As was the gun in his hand.

‘Dear God,’ Tappa muttered, and swallowed hard. He dropped his car keys. They clinked to the ground, but he didn’t bother trying to retrieve them. He had recognised the fat man immediately and knew of his reputation. He also knew that Farek couldn’t be far away.

He was right.

‘Monsieur Tappa,’ said Farek politely, and appeared as if out of nowhere, stepping in close so that the Frenchman couldn’t escape, even had his legs been able to carry him. ‘How delightful to catch up with you.’

‘What do you want?’ Tappa gabbled, and tried to melt into the coachwork of the Mercedes, desperately looking for a way out. The holdall fell with a soft thud.

For an answer, Farek bent and picked up the car keys. When he straightened again, he had them clasped with the main key protruding between his first and second fingers. ‘I believe you may have assisted a woman to come to France,’ he said softly. ‘From Oran.’ He lifted his hand and teased the point of the key gently across Tappa’s face, stopping just beneath his left eye. ‘Am I wrong?’

‘It wasn’t me,’ said Tappa automatically, eyes flicking between Farek and the fat man in the white robe. ‘I don’t move women – they’re too much trouble. Who told you it was me?’

‘Let’s say we have information from an impeccable source … in Oran. Well?’

‘Oh.’ Tappa appeared to relent. ‘Well, in that case, maybe I did, once.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Yes. Why do you want to know?’ Tappa was regaining his nerves. ‘You want to buy her back or something? She didn’t look that special to me. Just a sheep on the move.’

Farek lifted an eyebrow. Only those who knew him well would have noticed the sudden danger sign of a pulse beating in his neck. ‘A sheep? Is that all they are to you, these people?’

Tappa gave a feeble laugh. ‘Sure. Why not? They’re hardly high value, are they? Cheap labour, that’s all. They don’t smell too good, either.’

Farek tapped the key against the other man’s cheek. ‘Mr Tappa,’ he said very softly, ‘you’ve just been talking about my wife.’

What little colour remained drained from Tappa’s face. ‘What? I mean, I didn’t know who she was – how could I? She was just a sh—’ He stopped; he’d already said too much, then gabbled, ‘They don’t tell us their names …!’

‘Where?’

‘P-pardon?’

‘Where did she go? It’s an easy enough question.’

‘I don’t – I’m not sure.’

‘Pity.’ Farek pressed the point of the key beneath the man’s eyeball, lifting it slightly in its socket, yet without breaking the skin. Tappa whimpered and lifted on his toes, trying to escape the relentless pressure and the first hint of the pain to come. To add to his terror, the vast figure of Bouhassa had moved in and was now standing close, cutting off any chance of escape … and any chance that someone might see what was happening. ‘Wait! Wait … I can remember, I promise! Of course. Stupid of me to forget such a thing. It was north. That’s right, north.’

‘North where? North Pole?’ The key probed deeper.

‘Chalon-sur-Saône. Near Dijon.’ Tappa began to weep, his whole body trembling with fear.

Farek was unmoved. ‘How far is that? How long to drive?’

‘Distance, I don’t know. Four … maybe five hours … a little longer. Please, I don’t—’

‘Name.’

‘What?’

‘A name. At this place called Chalon-sur-Saône which is four, maybe five hours away.’ As Farek knew well from his own line of business, every supply line consisted of contacts, like way stations, with the product being shuttled from one to another. It mattered not whether the product was animal, vegetable or mineral. Or human. The arrangement was the same. Each cut-out reduced the chances of too many in the line being scooped up if someone talked. ‘Who do I ask for?’

Tappa held out only for a fleeting moment, then told Farek everything he wanted to know.

Farek stood back a pace and smiled. ‘There. See how easy that was?’ He bent and picked up the holdall, sliding the zip open. Dumped a spare shirt and underclothes on the tarmac, then raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, you keep your savings under the mattress, I see. Doesn’t say much for your faith in the banking system, does it?’ He closed the holdall and said, ‘Nice doing business with you, Maurice. Adieu.’ Then he turned and walked away, leaving a smiling Bouhassa to take his place.

Tappa groaned and fell back against the car.

The sound of his dying didn’t even reach the street.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There was an urgent knock at the door of the office Rocco was using. It was Desmoulins.

‘Got the information on the truck Etcheverry saw,’ said the detective. ‘He was spot on. It’s registered to Armand Maurat. He’s an owner-driver, works out of Saint-Quentin running small haulage all over. Mostly last-minute stuff the bigger firms can’t factor into their schedules. When he’s not doing that he works as a stand-in driver for a general haulier called Convex. Among other things, they’re contractors for a bunch of the smaller champagne houses.’

Rocco stood up. At last, something positive. A glass of champagne would go down very well right now; just the thing to get him firing on all cylinders. Some hope.

‘Where is he at the moment?’

‘According to a woman at his home address, he’s at a warehouse, doing some night work. She sounded old and cranky. I told her I was checking on a load.’

Rocco looked at his watch. Nearly six. He wondered how long Maurat would be around before he picked up a load and disappeared on a trip to God knew where. They couldn’t risk alerting the man by ringing first, and it was almost guaranteed that if he was involved in the death of the man in the canal, his radar would have him up and running the moment he heard the police wanted to talk to him.

‘How far to Saint-Quentin from here?’

‘Eighty kilometres – about an hour thirty if we’re lucky. It’s a straight road but there are roadworks on the way.’

‘We?’ Rocco looked at him, then considered the sense in having another pair of eyes and ears along. He nodded and pulled on his coat. ‘This might be a late night; you’d better warn your wife.’

Desmoulins grinned happily, keen to be out of the office. ‘No problem. She’s got her sister staying anyway; I doubt she’ll even notice.’

Ten minutes later, they were in Rocco’s car with Desmoulins at the wheel. Rocco was already half asleep, falling back on the usual cop’s instinct to get some rest while he could, in case it wasn’t possible later.

He didn’t notice the cream-coloured Peugeot pulling up as they left, nor the attractive young woman in a headscarf, locking the door and hurrying inside.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Saint-Quentin late at night had the look and feel of a graveyard. Rocco had expected more movement somehow, as if the town might harbour a secret nightlife when the more licentious inhabitants came out to frolic. But he was disappointed. Instead, the pale-yellow street lights were struggling to fight their way through a cold mist hanging over the town, leaving it like a deserted film set. Surveillance was always more difficult with little or no background cover, and he regretted bringing the Citroën. An anonymous, family-type saloon car would have fitted in more easily.

He stopped on the western outskirts and nudged Desmoulins, who sat up, rubbing his face. They had changed halfway, giving the detective a chance to get some rest. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to sleep that long.’

‘No problem,’ Rocco murmured. He took a map off the dashboard and handed it to his colleague. He’d written Maurat’s address on the margin and circled the street. In a town this size, they must be fairly close to it.