“The Outlaws,” Porcher replied. “They control much of the heroin coming into Marseilles.”
“Where would we find them?” Mo-bot asked, and Porcher smiled sardonically.
She had seen that expression before on the faces of people who thought she was crazy.
“They are extremely dangerous,” the detective said. “My advice would be to stay away.”
“We can’t do that,” Sci said. “We need to know who this guy is and why he matters so much.”
Porcher shrugged, disassociating himself from this plan. “Then go and see Baba Saidi. He was arrested that day. He used to lead the Outlaws. Maybe he still does. He was in the cell next to the man who escaped.”
“Where would we find him?” Mo-bot asked.
“Les Baumettes,” Porcher replied. “He’s in prison for the next twelve years and would probably welcome a visit.”
Chapter 41
The police had taken my phone, watch, wallet, keys, belt, shoes and laces, and put me in the interview room in my suit and shirt. The floor felt cold through my socks, but I was glad of the sensation. My mind was flying through several possible scenarios, the most perturbing of which was that Roman and his people had friends in the Monaco force who would be willing to stage a suicide or accidental death in custody.
Every time someone walked past the interview room, I tensed. I wouldn’t be able to do much against an armed attacker, but I wouldn’t go down without a fight.
So far, though, the door had remained closed. I’d been left to stew.
The other scenario troubling me was that I was about to be charged with the murder of Philippe Duval based on circumstantial evidence, which might not be enough to convict me, but could be sufficient to keep me locked up and out of the way until Roman and his people had achieved their objective. They would now need to kill the target they had wanted me to eliminate for them. It might also give them more time to reach me in custody.
I shifted on the metal chair, which was bolted to the floor like the matching table and chairs opposite. The walls were an uninspiring white and looked to be recently painted, so I didn’t even have old graffiti to distract me.
Without my watch or phone, I had no idea how long I’d been held in custody, but it must have been well over an hour, so I was twitchy and frustrated when the door finally opened and Valerie Chevalier entered together with a woman I didn’t recognize.
“Mr. Morgan, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I was attending to another matter,” the inspector said, closing the door behind her.
“Mr. Morgan, my name is Hannan Benyamina,” the other woman introduced herself.
She offered me her hand, and I stood up to shake it. She was about five feet ten and exuded confidence. She wore a black trouser suit and a pastel-pink blouse.
“I’m your attorney. One of your colleagues instructed me in this matter.”
I guessed Justine had moved to engage someone to represent me as soon as I was arrested.
“I specialize in complex criminal cases,” Hannan said. “Here are my credentials.”
She reached into a satchel and produced her resume. I glanced at it but took it on faith Justine would have done her homework.
“Thank you, Ms. Benyamina,” I said, offering her the seat next to mine.
“There’s no need to sit,” Valerie Chevalier said. “This won’t take long.”
Hannan seemed almost as surprised as me.
“Philippe Duval had a concealed surveillance camera system installed in his office. It recorded his murder at the hands of four masked men,” the inspector revealed. “And later, your entry and flight from the scene, Mr. Morgan. Why did you go there?”
“Philippe called me,” I replied. “Said he was in danger and asked to see me.”
“And why did you run?”
“Because I thought you’d suspect me of murder,” I replied. “And if it hadn’t been for the secret video footage...” I let the implication hang for a moment. “I’m guessing the perps tried to frame me.”
Valerie nodded. “They called the police as they were leaving the office after killing Monsieur Duval. We’ve matched when one of them uses a phone on the video to the time of the anonymous emergency call.”
“So, you have no grounds to hold my client?” Hannan said.
“He had previously agreed to cooperate and share information with us,” Chevalier responded. “And he’d been warned he would need to make himself available to us to assist with our investigation.” She looked me square in the eye. “We had a deal, Mr. Morgan.”
“We do,” I replied, but couldn’t force conviction into my delivery.
Roman and his men had known we were coming for Justine. They’d been planning to move location when she’d escaped, and that suggested a leak in the Monaco or French police force. But I couldn’t tell Valerie Chevalier what I thought in case she was the mole.
“Where is Monsieur Duval’s phone?” she asked.
I grimaced.
“Yes. The one you are seen taking from him on the video.”
She turned to Hannan. “If we get the phone within an hour of your client’s release, we won’t charge him with interfering with a police investigation.”
Hannan looked at me searchingly, and I nodded sheepishly.
“I’ll make sure it’s here within sixty minutes.”
“Then you can go,” Chevalier said. “But our information-sharing agreement is at an end, Mr. Morgan. And I’d suggest you stay away from this case. Too many people close to you are getting hurt or killed.”
Her last line stung me, but I knew better than to react.
She opened the door and I got to my feet, eager for freedom.
Chapter 42
Baumettes prison was a huge complex south of Marseilles. Six-story cell blocks rose from the ground like monuments to misery, some a dirty brown, aged by years of Mediterranean sun; others new, boxy and soulless, painted white and green — the colors doubtless chosen for their neutral, calming quality.
The old buildings came from an era of retribution, when criminal justice had been primarily motivated by the concept of punishment, and it was evident in their severe architecture. The new buildings were about rehabilitation, an effort that went beyond the colors chosen. There were more plants and green spaces around them, larger windows, sports courts, and a general air of comfort lacking from the older iterations.
There were just under 2,000 prisoners on site, according to Mo-bot’s cursory research, and she wondered how many of them were truly capable of rehabilitation and how many simply deserved retribution.
Baba Saidi was facing a twelve-year sentence, so he’d get plenty of both. Mo-bot had checked him out while Sci had driven them to the sprawling prison. Baba had been head of the Outlaws, who controlled much of the flow of heroin into southern France from North Africa. He’d been arrested along with thirteen members of his gang and Roman, who according to Baba’s testimony had been the instigator of a deal to purchase thirty kilos of heroin. Baba had pleaded innocent, claiming Roman had been working with French police to entrap him. Baba was just an entrepreneur. The judge hadn’t believed him and had given him a higher sentence than the eight years he’d been offered as part of a pre-trial deal. Mo-bot didn’t feel sorry for the guy because Marseilles now had one ruthless criminal fewer on its streets. But as she read snippets of his testimony via Google Translate, she couldn’t help feeling this was an egotistical man who’d had no idea how hard and fast he was about to fall.
And he’d fallen a long way. Sci parked the Ford Kuga in the visitors’ section of the huge complex, and he and Mo-bot cleared security in an orange brick building that looked like it had been glued onto one of the modern cell blocks as an afterthought.