Death on the Pont Noir (11 page)

Bellin’s scrapyard after the rain looked even more miserable than before. The gates looked shoddy and sad, dripping wet, and the surrounding fence was as unwelcoming as a mausoleum.

Rocco stopped his car just short of the entrance and climbed out.

The DS was somehow at the heart of this whole thing, he was certain of it. As Desmoulins had said, nobody orders the scrapping of an expensive piece of machinery like the DS merely because of a dent in one side – not even extravagant film-makers with their investors’ cash to spare.

The gates were unchained.

He slipped through without touching the corrugated cladding, and instantly felt the sour graveyard atmosphere closing around him, the piles of dead cars and torn metal like jagged, rusting monuments to man’s wasteful extravagance.

He remembered the dog barking last time. There was none of that now; no signs of occupation, no banging or grinding of machinery. But guard dogs didn’t always signal in advance that they were coming. They just arrived and began chewing bits out of intruders.

He took out the MAB 38 and checked the magazine.

‘Bellin?’ There was no echo; his voice simply vanished, soaked up by the years of dirt and oil and scrap metal.

An ancient ship’s bell was hanging from a post near the cabin door. He rattled the rope and set off a deep clanging noise which seemed to reverberate through the piles of metal like a mad symphony, flushing a clutch of small birds into the air.

But no human reaction.

He checked the cabin, which was unlocked. It was cramped and squalid, doubling as an office and shop, every available centimetre packed with rescued mirrors, lamps, steering wheels, hubcaps and other unnameable car parts from hundreds of different vehicles. A man’s coat was draped across a chair, the cloth once good but now worn and shiny and ragged around the hem. A mug of chocolate stood on a small desk, a thin tail of steam curling into the air.

He checked the phone. Still working.

Back outside, he stood listening. He thought he’d heard something. Or maybe it had been the breeze sighing through the twisted towers of metal, setting up a mournful whining sound like souls in torment. If Bellin was here, he was keeping very quiet or was already buried under a pile of his own scrap.

Unless the dog had eaten him.

He walked through the yard, stepping carefully over patches of oil and shimmering multicoloured patches of spilt fuel. Shards of discarded metal sprouted like bright, spiky weeds amid a carpet of windscreen fragments, the whole scene resembling a madman’s sordid, glistening patchwork.

He rounded a pile of battered door panels at the very rear of the yard. Bellin was sitting alongside a wrecked tractor sprouting weeds from its wheels, its location and condition a sign of just how old the place was. He was sucking nervously on a roll-up twisted like a stick of pasta and stained by oily fingers. He appeared indifferent to Rocco’s arrival, but there was no mistaking the pallor of a man terrified out of his mind.

Rocco said, ‘You’re a hard man to find.’ He glanced round at the walls of metal. It was like a bunker of junk. Except that there was only the one way out.

Bellin eyed the gun. ‘What the hell do you want?’ he whispered. He dropped the remains of the cigarette on the ground between his feet. It joined several others already laying there, some dug into the earth by his heel.

‘I’d like another chat. Is the dog around?’

A shake of the head. ‘They’re gone.’

‘Gone? Who?’

‘Jacques and Bruno – who do you think? The two you saw before.’ He scrabbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a flat tin. Prising the lid off with a filthy, curled thumbnail, he extracted another roll-up. He snapped the lid shut and put the tin away, then took out a lighter and fired up the cigarette, dragging in a lungful of smoke. ‘That’s your doing; you drove them away.’

‘Maybe they got a better offer. What about the dog?’ He
was becoming unnerved by the silence in the yard. All this metal and no noise; it didn’t feel right.

‘Fuck the dog.’ Bellin hawked noisily and spat on the ground. ‘You’ve killed me, you know that?’

‘How do you work that out?’ Rocco tested the front wing of a truck and sat down. He had his back to the nearest metal pile, kept the gun in his hand. If the dog came hunting, he’d have two, maybe three seconds to stop it.

‘You and your questions, coming here in your big black car and nosing around like God Almighty. It’s not right.’ Bellin didn’t appear to have heard him, but was rambling along on automatic, the bitter, resentful words spilling out as if released from captivity. ‘You might as well have put up a sign with a bloody great arrow pointing at me.’ He sucked at the cigarette but it had gone out. He crumpled the dead smoke in thick fingers and dropped the shredded remnants on the ground. Spat a mouthful of phlegm after it.

‘You’re not making much sense.’

‘Word. Word got out that you’d come round asking about the DS. Doesn’t take any time at all for that to spread.’

‘Word got out to whom?’

‘I should have burnt that bloody thing the moment it arrived here – and the driver with it. Poured petrol on it and watched it melt.’ He dug a heel into the soft ground, grinding some of the butt ends deeper into the mud with studied viciousness. ‘I should have known it would come to no good.’

‘If you help me,’ said Rocco, ‘I can help you.’

Bellin’s eyes threw back the futility of that promise. ‘You think? You have a safe place where they can’t get at me? A big dark hole where even the light doesn’t shine?’
He sighed. ‘I’d be dead inside two days.’

‘If that’s the case, and you’re that important to them – whoever they are – you should consider my offer.’

‘Important?’ Bellin didn’t even lift his head. ‘I’m not important.’

‘So why would they come after you so quickly?’ He knew the answer perfectly well, but it was better to keep Bellin talking.

The scrap dealer gave a tired smile. ‘You know why, Rocco. You’ve been round the block; I’ve heard things about you, so don’t pretend to be the thick-eared country cop. You know how things work.’

He was right. Rocco knew all too well. Whoever Bellin worked for, if they thought he was doing anything more than being seen by the police about a suspicious car, they would come after him. No other reason existed. It was enough that he was seen talking to them out in the open. But if he agreed to go in, it would be seen as the ultimate betrayal, and that would merit an example to be set and a message to others.

Rocco opened his mouth to say more, then closed it again. He’d come across many others like Bellin; recognised them for what they were. Coarsened and brutalised by a life of petty crime and used by others more powerful than them, they strutted through life like winners in their own small world, but underneath it all were in constant fear of retribution from those same people whom they feared or had offended in some way. What Bellin lacked right now, here, today, was the imagination to survive, to tear himself away and flee. He was trapped by his own surroundings, unable to visualise an alternative, like a steer in a slaughter yard awaiting its fate.

He left Bellin to his self-imposed misery and drove back to the station. He would come back once the man had taken a while to think over his options. He was almost there, living the threat that was hanging over him, real or imagined; all it would need was a nudge and he’d crumble.

It was nearly lunchtime and quiet. He found Colonel Saint-Cloud in his temporary office studying a sheaf of papers.

‘I think I’ve found a possible attack site,’ Rocco told him.

Saint-Cloud gave a slight lift of an eyebrow. He was clearly sceptical but the statement seemed to take him by surprise. ‘How could you do that? You don’t even know the proposed route or timing.’

‘I know the president has expressed a desire to visit a local monument. I also know it will be a private visit, so no entourage, no press and minimum security presence other
than his normal bodyguards. And I know how the attack will be carried out. What I don’t know for sure is when, or by whom.’

The wall clock ticked loudly several times before the colonel said, ‘How could you even know about such a place or the president’s interest in it?’ His face looked tight, and his voice carried a hint of disbelief. ‘Who told you?’

‘I learnt about it earlier this morning. It doesn’t matter who told me.’ Rocco didn’t want Blake to get into trouble, although he couldn’t think why Blake would have told him about it unless it was already known in certain quarters.

‘I think it matters very much. I would like the name, please, Rocco.’

Rocco shook his head. ‘If the information is out there already, Colonel, and I heard about it, then it’s too late to matter. The person who told me is not a threat, I promise you. But ignoring it is.’

More ticks of the clock, then, ‘Very well. You had better show me.’

Rocco led him downstairs to the wall map, and asked Berthier to clear the office and make sure nobody entered. When the door was closed, he explained in brief what he believed would happen, based on having seen the location and the entrance and exit roads, and its uncanny similarity to the site of the ramming. He used his rough-drawn sketch to back this up, then stood back and let Saint-Cloud think it over. What he didn’t mention was Calloway and his colleagues; while all the clues pointed towards their involvement somehow, he still wasn’t sure how a group of Englishmen could be tied in with an assassination attempt on the French head of state. That part still made no sense.
Besides, there were other reasons why he didn’t want to set that particular hare running just yet.

The colonel seemed unimpressed. ‘I can see why you would consider this, Inspector. But the president has given no indications to me that he intends going to this Pont Noir, wherever it is. It may well have some historic and social importance to France and other countries, but he has far more important places to visit. In fact, I can show you one where my own experience tells me he is far more vulnerable … and where I have good reason to believe he will go very soon.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘I do have experience of these matters. Ensuring the safety of the President of the Republic is not as straightforward as catching criminals, I assure you.’

Rocco couldn’t understand why Saint-Cloud was being so dismissive. But he was remembering Santer’s warning about watching his back, and his vulnerability should anything go wrong. He’d been assigned to Saint-Cloud to help with the security review, and that was what he was doing. But he was determined not to be fobbed off because of the security chief’s superiority over a police detective. ‘I think you need to see this place for yourself.’

Saint-Cloud looked almost affronted at having his decision questioned. He took a deep breath and said coldly, ‘Are you absolutely certain, Inspector Rocco, that you have not allowed yourself to be influenced by some … disconnected but inexplicable events involving a car and a truck, driven by people you have not yet found? I can see why you would draw the conclusions you have, but this all seems … circumstantial, and frankly, nothing more than cinematic in scope.’

‘Maybe. But it won’t harm to look, will it? And,’ he added dryly, ‘your expertise will soon prove it one way or another.’

It was a challenge Saint-Cloud couldn’t ignore, nor could he dismiss the suggestion of an eyeball inspection. ‘Very well,’ he said stiffly. ‘How long will it take? Only I have a meeting in one hour. I’ll take my own car.’

‘Depends how fast you drive,’ said Rocco. He headed for the door and the rear car park. ‘Follow me and I’ll show you.’ A strong grain of rebellion resisted the courtesy of offering the colonel a lift. Besides, he had a feeling the man would only sneer at Rocco’s Traction and deem it unworthy of a proper policeman.

As he turned along the corridor leading to the back door, leaving Saint-Cloud to get his car keys, he saw Caspar walking towards him, a relaxed grin on his face. They shook hands and Rocco led the former undercover cop outside.

‘Good to see you again,’ he said quickly, unlocking his car. ‘Thanks for coming.’

Caspar looked in good trim, although still gaunt, but less strained than he had previously, less haunted. ‘My pleasure. I needed a change of scenery, anyway. And it gave me an excuse to sit on a train and do nothing for a while.’

‘Good idea. Santer says you’re working.’

‘Yes. Some regular jobs doing security and a bit of low-level surveillance. Nothing too big yet. But getting there.’ He smiled almost shyly, his demeanour a complete transformation from when Rocco had last seen him. But then, he had been beaten and shot, which tends to make even the strong wilt a little. ‘But this is good.’

‘You still want to get back in?’ Caspar had been suspended on health grounds after the strain of working undercover had become too great. But he’d been desperate to regain his badge ever since, convinced he could still make a contribution.

‘Actually, I’m no longer so sure about that.’

‘Really? What’s changed?’

‘The work. The stuff I do now, it’s got its moments, but there’s no longer the same pressure. There’s some risk, but I can handle it.’ He shrugged. ‘And I’m not kidding myself anymore, you know? I was too near the edge for too long. Problem was, I couldn’t see it.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a girlfriend now. Christ, I’m almost respectable!’

Moments later, Saint-Cloud came out and climbed in his car. If he noticed Caspar, he gave no indication. Rocco led the way out to the Pont Noir, filling in Caspar on the way, including Bellin’s part in the car’s planned disappearance.

‘I’ll put the word out,’ Caspar said. ‘See what the gossips are saying.’

‘It was just a car – a tool for a job. But I think Bellin was being paid by someone big to get rid of it; someone he’s terrified of.’

‘Someone around here?’

Rocco shook his head. ‘Someone in Paris.’ The capital was full of scary people; people who’d only have to glance at a man like Bellin to throw him into a funk.

Caspar puffed his cheeks. ‘Christ, that narrows it down a bit. But not much.’ He nodded through the windscreen. ‘He looks familiar. Not your boss, is he?’

‘Have you heard of Colonel Saint-Cloud?’

‘What, Big Charles’s bodyguard?’ Caspar looked impressed. ‘That’s him? What’s he doing here – and why you?’

‘I was about to explain that. You’ll be working on his payroll, although I don’t expect you to like him for it.’

‘Great. And as long as I don’t have to throw myself in front of a bullet for him.’

‘I had the same thought.’ He explained where they were going, and Saint-Cloud’s resistance to the idea of an attack site or the method involved.

Caspar caught on fast. He’d been around senior officers and officials enough to know that one always had to be on one’s guard. ‘Right. So it’s eyes and ears to the ground, keep my head down and my mouth shut.’

‘Exactly. Find out anything you can about the attack at Guignes … and whether it’s possible they or another group could be planning a follow-up here. They might be crazy enough to try again just because nobody expects it.’

‘Or someone will try to top it.’ Caspar stared out of the window. ‘Wouldn’t take much, topping failure with a successful hit.’

‘Or that.’

‘So he’s definitely coming?’ Caspar meant de Gaulle.

‘Saint-Cloud seems to think so, but he’s not giving anything away.’ He told him what Blake had said about the private visit.

‘I’ll see what I can find out. I know a few OAS guys with long memories, but they’ve gone quiet since independence. I doubt they’re still active, although they might know people who are. What exactly do you want me to do?’

‘Dig around, see if you can get a line on any groups with
contacts out this way. So far I’ve got nothing because
Saint-Cloud’s
given me nothing. But I don’t want to be handed my head on a plate for not trying, and missing something obvious … something you might be able to dig out instead. Santer will fill you in on the N19 attack, but that ended so badly, I wouldn’t rate them as being ready for another go.’

‘Sounds like it was costly, losing two men for a carload of paperwork.’

Rocco agreed. It still puzzled him that the attackers, which had included a former soldier, had stumbled so badly. Getting imprecise information on a target’s timing or route was always a risk plotters had to juggle with. But getting it so badly wrong had been disastrous on an epic scale. It prompted a thought.

‘You might get Santer to find out the name of the motorcycle escort who fought back. See if you can speak to him.’

‘Why – you think there’s something there?’

‘Well, he’s wasted riding a bike, for a start. If that’s his real job.’

Caspar’s eyes went wide as he considered the implications. ‘Damn, you’ve got a devious mind, Rocco.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’

Rocco pulled in to the side of the road opposite the track, just short of the bridge. He and Caspar climbed out as Saint-Cloud parked in front and walked back to join them.

‘Who is this?’ he queried, as if noticing Caspar for the first time. He shrugged on a warm coat, the skin on his face pinched and white, and Rocco wondered how often he ever got out of the office on field trips.

He made introductions, but Saint-Cloud seemed barely interested. ‘Fine,’ he said, when Rocco told him Caspar was on the strength and would be looking into the Paris end of things. ‘Whatever you think is necessary. Clear payment with my office.’ He glanced at Caspar. ‘Just make sure you find me some names, you understand? We’ll drop the hammer on them. We need to stop this thing before it goes too far.’ He glanced around at the bridge and fields. ‘Is this it? This is your suggested attack zone?’ He shook his head. ‘Rocco, you disappoint me.’

Rocco bit his tongue. Losing his temper with
Saint-Cloud
would serve no purpose. He indicated the point where the road passed the mouth of the track. ‘I believe they’ll leave some kind of obstruction here to slow down the president’s car … work signs, something like that. But instead of using guns, they’ll come down the track past that shed, using a truck to drive the official car off the road here and over the edge.’ The shed’s pigeons, he noted, were looking at the three men with wary interest. No doubt they had learnt at an early stage that anything that flew was fair game for the end of a long gun.

Rocco led the other two to the brink of the gully and pointed down. The drop drew a faint oath from
Saint-Cloud
. ‘Once down there, there’s no coming back. They could do whatever they choose to finish the job. There’ll be nobody to stop them.’

Saint-Cloud looked sceptical. ‘Oh, you mean wine bottles filled with petrol? Like you said that farmer saw the film crew using? The idiot was deluded. Who throws petrol bombs anymore?’

Caspar frowned, unfazed by Saint-Cloud’s rank or
position. ‘I saw Molotovs being used during a protest in Saint Denis a couple of months back. Pretty effective they were. Set a couple of cop cars on fire, broke up the CRS ranks, too, for a while.’ He looked down the slope and murmured, ‘If I was going to make sure nobody got out of a car alive, down there is where I’d do it.’ He shivered. ‘Nasty way to go.’

‘Well, thank you for that expert analysis,’ Saint-Cloud muttered. ‘Believe me, these disaffected groups prefer streets for their cowardly attacks, not open fields. Busy roads, traffic, people – and escape routes for when they run out of courage or ammunition. Out here, they’d be exposed … vulnerable and frightened.’ He turned and walked away across the bridge, stiff-legged and impatient.

‘What an arse,’ Caspar murmured. ‘On past experience, he’s right … but that’s just being blinkered. Makes you wonder how de Gaulle survived this long with him in charge.’

‘Because when it came down to it, others were providing the real protection,’ said Rocco. He felt surprisingly calm in the face of Saint-Cloud’s scepticism. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to win this one, not here and now. But that meant he’d simply have to prove he was right.

Saint-Cloud came back across the bridge, shaking his head. ‘No – I don’t buy it. The president is unlikely to come this way, and even if he wanted to, there’s no way we could let him come to such an isolated spot without full protection. Once any attackers saw that we were prepared, with no way out, they’d call it off.’

‘And go underground,’ Rocco pointed out.

‘Maybe. Maybe not. But I have a better idea of where
they might plan an attack. And it fits with what we know of their methods. Come on.’ He walked back to his car, leaving the other two to follow.

Saint-Cloud drove fast and efficiently, showing that he was not entirely without skills outside the office. They soon arrived on the outskirts of Arras, on a wide crossroads dotted with a handful of houses, a café and a depot supplying
Camping Gaz
. Saint-Cloud had parked on a piece of waste ground next to the café, and walked over to join them as Rocco pulled up.

‘See this?’ He gestured at the four roads in turn. ‘This crossroads is my concern. There is a possibility that the president will come here, to open a new library dedicated to the fallen of the two world wars.’ He pointed east, along a straight stretch of road. ‘He will have to come along this route, which is the quickest approach from the capital. Any other route takes him through too much traffic and narrow streets. But it makes this spot an ideal choke point for an attack.’