‘He’s playing us. Drawing it out for the maximum effect. Get your men down. If they go back inside, it won’t be for coffee and biscuits.’

But suddenly Farek was walking forward, hands in the air and flicking the cigar away. ‘OK,’ he called. ‘I’m coming.’

Bouhassa stayed where he was, staring at the surrounding policemen. It was impossible to tell if he was armed under that djellaba, Rocco noted, but if he made any kind of move for a weapon, he’d be cut down immediately.

Farek stopped three paces away, eyes fixed on Rocco. It was as if nobody else was there; just two men meeting alone. He only glanced away when Youcef voiced a protest as he was being bundled into a police van, hands cuffed together.

‘He’s not all there, you know,’ he said, looking back at Rocco. ‘He’s not responsible for his actions.’

‘Tough,’ said Rocco. ‘He’s going to face charges of murder of a man named Saoula and the attempted murder of a police officer. We’ll let the courts decide if he’s guilty or not.’

Farek’s expression stiffened. ‘I don’t know anything about that. What police officer?’

‘Marc Casparon. He got away and gave us a full account. You were right there. Ever heard of the charge of conspiracy? If not, you soon will.’

Farek said nothing, merely turning to watch the van take his brother away. For the first time, Rocco detected an air of doubt lurking beneath the swagger. Then the gang leader turned back to Rocco with a faint smile on his lips. ‘You might get him, you might even hold me for a while … but you’ll never enjoy it.’ He tilted his head sideways. ‘See the sawmill? Top floor?’ He chuckled nastily. ‘Look death in the face, Rocco. And say goodbye.’

Rocco turned his head, saw a flicker of movement at a window near the top of the building. The old sawmill which should have been cleared by the uniforms earlier in the day. An ideal firing point.

A sniper?

Everything that happened next was in slow motion. Rocco heard a shouted warning from Godard alongside him. He began to move but knew he was too late. He saw a puff of smoke at the top of the sawmill and heard a dull slap, followed by a squeal from Bouhassa in the background as the fat man turned to run. Then another slap, but further off.

But by then Rocco’s world had turned red.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Godard was white with anger when he returned from the sawmill accompanied by several of his men, all with their weapons drawn. His jump boots were scratched and dusty and he looked as if he had been rolling in cobwebs. He slapped his cap against his leg in disgust.

‘He’s gone. There’s a rope down the far side of the building where he abseiled down. Tyre tracks indicate he had a motorbike and rider waiting. Merde!’ He kicked at a tin can with the toe of his boot. ‘We missed a trick. Sorry.’ He held out a gloved hand and showed Rocco two brass shell casings. ‘He left these behind.’

‘He knew what he was doing. They won’t lead anywhere.’ Rocco sipped water from a bottle and spat it out, then stood still while a uniformed officer wiped blood off his face with a piece of damp cloth. ‘He waited to see what was going to happen, then took them out.’

Massin appeared, scowling at Farek’s body lying nearby and stepping round the spray pattern of blood across the ground.

‘You seem remarkably calm, Inspector, considering you were standing right next to him when he was shot. How can you be sure you weren’t the target?’

‘Because he was too good.’ He looked across at the Café Emile, where a second, larger body was lying close by the front door. Bouhassa had tried to run for cover the moment he’d heard the first shot. But a second bullet had caught up with him. ‘Two shots, two clean kills. One of them a head shot on the move.’

Godard nodded and spat dust to one side. ‘A professional.’

Massin looked unconvinced. ‘But why kill Farek?’

‘Someone wanted him silenced; to protect others or to protect their interests. That’s the usual reason.’

‘But at his level? Who could have ordered it?’

‘Most likely his brother, Lakhdar. Or one of the gangs. We’ll soon find out. The Paris gang task force will either see Lakhdar Farek emerge as the new overall boss, or everything will go back to the way it was.’

‘Pity. It would have been a major coup to get this man behind bars.’

Rocco said nothing. Massin, thinking of glory again, and his reputation in the Ministry. It would have been a coup indeed, no doubt earning him considerable kudos among the suits and senior brass who judged these things. Somehow, though, he doubted Farek would have remained inside for long. Sooner or later he would have talked his way out, cutting a deal in exchange for leniency. A man like Farek knew an awful lot of secrets.

Like those closest to him.

***

Rocco returned to the station after the café was secured and found the custody officer waiting for him. Alix was hovering in the background.

‘You said you wanted to question one of the illegals,’ the officer said. ‘We need to process him out of here.’

‘Right.’ With everything else that was happening, he’d forgotten about the man and his willingness to talk. He wasn’t sure what the worker could tell him, but as part of the investigation, he needed some corroborative evidence about what had happened on the truck. ‘Do we need an interpreter?’

‘No. His French is good.’

‘Does he have a name we can believe yet?’

The custody officer smiled. ‘Ali Dziri is the latest, but since he’s got it stencilled on his foot, we reckon that’s the real one.’

‘His foot?’

‘He claims his brother did it while he was asleep as a kid.’

Rocco signalled for Alix to follow and called Desmoulins. They followed the custody officer to a room in the basement, where the illegal worker was brought in and told to sit. He was in his late forties, grey-haired and shrunken by the elements and a hard life. He looked terrified but eager to talk in exchange for a sympathetic hearing.

‘Ali Dziri,’ said Rocco, towering over the man. ‘Is that your real name?’

Dziri nodded, eyes wide as he stared up at Rocco’s hardened gaze. Then he looked at Alix in confusion. He’d probably never seen a female cop before, Rocco guessed.

‘Better be, because if I find it’s not, you’re on the next plane back.’ Rocco dragged up a chair and sat down. God he felt tired. He needed his bed and a good night’s sleep. ‘Tell us what you know.’

Dziri talked fluently and steadily, with no embellishments, for fifteen minutes. Rocco listened carefully and nodded when he finally stopped. It was enough. It matched up to what Nicole had told him.

Except for some important details.

‘Sounded genuine enough to me,’ Desmoulins commented, when the man had been taken back to his cell. ‘Hell of a thing, though, eh? What do you think?’

‘I think he was telling the truth.’

‘Me, too,’ Alix agreed, when he looked at her.

The journey had been just as Nicole had described, in all its awfulness. Cramped and lacking any degree of comfort, more suited to animals than humans. Maybe not even them. Only at the end, when they were on the truck heading north, did the details begin to differ. According to Dziri, Slimane had never brandished a knife, never mentioned being a slaughterman. He had simply been a vile bully and disrespectful of women. A bad man.

When he had slid through the darkness towards the woman, his intentions had been evident. But nobody had moved to defend her because they hadn’t had to. Slimane had attacked her … and died. In the dark, they couldn’t tell how, only that he’d stopped breathing. Maybe a heart attack – who knew? They had left him behind on the truck.

Rocco sighed, and wondered where the knife had come from. Maybe the man was an exceptional liar, and had helped Nicole but didn’t want to spoil his chances of staying in France by admitting it. Complicity in a death would automatically bring a conviction, followed by deportation. On the other hand, plenty of men carried knives, for self-defence and through habit, to make themselves look big. But he couldn’t see this one doing it. Appearances, though, as he knew well, were deceptive.