That in itself is not a problem; but not all of them are legally entitled to be here, especially those with a criminal record who have been declared undesirables, or those from non-aligned nations. Unfortunately, it is not always possible to know which is which.’ He looked at Rocco, the outsider from the big city, and gave a thinly knowing smile. ‘You were in Paris before transferring here, weren’t you, Inspector Rocco? Perhaps you could tell us of your experiences with Algerians.’

Rocco stared at him over the heads of the others, wondering just how much more openly barbed this comment could have been. Just two years ago, in October 1961, thousands of Algerians had marched near police headquarters in Paris to protest against official repression. The march had ended with an unknown number of Algerians dead, some in the streets, others floating in the river. The country was still feeling the shockwaves, with accusations and counter-accusations being thrown around at the highest levels, and even suspicion among fellow officers about who was to blame. It was clear by the looks coming Rocco’s way that some of his colleagues were now having the same thoughts.

He let it pass. He’d been on undercover duty that night in Courbevoie, eleven kilometres west of the city centre, and had only heard about the trouble the following day. Like many of his colleagues, it had depressed him enough to consider resigning. Only the intervention of a senior officer, Captain Michel Santer, had prevented it.

‘I wasn’t suggesting anything, Inspector,’ Massin added evenly. ‘But you must have worked at close quarters with some of them?’

Rocco remained calm. Being in open warfare with Massin was a no-win situation. Perronet in particular would side with his senior colleague out of support for a fellow ranking officer. Rocco would lose.

‘A little,’ he agreed. ‘But I haven’t met any around here yet.’ The few he’d seen had been at a distance, workers on building sites or drifting around the town, remote and self-contained.