surly manner. He stared aggressively at Rocco around a yellow cigarette end and lifted his unshaven chin in query. A sharp wind was whistling around the yard, but he seemed not to notice.
‘What do you want? And why’s this Nazi stopping me and my men going about our lawful work?’ He jerked an oily thumb at the patrol officer who was leaning against a DS parked at the front of the yard. Two men in filthy overalls and welder’s goggles were sitting on a pair of rotting car seats nearby, smoking. ‘You’ve no right doing this. I’m a respectable businessman.’
‘Yes, and next year I’ll be pope.’ Lucas had heard all about Bellin and his illicit dealings over the years on theway from the station. The man had a lengthy record, had served two prison sentences for assault and robbery, and was suspected of having ‘disappeared’ at least two cars involved in major bank jobs. All in all, not one of Amiens’ finest citizens.
‘Where did the DS come from?’ he asked. ‘And be careful who you’re calling names.’
Bellin shrugged, which made his chest wobble. ‘Search me. It had been left outside the gates. Happens all the time … people treat this place like a rubbish dump.’
Rocco looked around at the muddy yard with its piles of dead cars and other junk. ‘I wonder why?’ He fixed the man with a hard stare. ‘Don’t mess with me, Bellin, I’m not in the mood. I’m investigating a possible murder and I think this car was involved.’
‘So?’ Bellin spat the cigarette out. The soggy mess landed very close to one of Rocco’s English brogues. ‘Nothing to do with me. I don’t know anything about any murder.’
‘Well, the car is now in your hands. That lands it on your doorstep – literally. Do you know what conspiracy is?’
Bellin feigned a look of boredom. ‘No. Should I?’
‘It means an agreement between people to commit a criminal act. One of the most serious is in the murder of a third party. Even after the event.’ He waited while Bellin processed what he was hearing. It was a slow grind, rather like watching one of those tumbling-man toys in action. But understanding dawned slowly on the scrap dealer’s face.
‘So – how does that affect me?’
‘It means anyone involved,’ Rocco explained carefully,‘anyone – no matter what their role – gets the same sentence as the person who drove the car.’ It wasn’t entirely correct because of the likelihood of extenuating circumstances, but he wasn’t about to tell Bellin. Let the grubby little toad sweat a bit.
‘Hey – no! Wait!’ Bellin appeared to wake up as the words finally dropped into place like coins in a slot machine. ‘That’s not right. I told your man, the car was outside when I got here. I don’t know who left it there. I can’t be held responsible for what happened before it came here, can I?’
‘You can,’ Desmoulins put in, ‘if you don’t explain why you’re about to cut up an expensive car like that. You’d make a nice sum even if you sold it to one of your grubby criminal potes to do up. Give it new paperwork and a bit of paint, and sooner or later some mug will buy it.’ He leant closer. ‘And don’t tell me that hasn’t crossed your devious little mind, because I know you better than that.’
Bellin said nothing, but his beady eyes were going runabout, Rocco noticed. Not that he would crumble too easily; men like him would only cave in if they were on the brink of arrest and saw no other way out.
‘I think Mr Bellin gets the message,’ he said. ‘We’ll let him think it over.’ He walked away and stopped alongside the Citroën.
The uniformed officer gave a nod of recognition. ‘I hope this is the one you’re looking for.’
Rocco studied the damage to the side of the car. It looked as if a giant fist had hit the car amidships, pushing in both front and rear passenger doors. Had it not been for a network of sturdy metal poles welded together and covered in foam padding to form
‘What do you want? And why’s this Nazi stopping me and my men going about our lawful work?’ He jerked an oily thumb at the patrol officer who was leaning against a DS parked at the front of the yard. Two men in filthy overalls and welder’s goggles were sitting on a pair of rotting car seats nearby, smoking. ‘You’ve no right doing this. I’m a respectable businessman.’
‘Yes, and next year I’ll be pope.’ Lucas had heard all about Bellin and his illicit dealings over the years on theway from the station. The man had a lengthy record, had served two prison sentences for assault and robbery, and was suspected of having ‘disappeared’ at least two cars involved in major bank jobs. All in all, not one of Amiens’ finest citizens.
‘Where did the DS come from?’ he asked. ‘And be careful who you’re calling names.’
Bellin shrugged, which made his chest wobble. ‘Search me. It had been left outside the gates. Happens all the time … people treat this place like a rubbish dump.’
Rocco looked around at the muddy yard with its piles of dead cars and other junk. ‘I wonder why?’ He fixed the man with a hard stare. ‘Don’t mess with me, Bellin, I’m not in the mood. I’m investigating a possible murder and I think this car was involved.’
‘So?’ Bellin spat the cigarette out. The soggy mess landed very close to one of Rocco’s English brogues. ‘Nothing to do with me. I don’t know anything about any murder.’
‘Well, the car is now in your hands. That lands it on your doorstep – literally. Do you know what conspiracy is?’
Bellin feigned a look of boredom. ‘No. Should I?’
‘It means an agreement between people to commit a criminal act. One of the most serious is in the murder of a third party. Even after the event.’ He waited while Bellin processed what he was hearing. It was a slow grind, rather like watching one of those tumbling-man toys in action. But understanding dawned slowly on the scrap dealer’s face.
‘So – how does that affect me?’
‘It means anyone involved,’ Rocco explained carefully,‘anyone – no matter what their role – gets the same sentence as the person who drove the car.’ It wasn’t entirely correct because of the likelihood of extenuating circumstances, but he wasn’t about to tell Bellin. Let the grubby little toad sweat a bit.
‘Hey – no! Wait!’ Bellin appeared to wake up as the words finally dropped into place like coins in a slot machine. ‘That’s not right. I told your man, the car was outside when I got here. I don’t know who left it there. I can’t be held responsible for what happened before it came here, can I?’
‘You can,’ Desmoulins put in, ‘if you don’t explain why you’re about to cut up an expensive car like that. You’d make a nice sum even if you sold it to one of your grubby criminal potes to do up. Give it new paperwork and a bit of paint, and sooner or later some mug will buy it.’ He leant closer. ‘And don’t tell me that hasn’t crossed your devious little mind, because I know you better than that.’
Bellin said nothing, but his beady eyes were going runabout, Rocco noticed. Not that he would crumble too easily; men like him would only cave in if they were on the brink of arrest and saw no other way out.
‘I think Mr Bellin gets the message,’ he said. ‘We’ll let him think it over.’ He walked away and stopped alongside the Citroën.
The uniformed officer gave a nod of recognition. ‘I hope this is the one you’re looking for.’
Rocco studied the damage to the side of the car. It looked as if a giant fist had hit the car amidships, pushing in both front and rear passenger doors. Had it not been for a network of sturdy metal poles welded together and covered in foam padding to form
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