Death on the Pont Noir

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Broissard.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Broissard stared hard at Rocco, then at Nialls, as if they were at the centre of some kind of conspiracy. ‘And on whose authority?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Rocco wondered if he would get away with tossing this little Napoleon down the stairs. Broissard was strutting and ambitious, dismissive of anyone outside his own department, especially of policemen. Fond of hinting at friends with influence, in reality, his authority was limited.

  ‘I really can’t discuss that,’ he said, and introduced David Nialls. ‘What about you?’ he added, twisting the knife to show how much he cared for the man’s position.

  Broissard almost shook with indignation. ‘We are here on matters of state security,’ he muttered. In other words, nothing to do with you. He belatedly remembered the man with him and introduced him with a casual flick of the hand. ‘Henri Portier, a colleague.’ Then he ducked away and moved on up the stairs before they could ask any further questions.

  ‘Not a friend, I take it?’ said Nialls with a grin.

  ‘No. Not a friend,’ said Rocco. He was trying to remember something, a fleeting image prodding at his memory. They were halfway along Whitehall before it finally came to him.

  Henri Portier, Broissard’s silent colleague. He’d seen him before, too – and recently. He was one of the two suited visitors who had accompanied Colonel Saint-Cloud to the Amiens police station just a few days ago.

  The Allendale Club in Mayfair was sleek, smart and busy, with a scattering of expensive suits and early-evening cocktail dresses among the clientele. David Nialls nodded at the doorman, a pug-faced man in a dinner jacket and bow tie, who stood aside to allow them in.

  The interior was glossy and richly decorated, with a long curved bar at one side of the main room and tables set for dinner beyond a gold-coloured balustrade at the rear. A three-piece band was playing soft jazz in one corner. Opposite the bar was a row of small booths with bench seats for four and a small table.

  Nialls bellied up to the bar and ordered two glasses of whisky, and they carried their drinks over to one of the booths and sat down. Nialls took off his coat and sipped his drink.

  ‘You might as well make yourself comfortable, Lucas,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a while before anyone interesting gets here. Until then we can watch how the other half plays. Are you hungry, by the way?’

  It was a reminder to Rocco that he had not eaten since this morning. Nothing on the train or boat had been of interest, and he’d been too busy thinking of this meeting to bother.

  ‘Not yet. Are you recommending this place?’

  Nialls grunted. ‘A bit rich for my wallet, I’m afraid. But I know a good place near Piccadilly where we can get a decent steak.’ He took another small sip. ‘We’ll wait to see if Ketch turns up and then go eat.’

  It was soon very clear to Rocco that the main room, bar and restaurant were not the prime attractions to the Allendale Club, as pleasant as they no doubt were. A door at the rear, which Rocco had missed at first because it was covered by the same wallpaper as the walls on either side, opened discreetly every now and then, and clients would slip through accompanied by a member of the security staff. Most were men of apparent substance above the age of forty, he noted, although there were one or two female companions, notable for their youth, the willingness of their laughter and the casual displays of jewellery. Nialls did not seem particularly interested, but was watching the front entrance, taking occasional sips from his glass.

  ‘It is a casino?’ Rocco asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Nialls didn’t turn to reply. He was intent on watching a group of men who had just entered from the street and were handing over their coats to a young woman attendant.

  It was a good place to clean money and make a nice profit in the process, Rocco figured. Mayfair was a wealthy area and the club well placed to draw in those with money to burn. And special clients were allowed access by appointment only, which no doubt gave a measure of their net worth. He’d seen it before in other cities.

  He turned to follow Nialls’ line of sight. Two of the newcomers were in their fifties, dressed in smart suits and smoking fat cigars. They were accompanied by a slim man in an ordinary business suit and carrying a hat with a brim. He looked relaxed, and it was clear that he was the focus of attention of the two men, who were already hustling him to the bar and calling for drinks. The bartender responded with speed, nodding smartly as he took the order.

  ‘Is one of them Ketch?’ said Rocco. He could almost feel Nialls quivering with interest.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Nialls sat back in his seat and buried his nose in his glass as the three men walked by under the guidance of the maître d’, who was hustling ahead of them like a mother hen, clicking his fingers to gain the attention of a waiter. ‘The one on the right,’ he continued, ‘is Godfrey Harding. He runs a chain of betting shops. The one on the left is known as Turkish John. He has a number of massage parlours and so-called beauty salons across the South East, all centres for prostitution. Both men are about as trustworthy and honest as a two-pound note.’ He watched the three men with an air of disgust, adding sadly, ‘The man in the plain suit is a detective inspector based at West End Central Station in Savile Row.’

  A table was ready and waiting, and a waiter in attendance to take their orders as the men sat down. It was clear that the police detective was being given special treatment.

  ‘Is that normal?’ Rocco wasn’t sure of the norm here, but in France, policemen and criminals mixed strictly at their own risk, and rarely for any good.

  Nialls pulled a face. ‘Not normal, no. There’s a belief among some older coppers that mixing with the main players keeps them in line … allows us to gain intelligence on their activities.’

  ‘You don’t believe that.’

  ‘No, and I never did. The only guarantee is that we learn only what they want us to learn, and we end up looking bad in the eyes of the public when a case falls apart because of a conflict of interests. But some habits die hard.’

  Rocco could only agree with him. Either the man was working, or he was here for some other reason. It seemed Nialls wasn’t sure which. ‘Are these two men friends of Ketch?’

  Nialls nodded. ‘Friends, associates – as thick as thieves, to coin an appropriate phrase. Harding has friends in high places, including the Government and the City, and Turkish John has lots of cash money from his businesses. The two go hand in hand. Whatever they’re talking about, you can be sure that Ketch has a hand in there somewhere.’ He drained his glass and stood up. ‘But I don’t think we’ll see him here this evening; he’ll probably steer clear while those three are in. They like to give each other breathing room when they’re cooking up a new relationship.’ He picked up his coat. ‘No doubt the DI will call it working, but cosying up to men like that is never a good thing. Shall we eat?’

  As they walked out, a burst of raucous laughter sounded from the restaurant, and Rocco turned to look. A fourth person had joined the three men at their table, and was shaking hands all round. It was clear they were all acquainted. As the waiter stepped away to give them room, the newcomer looked up, giving Rocco a clear view of his profile. He was tall, slim and tanned, with immaculate grey hair and wearing an expensive grey suit, every bit a successful corporate lawyer or businessman.

  But Rocco knew better, and felt a cold stab of recognition. He had known the man for years; had even arrested him once in connection with a bank robbery near Clignancourt, in northern Paris, during which a cashier had died. That time he had walked free, thanks to a clever legal counsel.

  His name was Patrice Delarue, and he was one of the French capital’s most dangerous criminals.

  As they left the club, they passed a mirror set into the wall above the bar. It was a two-way observation point, where an eye could be kept open for important visitors so that they could be assigned a waiter or a girl, depending on their status, or potential troublemake
rs could be pinpointed and watched before any problems occurred. What neither of the men could see, behind the glass watching with disbelief as the tall Frenchman made his way through the crowd, was George Tasker.

  Seconds later, he was reaching for the phone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘Well, George, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a problem.’

  ‘Ruby’ Ketch was sitting behind the desk of the GoGo Club in Gerard Street, Soho. It was a strictly members-only strip joint, with a few gambling tables for those whose preferred excitement came from naked cards and dice rather than girls. Dressed in a new chalk-stripe suit and pink shirt, he almost glowed with the appearance of good humour and health. But his eyes betrayed his real mood.

  George Tasker was on a visitor’s chair across from him, while Brayne, the business advisor, was lounging on a couch against one wall, beneath a lurid oil painting of a naked woman wearing a carnation in her hair and a hollow smile.

  ‘Nothing I can’t deal with, boss,’ Tasker grated. ‘Just give me the nod.’ He rubbed his knuckles reflectively and smiled. He’d phoned Ketch from the Allendale less than thirty minutes ago, and had been told to get round to the GoGo immediately. The club downstairs was busy, with the thump of music hitting you in the face the moment you walked through the front door. But up here, the atmosphere was dulled to a faint rumble by extensive soundproofing and heavy flock wallpaper. ‘He’s just a nosey cop, that’s all.’

  Ketch stared across the desk at him. ‘I know. But he’s not just any old cop, is he? He’s foreign. And that puts a different light on it. We’ve got to be careful. We don’t want this coming back to bite us.’ He glanced at Brayne. ‘What d’you reckon?’

  ‘I agree.’ The advisor pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling. ‘The last thing we need is any kind of diplomatic incident. That would ruin everything we’ve built up.’ He dropped his gaze and looked at Ketch, adding, ‘Are still building up, in fact. We could, of course, pay him to go away, forget what he saw.’

  Tasker snorted. ‘No chance.’ The words came out before he could stop them.

  ‘Say again?’ Ketch lifted his heavy eyebrows. ‘You know something about this Inspector Clouseau that we don’t?’

  Tasker prevented a scowl just in time. It was rumoured that Ketch had somehow obtained a pre-release copy of a new film starring Peter Sellers, called The Pink Panther. It was about a French detective named Clouseau, and Ketch had invited a few select cronies to a private viewing, including the Twins. That it painted the French police in a bumbling light made no difference; any police pratfalls were good for a laugh among the criminal elite, no matter what their nationality.

  ‘No, boss. I just don’t think he’d be up for it, that’s all.’ He had no reason for thinking that, other than instinct born of experience. He’d been around policemen long enough and close enough to be able to judge whether they could be bought or not. Some could, some couldn’t. And something told him Rocco wasn’t for sale.

  ‘Everyone’s up for it,’ Brayne muttered sourly, jealous of having his ideas countered by a man like Tasker. ‘There’s not a cop going who doesn’t have a price. All we have to do is find the number that turns them on. And the French are no different. Anyway, we’ve got the budget, we might as well give it a try.’

  ‘Budget?’ Ketch echoed. ‘What’s that mean?’

  Brayne leant forward at his most earnest, ignoring Tasker’s scowl of disapproval and dropping smoothly into business mode. ‘We’ve got a new bank account in Paris, to cater for any … contingencies such as this. I set it up a couple of months ago after you expressed an interest in operating on the Continent. It was just in case we needed access to French francs.’ He sat back. ‘It’s in the name of a shell company, so we could pay him off using cash from that account, no comeback guaranteed.’

  Ketch looked impressed. ‘Bloody Nora, Brayne, you never cease to amaze me.’ His eyes switched to Tasker. ‘Hear that, George? Now that’s what I call initiative. A bank account in Paris. Not bad for a bunch of East End boys, eh?’ He smoothed his hair back and nodded slowly, almost purring. ‘I like it. We’ll pay this Rocco twerp in his own currency to go away. Think you can handle that?’

  Tasker shifted uneasily. Paying ‘bungs’ to people to look the other way was part of the business, and he was often the bagman. They did it all the time, paying off local officials, businesses, individuals – even cops. Especially the cops they needed to ‘dissuade’ from taking too close an interest in Ketch’s business arrangements. But that was here in London. He knew the ground and the people, the dangers and the risks he could take. France was a whole different game of skittles.

  ‘There’s a quicker way, boss,’ he breathed, throwing a sly glance at the accountant. ‘Cheaper, too – and permanent.’

  ‘Really? What’s that, then?’ Ketch caught the look and smiled, as if he couldn’t guess what was on Tasker’s mind. He enjoyed a little conflict between his employees; it kept them all on their toes, stopped them becoming complacent.

  ‘A bullet.’ Tasker mimed a two-fingered gun and pointed it at his temple, making a soft poof sound with his lips. ‘Quick, neat and no need to mess with no Frog money.’

  Ketch appeared to consider the idea, tilting his head from side to side with a touch of drama. Then he said, ‘No, I don’t think so. It has … what’s the word, Brayne?’

  ‘Merit,’ Brayne muttered, and somehow made the word sound banal.

  ‘Merit – that’s right. It has merit. But not this time. Not with him having seen our French guest chatting with Harding and Turkish John. There’d be too many repercussions if he suffered an accident right after coming to London, especially as Nialls was with him. I reckon there’s a certain … elegance in paying off this nosey French cop through one of their own banks.’ He smiled. ‘After all, it’s what the Common Market’s supposed to be all about, isn’t it, making trade easier?’

  ‘Even though we’re not in it,’ Brayne put in dryly.

  ‘As you say, Brayne, as you say; even though Charlie de Gaulle’s playing silly buggers and keeping us out. After all we’ve done for him, too. But let’s not be bitter. We’ll pay the man, this Rocco fella. Buy him off. Get yourself over there toot sweet, George. Brayne will arrange access to the readies as soon as you hit Amiens. Isn’t that right?’

  The accountant nodded. ‘No problem.’

  ‘Good. We’ll call it Plan A. Oh, and I hope you like flying.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Ketch grinned with a touch of malice. ‘Little treat for you, George. There’s a small airfield at Thurrock, and a pilot who owes the boys a few favours. He’ll drop you near Amiens and bring you back.’

  ‘Thurrock?’ The idea of flying had caught Tasker unprepared. As hard as he was, he preferred to keep his feet on the ground and wheels in contact with the earth. But trying to get out of it would make him appear weak.

  ‘That’s right. Head out towards Tilbury and turn right; you can’t miss it. You’ll be over and back before you know it.’

  ‘Do I have to?’ Tasker couldn’t believe he’d had the balls to say it. He recovered quickly and said, ‘I mean, he might not go for it.’ More than anything, the idea of trying to pay off a man like Rocco filled him with alarm. Paying off people he didn’t like or trust, knowing what their weak points were and how to exploit their greed, was part of the game. Most times he actually enjoyed seeing them squirm before they grabbed the bait like greedy carp. But this idea was a bad one. He could feel it in his gut.

  Ketch looked at him in surprise and the office went quiet. Switching the pen in his hand, he held it like a gun and pointed the barrel at Tasker’s face.

  ‘Then, George, mon ami,’ he said softly, eyes glittering, ‘you switch to Plan B. You fly back over there and you shoot the interfering French copper dead!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  By noon the following day, Rocco was on the Dover train with a firm promise from David Nialls to keep him informed of the movements of
Simon Calloway and George Tasker. He was studying the summary file on Calloway provided by Nialls’ colleagues. It didn’t tell him much of any great relevance: aged thirty-four, the son of a chemist, he was educated at a minor public school – which Rocco knew meant a private establishment – and had gone off the rails at an early age by ‘borrowing’ cars and running with a group of undesirables. Avoiding a prison sentence by the narrowest of margins and his father’s influence, he had found himself using his driving skills with an up-and-coming racing team based in Surrey, to the south of London. He had won a place as a standby driver, until a first-team driver had fallen ill a few days before an appearance at Le Mans. Calloway had stepped in and finished fifth – a more than respectable result for a newcomer, and one that had ensured him a regular place on the team. But whatever was bad in Calloway’s make-up had soon made its way to the fore, and after an ‘incident’ at 150 mph, which had resulted in another driver being seriously burnt, he had been dropped.

  The rest of the file gave little information that was current, and Rocco felt a sense of disappointment. No mention of running with Tasker or Ketch, no involvement in politics or anti-Gaullist movements, no recorded views on social injustice abroad which might have been a clincher to this latest business. Then he sat up, his heart thudding. He was looking at a brief sentence describing Calloway’s current listed occupation: he worked as a film stunt driver and as a member of a travelling stunt display team.

  He put the document away, trying not to jump too quickly to the logical conclusion. Better to let the idea ferment for a while in his mind. But once there, it wouldn’t go away. Who was better to use in a crash scene than a trained stunt driver? Even so, was that enough to assume that Calloway would be involved in a potential ‘hit’ on the president? And was there a connection between Calloway’s occupation and the presence in London of Patrice Delarue? He couldn’t see it, but neither could he ignore it.