Death at the Old Asylum by Adrian Magson

Author:Adrian Magson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Canelo Digital Publishing Ltd
Published: 2022-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Seven

With all the talk about Georges Koutcheff, Rocco’s thoughts turned to the address details Canet had given him here in town. He had no reason for thinking the man would have returned to the flat, and the earlier visit by the other officers would have warned him off. But sometimes even the brightest of criminals did the stupidest things. Or maybe, just maybe, the man was currently hiding right under their noses.

The address lay in a narrow street to the east of the town, not far from the prison. The narrow, three-storey building was squeezed between a refuge and an abandoned vehicle repair workshop, and the fabric wore an air of sad neglect. The scattering of vehicles parked along the kerb on either side were in poor shape, which told him something about the local population. A group of youths was gathered outside the building smoking and laughing, and they turned to watch as Rocco locked his car and crossed the street towards them.

One of them, a skinny individual with giant acne spots and a half-hearted growth of facial hair, recognised Rocco and demonstrated his knowledge to the others by saying, ‘Hey – it’s the big flic! Hi, Rocco – sorry – Inspecteur!’ The others muttered between themselves, moving around in a semi-threatening dance to show off their couilles, but backing away quickly when he kept on walking right at them.

‘Hello, Bakri,’ he acknowledged to the skinny youth. ‘I thought you’d got yourself a job and were staying out of trouble.’

‘I am. I have.’ Bakri grinned. Rocco had hauled him in for possession of drugs several months ago, cutting him loose when Bakri gave him information on a supply line coming into Amiens. It had done little to stop the supply, merely causing a brief hiccup. But he felt sure Bakri had the ability to turn a corner if he worked at it.

‘Doing what?’

‘I’m an apprentice panel-beater.’ He mentioned a metal workshop on a nearby industrial estate. ‘I spend all day hitting sheets of metal with a giant hammer.’

‘Good for you. Enjoying it?’

‘Love it. I’m going deafer by the day but it’s letting me work out all my aggressions. My counsellor says that’s a good thing.’

Rocco eyed him for signs of leg-pulling, but Bakri looked genuinely proud of what he was doing. ‘I suggest you ask your boss to get you some ear plugs. If he doesn’t, I’ll come round there and shut him down.’

‘Right.’

Rocco looked at a line of name plates to one side of the front door. The tenants’ names were either scrubbed out, vaguely illegible or, in the case of one, bore a lurid photo of a young blonde woman named Coco on the second floor with too much flesh on display and her tongue sticking out like a slice of salami.

‘Koutcheff,’ Rocco said to the group. ‘Which one is he in?’ He was actually talking to Bakri but he didn’t want the others knowing it. There was every chance the youth would be found dead in a rubbish skip if they thought he was talking to the police.

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