Rocco nodded. Under the terms of independence the previous year, Algerians were free to move between France and their homeland, to take full advantage of all that had to offer. It wasn’t without its problems, and created some antagonism towards them. But for many it had worked very well. Other North African nationals had seen this and tried entering the country illegally, posing as Algerians. This had soon created a situation where unscrupulous gangs could ‘assist’ those illegals … for a payment.

‘How did they get in the country?’ queried Desmoulins.

‘No idea. All I know is, I had to drive down to Chalonsur-Saône – that’s actually south of Dijon – leave my truck unlocked at a depot for an hour, then go back and pick it up. The illegals would be hidden inside the normal cargo. The contact paid me up front as usual … said if anything went wrong, he’d cover the fine. If it went well, I’d be paid a bonus.’

‘How many were there?’

‘Eight, they told me – all men. To begin with, anyway.’

‘To begin with?’

‘That’s right.’ Maurat looked through the windscreen, clearly rerunning the events in his mind. ‘I was told eight, but when I stopped to drop them off near the marker, only seven got out. Number eight was still in the back. Dead.’

Rocco gave a sigh. As simple as that. But there was one detail he needed to confirm what he already knew. ‘Was it natural causes?’

‘Yeah, right,’ Maurat snorted. ‘He might have been sick, but that’s not what killed him. I saw it when I picked him up to get him off my truck. Blood all over the place. Took me ages to clean up the shit they’d left before I dared use the truck again. One of the others must’ve done it; had some sort of argument and let him have it, I suppose.’

‘Done what?’ He needed the detail to clinch it.

Maurat shivered suddenly. ‘Poor bastard had been stabbed to death. After travelling all that way, too. Didn’t do him much good, did it?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘Do you know where these men were heading?’ asked Rocco.

‘No idea,’ said Maurat. His voice carried the flat ring of truth. ‘I was told to drop them off at a marker post and tell them to cross the canal to the north bank and turn left. After that, they were on their own. I figured someone was waiting for them on the other side, staying out of sight.’

‘Why out there? There’s nothing but fields.’

‘Christ, how would I know? I was given the post number and told not to miss it – or else.’

‘So what do you think was to happen to them once you’d dropped them off?’

‘Like I said, someone must have been waiting.’

‘What makes you say that?’

Maurat shrugged. ‘Makes sense, doesn’t it? Why dump illegals at a precise spot like that unless it was for a reason? Factory work, most like … that’s what they’re doing everywhere else. I’ve seen them all over. Slaves, they are – and nothing they can do, else they’ll be shipped straight back.’ He seemed content to ignore the irony of his own involvement in the business.

Factory work. Rocco thought back to Tourrain’s savage comments about Algerians working in factories. He’d taken it for a purely racist rant generated by the common belief that foreigners were taking French jobs at below-market rates. What he hadn’t considered was the possibility that the workers might be illegals and not necessarily from Algeria. With no records and no paperwork to worry about, it must have been very tempting for employers facing ever-higher costs to take the occasional ‘blank’ face onto the workforce. But surely someone would find out and let word slip? It didn’t take much for people to feel a growing resentment when it came to having a job snatched away from them. He wondered how much Tourrain knew about the business and decided it would be interesting to have a chat with him later.

‘Did you hear from this man afterwards? Someone would have noticed if they only got seven people.’

‘Yeah, I did,’ Maurat muttered tiredly. ‘He contacted me. I told him the eighth bloke was dead when I found him, and I’d dumped him down the embankment. I had to, in case anyone searched the lorry. Got blood all over me.’

‘What was his reaction?’

‘He was pissed, wasn’t he? Threatened to report me to the cops and show them the photos he’d taken. Then he calmed down. That’s when he told me another one had gone missing as well.’

‘Another one?’

‘Yes. This one was different, though.’

‘How?’

‘I bloody knew I was right. I knew it.’ Maurat sounded bitter. ‘He reckoned only six men arrived at the factory. Six men.’ He looked at Rocco expectantly, as if he would know precisely what he was talking about.

‘So?’

‘The seventh was a woman.’

‘You saw her?’ Probably the wife of one of the illegals, but maybe not.

‘Not clearly – it was too dark. But I guessed when she jumped down. She was carrying a heavy bundle.’

‘Describe your contact,’ said Rocco. There really wasn’t much more this man could tell him.

‘Late thirties, glasses, looks fit … smart suit and flash car. Like any other business type – but scarier. Hard-looking. He’d got this aura, like he couldn’t be touched.’

A face swam unbidden into Rocco’s head. Lambert? Could it really be the same man or was he grasping at straws? But the more he thought about it, the more certain he became. He hadn’t seen Lambert wearing glasses, but maybe the man was vain enough not to wear them too often. In any case, as he’d found in the past, such props were easy to get hold of and career criminals knew that, simple as they were, they were sufficient to make identification by witnesses difficult if not impossible.

‘What kind of car?’

‘A cream DS 19.’

‘What did the man at Chalon look like?’

Maurat shrugged. ‘Medium height, bit of a gut, always wore overalls and one of those American John Deere caps. That’s a make of tractor. He had a Harley flag on the wall of the depot. Reckon he thought it made him look American.’ He snorted in derision. ‘The depot, in case you’re interested, is a small place on the road to Autun, west of the town centre. It’s an agricultural supply depot but they trade in more than farm machinery and fertiliser, if you get my meaning. I never got the man’s name.’

Rocco guessed he was lying about that bit, but let it slide. For reasons he’d never truly understood, criminals were often happy to give descriptions of contacts but stopped short of actually naming them, as if it was a line they simply couldn’t cross. He started the car.

Maurat gave him a scowl. ‘Hey – where are you going?’

‘Not me – we. I’m taking you into custody for your own safety.’

‘What? You can’t do that!’ Maurat looked at Desmoulins for support but the detective merely shrugged.

‘You’re part of a pipeline running people into the country,’ he explained pointedly, as if to a child. ‘You said it yourself: if you talk they’ll kill you.’ He puffed out his lips. Moron.

‘You’ve got five minutes to convince your mother to go and stay with friends,’ said Rocco. ‘Then we’re leaving.’ He hadn’t yet figured out how this was going to go down with Massin; pulling in a man from another district without the knowledge of the local cops was not approved procedure. But he’d face that problem in the morning. Leaving Maurat home and free could only end up with one of two outcomes: Maurat dead or on the run.

Maurat seemed genuinely stunned, as if the threat he might be under had so far been imaginary. Then the full realisation began to hit him. ‘Christ … I didn’t think.’

As he reached for the door handle, Rocco touched his arm. ‘Try to run and I’ll shoot you in the leg. You haven’t got much time.’

He waited until Maurat had scuttled away into the darkness and Desmoulins joined him in the front seat, then drove up to the driver’s house and stopped right outside.