If robbery wasn’t the motive here, what was?

‘Get a team in here,’ said Rocco. He picked up a slim, leather address book and flicked through it while Desmoulins got on the phone. The book contained lots of addresses and telephone numbers, some business, others private. A few numbers, he noted, had neither names nor addresses, and were identified only by initials. He handed the book to Desmoulins. ‘Take a look through that when you get a moment, will you? See if you can identify anyone.’

Rocco left him to it and toured the house, checking the other rooms. The car business must have been doing well. The Gondrands had lived in some style, with no shortage of expensive furnishings and lots of gadgets. Michel evidently played golf, and with the powerboat out front, enjoyed his toys, too.

Everywhere was clean, tidy, and showed no signs of having been disturbed. Whoever had killed the Gondrands had come in, done what they had to do and left again. In, out, focused. No distractions. Professional. The word in this context depressed the hell out of him.

The bathroom held almost as many toiletries for men as it did for women: cologne, aftershave, hair oil and other creams Rocco had never seen before. Vanity, thy name was Michel Gondrand.

The master bedroom overlooked the garage. He looked outside, caught a glimpse through the window of the garage interior, and the gleaming wing of a car. It looked sporty. Another of Michel’s playthings or Mrs Gondrand’s runaround?

Then he turned and saw the safe.

It was sunk into the floor in the corner, half-hidden beneath a washing basket. He nudged the basket to one side and tried the handle of the safe. The door swung upwards, revealing a pile of documents and more cash in paper bands.

He skimmed through the documents. They were mostly deeds referring to three plots of land on the outskirts of Amiens. There were no details of the locations, just plot numbers and official references. He doubted they would yield much, but the family lawyer would no doubt make sense of them. There was, however, one unexpected item: a colour photograph. It showed a plot of muddy ground with what were the footings of a large development and piles of building materials scattered around. In the background a group of men were in conversation, either unaware or uninterested in the camera taking the photo.

On the back of the photograph someone had scribbled: Ecoboras SA.

Back downstairs, he found Desmoulins checking out the drawers in the kitchen.

The detective shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. Just family stuff. You find anything?’

Rocco nodded and waved the deeds and the photograph. The paperwork included details of Gondrand’s legal adviser. He’d give him a call. ‘Some stuff I need to look at.’

‘Great. We finished here? The others will be here anytime.’

The wail of a siren was already approaching and Rocco didn’t want to stay here any longer than it took to hand over to the officer in charge. There were too many things going on and he was beginning to feel as if he was floating with tiredness. He could tell by the way Desmoulins was squinting that he was feeling the same. And that was no state in which to try solving a bizarre series of events like these. First the body in the canal; then the Gondrand car lot being very comprehensively firebombed with the old man inside; now the younger Gondrand and his wife shot dead. Executed.

He couldn’t work it out. Where the hell had this come from? A competitor, jealous of their success? Or someone who felt cheated on a deal? That was a possibility, if what Desmoulins had said about the younger Gondrand was right. The competitor angle didn’t really fly, though; there were no other dealers of a comparable size in the area, just a few small garages trading in the occasional used vehicle. Times were tough everywhere and there hadn’t exactly been an explosion of wealth in the region. But that raised an interesting question: had Gondrand really managed to live so well just on the sale of cars – and on a shared income with his father? Or had he enjoyed another source of revenue?

Then a cold feeling ran down his back.

Samir Farek, gangster, killer and angry husband … was here in France, on the trail of his wife. That same wife – Nicole – had bought her car from none other than Michel Gondrand.

CHAPTER FORTY

It was just after seven when Nicole Farek pulled the Peugeot into the kerb by the police station and got out, telling Massi to be a good boy and stay where he was. He nodded sleepily, too tired to be excited by anything so early in the morning – even the proximity of policemen with guns, which always made his eyes go wide in wonder.

She locked the car and entered the building, stifling any thoughts about her lack of documentation. She would have to worry about that if it arose. She saw a man behind the desk, yawning over a stack of forms. He looked drawn and pale, and was sipping at a mug of coffee. In a corridor to one side, a cleaner was slopping water across the floor tiles with a large mop. Both men looked up as if surprised to see anyone walking in so early in the day.

‘Inspector Rocco?’ she said to the desk officer.

He shook his head. ‘Not here yet. Who wants him?’

She sensed the cleaner was listening. He was dark-skinned, possibly Algerian, with a single, heavy eyebrow over a bulbous nose, and Nicole turned away and said quietly, ‘What time will he be in? I have to speak with him.’

‘No idea. There’s been a call – he’s probably gone to that. Can I take a message?’

She turned her head, saw the cleaner staring at her, his mop still. She felt a stab of alarm, even though she knew she was jumping at shadows. He wouldn’t know her – how could he? Just a nosey janitor trying to liven up his boring job.

She thanked the officer and walked outside, her stomach churning with indecision and a growing sense of frustration. She was fast running out of options; she couldn’t stay around here – not now she knew Farek was in Paris. And if she stayed with Amina any longer, she would be placing her in harm’s way. But where else could she go? She looked around, trying to gain inspiration from the surrounding buildings. Then she noticed a man on the pavement across the street. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, dark-skinned and black-eyed, like the janitor inside. He seemed vaguely familiar.

And he was watching her.

She hurried back to the car and got in, feeling sick. Just then a moped clattered by and pulled into the kerb, the rider a youth in a cheap coat. The man on the pavement jumped on the pillion seat and it roared off down the street, bouncing wildly under the combined weight.

She breathed a sigh of relief, felt the nausea recede. She was letting her imagination run away with her, seeing Farek’s men everywhere. But it had made up her mind for her. She had to go. Now. And there was only one place she could think of.

Poissons. It was away from here and Farek couldn’t possibly know about it. And sooner or later, Rocco would return home.

Two hundred metres down the street, the man on the back of the moped swore loudly and banged the rider’s shoulder. ‘Stop! Stop here!’

‘Why?’ The moped wobbled and the rider hauled on the brakes, putting both feet out to maintain balance.

‘Here.’ The passenger, whose name was Malik, gestured towards a workmen’s café sandwiched between two empty buildings. He barely allowed for the moped to stop before leaping off the back and hurrying across the pavement.

‘Where are you going? We’ll be late!’ The two men were employed as casual cleaners in a restaurant near the cathedral, and the owner was ruthless when it came to replacing staff who showed up late.