The Old Port. Where the steamers and trawlers and junk ships were berthed; where many transactions were carried out without the benefit or obstacle of official paperwork; where no woman in her right mind went, and where no cab driver would willingly take a woman without knowing exactly why she was there … and without taking money to ensure his silence. Farek knew the Old Port well; he had cause to, having used it for most of his adult life in one way or another. If she had elected to leave by sea, and from such a place, it meant she had done so to avoid being seen by Farek’s spotters at the air terminal and passenger port. In doing so, she had taken enormous risks … but risks she must have decided outweighed any reason for staying. That could only mean one thing: she wasn’t coming back.

He nodded at the fat man.

Bouhassa moved over to Abdou, his breath whistling in his nose, balancing himself carefully on his feet as if he were about to take a plunge off a high board. He flipped the industrial glasses down over his eyes and grasped Abdou by the hair, jerking the man’s head backwards. Abdou shrieked, eyes bulging as he finally realised what was about to happen. Like many in the city, he would have heard the stories of what happened to men who crossed Sami Farek, and the part that the fat man Bouhassa played in their despatch.

It was called swallowing a shot.

He tried to speak, but the words in his throat were cut off as the gun barrel with the silencer was thrust into his mouth. There was a crackle of breaking teeth and the prisoner gurgled and shook his head, fighting against the pain and terror. But Bouhassa was too strong. He pulled Abdou’s head right back, forcing the gun deeper and deeper until his knuckles were pushed hard against the man’s teeth and Abdou’s Adam’s apple bulged against the skin of his throat.

In the background, the cargo plane increased power and hurtled down the runway.

‘Do it,’ Farek commanded.

The shot was muffled, and would not have reached the outside world, even without the silencer or the airplane’s roar. Bouhassa quickly withdrew the gun and clamped Abdou’s mouth shut, noting with what appeared to be distaste a few spots of blood on the sleeve of his djellaba, and a trickle of urine as the dying man voided his bladder.

CHAPTER SIX

‘Glad you could join us.’ Divisional Commissaire François Massin had already begun the briefing in the main office by the time Rocco arrived. If the senior officer was being ironic, he managed to hide it behind his customarily cold expression. Assembled in the room were the duty officers of the day and a collection of uniforms about to go on patrol in and beyond the town, notebooks poised. A few eyes turned Rocco’s way, newcomers surprised by his size and sombre clothing. Standing at two metres, with the shoulders of a rugby forward and a strong, confident gaze under a short scrub of black hair, he was a full head taller than anyone else and filled the room with his presence.

He nodded in turn at Massin’s deputy, Commissaire Perronnet, and Captain Eric Canet – a likeable officer he’d met a few times – and, lounging by the door sipping at a mug of coffee, the muscular figure of René Desmoulins, one of the detectives. The latter grinned and raised his mug in greeting.

Rocco wondered what was so important that had made Massin demand his attendance today in particular.

As if sensing the question, Massin waved a collection of papers at the room in general, and pointed to a similar stack on a nearby desk. ‘This is the latest alerts bulletin from headquarters. Take a copy each and read it. Among other items it tells us that we are shortly to be joined by a new liaison officer, details to follow in due course. It also advises that Amiens and the north is being viewed by incoming North Africans as an attractive place to live. Increased numbers have been noted making their way out of the cities looking for work in the new industrialised zones. That in itself is not a problem; but not all of them are legally entitled to be here, especially those with a criminal record who have been declared undesirables, or those from non-aligned nations. Unfortunately, it is not always possible to know which is which.’ He looked at Rocco, the outsider from the big city, and gave a thinly knowing smile. ‘You were in Paris before transferring here, weren’t you, Inspector Rocco? Perhaps you could tell us of your experiences with Algerians.’

Rocco stared at him over the heads of the others, wondering just how much more openly barbed this comment could have been. Just two years ago, in October 1961, thousands of Algerians had marched near police headquarters in Paris to protest against official repression. The march had ended with an unknown number of Algerians dead, some in the streets, others floating in the river. The country was still feeling the shockwaves, with accusations and counter-accusations being thrown around at the highest levels, and even suspicion among fellow officers about who was to blame. It was clear by the looks coming Rocco’s way that some of his colleagues were now having the same thoughts.

He let it pass. He’d been on undercover duty that night in Courbevoie, eleven kilometres west of the city centre, and had only heard about the trouble the following day. Like many of his colleagues, it had depressed him enough to consider resigning. Only the intervention of a senior officer, Captain Michel Santer, had prevented it.

‘I wasn’t suggesting anything, Inspector,’ Massin added evenly. ‘But you must have worked at close quarters with some of them?’

Rocco remained calm. Being in open warfare with Massin was a no-win situation. Perronet in particular would side with his senior colleague out of support for a fellow ranking officer. Rocco would lose.

‘A little,’ he agreed. ‘But I haven’t met any around here yet.’ The few he’d seen had been at a distance, workers on building sites or drifting around the town, remote and self-contained. Outsiders. Like any community, there were the good and the bad. The good wanted a better life for themselves and their families; the bad were usually loosely affiliated to a network of gangs and clans, sharing the characteristics of their kind everywhere, like the American Mafia, the Asian tongs or Triads and the Corsican clans. Put too many people together in confined areas with little opportunity or acceptance, and you had a melting pot ripe for trouble and exploitation.

‘Try the Yank factories,’ murmured a detective at the back of the room, a sour-faced man by the name of Tourrain. He was referring to the rubber and electrical plants that had brought employment to the region and needed a large workforce to keep the production lines running. ‘Plenty of Arabs there, working for peanuts and happy as rats in a sewer.’ He grinned nastily, showing a set of stained teeth. ‘Best place for them.’

‘And what makes you so superior?’ Rocco countered sharply. He disliked the casual racism prevalent among so-called intelligent people, and was disappointed to find it present in a largely rural police force. He’d seen it undermine communities before, raising barriers where none were needed and making police work more difficult and hazardous.

‘Gentlemen.’ Massin spoke sharply, bringing order with what seemed to be a degree of relief. ‘Let’s be aware of them, that’s all. Where there is deprivation and competition for jobs, there is usually trouble. I don’t want any unrest in this division, no matter what the cause. Patrols should keep an eye out for gatherings, and especially for work gangs, which are usually collected from prearranged points each morning by gang bosses. If you see them, check papers, check permits, but keep it low-key. We don’t want firebombs and water cannon on our streets. Understood?’