‘I know him, but not well.’ He wished he’d got his pants on at least, although loss of dignity in front of this monster was the least of his worries. He recognised it for the psychological tactic that it was. Take away a man’s dignity and he was immediately weakened. Open. Vulnerable.

‘I see. You work with him?’

‘No. I’ve been … retired.’

Farek lifted an eyebrow. ‘Really? That must be difficult to take, for such a young man. What did they offer in its place – desk work? Traffic duty? School patrol?’ Farek’s companions chuckled dutifully. ‘Still, fortunate for us, I suppose. I gather you were very good once. So. What were you doing at our meeting last night? A final visit for old times’ sake?’

Caspar said nothing, although he thought if he got Youcef riled again, he might have the pleasure of seeing Bouhassa shoot the moron dead. At least that would be one less to worry about. He decided on honesty.

‘I thought if I picked up some information, they might take me back.’

‘They?’

‘The department.’

‘Ah. Well, I’m afraid they won’t be doing that.’ Farek smiled thinly. ‘But let’s not be hasty. Perhaps we can talk about who has replaced you in your undercover role? We might come to an arrangement if the information proves correct.’

Caspar looked at him and thought, more likely you’ll kill me now, then kill the poor bastard who took my place. He wondered how long they had known about his role and decided it was probably longer than he’d ever thought. ‘I don’t know who took over. Anyway, I’m the last person they would trust with that kind of information, wouldn’t you think?’

Farek smiled, appreciating the logic. ‘Of course. Silly of me.’ He brushed again at his knee, a gold bracelet jangling on his wrist. He had fingers, Caspar noted, like sausages. Clean, but powerful-looking. Brutal. He could imagine those fingers digging into his flesh, probing for the nerve endings.

‘It’s true.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it is. Another question: do you know of a woman calling herself Nicole Glavin?’

‘No.’

‘Very well.’ Farek stood up and stared at Caspar dispassionately, like a butcher inspecting a side of beef and wondering what to do with it. ‘Kill him,’ he said at last, and walked out of the room, followed by Youcef.

‘Wait!’ Caspar shouted. Anything to buy time, to delay what he knew the fat thug, Bouhassa, was going to do to him.

Just then, hurrying footsteps sounded and a man called Farek’s name, followed by a mumbled conversation. The effect was instantaneous.

‘Out,’ called Farek. ‘Both of you. We’ll deal with him later. Get the car.’

And suddenly, inexplicably, Caspar was alone. And frightened.

By two in the afternoon, Samir Farek was in a run-down place called Café Emile on the outskirts of Amiens. It was frequented by Algerian workers and, as if reflecting the isolation they felt from the community around them, stood on a patch of waste ground between a crumbling grain warehouse on one side and a deserted sawmill on the other. It had long been marked down for demolition, but perhaps because of its insignificance, its date with the wrecking ball had been postponed.

Farek had left his brother Lakhdar to keep an eye on things in Paris following his takeover, and was accompanied by Youcef and Bouhassa, with three men from Lakhdar’s Paris organisation acting as guides and outriders. They had driven fast, brushing aside other cars by sheer intimidation, paying scant heed to road signs and playing the odds when encountering turnings on the right, where the traditional – and legal – French habit was to exit without looking.

The front door of the café was locked and the curtains closed. The few customers present had needed no urging to leave, and the proprietor had been advised that his loss of business would be amply compensated. Two men who were sitting together at a table looked anxiously at the assembled company as if wondering why they had come forward.

The police station janitor, Yekhlef, was the first to be asked to tell his story again, this time directly to Farek, about the woman he had seen in the police station earlier that morning asking after Inspector Rocco. He said he had seen her there once before, in the early evening when he was just starting a shift, but he hadn’t seen her with enough clarity to recognise her. Then Farek turned to Malik, who gave the janitor a resentful look before telling them what he had witnessed outside in the street, saying how he had seen her walk out of the police station and climb into a car.

‘A Peugeot four hundred and three,’ he said eagerly. ‘As clearly as you and I see each other now.’

Farek stood up and walked around the café interior, lower lip pushed out in thought. He finally came to a stop in front of both men. He looked at Yekhlef, who was the older man, and said in a whisper, ‘Does she lie with this policeman? Has she become his whore?’

The janitor looked shocked by the question. He licked his lips nervously, then looked Farek in the eye and said with careful dignity, ‘That in all honesty I cannot say, sir. But she used his first given name. As if they were friends.’ He shrugged carefully. ‘Beyond that, I would not care to comment.’

It was enough for Farek. ‘Can you find out where this man Rocco lives?’

Yekhlef considered it for a moment, then nodded with absolute certainty. ‘This evening I will go in, and when everyone has gone, I will look through the emergency calls list. It has the telephone number of all officers. I will also find his address, and call you.’

Farek nodded. He ordered Youcef to give money to both men, with a larger sum to Yekhlef to reflect his greater contribution and age. Then he told the two men to leave and never speak of this with anyone. Ever.

Once they had gone he sat down at a table and poured a cup of thick, black coffee from a percolator made earlier by the proprietor. He added several sugar cubes and stirred the drink slowly, thinking about how to resolve this situation.

He had completed one of the tasks that had brought him here: the takeover of the clans in Paris. Fortunately, it had been simple, accomplished without bloodshed. Well, almost. But what was one man’s life against the greater goal? It reminded him that he hadn’t dealt with the undercover cop, Casparon. That was a mistake; he should have allowed Bouhassa to do his thing. He called one of Lakhdar’s men over. ‘The policeman, Casparon. He must disappear. Tonight.’

The man nodded and went in search of a telephone.

So be it. Now that was taken care of, he had his other task almost within sight. He sipped the coffee, which was bitter, even with the sugar. It was how he liked it.

Married women, he reflected, do not become friendly with other men. It is not correct. And married women never become friendly with policemen.

Most especially this married woman.

‘As soon as we have the address of this man Rocco,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘I want a man to watch and see if the woman and child are by his side. Send a white face. Then we will plan our move.’

‘What if she’s not there?’ said Youcef, picking at his nails with the point of a flick knife.

Farek put down his cup, the rough glaze scraping in the saucer. ‘Then we will look until we are successful,’ he declared simply. ‘When we find him, we find her.’

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Rocco called in to the office to see what had happened in the aftermath of the failed factory sweep and found Massin facing a mixed delegation from the mayor’s office, the local chamber of commerce and the unions, all for once united in their opposition to the raids and the effects on local industry and community relations. Even the local newspaper had got in on the act by sending a reporter to ferret around for details. Serge Houchin collared Rocco the moment he stepped into the building.