The six men were thin and undernourished, their bones prominent where natural body fat had been eaten away over weeks, maybe months, of deprivation and poor diet. Their journey had not helped, beginning on Algeria’s north-lying coast and culminating in a rotting barge just a few kilometres away, where they had been made to wait before being brought here by boat. The holding barge was a precaution, to distance the plant from any direct connection with the men if they were discovered, and as a place where they could wait during the daytime until darkness fell.
Their discomfort, however, was clearly not their overseers’ problem. Getting them to work was, as was keeping their presence secret from the authorities. Some of the men bore visible scars and abrasions on their flesh, while others rubbed at raw patches of skin where lice had been feeding on them for too long without treatment. Most showed signs of hard labour, their hands roughened and their nails stubby and cracked.
The senior of the two guards sniffed at the smell of them, the sour tang of stale sweat rising as the warmth of the room increased. It didn’t bother him, though; he’d long ago become inured to the discomfort of others. Instead he sipped from a mug of coffee, smacking his lips with evident enjoyment, amused by their resentful and hungry looks. But the newcomers were careful; they had come across men like this before. Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark blouson and tan trousers, he wore the soft, polished jump boots of the kind favoured by French paratroopers, and was the model they had come to fear most, a long way from this place and in another life. The second man was similar, if shorter, and further down the food chain.
Once they were all stripped and the tall man could see they had nothing taped or tied to their bodies, he pointed to a pile of fresh, worn clothing on a bench nearby and told them to get dressed. As they began to sort through jackets and trousers, he checked through the small pile of wallets and other personal effects which each man had been forced to place on the floor. Some had been reluctant to part with these treasured possessions, but their resistance had been short-lived when they saw the short length of steel pipe in the hand of the second man.
The items were pathetically few: some faded photographs or letters; a certificate or permit; relics of a previous life far from here; a pressed flower or a lock of hair; some money folded and refolded but no longer useful in their new home. The man wondered why they had bothered. Scraps of history, they were of no further use to them now than the clothes they had just discarded.
He gathered up the personal effects and tossed them into the drum. Two of the older men protested, anger flaring at seeing these things being disposed of so casually. To them, these represented the only links they had left with the places they had come from, a tenuous kind of memory but still valued. The other four remained in the background, younger and less sure of themselves.
The tall man smiled coldly but said nothing. Now he knew who the leaders were; which were the strong personalities in the group and likely to be an influence. Now he could set about sorting them out. Divide and rule; a method as old as the hills.
He reached into his jacket pocket. When he took his hand out again, the two leading protesters froze instinctively. The others stepped back.
There were many things which might have surprised them. Kindness was one. Food was another … even sanctuary, no matter how temporary; like the canal boat they had been living on for the past few days since jumping out of the lorry, waiting for the next stage of their journey.
But not the threat of death. They had seen it too often in too many guises, and most especially from men like these two with their cold smiles and ugly threats. Even the journey here had been a form of extended death threat imposed by the ever-present risk of exposure, but that didn’t mean they accepted it or looked it in the face without a qualm.
The tall man was holding a gun, with the familiarity of use, the confidence of a professional. With the sureness of one who would use it without a flicker of remorse. He nodded to his colleague, who herded the men out of the cabin into a large warehouse twenty metres away. It smelt new, and echoed with the hollow, disconnected noise of all large, empty places. Sections of metal ducting were hanging from brackets and linked to large blowers, and a steady roar could be heard as the new heating system powered up, although the air here was still cold. The roof was cavernous and high and, to men from the agricultural lands of North Africa, impossibly big and difficult to take in.
The second guard led them over to the production line. This comprised large tables dotted with stools, each station equipped with a selection of screwdrivers and other hand tools. A conveyor belt ran alongside the tables, leading to an open area near the rear doors of the warehouse, where piles of cardboard boxes stood ready for filling, loading and labelling, and placing onto wooden pallets.
‘Welcome to France,’ said the tall man. His contemptuous smile contained no hint of welcome, no sign of weakness. The gun, they noted, had disappeared, the message delivered. ‘It’s time to start work.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘I found someone.’ Claude spoke with a casual air but Rocco could tell he was pleased with himself. He’d rung just as Rocco was about to leave for the office. Feeling frustrated at the lack of progress, he was thinking about the canal again. It had all begun there, and it was the one place from which they had so far gained no help whatsoever. He needed something – anything – to help move this case forward.
‘Good for you,’ Rocco replied. ‘You deserve some happiness. I hope she’s a great cook.’
‘Not that kind of someone – I mean a witness who saw a truck parked near the canal a couple of nights before the body turned up. I put out some feelers around the villages and he just rang. I think he’s hoping for a reward.’
Rocco stopped and sat down. This was too good to be true. Out of all the nights on all the roads in all of France, Claude had found—
‘Who and where?’ he said, and dragged a pad towards him.
‘His name’s Raoul Etcheverry and he lives in Autrey – that’s a village five kilometres from Poissons on the opposite side to where the dead guy turned up. He claims he saw a truck right where we found the bloodstains and the tracks.’
‘Raoul Etcheverry.’ Rocco rolled the name around on his tongue while he wrote. ‘Elegant name for these parts.’
‘Elegant name for any parts. He’s a retired veterinary surgeon from Lille. He’s also a semi-professional card player. Maybe I could get him to teach me a thing or two.’
‘How,’ said Rocco, ‘does a retired vet and semi-pro gambler find himself in the right place to see a truck in the middle of nowhere?’ He was sceptical about sightings such as these, and all too accustomed to people keen to help the police but finding their imaginations or memories working beyond what was a strictly correct recollection of what they had witnessed. But such offers always had to be investigated; even a tiny clue was better than nothing, and it was often the unremarkable point which witnesses considered unimportant that carried the day.
‘Easy. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he goes to play poker with a group of other enthusiasts in Amiens. The game goes on until the small hours. He was on his way home at about three, and saw a truck parked at the side of the road.’
‘Did he get the registration?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’ Rocco wondered if this was going to be a glorified wild goose chase. It really was too good to be true. Yet stranger things had happened – and finding the truck again would be a major breakthrough. Criminals weren’t above torching a vehicle involved in a crime if there was even a remote chance that it could be traced. ‘How the hell did he do that?’