Death on the Pont Noir

by Adrian Magson

  The news had already spread, disseminated by that peculiar method experienced only in close office environments. Rocco wondered whether a sly whisper here and there from Saint-Cloud had helped it along the way.

  Then Detective René Desmoulins stood up and stepped in front of him, his weightlifter’s bulk blocking the way. One of Godard’s men put out a hand to warn him off, but Desmoulins sneered at him and the man backed off. Alix hovered in the background, her face pale.

  ‘This is shit, Lucas,’ Desmoulins said quietly. ‘Tell them.’

  ‘I tried,’ said Rocco. ‘They prefer to believe photos.’ He patted Desmoulins on the arm and shook his outstretched hand. ‘This isn’t over, don’t worry.’

  As he walked out to his car, he was holding a folded slip of paper Desmoulins had pressed unseen into his palm.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The phone hauled Rocco out of a fractious sleep. He felt cold and stiff, his head a jumble of confused thoughts.

  It was Michel Santer. ‘Lucas? Can you talk?’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’ He rolled over to check the time. It was late afternoon. Or early, depending on one’s line of work. If one had a line of work. The scene at the office seemed like a ghastly dream from which he hadn’t yet awoken.

  ‘You okay?’ Santer didn’t have to say anything; he’d heard the news of Rocco’s suspension. It would be all over the police network by now, talked over and rehashed over coffee breaks and passed along as shifts changed. Most wouldn’t believe it; cops being accused of taking bribes was commonplace and usually a derailing exercise, at worst a clumsy form of revenge by a resentful con or his colleagues. But some would take delight in hearing that an investigator had been taken down, even if the accusation hadn’t yet been proven.

  ‘I’m catching up on sleep. Other than that, and wanting to shoot someone, which I can’t do because they took my gun, I’m fine.’

  ‘Was this because of your trip to London?’

  ‘It didn’t help.’ He levered himself up and went through to the kitchen trailing the telephone cord after him. Clamping the receiver under one cheek, he put some water on to boil and scooped coffee grounds into a percolator.

  ‘I bet Delarue has something to do with this,’ Santer muttered, ‘directly or indirectly. He must be getting ambitious.’ Santer, like most officers in the capital, was well acquainted with Patrice Delarue’s activities over many years, and prayed for the day when the man could be brought down. ‘Is it true what they’re saying – there are photos?’

  ‘Yes. It was a set-up, but I should have known better – I walked right into it.’

  ‘It’s easy to do, everyone knows that. So how do we get you out of it?’

  ‘You don’t.’ The last thing Rocco wanted was any of his friends putting their careers on the line for him. This thing had to be played out, and until it was, he was effectively on his own. Anyone coming near would be tainted by the accusation against him, and he didn’t want that to happen. ‘Stay clear of me and don’t make waves. I’m not done yet, even if I have to go to London and ram Tasker’s teeth down his throat.’

  Bones, he thought. He might be a weak link. Almost certainly English, by his clothes, since he doubted Tasker would find it easy working with a Frenchman on setting up incriminating photos of a cop being handed an envelope. He’d call Nialls later on. He might recognise the man’s name.

  ‘So what can we do?’

  Rocco sat down at the table and rubbed his face. That was the question: what could they do? Faced with such clear and unequivocal evidence of an officer taking an envelope, and with Saint-Cloud working away in the background with his sly digs and vaguely worded throwaway lines, Rocco himself would have come to the same conclusions as Massin. Until proven otherwise.

  There was only one thing to do.

  ‘We prove I’m right about the proposed attack,’ he said.

  ‘But you’re suspended. What can you do?’

  ‘I’m suspended, I’m not chained to the wall.’

  Santer said, ‘Well, that sounds more like the old Rocco I used to know. Thank God for that. For a moment there I thought I was going to have to come down and kick your arse.’

  ‘Not yet, you won’t.’

  ‘Good. Actually, I’ve got some information that might cheer you up. It’s about the attack on the car in Guignes. You still want to hear it?’

  ‘More than ever.’ Rocco stood up and poured boiling water into the top of a percolator and snapped the lid shut. Even the smell was making him feel more awake.

  ‘The man I told you about, with the cousin in the office here?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He came by a while ago, on his way to a raid on a suspected OAS cell. He said the body spirited away from the N19 scene wasn’t a body. The man was wounded but still breathing. Someone identified him and let the word out. His name’s Christophe Lamy. He’s a former captain in the 1st Foreign Parachute Regiment. He left the regiment along with several others before they got pushed and charged with anti-government agitation over Algeria.’

  A military officer with strong opinions and possible sympathy for the OAS. It wasn’t news, but it was hardly the kind of information the authorities would want broadcast. Disaffected and potentially violent individuals with no ties to the establishment were easily dismissed as malcontents. But former soldiers – especially former officers from elite regiments – were bad press for a government trying to push a line of propaganda based on national unity.

  He sat upright, the clutches of sleep falling away.

  Colonel François Saint-Cloud. He’d also been a member of the 1st REP. Was there a connection, other than that they liked to throw themselves out of perfectly safe airplanes for a living? He wasn’t sure. But it was too close to be ignored, too much of a coincidence to disregard – especially with his limited number of choices.

  Santer hadn’t finished. ‘There’s more. I had a call from Caspar. His contact couldn’t get the name of the motorcycle escort who fought off the attack, but he knew the hospital where he was taken. It’s a specialist military unit near Versailles. Caspar got close and did some digging. He’s still trawling for information at the moment, but he asked me to let you know what he’s found so far.’

  ‘Go on.’ Rocco sipped the coffee. Strong enough to float a horse; he probably wouldn’t asleep for a week after this.

  ‘The escort’s name was Jean-Paul Leville. And guess what – he’s no normal escort.’

  ‘Don’t tell me – another specialist.’

  ‘Damn. How did you know?’

  ‘I didn’t. But it seemed unusual for a motorcycle cop to survive coming off his bike enough to fight back and disable two attackers. What is he?’

  ‘A former marine commando. Served with an elite unit in the Horn of Africa, trained men at Lorient, the commando training school, and even ran specialist courses for the Legion on escape and evasion techniques and close-quarter fighting. There are gaps in his résumé of several months at a time, but we can both guess what they were.’

  ‘Covert missions.’ It had to be. The alternative was prison. But men with prison records wouldn’t get anywhere near becoming a motorcycle cop, let alone serving as an official security guard. Leville was a government gunman.

  ‘Exactly. Falling off a bike at speed and getting up again would be pretty simple for a guy like him, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes. So what’s he doing riding a bike for the official fleet?’

  ‘God knows. Certainly not for the excitement or the fresh air.’

  There was only one reason Rocco could think of: someone had known the car was going to be hit and had brought in a specialist. If that were the case, the attackers couldn’t have known their plan was exposed, and would have been in ignorance about who they were up against. If they had known, as reckless as some of the extreme groups were, they would have thought twice about launching the attack.

  Unless they had been told something completely different.
r />   ‘Where is this supersoldier now?’

  ‘Disappeared. Caspar said the hospital’s now under a shutdown order. He got all this from a contact who got a peek at Leville’s medical record.’

  ‘They had it to hand just like that?’

  ‘Seems so. He had light abrasions and a wrenched shoulder. Pretty standard stuff for a para, I’d have thought. They discharged him at his own request and he was gone.’ He sighed loudly. ‘Listen, Lucas, this isn’t over; I’ll call you back the moment I get anything. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Thanks, Michel.’ Rocco put the phone down.

  The whole thing smelt wrong. Medical records didn’t simply turn up like that at the drop of a hat, not even with improved filing systems. But they might if the person they applied to was expected to suffer injuries and need urgent treatment. The president, for example, was one; soldiers on dangerous missions were others; and specialists on high-risk covert assignments in-country.

  The attackers had been set up to fail.

  As he thought it over, his eyes settled on a crumpled slip of paper on the table. It was the note Desmoulins had handed him in the station. He hadn’t even looked at it yet, too weighed down with what had taken place back at the station. He picked it up and read it. Then read it again. It was in Rizzotti’s handwriting, and helpfully concise.

  Tell Lucas the DS battery carried a supply sticker from Ets. Lilas Moteurs – a garage in St Gervais.

  Rocco felt as if an electric charge had gone through him. St Gervais. If it was the same St Gervais he knew, it was an eastern suburb of Paris and within spitting distance of Delarue’s stamping grounds around the 10th and 19th arrondissements.

  He grabbed the phone and dialled Santer. When his friend answered, he read him the contents of the note. It was a remote possibility, but what were the chances of a car battery from a garage in eastern Paris ending up out here? Was that why the people behind the killing of Bellin had been so keen on seeing the car destroyed – to eliminate any possibility of a link back to them?

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ Santer said reasonably. ‘But a damn sight better than anything else we’ve got. I’ll get Caspar to go in there. That way we don’t have any jurisdictional problems. In the meantime I’ll get someone looking into who owns this place. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Tasker was back at the Old Bourbon, in Stepney. Ketch was behind the desk as usual, with Brayne sitting in like a watchful Buddha, saying little but absorbing every word.

  ‘We’ve had word from our friends across the Channel,’ Ketch announced grandly, studying the end of a fat cigar and blowing gently on the burning tip. ‘Your pal Inspector Rocco has been suspended pending investigation for corruption. How about that? They don’t hang about, do they? One whiff and those Frenchies bring down the chopper.’

  Tasker smiled. It was the best bit of news he’d heard all day. ‘Pity it doesn’t work that quick with our own lot,’ he muttered. He was surprised by the speed of events; he’d expected a couple of days at least before anything happened.

  ‘If only. It seems someone dropped off some very tasty pictures showing him accepting a packet of readies. Good work, George. You done well. There’ll be a pressie for Bones, too. Nice snaps, they were. Classy.’

  Tasker glowed. It was nice earning some praise after the last lash-up. It also made up for the nightmare of a flight that Ketch had put him through. The tiny plane had creaked and rattled all the way over and back, with the pilot acting like a Battle of Britain ace until Tasker had threatened to break a few of his fingers. ‘Yeah, well … he walked right into it, the mug.’

  ‘Thing is, will it stick? They’re not stupid; they’ll know it’s a bit iffy, done out in the open like that. Still, short notice, it was the best we could do.’

  ‘It might slow Rocco down and put a dent in his career prospects,’ Brayne ventured. ‘The smell lingers. Trust is very difficult to keep under those circumstances.’

  Ketch nodded and settled back in his chair. ‘You’re right there, Brayne. Still, that’s done and dusted. On to other things, eh?’ He looked at Tasker. ‘Our French friends want us to run another “scenario” like the last one. Different place this time, but similar tactics.’

  ‘Again?’ Tasker couldn’t help it; he needed another trip to France like a dose of the clap. And what were the French playing at?

  ‘Yes. Again. And why?’ Ketch lifted his eyebrows, daring Tasker to argue. ‘Because we’re being paid to do it, that’s why. It’s a business contract, pure and simple. The only difference is, as well as this scenario,’ he lifted his hands and mimed speech marks, ‘you’ll be doubling up.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘We’ve been doing a bit of research on the side, George.’ He glanced at Brayne. ‘What was the term you used, Brayne?’

  ‘Expanding our area of operations,’ the accountant said softly.

  ‘That’s it. Expanding our area of operations. And one way of doing that is to look further afield, to somewhere where the bleedin’ Sweeney don’t have any influence.’ He checked the end of his cigar and explained, ‘There’s a little bank in a small town called Béthune, just across the water, about an hour from Calais. As close as that, it hardly counts as in France, does it? Anyway, word is, this bank is just waiting to be knocked over, and sits on the outskirts of the town. No traffic snarl-ups, good getaway routes to the Channel … and who’d ever think of a bunch of London boys knocking over a bank over there, eh?’

  ‘What’s the risk?’ said Tasker. It was something he was allowed to say. Risk was something they all shared. For risk, read cops.

  ‘Now that’s the beauty of it, see. The cops’ll all be looking the other way. Guaranteed.’ He grinned knowingly. ‘We’ll get a friendly local to drop a couple of rumours about jobs planned elsewhere.’ He threw his arms out. ‘The elegance of this job is bleedin’ amazing.’

  ‘What’s so special about this place?’ Tasker didn’t get it. A bank was a bank. Some offered more promise than others, some more risk. Elegance didn’t come into it. ‘And why now?’

  ‘I’m glad you asked, George. This particular branch is right next to a new industrial zone. They get regular drops of cash for the local factory workers, nicely packed in metal cases … and it’s ours for the taking. In, out and away, neat as ninepence. You won’t even need any gear. Just good timing, a show of strength and a fast car. A real old-style blagging. What d’you reckon?’

  Tasker thought it sounded too good to be true. No bank in the world just sat there waiting to be knocked over. ‘Won’t the Frenchies object, us moving in on their turf?’

  ‘The Frenchies, as you insist on calling them, George, are helping us do it. They’ve scouted it out, they’re supplying plans of the inside – everything we need bar them doing it for us.’

  ‘Why don’t they do it themselves?’

  ‘Search me. Personally, I think it’s a thank you for our help with these scenarios. Never look a gift horse, George, that’s what me old mum used to say.’ He tapped ash off his cigar. ‘Now, are you up for it or not?’

  ‘Two jobs on the same day.’ Tasker thought about the men available, men he could trust. ‘That’s pushing it.’

  Ketch showed his teeth. ‘Not only on the same day, George. Simultaneously.’

  ‘Eh? How?’

  ‘Division of labour, that’s how.’ He waved a hand, clearly enjoying the situation. ‘It doesn’t need more than Fletcher to drive the truck. He’s more than capable of buggering up a car with a truck all by himself, as we know.’ He gave a malevolent smile. ‘And this time, it’s for real, not play-acting.’

  Tasker suddenly saw where this was going. He felt a shiver of excitement. Christ, this wasn’t just messing about; it had all been for a reason. He felt annoyed that he hadn’t been told before, but said nothing. ‘Who’s the target – anyone I know?’

  It was a question too far; he saw that instantly. Ketch’s face
shut down like a fridge door slamming. ‘Not your worry, George. While Fletch’s doing his bit, you and the boys, with Calloway as wheelman doing what he does best, will be relieving the Crédit Agricole – that’s the name of this bank – of a nice amount of folding francs.’ He pulled on his cigar, watching the grey smoke curling into the air. ‘Think you can do that?’

  Tasker looked offended. He’d earned his stripes doing bank jobs. His first was aged twenty, with a team in Chelmsford, using a sawn-off and lots of attitude to hide his gut-churning fear from the more experienced men with him. Since then, there had been plenty more, often with him holding the reins. In fact, he prided himself on having become something of an expert over the years, even though he’d copped a couple of prison terms here and there, although never for anything serious like carrying firearms. As soon as he’d been able to, he’d left that to others.

  He’d never robbed a French bank before. How hard could it be?

  He said, ‘No problem, boss. Be nice to get back to the old game.’ He hadn’t done one for at least a year. He wouldn’t want to get out of practice.

  ‘That’s the spirit, George. Good man.’ Ketch smiled and blew out a perfect smoke ring. ‘And you don’t even have to worry about sourcing replacement vehicles. It’s all being laid on by our friends over there. Any questions?’

  Tasker thought about how the last job had gone down. ‘Only about the truck. If this is for real, wouldn’t it be better to use a bigger model? More punch that way.’ And Fletcher, the mad fucker, would love it, he thought nastily. Like a giant kid in a toyshop, looking for something to break.

  Ketch shook his head. ‘No. It has to be the same model as last time. Personally, I agree with you, bigger would be better. But it’s their money, so their call. They said the driver would see why when he gets there. The Renault was reliable enough, wasn’t it? Tough little motor, as I hear it.’