Free Death on the Rive Nord by Adrian Magson Page A

qualm.
    The tall man was holding a gun, with the familiarity of use, the confidence of a professional. With the sureness of one who would use it without a flicker of remorse. He nodded to his colleague, who herded the men out of the cabin into a large warehouse twenty metres away. It smelt new, and echoed with the hollow, disconnected noise of all large, empty places. Sections of metal ducting were hanging from brackets and linked to large blowers, and a steady roar could be heard as the new heating system powered up, although the air here was still cold. The roof was cavernous and high and, to men from the agricultural lands of North Africa, impossibly big and difficult to take in.
    The second guard led them over to the production line. This comprised large tables dotted with stools, each station equipped with a selection of screwdrivers and other hand tools. A conveyor belt ran alongside the tables, leading to an open area near the rear doors of the warehouse, where piles of cardboard boxes stood ready for filling, loading and labelling, and placing onto wooden pallets.
    ‘Welcome to France,’ said the tall man. His contemptuous smile contained no hint of welcome, no sign of weakness. The gun, they noted, had disappeared, the message delivered. ‘It’s time to start work.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    ‘I found someone.’ Claude spoke with a casual air but Rocco could tell he was pleased with himself. He’d rung just as Rocco was about to leave for the office. Feeling frustrated at the lack of progress, he was thinking about the canal again. It had all begun there, and it was the one place from which they had so far gained no help whatsoever. He needed something – anything – to help move this case forward.
    ‘Good for you,’ Rocco replied. ‘You deserve some happiness. I hope she’s a great cook.’
    ‘Not that kind of someone – I mean a witness who saw a truck parked near the canal a couple of nights before the body turned up. I put out some feelers around the villages and he just rang. I think he’s hoping for a reward.’
    Rocco stopped and sat down. This was too good to be true. Out of all the nights on all the roads in all of France, Claude had found—
    ‘Who and where?’ he said, and dragged a pad towards him.
    ‘His name’s Raoul Etcheverry and he lives in Autrey – that’s a village five kilometres from Poissons on the opposite side to where the dead guy turned up. He claims he saw a truck right where we found the bloodstains and the tracks.’
    ‘Raoul Etcheverry.’ Rocco rolled the name around on his tongue while he wrote. ‘Elegant name for these parts.’
    ‘Elegant name for any parts. He’s a retired veterinary surgeon from Lille. He’s also a semi-professional card player. Maybe I could get him to teach me a thing or two.’
    ‘How,’ said Rocco, ‘does a retired vet and semi-pro gambler find himself in the right place to see a truck in the middle of nowhere?’ He was sceptical about sightings such as these, and all too accustomed to people keen to help the police but finding their imaginations or memories working beyond what was a strictly correct recollection of what they had witnessed. But such offers always had to be investigated; even a tiny clue was better than nothing, and it was often the unremarkable point which witnesses considered unimportant that carried the day.
    ‘Easy. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he goes to play poker with a group of other enthusiasts in Amiens. The game goes on until the small hours. He was on his way home at about three, and saw a truck parked at the side of the road.’
    ‘Did he get the registration?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What?’ Rocco wondered if this was going to be a glorified wild goose chase. It really was too good to be true. Yet stranger things had happened – and finding the truck again would be a major breakthrough. Criminals weren’t above torching a vehicle involved in a crime if there was even a remote chance that it could be traced.