CHAPTER TWENTY

They followed the Simca through a maze of streets towards the centre of town. Maurat drove fast, with little regard for the speed limits, and it soon became clear that he wasn’t heading back to Mummy. Wherever he was going, for a man on a mission he seemed unaware that anyone might be tracking him. His driving was also erratic and difficult to follow, as he appeared to be looking for something. Twice he stopped outside cafés, both of which were shut. On what became a meandering tour, they passed the heavily ornate frontage of the hôtel de ville twice, and the Simca hesitated near the Basilique once before driving on with a burst of speed.

‘Christ, what’s this – a tourist trip?’ muttered Desmoulins.

Rocco was initially worried that Maurat was actually aware of them on his tail, having spotted them with his stop-start tactics. But then the Simca finally crossed the river which bisected the town and stopped in a street near the railway station. Maurat jumped out and, without looking back, hurried down a darkened alley alongside a café with a dim light burning inside.

Rocco parked along the street and waited.

‘What do we do, boss?’ said Desmoulins.

‘We give it a few minutes,’ said Rocco. ‘When he comes out again we’ll follow him and catch him somewhere quieter.’

‘Why don’t we just go and kick a couple of doors in? We’re cops, aren’t we?’

Rocco was tempted, but reminded himself that he was too exposed now to use methods which would have gone unnoticed when facing gang members in Paris, who reached for guns almost by nature. Employing excessive force would be playing right into Massin’s hands. ‘It’s not that simple,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t check in with the local chief before coming here.’

‘Ah.’ Desmoulins pulled a face. ‘And you didn’t get this cleared by Massin, either?’

Rocco nodded. Under the national initiative which had brought him out of Paris, his roving brief carried a considerable distance. But courtesies were supposed to be observed when stepping onto another district’s territory, which they were doing right now. ‘I’d rather the locals didn’t know we were after Maurat, in case he has friends.’

They sat in silence, the night air closing in on them. A buzz of music came from behind the café window, but everywhere else was silent save for the occasional car or moped passing the end of the street.

Rocco stared at the café and wondered what was going on inside. They had been waiting fifteen minutes and Maurat had still not emerged from the alley. For all they knew he could have walked straight through and left the area by other means. But that presupposed he knew they had been following him, and Rocco was pretty sure the man had no idea. He’d skipped out of the warehouse pretty swiftly, and probably hadn’t even looked in his rear-view mirror. The café might have nothing to do with Maurat, but he had called at two other similar establishments before settling on this place.

‘Come on. Let’s go inspect the nightlife.’ He climbed out and closed his door, followed by Desmoulins.

As they crossed the deserted street, he wondered what had brought Maurat here. Picking up instructions, maybe? Or spooked by his mother into diving under cover?

He paused before nudging open the door, catching a glimpse of the interior through a grubby net curtain. A fifty-something woman with beefy arms stood behind the bar, wiping glasses. Three men in rough working clothes were drinking in front of her, with another on a pinball machine. The ping of the ball hitting the bollards vied with a blast of bad rock music coming from a speaker on the wall. A single door with a smoked-glass panel led to the rear of the premises. The few Formica-topped tables were vacant.

The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of fried onions. As the door let in the night air around Rocco and Desmoulins, the smoke swirling like a living thing, everyone turned to look. Tired eyes, pasty skin and the usual expressions of wariness at a haven being invaded by strangers. Rocco was used to it.

The pinball machine gave a hollow thunk as the loose ball dropped unhindered into the tray, and the player swore softly.

Rocco ordered two beers and nodded at the three customers, all nursing glasses of milky pastis. They looked away without responding. The woman behind the bar pulled two beers without comment and slid them across with practised economy of effort. Unexpected customers they might be but clearly a welcoming smile wasn’t part of the deal.

Rocco slid some coins back and nodded his thanks.

‘Anyone seen Armand?’ he said, after taking the top off his beer. He figured that shaking the tree couldn’t do any harm, not now they knew where Maurat lived and worked. If word travelled fast enough, as it probably would do, it might make him panic and drop the ball.

Desmoulins picked up his glass and wandered over to watch the pinball player start a new game, leaning comfortably against the wall next to the rear door.

‘Armand?’ The woman pulled a face and rubbed at a clean glass, the flesh of her arms wobbling like a half-set crème caramel. ‘Armand who?’

Rocco ignored her. Part of a barkeeper’s job in a place like this was playing defence against unknown visitors asking questions. If they didn’t, their customer base didn’t stay around long.

Desmoulins wandered back, his glass drained, and gave a minute shake of his head.

They left.

Outside, Rocco stepped into the alley, feeling the crunch of litter underfoot. The street lights barely penetrated the darkened recesses, but they could see enough to identify two doorways on each side, and what might have been a loading bay at the end. Rocco tried the doors on his side, but they were locked tight. He looked across at Desmoulins, who found the same.

‘Come on.’ Rocco backed up and returned to the car. He had a feeling Maurat had gone underground for a while. It might be better to let him come to them.

‘Where to?’ said Desmoulins. He sounded disappointed at the prospect of giving up so soon.

‘Back where we came from. If he goes anywhere, it’ll be home to Mummy.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was forty minutes before the Simca turned back into the street and parked in front of the Berliet. The driver climbed out and looked around, then made for the rear of the bungalow. He didn’t notice Rocco and Desmoulins parked up the street behind a broken-down hoarding.

‘Let’s go.’ Rocco got out and walked along the street to the front door, while Desmoulins went to cover the back. Rocco waited for a few seconds to give his colleague time to get in position, then knocked softly on the window.

Maurat himself opened the door. He immediately realised his mistake and tried to slam it shut, but Rocco jammed his foot in the way and slammed it back, knocking the driver back down the hallway. He stepped in and stood over the man, deliberately intimidating him by his presence.

‘We need to talk, Armand,’ he said quietly, and gestured for Maurat to go into the front room, where a light was on. The driver looked as if he was going to argue, then saw Desmoulins appear from the back, blocking the only other exit.

Maurat was tall, like his mother, and skeletal in build, with a mournful face showing a two-day stubble. His clothes were dusty and creased, and a small strip of packaging tape was clinging to one knee. He blinked at the two men and a tremor crossed his face. ‘What? Who are you and what do you want?’

‘Armand? Who’s there?’ It was his mother calling from a bedroom at the back of the bungalow.