

‘Your favourite film. What is it?’

Claude thought about it. ‘I suppose Rififi if I’m pushed. Why?’

‘Mine, too. And the best scene?’

They walked along the street, discussing the film by director Jules Dassin and tossing scenes back and forth. They passed the bodyguard and turned into the restaurant, continuing the discussion while checking out the patrons and layout.

Yuri Serban was easily identifiable. Seated at the table described by Caspar, he was talking in low tones to two men. They were nodding without speaking. When they left, they were replaced by another man who had been waiting at the counter. This one handed over some sheets of paper for Serban to study before turning to leave.

‘Yesterday’s takings,’ said Desmoulins softly. ‘I bet the tax authorities would love to see those figures before they get doctored.’

They ordered coffee and counted three members of Serban’s entourage seated around the room. With the bodyguard outside, that made four.

Serban himself seemed relaxed and oozed confidence, master of all he surveyed – at least in this small corner. He only had to raise his head and one of the waiters was by his side awaiting instructions. The remainder of the clientele seemed to be ordinary locals.

‘I’ll get Lucas on the radio,’ said Desmoulins, finishing his coffee. ‘Can you stay here and watch the room?’

‘Love to,’ said Claude, eyeing the pastry counter. ‘I might have a piece of cake while I’m waiting, so don’t rush.’

Forty minutes later Rocco and Caspar arrived, followed by a plain Renault van holding four uniformed officers and two detectives from the local precinct. Rocco used his radio to issue instructions, then sent Desmoulins back to the restaurant as back-up for Claude.

‘So,’ he summarised, ‘Serban and three possibles, with the bodyguard outside.’

‘That one’s armed,’ said Caspar. ‘Left armpit, in a shoulder holster.’

‘What about the staff?’

‘They looked like ordinary restaurant workers to me.’

‘Fine.’ Rocco got through on his radio to the van and gave orders for the bodyguard to be taken first with the minimum of fuss. The moment the van pulled up and the uniforms took him, surrounding him before he could resist, Rocco led the way across the street and into the restaurant, the detectives spreading out around the room to cover any possible resistance.

It caught Serban and his men completely by surprise. The moment Rocco stepped inside, Claude and Desmoulins stood up and moved into positions where they could cover the three men suspected of being in Serban’s employ. Accompanied by the two detectives from the local precinct, Rocco approached Serban’s table where he was enjoying a pastry.

‘Hello, Yuri.’ Rocco slid into the seat on the other side of the table. ‘Pierre-Yves Dinal sends his apologies. He hasn’t got back to you on account of giving a long statement to the police about what you hired him to do. He’s currently being treated for gunshot wounds and wishing he’d never met you.’

‘What?’ Serban looked annoyed. He glanced around at his three cronies in the room and saw the police officers standing over them, then looked back at Rocco. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘My name’s Rocco. Inspector Lucas Rocco. I’m here to detain you for ordering my murder, among other things. Oh, and before you protest your innocence and waste our time, we’ve also got your legal representative, Laurent Vauquelin, singing like a fat lady at the opera.’

‘And Georges Peretz,’ said Caspar. He was standing next to one of the three men, holding up a wallet with an identity card.

‘Mr Peretz will confirm,’ added Rocco, without taking his eyes off Serban, ‘that he hired a yellow van from Gregnard Motors in Sarcelles on your instructions. But we can talk about that later. For now, you’re under arrest, not least for ruining a perfectly good suit and coat.’

At that, Serban roared in fury and rose from his chair. He was immediately pounced on by the two local detectives, who cuffed him and led him away.

Rocco followed them outside and walked over to his car. He got on the radio to Massin and summarised what they had so far.

‘Good work,’ said Massin. ‘I’ve spoken to Ceyton and the Ministry and they’re waiting on your news.’

‘They accepted it?’

‘The Ministry? Yes, without question. I think they saw the wisdom in not getting in the way but letting it play out. There will be questions to answer, but only above a certain level.’ He smiled thinly but with a hint of satisfaction. ‘Ceyton is putting his weight behind us because he has no choice. This thing is going to be big and loud. What are you doing now?’

‘I’ll finish up here and be in tomorrow morning to make my report.’

‘Well done. I’m sure you could do with a good night’s sleep.’

Sleep. That would be a luxury, Rocco thought. And a chance not to think about what lay ahead. He was on his way back to Poissons, this time with Claude alongside him nursing a large serving of layered lamaita – lemon cake – from the Bacau. In between licking buttercream from his fingers, he was eyeing Rocco with concern.

‘When are you going to make a decision, then?’ he asked, flicking a layer of icing sugar off his chest.

‘About what?’ Rocco knew what Claude was asking but he was playing for time. It had been torturing him for days now, but the idea of even admitting that he’d been offered the new top job in Paris hadn’t been made any easier by everything that had been going on with the Bourdelet case. And, apart from Mme Denis, the one person who deserved better was Claude.

‘Leaving us.’ Claude rubbed his fingers together.

‘I’m sorry–’ Rocco began, but he was interrupted by Claude placing a hand on his arm.

‘Forget it. You’ve nothing to apologise for.’ He patted the cloth of Lucas’s coat. ‘Sorry, it’s only icing sugar – it’ll brush off, although the smell of petrol won’t. Like I said, no apologies. I know what the system’s like: they expect decisions on demand but you can’t talk about them until the paperwork’s signed off in case they change their minds. Trouble is, everyone else knows, even though you think they don’t. Have you told Mme Denis?’

‘Not my final decision, no. But she knows about the job; she got it from a woman in the village with a nephew in Amiens.’

‘That’ll be Sylvia. Her nephew’s a chatterbox like his aunt.’ He glanced at Rocco. ‘You really had the bit between your teeth back there, didn’t you? Serban didn’t have a cat’s chance and he knew it.’

‘Call it cause and effect. I don’t like being driven off the road and having petrol and whisky poured all over me.’

‘But it gave you a buzz, right?’

‘Maybe. A bit.’

‘When do you have to tell them?’

‘Tomorrow. It was always going to be as soon as this case was done.’

‘And now you’ve run out of time.’

‘Yes.’