Death on the Pont Noir

by Adrian Magson

  ‘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 a protective cage, he guessed the damage would have been more extensive. He tugged a splinter of oily wood from the gap between the doors and sniffed at it. It smelt faintly of tar.

  A connection.

  ‘I think it just might be. But we’ll soon find out. Well spotted.’ He looked around at the oil-sodden ground they were standing on and nodded at Desmoulins, who was peering in the driver’s side. ‘We need to get this out of here. Can you get it picked up and taken to the station? We can get Rizzotti to have a proper look there.’

  ‘Sure.’ Desmoulins looked at the patrol officer. ‘Can I use your car radio?’

  The two men walked away, leaving Rocco to consider the car and what secrets it might eventually give up. That the vehicle had been left here to quietly disappear, he had no doubt. The same happened in Paris and other cities on a regular basis. Cars used in criminal enterprises were routinely repainted, re-registered or underwent some other transformation, often permanent. And yards like this were nearly always involved. They had the equipment and willingness to do such work … and their unwelcoming appearance, aided by guard dogs, was usually enough to put off casual snoopers from paying too much attention to what they were doing.

  He peered through the splintered glass remaining in the side windows. He could see nothing inside, neither normal travel rubbish nor personal effects, and if there was any kind of crime involved, such as the death of a vagrant, even accidentally, it was probable that it had already been cleaned out. But as he knew well, even the most careful cleaning sometimes failed to remove everything.

  He rejoined Bellin, who was busy lighting another foullooking cigarette. The man had to take three tries before it caught, and he avoided looking Rocco in the eye.

  ‘Last opportunity,’ Rocco murmured. ‘See, I know you’re lying. But there’s no need for your men to hear. Tell me where the car came from … or who wants it to disappear. Phone number, name, location – any or all will do. Otherwise I’ll put a squad in here this afternoon and they’ll go through this rat hole centimetre by centimetre.’ He took his diary from his coat pocket. It was leather-bound and slim. ‘See this?’

  Bellin nodded. ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘It’s the official log of every car stolen in northern France over the last eight months. Now, what are the odds of me finding one of the plates listed here among all that shit out there?’ He nodded at the piles of junk. ‘Or do you trust your men implicitly?’

  Bellin stared at the diary, then his eyes flicked away. He nodded. ‘Okay. But I’m not admitting anything. This guy called me last week, said a car would be dropped off. It would probably be badly damaged, he said, and he’d pay good money for it to be scrapped. I didn’t argue, and why would I? The demand for scrap metal isn’t that good at the moment. I can barely keep those two men on as it is.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you. Who was this benevolent person?’

  ‘No idea. On my mother’s life!’ He was looking intense and Rocco detected a note of desperation in his voice. Maybe he was telling the truth … or maybe he was more scared of the man who’d called him than he was of the police.

  ‘All right. Who dropped it off?’

  ‘I told you, it was—’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Rocco began to turn away. ‘This yard is closed as of now. Nothing leaves here. Send your men home and give me the keys to your office.’

  ‘Wait!’ Bellin looked shocked and grabbed Rocco by the elbow, then let go with a cry of dismay when Rocco instinctively bunched his arm. ‘Sorry … I didn’t mean anything.’ His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘But you’ve got to listen to me … being seen talking to you could get me in the middle of one of those piles.’ He nodded at the heaps of chopped-up car parts lying around the yard. Few of them were much bigger than a man’s torso.

  Rocco waited, his interest kicking into overdrive. If Bellin was this scared, he’d like to meet the person who could inspire this level of dread.

  ‘You’d better hurry, then, hadn’t you? Then I can be out of your hair.’

  Bellin hesitated, then caved. He said quietly, ‘All right. This mec – I didn’t ask his name – just turned up outside the gate. He said this was the car for cutting, as arranged. That’s all. Then he jumped into another car that was waiting and that was the last I saw of him. And before you ask, I didn’t take a note of the registration or see the other driver. It wasn’t worth my face to look.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  Rocco considered it for a moment. The time frame was right, at least. But was he telling the whole truth? So, a guy turns up at the yard and dumps a car. Where hadn’t he heard that story before? It was probably going on right now in every other city across France, no questions asked, in exchange for hard cash or favours. Some of those favours might include leaving the yard owner’s face in one piece, as Bellin was suggesting. He guessed he wasn’t going to get much more from this man. Even crooks had their limits when self-preservation was at stake.

  ‘Can you describe him? Young, old, dark, fair, bad breath … what?’

  Bellin gave an elaborate shrug, undoubtedly more for the benefit of his two men than anything, a display of obduracy should anyone have cause to ask later. ‘Youngish, early thirties, medium height, dark hair, a bit of a tan. Didn’t notice anything else.’

  ‘Like a million other Frenchmen. That’s a big help.’

  Bellin’s eyes narrowed, as if he’d suddenly seen a way out. He dropped his cigarette in the mud and stamped on it. ‘Actually, that’s the thing. Not like any Frenchman – not in that way, anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He spoke French okay … but not good. And he wasn’t dressed like anyone around here.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think he was a Rosbif. An Englishman.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  If there had ever been a street name to the narrow run of ruined buildings on the outskirts of Créteil, in south-east Paris, it no longer existed save on old maps of the commune or in the memories of its more senior inhabitants.

  Now, and in the dark, it was a place visited by bored kids looking for trouble, the occasional drunk seeking a place to doss down, and the various creatures of the night which had made it their own.

  Halfway down the street stood the gutted remains of a butcher’s shop. The wooden sign was still there, hanging drunkenly by a single chain, but warped and rendered illegible by the elements. Only its telltale shape of a horse’s head remained. The building, though, like its neighbours, was a shell of crumbling brick and rotten plaster-and-lath construction, waiting for progress and the promised redevelopment of the area to erase its existence and replace it with another.

  A dark Renault van with battered panelwork and a broken side window was the only vehicle in sight, left skewed at an angle to the kerb in front of the shop. A ripped plastic bench seat was leaning against the driver’s door, and a worn car tyre sat on the bonnet, indications to anyone passing that the vehicle had been abandoned to its fate.

  A flicker of movement showed a small dog trotting along the pavement, following a zigzag course from scent to scent. It paused to cock its leg against a rear wheel, then sniffed along the van’s side before moving on into the night. A cat across the street watched it go, the fur on its back lifting momentarily, then settling as the dog vanished into the shadows.

  Lights flickered in the darkness at the top of the street, where it connected with that part of the town which still had life and mov
ement. The flicker grew to a glow, and a car’s engine puttered steadily over the silence as a vehicle nosed into the street, the headlights pushing back the dark and revealing the walls and empty windows of a dead zone. The light rushed on, washing quickly over the abandoned Renault and down to the far end, where a row of small garages with corrugated metal roofs stood like orphans, their walls and dilapidated wooden doors covered in graffiti, a tangled mess of emblems, slogans and angry cries for attention which would only ever come in the form of a developer’s bulldozer.

  The car – a dark Panhard with a crumpled rear wing – slowed alongside the Renault, its occupants checking it out as the dog had before them. The car’s tyres crunched through a mess of rubble, a reminder that few vehicles ever passed this way. It was enough to satisfy them; they drove on and did a U-turn at the end and stopped facing back the way they had come.

  The headlights were extinguished, returning the street to darkness.

  Five minutes ticked by. The engine remained on, a muffled rumble in the dark. Other than that, no lights, no sound.

  Finally, the front passenger door opened and a man stepped out. He stood with his head back, like an animal probing the night air. He was tall and athletic, and moved with confidence. Moments later he was followed by two other men, one the driver, who left the engine running and the door open. His companion stepped to one side to keep watch.

  The lead man moved to one of the garages and produced a key, opening a large padlock holding the double doors together. The two men disappeared inside the garage, lighting the dark with the yellow glow of a flashlight.

  ‘Coucou, Baptiste. Time to go tickle a trout.’ A hoarse whisper echoed softly in the dark of the abandoned Renault van, and a foot tapped on the floor. Moments later, a figure rolled out from between the wheels and stood upright on the pavement. Turning, he padded silently along the street, hugging the ratty buildings, unobserved by the watcher at the garage who was taking an artistic leak over a pile of bricks to one side.

  Another figure appeared on the far side of the street, surprising even the cat, which vanished without a sound. This one paralleled the first, treading carefully over a route scouted earlier that evening to note any obstacles to be avoided later. Both men were dressed in dark clothing and soft boots, and wore balaclavas pulled down over their faces.

  Both were armed with handguns.

  The man on watch shook himself and turned, mouth dropping open as he picked up a sound or a sense of something in the atmosphere. But he was too late. The first figure reached out a pair of brawny arms and plucked him off his feet, while the second stepped in and rammed an elbow into his stomach, stifling the warning he was about to utter. Only a soft whoosh of expelled air escaped.

  But it was enough.

  ‘Franco?’ The light inside the garage moved and a voice called out softly, ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Hurry up!’ One of the newcomers hissed, and clamped a large hand over the prisoner’s mouth, staring into his eyes with a gaze cold enough to freeze the blood.

  Then two more men appeared out of the night, taking up positions on either side of the garage entrance. Both carried pistols. A brief exchange of signals, and the first two men hustled silently away back down the street, carrying their prisoner with them.

  Seconds passed, then a shrill whistle pierced the night. Suddenly the abandoned Renault burst into life. It charged away from the kerb, shrugging off the bench seat from the door and the tyre on the bonnet, and roared towards the garages, the high-performance whine of the engine giving lie to the poor state of the bodywork. The headlights flared on with shocking intensity, illuminating the garage and the two men who were emerging from the interior.

  They froze, their faces registering shock at this sudden eruption of activity and the sight of men with guns standing almost alongside them. With a scream of rubber, the van stopped facing the garage opening. Before they could gather themselves, they heard the rattle of weapons being cocked and a bellowed order from the Renault.

  ‘Stand still or we shoot!’

  The men obeyed. Lit up like the fourteenth of July and facing automatic weapons, they were too stunned to do anything but stare dumbly around them at a scene which, moments earlier, had been theirs and theirs alone.

  ‘Alors. What have we got here, then?’ A slim figure in dark clothing stepped into view. Like the other men, his face was covered, but his eyes glittered with grim humour. ‘Doing a spot of tidying up, were we? Trying to make the place look nice?’ He peered into the garage, where a workbench against one wall held an array of weapons, the blued steel and wooden stocks clearly visible in the glow from the Renault’s lights. ‘Oh dear. Now that’s a prison sentence, all ready and waiting.’ He turned and looked at the lead man. ‘You three must have really upset someone, you know that? Shame. You can’t rely on anyone to keep a secret these days, can you?’ He signalled for his men to check them for weapons and cuff them. ‘We don’t want any nasty surprises, do we?’

  ‘What did you mean just then?’ The lead man seemed perfectly calm, as if accepting that being caught was part of the risk, and therefore to be expected. He spoke well, his voice carrying a natural tone of authority. He turned his back and clasped his hands behind him. ‘We upset someone.’

  ‘You were sold out, my friend,’ replied the slim figure, who seemed to enjoy turning the screw. ‘Like chickens at a Saturday market. Never mind; you’ll have plenty of time to figure out who by, I’m sure.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The battered DS looked forlorn in the yard behind the police station the following morning, its black finish whitened under a layer of morning frost. It had been brought in on a trailer and was now lying low on its wheels like a beached whale. One of the front tyres had deflated overnight and its brief stay in Bellin’s oily pit of a yard had not done the coachwork many favours, even without the damaged bodywork.

  Dr Rizzotti had drawn a chalk line around it, and had forbidden anyone from approaching it, taking his cue from a bulletin from the National Police Science Centre about crime scene protection. He had asked Captain Canet to assign an officer to take notes and help with the inspection, and a young, fresh-faced gardien was standing by with a clipboard, huddled inside a heavy coat and puffing vapour into the cold air.

  When Rocco arrived, he found Rizzotti sitting behind the wheel. He was motionless, absorbing the atmosphere. Rocco knew all about that; it was vitally important when studying a crime scene, and more could be gained by a few minutes of quiet reflection than charging in and spoiling whatever clues might be available.

  Rizzotti checked the seat setting. ‘Whoever last drove this wasn’t very tall. A bit less than medium height.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Cigarette smoke – could be from the men at the scrapyard, of course. But something else, too.’ He sniffed again, then looked at the young policeman, who was making notes. ‘Do you have a good wine nose, boy?’ When the man shrugged, he glanced at Rocco. ‘Lucas?’

  ‘Not in this weather and not this early. Why?’

  Rizzotti climbed out of the car and shut the door. ‘Pity. I can smell something other than the normal car smells. It could be perfume, but I need to be sure before the aroma fades altogether.’

  ‘You think it’s important?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ He chewed his lip. ‘Women are more sensitive to that kind of thing, in my experience.’ He looked to Rocco for help. ‘They like nice smells – especially in a man. To a woman, smell is important. Ask any of them.’ He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘My wife would know but only if it was on my shirt collar.’

  ‘There’s the new gardienne,’ the young uniformed officer volunteered tentatively. ‘Alix – I mean, Officer Poulon.’ He blushed. ‘Shall I get her?’

  Rizzotti nodded. ‘Please do.’ He waited for the young man to leave, then said softly, ‘Sweet. I think he’s in love.’

  When the officer returned, he had Alix with him. She looked at Rocco and Rizzotti with a frown as if sensing
a practical joke. ‘Is he serious?’ she murmured, nodding at her colleague. ‘You actually want me to smell this car?’

  ‘If you would, please,’ said Rizzotti. ‘I’d like you to get in and tell me what immediately comes to mind. Don’t think about it too much, simply use your instincts.’

  She did as he requested and sat in the driver’s seat, closing the door behind her with a soft thump. She inhaled at length, then opened the door and climbed out again.

  ‘Aftershave,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I assume you know cigarette smoke, plastic and leather, so it must be the other smell you’re interested in.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Rizzotti. He sounded impressed. ‘Good diagnosis. I don’t suppose you could tell us what brand and how expensive it is?’ His expression suggested that he was only half joking.

  Alix shook her head. ‘Not unpleasant – but a bit heavy for my tastes. I don’t recognise it, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘The man wearing this is trying to impress.’ She looked at Rocco with a faint lift of one eyebrow. ‘If you want my opinion, more men should try it. Oh, by the way, that man Saint-Cloud is looking for you.’ She turned and walked away, leaving them staring after her.

  ‘See what I mean?’ said Rizzotti, grinning as though he’d just solved the origins of the universe. ‘I told you. Women.’

  ‘I’ll put you in for a medal,’ Rocco growled. He wondered what the security chief wanted. If it was to demand what he’d found out about threats to the president, he was going to be unlucky. He ducked his head inside the car and sniffed for himself. It smelt like a railway carriage. Alix was right, though: plastic, leather and smoke and … He sniffed again, drawing in a gentle lungful of air. There was something else; something familiar lurking at the edge of his consciousness, soft and fragrant. But where the hell had he come across it before? Was it soap? Damn, that was irritating—