‘Like what?’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You don’t understand the place he comes from … the society that bred him. Revenge and honour are all he understands. All any of them understand. I don’t know what else to tell you.’ She shook her head in frustration and turned to look for her son. ‘Massi. Come.’ She looked back at Rocco and said with cool formality, ‘I think we should leave. I’m sorry to have brought this on you. It was unfair of me.’

She turned and walked through to the bedroom, tugging Massi with her.

Rocco went to stop her, but the telephone jangled. It was Michel Santer calling from Clichy. He sounded troubled.

‘Lucas? I don’t know what you’ve got yourself into but I think you need to get out of there.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Marc Casparon is in Val-de-Grâce military hospital in the fifth arrondissement. He’s in a bad way.’

Rocco’s gut went cold. ‘How bad?’ His worst fears were being realised. Caspar had pushed his luck too far.

‘Not sure yet. He’d been shot and badly beaten, with at least two broken ribs and possibly some internal damage. A patrol car picked him up half naked in a street south of Belleville. Fortunately the driver recognised him and got him into hospital before he bled to death.’ Santer paused. ‘Tell me you didn’t ask him to go undercover for you.’

‘I had to. I needed to know what Farek was doing.’

‘Fuck Farek! Lucas, I told you Caspar’s a psychological mess. He shouldn’t even be out on his own, never mind playing spies with people like Farek and his kind. He’s burnt out. He probably gave himself away the moment he turned up at that meeting.’

‘Did Farek do it to him?’

‘Who else? Him and his idiot brother, Youcef, and the fat, murderous prick, Bouhassa.’ Santer sounded tired, as if the last few hours had sapped his strength. ‘That’s not all. We’ve been getting calls from all over, through undercover officers in the gang task force, snitches and others. Word is that Farek’s now top dog in town. He’s taken over.’

‘Jesus, how?’ Rocco was stunned. He knew from experience that the resident North African gangs in Paris had been established over many years and had proved far from easy to dislodge. Many had tried in the past and failed. But they had been French or Corsican. Like many gang cultures, family ties in the Algerian gangs counted for almost everything and the bond between generations and familial branches was impossible to break. Surely even Farek couldn’t have simply walked in and done just that without a shot being fired? ‘Where’s the local opposition?’

‘Don’t ask me how, but he faced them down. He called a meeting of gang leaders in Belleville and read them the riot act. One man stood up against him – a clan chief from Saint-Etienne. He was dragged out by Bouhassa and nobody’s seen him since. Farek’s brothers, Youcef and Lakhdar, are right in there with him, too, and they’ve got a lot of soldiers to back them up. They boxed very clever; they set it up over time, then Samir walked in and took over.’ He sighed ruefully. ‘Caught us all with our pants around our ankles.’

‘It won’t last.’ Rocco knew that these things were never permanent. Sooner or later, another clan would emerge, better prepared, talking tougher, acting more ruthlessly, prepared to do whatever it took to gain control.

‘I know. As soon as the others find where they dropped their couilles, it’ll all go to shit. It’ll be open warfare. We don’t need this.’

Santer was right. Gang conflict was a recipe for disaster. It tied up police time, kept the hospitals busy patching up the victims caught in the crossfire, and usually ushered in a load of new faces which had to be studied and identified.

‘Anyway, that’s not why I’m calling,’ Santer continued. ‘Caspar stayed with it long enough to say that Farek’s got your name and is tying you in with his missing wife. Is that true?’

‘Yes. She came looking for help.’

‘Jesus, you really pick your battles, don’t you? Where is she right now?’

‘Here with me.’

‘Then you’d better get moving. Caspar only got away because they all went off in a rush and left him tied up. He says if you catch up with Youcef, give him a kick or two; it was Youcef who did the number on his ribs and it’s a cert that he also killed Caspar’s informant, Saoula. We had a neighbour identify the body a few hours ago. There was a nice clear imprint on one cheek from a signet ring. Find it on Youcef’s hand and he’ll be for the chop.’

‘OK. I’ll look out for him.’

‘Look out for all of them. Samir Farek’s coming after you and he’s making it really personal.’

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The canal heading west from Poissons was sluggish and still, the polar opposite of an ideal escape route. It was as if the morning chill had sapped all its energy and turned it to the consistency of treacle. Likewise, the trees overhanging the water were white and sparkling with ice in the weak morning sunlight, waiting for the day’s promise of warmth to get them moving again.

Rocco watched as an ancient barge with a wooden aft cabin chugged away from the bank, its chimney streaming with dark smoke from the wood stove inside. The noise of the engine sounded too loud in the thin air, echoing off the trees as if shouting for attention, and he wondered if this wasn’t the craziest notion.

He caught a brief glimpse of Nicole in the rear doorway, her face pale as she stared back at him. She, too, had been dubious of the wisdom of this plan, echoing his own doubts about running away slowly.

‘Wouldn’t it be best to drive as fast as possible – by car?’ she had asked, staring at the barge as it wallowed by the bank. Claude had led them down through the village, cutting through the houses along a series of footpaths and hedgerows which only the residents were familiar with. Eventually, they had arrived at the prearranged meeting point to find a cheerfully grinning Jean-Michel waiting for them. He was in his late sixties and thin as a stick, wrapped in a heavy jumper and puffing on a black pipe, a man at peace with the world.

‘You’ll be fine,’ said Claude. ‘Jean-Mi knows what he’s doing. He’ll keep you safe as long as you do what he says.’

Jean-Michel, a former policeman, a friend of Claude’s and part-time bargee, had arrived within an hour of being summoned, eager to get out on the water and join in the piece of subterfuge put together by Claude and Rocco.

Having decided against heading out of Poissons by road, Claude had come up with the one way of moving Nicole and Massi without being seen: the canal. The irony – that this was the same method used by Nicole to arrive here – was not lost on anyone.

‘It’ll be slow but safe,’ Claude assured Rocco. ‘And Jean-Mi owns a shotgun. He was a champion shot when he was in the service, too; he won’t let anyone get close.’

Jean-Michel had promised to stay with his passengers for as long as was needed. If forced to move, he would simply head out on the canal, looking for the numerous cut-offs he knew of in which to lay up until the danger was gone.

Rocco hadn’t liked the idea of them being out of touch for long periods, but with firm promises of regular contact through Claude, he had finally relented. As a way of keeping track without using locations, he had suggested using the various lock numbers as pointers.

Claude had agreed. ‘Good idea. I know the numbers and can get to them quickly if I have to.’

Now, heading back to the house with Claude leading the way, Rocco saw the sense in the plan. He had impressed on Claude the dangers for everyone of keeping Nicole and her son in Poissons, and the need to get them out of the village while he kept a step ahead of Farek. Once he left the house, and Farek’s men realised it was empty, they would leave the area and carry their search elsewhere.