Something in his voice made Maurat lower his paper. His eyes scanned Rocco’s face. ‘What, then?’

Rocco told him what had happened without embellishment. It didn’t take long. For a long few seconds, Maurat said nothing; made no sign that he understood. Then he threw the paper to one side and swung his legs off the bunk. He stood and walked across to the table, took the other chair and sat down with a sigh.

‘She had cancer,’ he explained after a while, his voice dull. He fluttered a hand towards his stomach. ‘Something to do with the gut. She didn’t have long, according to the doctors, but she wouldn’t admit it. Carried on as if she was still young and healthy. Probably the best thing.’ He looked at Rocco with sad eyes and said softly, ‘How did she go?’

‘It was instantaneous, according to the local cops,’ said Rocco. ‘That’s all I can tell you. She wouldn’t have known anything.’

Maurat didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. ‘Thanks for telling me.’ His eyes watered momentarily, then he said, ‘This is down to me, isn’t it? If I’d never got into this mess, she’d likely still be alive. Salauds!’ He punched the table with a clenched fist, his anger aimed at whoever had killed his mother but plainly blaming himself.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rocco and meant it. ‘We’ll send you home with an escort to make the arrangements once the local cops have finished with their examination.’

‘Fine. Anything.’ Maurat sighed raggedly and appeared to come to a decision. ‘You got a form for me to fill out?’

‘Form?’ Rocco was puzzled.

‘A statement. I’ll make a full statement. Everything I know. Dates, people, descriptions – I don’t care. Let the bastards swing.’

‘Any names?’

Maurat chewed his lip, a sudden glint in his eyes. ‘I might have. But I need something in return.’

Rocco nodded. Maurat wasn’t so upset by his mother’s death that he’d forgotten the art of negotiation. But it was a breakthrough of sorts. It might lead nowhere but in the white heat of anger and loss, some details might emerge which would have otherwise remained hidden.

‘I’ll arrange it.’ He pushed back from the table. ‘Can I get you anything?’

A shake of the head. ‘No.’

When he returned upstairs, he found a uniformed officer waiting for him. A swarthy individual was slumped in a chair in the corridor, looking dejected and frightened.

‘Inspector Rocco?’ The officer gestured at the man and said, ‘Detective Desmoulins said you might be interested in this one. I found him in the town centre, begging for food. He hasn’t got any papers.’

Rocco nodded and led the way into a plain interview room with a wooden table. The man looked North African. There was a slim chance that he might have travelled with Nicole and the others, a chance he couldn’t ignore. ‘Does he speak French?’

‘He pretends not to, but I’m not so sure. I asked him where he comes from but he either couldn’t or wouldn’t say.’

The man sat down on a hard chair with the officer standing behind him, and stared up at Rocco with fearful eyes. He was in his fifties, Rocco judged, wiry and of medium height, badly in need of a shave and dressed in a worn jacket and baggy trousers. He had on a pair of scuffed shoes at least two sizes too big and no socks. He muttered something in a guttural tongue and licked his lips.

‘I don’t understand,’ Rocco told him softly. ‘Do you speak French?’ He sat down on the other side of the table, reducing his height and any sense of threat. ‘Where are you from?’

The man blinked but said nothing.

‘Algeria? Morocco? Tunisia? Where?’

No answer and no reaction.

Rocco looked at the officer. ‘Do we have anyone here with North African languages?’

‘Only a janitor, but he hasn’t been cleared. We tried to recruit a translator, I think, but nobody came forward.’

‘OK.’ He turned and gestured to the man to stay where he was, then said to the officer, ‘Get him a soft drink, will you? I’ll be back in a minute.’ He stood up and went along the corridor to a phone, where he dug out the number Nicole had given him. It rang several times before being picked up.

‘Amina?’

‘Yes. Who is this?’ The voice was soft, like silk, but wary. Nervous.

‘My name is Rocco. I need to speak to Nicole.’

‘Wait, please.’ A clunk as the telephone was put down, then footsteps fading. After a few moments, Nicole came on. She sounded breathless.

‘Sorry – I was in the yard with Massi.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘You’ve heard something.’

‘No, it’s not about that.’ He told her about the man found wandering the streets. ‘I’m trying to pin down where the men who were with you went to. This man might know something, but he doesn’t speak French.’

She caught on fast. ‘Of course … you want me to talk to him for you?’

‘Yes, please. Give me a moment.’ He went back to the interview room and beckoned for the officer to bring his charge, who was sipping at a small bottle of Pschitt lemonade. He handed the phone to the man and said out loud, ‘He’s on. Can you ask him his name and where he comes from?’

He waited, hearing a burst of short questions from Nicole on the other end. At first the man didn’t respond, merely staring at the wall with a blank expression. Then he said one word.

Rocco took the phone from him. ‘What did he say?’

‘He’s from Algiers. At first he wouldn’t answer, until I tried a dialect. Then he told me. Algiers. It’s a big place.’

Rocco thought about it. If Nicole could get the man talking, they might find out a lot more about how he had arrived here. This method of questioning wasn’t ideal, but he couldn’t expose Nicole to the risk of coming in to the police station to act as interpreter. If Farek or his people were in the area, every second she spent on the street would be dangerous.

‘If I tell you what to ask him, could you translate for me?’ He caught his reflection in the glass door panel and realised he was smiling. It was the sound of her voice. He stopped before the officer noticed. Becoming interested in an illegal was bad enough; an illegal who was married to a dangerous gangster would be suicidal on more than one front.

‘Lucas?’ Her voice prompted him. ‘What shall I ask?’

He ran through some basic questions, then handed the phone to the man.

A few minutes later the man handed it back. He had chattered readily enough, but it was impossible for Rocco to judge if he had been telling the truth or not.

‘His name,’ said Nicole, ‘is Farid Demai. He is from a small place near Algiers, he is married with three sons, and came here to get work. He does not have papers because he was arrested by the French army in a security sweep for FLN gunmen in his village three years ago. He was not part of the FLN and was released without charge, but he was refused permission to travel. He arrived by a similar route to me … by truck and then to the old boat on the canal. I asked him how he got to the town and he said he was brought here one night on a smaller boat with a cabin and dropped off near a factory building. Men were waiting who took him and his fellow travellers to a place where they were stripped of everything they had and given fresh clothes.’

‘Did he say why he was wandering in the town?’

Nicole’s voice became sombre. ‘He said they were badly treated and one of the men disappeared. He thinks he was killed for refusing to work. After that he was too frightened to stay so he ran away. He has not eaten for two days.’

Rocco thought it through. Demai could be just the man he wanted – as long as he was willing to talk. But to get him to do that he’d have to promise him something in return. And there was only one thing an illegal immigrant wanted more than anything else in the world.

‘Can you wait by the telephone? I’ll call you back.’

‘Of course.’

He hurried upstairs to Massin’s office and knocked on the door. He explained about the man Demai. Then he made his proposal.