‘Piss off, Froggy. Nobody puts them things on me.’
Godard turned and scowled at Rocco. ‘What did he say?’
Rocco said, ‘I think he called you a frog-eater and an ugly son of an ugly bitch. You going to stand for that?’
‘No. I’m not. Can you look away, please?’ As soon as Rocco did so, Godard signalled to two of his men and they closed in on either side of the Englishman. Grabbing him by the arms, they slammed him unceremoniously against the wall and cuffed his hands behind him, then turned him around for Godard to plant a heavy knee into his groin. The Englishman gasped and his face lost all its colour.
‘And that, Monsieur Rosbif,’ Godard muttered, ‘is how we treat animals like you.’ He prodded the man’s shoulder. ‘And for your information, if you could speak our language, anyway, which you obviously cannot, I don’t eat frogs.’ He signalled to his men to take the five men away.
‘How many of them were involved?’ To Rocco it was academic, but it was useful to know for the record how many men Mote had seen causing the damage.
‘All of them,’ growled Mote. ‘All English, all drunk and violent, like pigs. Animals!’ His eyes glittered with anger and bruised pride. He brushed his face with damaged knuckles. ‘Mostly it was the big one. I want them arrested and charged, Inspector. Do you know how many years it has taken me to build this business, me and my wife? Hein?’ He slapped his chest with the flat of his hand and stared around at his wife for her support. Mme Mote, a mousy-looking woman in a floral apron, nodded dutifully and patted her husband’s hand, then dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. She had a large mole on her chin with a single hair sprouting from it, which Rocco found himself suffering an irrational desire to point out to her.
‘Charges will follow,’ he assured Mote. ‘What started it?’
He listened with detachment as the story unfolded. It was a well-worn route to strife: someone had drunk too much, remarks and gestures had been made, the owner had refused further drinks and a brawl had ensued. It was nothing unusual for the establishment, Desmoulins had earlier confided. The Canard Dore wasn’t known for its upscale clientele and had been the location of more than a few bar brawls. But this damage was of a greater scale than normal.
‘I’ll say.’ Rocco had seen the results of far worse bar fights than this, especially in Marseilles when visiting naval ships were in and men had been too long at sea on service rations. But for Amiens, it was extreme.
‘I’ll have someone come round to take statements and assess the damage,’ he said finally, when Mote had finished his story. ‘You’ll have to apply for compensation, but the court will probably make it a condition of their sentence.’
‘You mean in return for their release?’ Mote didn’t sound very surprised. Maybe, thought Rocco, the idea of money to refurbish the bar would be enough to salve his feelings and let the matter drop.
‘We’ll see what the magistrate says.’
Outside, he found a uniformed officer waiting for him.
‘Inspector Rocco? Captain Canet would be pleased if you could return to the station. The five men charged with the assault are all English.’
‘I know. So?’
The man shrugged. ‘You are the only person with that language, sir. We have to take their statements… but…’ He hesitated.
‘But what?’
‘They are being difficult, sir. Even with Sous-Brigadier Godard’s men to help. They seem happy to just sit there laughing at us.’
‘The fresh air must have woken them up.’ Men in Godard’s unit — often mistaken for the national Compagnies Republicaines de Securite (CRS) — were used when strength in numbers was needed. If even they were having trouble, then the leader of the Englishmen must have stirred his men into making a fuss.
‘Two of them are pretty big, sir — possibly ex-boxers. The others are just drunk.’
‘I noticed.’
Fifteen minutes later, Rocco was talking to Captain Eric Canet, in charge of the uniformed officers. The captain looked mildly unsettled, as if facing a problem he didn’t much relish dealing with.
‘We don’t need this, Lucas,’ he breathed. ‘We need to get rid of these louts as soon as possible. The magistrate has agreed to deal with them at a special sitting in the morning. He’ll impose a fine and compensation big enough to please the bar owner, after which we can wave them goodbye. But I think you should talk to them; warn them off coming back.’ He handed Rocco a filing tray piled with wallets, passports and envelopes containing money and other personal effects.
‘If they’ll listen.’ Rocco looked around. ‘Where’s Massin?’ The commissaire had a nose for bad news and was usually quick to stamp on trouble taking place in his precinct. Rocco was surprised he wasn’t already out here handing out advice.
‘He’s been called to a conference in headquarters. Something about a security review… or should I say, another security review. Perronnet went with him.’ Commissaire Perronnet was Massin’s deputy, and clung to him like a tick. It was the job of a commissaire like Massin to attend numerous meetings which seemed on the surface to have little to do with day-to-day policing, but a lot to do with a visible national readiness after years of doubt. It also gave him the opportunity he craved, which was to consort with the upper levels of the police force and the Interior Ministry in the hopes of gaining a more favourable posting. ‘I’d like to get this done before he comes back,’ Canet added dryly, ‘then we can all go back to the usual levels of violence and mayhem.’
Rocco nodded. It was a wise move. The less Massin had to complain about, the better all round. ‘Right. I’ll see them in a minute. But don’t let on that I speak English.’
He turned as Desmoulins wandered up, sporting a livid bruise on one cheek.
‘What happened to you?’
The detective sniffed in disgust. ‘I must be getting slow. The big bastard caught me with a backward head butt as we were getting him in the van.’ He waited until Canet was out of earshot, then added, ‘But he tripped on the way back out, so we’re even. Clumsy fella.’
‘Clearly. Also not aware of when he’s caused enough trouble.’ He had a random thought about the ramming incident involving the truck and the Citroen. ‘Three things I need you to check on: put someone on ringing the hospitals here and in a thirty-kilometre radius. Ask if they’ve taken in any road accident victims, dead or injured.’
‘Sure. Anything specific?’
‘We’re looking for anyone with facial damage, loss of teeth — that kind of thing.’
‘Is this from the call earlier this morning?’
‘Yes. Something odd is going on, but it could be nothing. Second, get someone to check the garages in the area for a military-style Renault truck and a black Citroen DS brought in showing crash damage. Check the barracks, too, see if they’re missing a truck. And third, find out if anyone has applied for a permit to film on public roads in the region.’
‘Got it. You going to talk to the English?’
‘In a while. Let them stew a bit longer.’
‘You want me there?’
Rocco smiled at Desmoulins’ readiness to pitch in where trouble loomed. ‘Thanks, but Godard and his men are a lot uglier.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘Remember, nobody says nothing unless I give the nod.’ Tasker glared at each of his companions in turn: Fletcher, the grey-haired and heavily jowled bruiser; the two bottle throwers, Jarvis and Biggs, ex-soldiers in their thirties; and Calloway, tanned, slim and looking out of place in their company. They were gathered around a table bolted to the floor, in a holding cell big enough to take all five men. Most looked hung-over and jittery to varying degrees. ‘If any of these monkeys manages to find someone who speaks English,’ Tasker continued, ‘- which I doubt — we came over for some fun, got pissed and it got out of hand. End of story. We all clear?’