Farek stood up and nodded.

Bouhassa moved in, flipping the safety glasses down over his eyes. He grabbed Pichard by his hair, forcing his head back and pushing the silencer into his mouth. The man gurgled, waving his hands for him to stop, and Farek nodded. Bouhassa withdrew the gun barrel.

‘Amiens,’ the man gabbled. ‘Amiens – but that’s all I know. They were picked up by a driver named Maurat … works out of Saint-Quentin. His details are over there.’ He pointed towards a desk and bulletin board in the corner of the building. ‘That’s all I know.’

Farek nodded and walked away. ‘Good. That’s all you ever will.’

As he reached the car he heard a brief scuffle, then the muffled spat of the gun.

But only just.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

‘Before anything else, though,’ Nicole continued, jumping in before Rocco could ask any questions, ‘I need to show you something.’ She turned and led the way along the canal bank, ducking beneath a cluster of willow fronds, then stepping carefully over fallen branches from a clump of wind-damaged maples. The trees had concealed a gradual curve in the canal, and Rocco could now see a longer stretch of water running in a straight line for some distance. A hundred metres ahead, the hulk of an ancient barge was moored to the bank with a boarding plank running onto the stern.

He turned and looked back. Caught a slight movement as Claude moved closer to the canal.

As they approached, it became clear that the vessel wasn’t in its prime. It was low in the water at the front, with a rash of rust showing across the metal hull above the waterline. The cabin, a wooden superstructure covered with peeling paint, occupied the first third of the vessel, with a door at the rear and three square windows covered by filthy curtains facing the bank. Nicole led the way up the boarding plank and opened the door into the cabin.

‘You will have to duck,’ she advised him. ‘It is very low inside. I’ll go first.’

Rocco slid his hand into his coat pocket. He’d been in situations like this before, and wasn’t about to take chances, even with a woman. At least she was in front, not behind him, which was where he’d rather keep her.

She stepped down into the boat and Rocco followed.

The atmosphere inside was cold and clammy, reeking of stale bodies and damp, of mould and something Rocco didn’t want to think about. It was kitted out with cheap, plastic-covered benches and unmade bunks, a small gas cooker and some cupboards, all put together for convenience and economy, not style. A fold-down table next to the cooker held a scattering of stale bread, a serrated knife and fragments of rotten fruit. Rat droppings and dust lay everywhere. The ceiling and walls were painted a sickly yellow.

He prowled the small space, noting details. He doubted anyone had been here for a few days. A dead blackbird lay huddled in one corner, one wing covering its head like a shroud, and a large, green, metal water container lay on its side under the table, TRINKWASSER just legible on the fading paint. A war relic. Rocco bent and sniffed at the hinged opening. Water. Stale.

Nicole watched him and said, ‘I bet you could list everything in here right down to the breadcrumbs, couldn’t you?’

He nodded. ‘Force of habit.’

She gestured to one of the benches and sat down herself. ‘These aren’t too bad. But don’t touch the bunks – they’re revolting.’ She looked at the bread and fruit with a grimace. ‘The food was already stale when we got here. The people who prepared this did not care for the ones coming through.’

He looked at her. ‘You were one of them.’

She nodded and folded her hands into her lap, composing herself. ‘I have to tell you this immediately … otherwise I will not be able to. You understand?’

‘OK.’

‘I come from Oran in Algeria. My name is Nicole, and I am married to a man named Samir Farek and we have a small son, Massi. Samir is not a good man, although when I married him, he was very different and … normal.’ She wasn’t looking at Rocco, he noted, but staring at her feet as if reading the words from a script.

He said nothing.

‘Samir Farek controls most of the crime that goes on in Oran,’ she continued softly. ‘He would probably control the rest if Algeria wasn’t divided up between several rival families or gangs. Much of it is tribal but there are, I think, organisations like the Mafia.’ She picked at her coat for a moment. ‘I was not aware of any of my husband’s business dealings until about a year ago, when I overheard a discussion in our house, in which he threatened to take someone – a man – out into the countryside and shoot him in both knees. There was an argument, but I did not hear any more. Then, two days later, I read that a local gangster from the other side of Oran had been found dead. He had been shot four times – once in each knee and elbow – then dumped on a deserted farm outside the city.’ She blinked. ‘They said he had tried to crawl to the road for help, but had bled to death on the way.’

‘Do you know the name of this man?’

‘I heard Samir call the man on the telephone “Benny”. The dead man they found was named Ali Benmoussa. The police said he was known as “Benny”.’

Rocco took out a notebook and wrote down the details. She said nothing until he had stopped writing.

‘I tried several times to talk to him about his business, but he would never listen.’ She looked down, twisting her fingers together. ‘It is not the way in that society; women do not have influence over their husbands on matters of business.’

‘But you had family who were not part of that society.’

‘You mean because my grandmother was French I should have had more freedom … more say?’ She gave a bitter smile. ‘You do not understand how things are, Inspector. Over there, my ancestors did not count. Perhaps there was something early in our relationship. I have often wondered if Samir used my origins to gain some advantage. But I don’t know. Anyway, he became abusive and angry, telling me it was not my place to talk about these things. Later he began staying out … There were other women. I could tell. Then I heard other things … stories … rumours, and he held meetings in the house as if I were not there. This is how I know what he does … who are his friends and associates. How much he controls things, especially within the police, the army and the Ministries. He also brought weapons to our home.’

‘What sort of weapons?’

‘Guns. Mostly handguns. Also knives … and a dagger he got from the army, I believe. He handled them like toys, but with a passion. For this reason I became fearful for my son. I decided to leave and tried to get my passport. He would not let me have it.’ She bit her lip and breathed deeply, a long shuddering intake of breath. ‘He told me that if I try to leave him, he will kill me and anyone who tries to help me. He said they will end up like Benmoussa, whether man, woman or child.’

‘You couldn’t go to the police?’ Even as he asked, Rocco knew what the answer would be.

‘No. He has contacts everywhere.’ She looked at him with a sudden intensity that surprised him. ‘This is a man who has more control, more influence than you can conceive of. He has watchers at airports, seaports and frontier posts. They tell him who goes in and who goes out.’ Her eyes went moist. ‘It was hopeless. I was tied for life to a man who kills and maims and robs and … a man who would one day drag my son into his world and make him just the same. Until the day I discovered he had a weakness – what you call a chink in his armour – which I could use. There was one activity in which he was not involved; something he said was suited only for gutter criminals and those not clever enough or courageous enough to do anything else.’