He left the office and closed the door, and Rocco decided Gondrand fils, as the only other employee, was in for a shock. He waited, hearing the sound of raised but restrained voices, and wondered why Nicole Glavin hadn’t told him her full name. Too much information on a first meeting, perhaps. Cautious.
Moments later, Victor Gondrand returned. He looked flushed, his mouth set in a rigid line.
‘My sincere apologies, Inspector. My son assures me he completed all the documentation correctly, but did not make a note of the customer’s address because she declined to give him one. She claimed she was staying with friends and had not yet acquired a permanent home.’ He lifted his hands in the air with an expression of disgust and added, ‘Like I said, not good with details. I don’t know what to say.’
Rocco waved it away. It was a dead end. But at least he now had a full name. ‘Don’t worry. These things happen.’ He finished his coffee and decided to leave the Gondrands to fight it out between them. If the bureaucrats at the town hall wanted to join in because due process hadn’t been followed, that was up to them. He shook hands with Gondrand and headed for the door. Then, for no particular reason, a thought occurred to him. He stopped. ‘How did she pay for the car?’
Gondrand glanced at the record card and looked surprised. ‘Cash. Would you believe it? She walks in off the street and buys a car just like that. Merde!’ He grinned easily. ‘I wish there were more like her!’
* * *
On the way back to the office, Rocco spotted a collection of industrial buildings in a new development, the like of which were springing up all round the region in answer to the demands of a growing economy and inward investment from countries like the United States. Remembering Tourrain’s acid comment, he turned in and drove slowly around the site, following a curving road which took him past a variety of buildings and vacant lots. Most of the units were shells awaiting completion, with show boards on the front listing, for potential tenants, the basic facilities on offer. One or two had groups of workmen unrolling electric cables, while others were at the groundwork stage, with stacks of construction materials awaiting their turn in the process of converting open ground to fully functioning commercial plants.
One of the structures stood apart from the rest. Sitting on the periphery of the complex and already complete, it was the largest of them all and surrounded by an impressive array of austere metal fencing dominated by tall poles every few metres, each holding an array of floodlights. A security cabin and striped barrier were built into the fence, and a guard was staring out through the front window at Rocco’s car. On one corner of the site was a stretch of canal, a touch of light relief against the drab and intimidating appearance of the building and its fencing. A panel across the fascia gave the company name of Ecoboras SA.
Rocco pulled up to the barrier and waited while the guard stepped out and approached with casual indifference. He was dressed in a dark-blue uniform and jump boots, and walked with the insolent confidence of security guards everywhere.
‘This is a restricted area,’ he said without preamble. He made a lazy, circular motion with his hand for Rocco to turn round and go away. No questions, no greetings, no explanation.
‘Is that right?’ Rocco considered it for a moment, then dug out his badge and held it up. ‘I’d like to see the site manager.’ He didn’t like private armies of any kind, no matter what their function. And being treated like an intruder got under his skin.
The guard looked at the badge and shrugged, deliberately unimpressed. But he walked to the barrier and lifted it.
‘Go to reception,’ he said, as if he couldn’t care less. ‘They’ll tell you the same thing.’
Rocco drove beneath the barrier and parked in front of the building, wondering whether the guard and the fence were a reflection of corporate ego or a genuine need for intimidating security. He pushed back a glass door and found himself in a small reception area. The air smelt of fresh paint and plastic. A single desk and two modern, tubular chairs were the only items of furniture, with a small, framed certificate bearing an official-looking seal hanging on an otherwise plain wall.
‘Can I help?’ A young woman was sitting behind the desk.
Rocco flipped his badge and asked to see the manager. ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘A security matter. It won’t take long.’
The young woman slipped out from behind the desk and disappeared through a side door, leaving Rocco to study the certificate on the wall. As well as the seal, it bore a lengthy title from something called the Secretariat for Administration of the Ministry of Defence. Underneath was the company name. Before he could read the fine print, the door opened and the young woman was back, closely followed by a man in a smart blue suit. He was in his fifties, short, pear-shaped and with an air of impatience.
‘How can I help, officer?’ The man held out a limp hand. ‘Marcel Wiegheim – operations manager. Is something wrong?’
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Rocco. ‘Forgive the intrusion, but I was wondering if I could take a look around.’ He smiled. ‘Call me curious; I’ve never been in one of these new factories.’
‘It’s an assembly plant, Inspector. We’re a clean environment here.’ Wiegheim’s eyes flickered. ‘But I’m afraid I won’t be able to let you in. This is a restricted area.’
‘So your guard told me. Restricted by whom?’
‘The Ministry of Defence.’ Wiegheim fluttered a hand at the certificate on the wall. ‘We are under contract to the government and nobody is allowed in without authorisation from them.’ He gave a thin smile, and for someone so short, managed to peer down his nose at Rocco. ‘That includes the police. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Actually, no. What are you making here?’
‘Assembling. It’s an assembly plant.’
Rocco felt his irritation go up a notch. This man was pushing all the wrong buttons. ‘I stand corrected. Assembling, then.’
Wiegheim shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t reveal that. You will have to speak to the Ministry. In any case, we aren’t up and running yet; the assembly lines are still being completed.’
As if to reinforce the point, there was a loud clatter of metal hitting the floor, and a shout. Wiegheim flinched as if he’d been stung.
Before he could say anything, the door in the wall opened and a tall, lean man appeared. As he walked across to join them, Rocco noted a cat-like grace in his movements. A big cat. As tall as Rocco, he had the broad shoulders of an athlete and the healthy glow of someone who was not confined to an office all day.
‘Mr Lambert is our director of security,’ said Wiegheim, and chuckled for no good reason. ‘We are required to employ professional safeguards while we are under contract, and he has a long record in providing the very best security advice to operations such as ours, including in the military.’ He turned to Lambert, saying, ‘Inspector Rocco is with the local police. I was just explaining the situation here.’
Lambert nodded and offered his hand. His grip was firm, with a ridge of wrist muscle showing beneath a plain blue shirt.
‘Is there a reason for your visit, Inspector?’ he asked with a genial smile. ‘We aren’t breaking any by-laws, I hope?’
‘None that I know of.’ As he spoke, Rocco noticed movement outside the building through the window. Another man had appeared. This one was stocky and hard-looking, with a stiff, brush-like haircut and dressed like the gatehouse guard in a dark shirt and trousers and black boots. He stood quite still, staring at Rocco with a complete absence of expression. Hired muscle.
For a building which wasn’t yet fully active, Rocco decided, it seemed to be producing an unusually concentrated security response. ‘I was passing and happened to be curious,’ he explained. ‘I don’t normally get inside factories – sorry, assembly plants – very often, and thought I should acquaint myself with one.’