Death on the Pont Noir lr-3

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Santer.’

  ‘Captain Santer,’ Massin said quietly, and introduced himself. ‘I want to advise you that I have ordered the suspension of Inspector Rocco to be lifted, following new evidence in his favour.’

  ‘That’s good news, sir,’ Santer replied. ‘Very good. I never doubted him. But… if you’ll excuse me asking, why are you telling me? Sir.’

  Massin smiled at the caution in Santer’s voice, edged with just a hint of old-cop indifference to higher authority. Maybe Santer really was the right man to talk to.

  ‘Because I need your help, Captain. As does Inspector Rocco. And the very security of France could well hinge on anything you can tell me.’

  Rocco weaved his way through the bushes, making sure he kept Tasker in his line of sight. The closer he got to the lane, he noted, the more twitchy Tasker seemed to become, pulling Alix closer to him, screwing the twin barrels of the sawn-off into the side of her neck and edging back to the corner of the house for protection.

  ‘That’s far enough!’ Tasker shouted. ‘I want to see your gun, Rocco.’

  Rocco flicked his left hand. ‘It’s in my pocket.’

  ‘Take it out and show it to me. Slowly.’

  Rocco did so, taking out the revolver belonging to Biggs. He held it aloft by the barrel. At this distance, he doubted Tasker would recognise it. A gun was a gun.

  ‘Now throw it away from you.’ Tasker was grinning now, his movements edgy, clearly in a heightened state of excitement. His face was bristly and his clothes crumpled, and Rocco wondered whether he’d taken drink or drugs, but guessed the man was high on the sudden application of power.

  High but not incapable. If anything it made him all the more dangerous.

  He tossed the revolver into the nearest bush.

  ‘Now your ankle gun.’

  Rocco said, ‘What do you think this is — Hollywood? We’re not permitted to carry secondary weapons.’

  Tasker gave it some thought, then nodded grudgingly. ‘Okay. Open your fingers and flex them so I can see they’re empty.’

  Rocco did so. And felt the shoelace around his finger begin to slip. The knot was coming undone. He kept his face blank and focused on Alix. She looked unhurt but stressed, wincing where the shotgun barrels were grinding into her neck. He hoped she had the presence of mind to know what to do if anything happened. When anything happened.

  ‘Get down on the road,’ said Tasker. ‘I want to see you up close.’

  He waited until Rocco had made his way down onto the lane, then pushed Alix forward, almost lifting her off the ground and making her cry out. They arrived at the gate crushed together and Tasker stopped, pressing Alix against the metal bars.

  Rocco tensed. If Tasker opened fire now, he’d got nowhere to go.

  ‘You can let her go,’ said Rocco. ‘She does not have to get hurt.’

  ‘I said, get down.’ Tasker lifted the butt of the gun, but kept the barrels against Alix’s neck. ‘I won’t tell you again.’

  Rocco dropped his hands halfway and lowered himself carefully to the ground in the press-up position. As he did so, he felt the Walther slip inside his sleeve. The shoelace was almost undone now. If he had to get up again and lift his arms, he wouldn’t be able to stop it sliding about and out of his reach.

  ‘You think this is going to be a confession, right?’ Tasker grinned, and pushed his face alongside Alix’s, grinding his hips against her buttocks in an obscene simulation. ‘That I’m going to beg for freedom so I can go home?’ The grin vanished and his voice hit a higher pitch. ‘Home to what? Nothing. They’ve dumped me in it, you know that? Like I’m a fucking nobody.’ A flare of anger turned his face red and he looked around as if suddenly aware that someone might be creeping up on him. ‘Tell your men to stay back, Rocco, or I’ll blow her brains all over this shitty village. And Jesus — what is that stink?’

  A breeze had sprung up, carrying farmyard smells along the lane.

  ‘It’s called cow shit,’ said Rocco. ‘Look, why don’t we talk? This doesn’t have to end badly.’

  ‘Badly? Badly?’ Tasker’s face twisted and a volley of spit came through the bars of the gate. ‘What kind of word is that? This isn’t just bad, you crappy, fucking, French copper. This is far worse than that. Because we’re all going to end up the same way — don’t you get it?’

  Rocco tensed as he saw Tasker’s grip tighten around the trigger guard of the shotgun. He readied himself to move, all the while knowing that in the time it would take this madman to press the trigger of the lupara, he’d be lucky if he got one foot beneath him. He felt sick and wondered how else he could have played this.

  Then he heard a car engine approaching. He turned his head towards the village. Surely Godard or Desmoulins weren’t coming down here. Then he realised the noise was coming from the other way — from the open countryside towards Danvillers.

  It was a grey 2CV van, with a bale of straw strapped to the roof. A small crate full of chickens was fastened alongside, and the entire load was bobbing about furiously as the little car hit a series of undulations in the surface.

  ‘It’s a farmer,’ Rocco called out, and wondered if the driver could see him lying in the middle of the road. Christ, after all this, he was going to end up as a road casualty statistic…

  But Tasker wasn’t listening. He was reacting instinctively, turning towards the noise and bringing the shotgun round. Poking it through the gate as the car appeared, he screamed, ‘This is on you, Rocco!’ and pulled the trigger.

  The roar of the gun drowned out the car engine noise, blending with the following rattle as the windscreen and tinny bodywork of the car were peppered by lead shot. Luckily for the driver, the angle and distance were just enough to deflect the worst of the charge, and the glass cracked, but held fast. The driver ducked automatically, the car charging on as his foot jammed down hard in a reflex action on the accelerator.

  Rocco began rolling, desperately kicking against the ground for impetus. There was no time to stand up; he’d just have to trust that he could stay out of the way of the wheels. As it was, the vehicle missed him by a whisker, showering him in a layer of sooty exhaust smoke and bits of straw and feathers from the load on the car roof. He continued moving, grabbing for the Walther in his sleeve. He felt the gun touch his palm and slide away, then held it, spun it round and began to stand up, finger curling around the trigger.

  He found Tasker waiting for him.

  The Englishman laughed like a maniac, an expression of near delight in his eyes, and raised the sawn-off. ‘No fucking chance!’ he shouted in triumph, spit dribbling from his mouth. His finger tightened around the trigger. ‘You think I came over on the last banana boat? Too slow, Rocco. Say goodbye, copper!’

  ‘Alix, Lucas — down!’ Claude shouted from up on the slope above Rocco’s shoulder.

  Alix dropped instinctively as if her legs had been chopped beneath her. Slipping from Tasker’s grip, she slumped to the ground like a rag doll. Her movement was so complete, so sudden, Tasker’s face changed to one of shock, and he glanced down in dismay, his hostage momentarily gone.

  It was enough.

  The roar of Claude’s gun was louder and sharper than the sawn-off, piercing the air with its energy like a runaway train. Rocco, half standing, felt a tug at the shoulder of his coat, and something stung his cheek. A rush of displaced air fanned his face.

  The double charge hit Tasker in the centre of his chest, and he was punched backwards before he had time to register the pain, his weapon falling away to the side.

  Rocco released his pressure on the trigger. He didn’t need to shoot.

  It was over.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  ‘In the name of God, what were you doing?’ Claude muttered, scooping up Alix in his arms and pulling her out of the gate away from Tasker’s body. His voice was gruff with emotion and his face red. ‘Am I going to have to keep doing this, getting you out of trouble? Only I should warn you, my girl, my heart
is not what it was.’ He pulled back and touched her neck where it had been rubbed raw by the pressure of the shotgun barrels. ‘And look at you — you’ve got yourself hurt by that monster!’

  ‘Father, stop it,’ Alix replied, shaking with a mix of relief and laughter and dragging him close in a hug. ‘I came down for some butter from the farm and he… God, I never thought I’d say it, but you’re my hero, do you know that?’ She glanced over his shoulder at Rocco, mouthing a silent thank you, the tears finally coursing down her cheeks as reality began to hit home.

  Rocco walked over to check the body. Not that he had any fears that Tasker was alive; no man could have withstood that volley of shot. He flicked back the dead man’s jacket with the barrel of the Walther and checked for more weapons. Nothing. If Tasker had carried anything besides the sawn-off, he’d discarded it along the way.

  He looked across the lane where the 2CV had ploughed into the verge, spilling the straw bale and its cargo of chickens in a heap across the bonnet. The driver was already out of the car, clearly unhurt, but staring back at Rocco, Claude and Tasker’s body with open disbelief.

  A powerful car engine sounded, approaching at speed. Godard and his men, most likely. They would have had a distant, if grandstand view of what had happened from along the lane, and would be coming to secure the scene. And no doubt the villagers would be here soon, eager to see what the cop in their midst had dragged into their serene rural world.

  Mme Denis was the first. She came out of her gate and walked up to him, and checked him over, fastening an eye on the shoulder of his coat, where a stray shotgun pellet had opened up the fabric.

  ‘You should learn to look after your clothes more,’ she said pragmatically, pointedly ignoring the body on the ground. ‘I can repair that, if you like.’ She brushed at some pieces of straw on his sleeve. ‘And it’s your new one.’

  ‘You don’t have to-’ he began. But she shushed him and tugged at the lapel.

  ‘Yes, I do. Can’t have you walking around looking like a tramp, can we?’

  Rocco nodded and eased it off. If he didn’t give in gracefully now, he’d only have to do it later. She took the garment and put it over her arm, smoothing down the fabric.

  ‘Nasty business,’ she commented. ‘Is that it, then?’

  ‘Almost,’ he said, and thought about what he had to do next. ‘Just some tidying up to do.’

  Mme Denis walked over to Alix and took her hand, and led her away towards her house.

  Claude watched them go, then broke the shotgun and took out the two spent shells. ‘I only meant to fire one,’ he said shakily. ‘But I was so scared for her…’ He gestured at the trigger and coughed, blinking hard. ‘Do you want me for anything else, Lucas?’

  Rocco thought about it. He needed someone. But Claude should stay here. There were plenty of others he could call on. ‘No. This is your turf. They’ll need to see you in charge. And you should be around for Alix. She’s been through a lot.’

  Claude nodded. ‘Of course. Thank you. And… thank you.’ He lifted a hand, then marched along the lane to turn away a group of villagers coming towards them.

  Godard’s vehicle appeared, and Desmoulins was the first out, followed by Captain Canet, who began issuing instructions.

  ‘You’ve done it again,’ Desmoulins complained, glancing at Tasker’s body. ‘All the fun and I was miles away — Jesus, what the hell happened to him?’

  ‘He got what he wanted.’

  Canet came over and nodded. ‘Good work.’

  ‘Officer Lamotte ended it,’ said Rocco. ‘Is Massin coming?’ He needed to speak to the commissaire urgently.

  ‘No. He’s fielding calls from the Ministry, the security agencies and every minister with a telephone, wanting to know what happened and where exactly is Pont Noir and Poissons-les-Marais. Sooner him than me, is all I can say.’

  ‘It was hardly his fault any of this happened.’

  ‘I know. But they’ll still want to know why the area wasn’t secured for the visit. You know what they’re like: a bunch of self-interested pen-pushers looking for someone to blame.’

  ‘It was unscheduled. Nobody knew about it until the last minute.’ Only someone who shouldn’t have, he thought; someone who had slipped under the net.

  Canet tilted his head. ‘Well, somebody clearly did; the man driving the truck for one.’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘I’d wear a thick collar for a few days, if I were you. I know I will.’ He turned and walked away to continue organising his men.

  Rocco looked at Desmoulins. There was nothing more he could do here. ‘How do you feel like taking a chance with your career and pension?’

  Desmoulins grinned. ‘Hellfire, you’re going to close this down, aren’t you? What do you want me to do?’

  Rocco wasn’t sure how things would go in the next hour or so, but he needed someone close to corroborate what he was about to do. ‘Stick close and listen. It could be interesting.’ He glanced at Godard’s vehicle. ‘I need a lift to my car near the cafe, then a fast drive to Amiens.’

  Desmoulins was already moving. ‘Fast it is,’ he said. ‘Can we radio ahead?’

  Rocco had thought of that. ‘No,’ he said. ‘What I want to do, we don’t want to broadcast.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  In Amiens, Commissaire Massin put down the phone from talking to Captain Santer and drew a deep breath. He had a sudden urge to be sick.

  The story Santer had just told him had confirmed his wildest fears, and put him in the worst kind of dilemma. He was now in possession of numerous anecdotes, suppositions and allegations, all pointing towards a conspiracy inside the presidential security apparatus. A conspiracy to assassinate France’s head of state.

  He could barely believe it. Yet it was all so simple. And most of what he had heard would be sufficient for any ordinary man to find impossible to explain away, such was the collection of facts.

  But Colonel Jean-Philippe Saint-Cloud was about as far from being an ordinary man as a person could get. He had the ear of the president and his colleagues, he was in the confidence of the highest men in the Ministry of the Interior, he worked hand in glove with the most influential members of the country’s security apparatus. His word carried weight and authority that was almost unrivalled anywhere.

  In a word, he was untouchable.

  Or was he?

  Massin weighed up the risk of doing nothing; of sitting here and accepting that he had insufficient hard evidence to take action; that Saint-Cloud’s word and position and background trumped anything and everything he had heard so far. Sitting here would be easy. Forgetting what he’d heard would soon go away, brushed beneath the carpet of quiet convenience protecting the state apparatus.

  But he knew that he wouldn’t forget, and neither would Rocco. And instinct told him that everything he’d heard was true and that his conclusions could not be faulted: Colonel Saint-Cloud, the president’s chief security officer, had conspired out of a sense of fury and resentment to kill de Gaulle, using a disparate chain of disenchanted ex-soldiers, OAS killers, English gangsters and men hired by the Paris gang lord, Patrice Delarue.

  It sounded crazy, even now. Yet impossible to ignore. But there was something else driving Massin; something almost intangible that would never find its way into any court of law, because it would be viewed with ridicule and derision. Except by him.

  He would never be able to forget the insults Saint-Cloud had thrown at him as long as the man walked free.

  The telephone rang, the harsh jangle unsettling his nerves. He ignored it. Most likely the Ministry or one of any number of people with a drum to beat.

  Massin stood up and straightened his uniform. Picked up his revolver and went to the door. Pulled it open.

  Colonel Saint-Cloud was standing outside.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  ‘What are you going to do with that?’ Saint-Cloud murmured. ‘Shoot someone?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ Massin replied. �
��Do you have any candidates?’

  His response seemed to take Saint-Cloud by surprise, and almost without realising it, he stepped up close to the security officer, forcing him to move backwards. It was a tiny, maybe symbolic victory of wills, and he wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to follow it up by simply pulling the trigger and having done with it. It would be an inglorious end to his own career, but at least he would gain a momentary satisfaction from it.

  Saint-Cloud didn’t reply, so Massin said, ‘How long has the Pont Noir visit been known about?’

  ‘It hasn’t. I told you.’

  ‘Really? But the British office in Arras knew. They were waiting for a date.’

  ‘That’s rubbish. It was probably wishful thinking on their part.’ Saint-Cloud looked unsettled, as if caught off guard. ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘Because I want to know how de Gaulle ends up on a near-deserted stretch of road in the middle of open country with no support team and no notification from you to this office.’ He breathed heavily with a rush of certainty. ‘The Ministry is also puzzled because they didn’t know about it, either.’

  The security man’s face flushed with irritation. ‘For God’s sake, man, the president is not a slave to the Ministry or anyone else. He often moves without prior notice.’

  ‘So you’re saying he chose, on the spur of the moment, to come down here and all without telling you — his head of security? I find that surprising.’

  ‘Do you?’ Saint-Cloud took a deep breath. ‘Maybe if you had worked with him for as long as I have, you would not be… surprised.’ He flapped a vague hand, twin spots of red appearing on his cheeks.

  ‘So Pont Noir meant nothing to you before you came here?’

  ‘How could it? Until that idiot Rocco came to me with his ridiculous supposition, I’d never heard of the place.’