Death on the Pont Noir (18 page)

Waiting for Santer to call back was going to be agony, and Rocco knew he’d be climbing the walls before that happened. He decided to fight fire with fire. He picked up the telephone and called Inspector Nialls in London.

‘Hello, Lucas.’ Nialls sounded wary. ‘Sounds as if you’re having problems.’

The British art of understatement, Rocco figured. He wondered how Nialls had heard.

‘I hope,’ he said, ‘you do not believe everything you hear.’

‘I don’t. Especially when I heard so quickly. Your friend Broissard called me about an hour ago. He suggested in a roundabout manner that it might be better if I ignored any further approaches from you.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, Lucas, I shouldn’t have told them about our chat, but I figured you were all working in the same neighbourhood.’

‘Forget it,’ said Rocco. ‘I thought the same. Can I still ask for your help?’ 

‘Of course. I’m retiring, so I don’t care.’ He chuckled lightly down the phone. ‘It’s a refreshing change after all these years of jumping through hoops and doing the right thing; a bit like being out of school, if I can recall that far back. How did it happen? Broissard wouldn’t say; merely suggested you’d been compromised by contacts with a criminal organisation.’

Compromised, not accused. Broissard had been clever, he thought, no doubt acting on instructions from
Saint-Cloud
. The very mention of being compromised would make many police colleagues back away fast from the officer concerned, and would be enough to sink most careers without further question. ‘It was George Tasker and a man called Bones.’ He described what had happened and heard Nialls making explosive noises at the other end.

‘And they believed that load of old cobblers? Sorry, that means—’

‘I know what it means. And the answer is yes, they believed it.’

‘Christ Almighty, Tasker being involved would be enough for most coppers this side of the water to smell a rat, he’s done it so often. It rather explains where he was flying off to, though, doesn’t it? I suppose there are similar small airfields near you where he could have landed?’

‘A few,’ Rocco agreed. There were often small planes buzzing around the skies in the area, and he had a good idea where the most active club airfield was situated. He made a note to get Desmoulins onto it.

‘The other man was Bones, you say?’ Nialls continued. ‘That sounds disturbingly familiar. Did you get a first name?’ 

‘No. We were not introduced. But he takes a good photograph.’ Rocco described the man and heard the sound of a low whistle at the other end.

‘I thought so. There’s only one man I know who fits that description. Let me double-check, will you? I’ve a colleague here who knows Tasker’s circle of festering little mates better than I do. Won’t be a second.’ The phone went down with a clunk and Rocco heard a mumble of voices in the background, followed by laughter. Seconds later Nialls was back.

‘Well, that was easy. Fortunately, Tasker’s no Einstein; he used one of his own friends. My colleague confirms that it was a photographer named Patrick Daniel Skelton, known as “Bones”. That’s a play on words, although I suspect you know that.’

‘I do.’

‘Right. Skelton lurks at the lower edges of his profession, providing so-called evidence for divorce scams set up by a couple of private detectives. When he’s not doing that, he freelances for one of the nastier news rags and does photographic work for magazines in Soho. He has several minor convictions for handling pornography. I’ve had the dubious task of talking to him myself on a couple of occasions. I felt like having a bath after each one.’

‘And he is a friend of Tasker?’

‘Yes, although probably more supplier than friend.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I gather George Tasker has a rather brutal approach to getting women. Skelton gets them coming to him all the time, hoping for “film” work. One feeds the other.’

Rocco recalled Tasker’s expression when he’d seen Alix 
at the station. The air of sexual menace in his eyes had been blatant, and what Nialls had said came as no surprise.

‘Can you find out if this Skelton was out of the country at the same time as Tasker?’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?’

‘What exactly does Fletcher do?’

‘You mean when he’s not throwing his weight around for Ketch or Tasker? He’s a doorman – a bouncer. But when he’s not bullying drunks, he drives haulage trucks. Most of it’s involved with shifting illegal goods, but we haven’t been able to catch him at it yet.’

Rocco thanked him and put down the phone. So, another driver.

A
truck
driver.

A truck ramming a car. He pictured the scene, and thought about the two men involved. Fletcher the giant fist, the battering ram; Calloway the expert, the artist. Which one would be more useful for an attack on the president? A getaway driver with the skill to out-distance any police pursuit must be high up there. In most of the previous attacks, putting distance between themselves and the vengeful authorities had proved the most difficult thing for the gunmen to accomplish. In most cases, anyone who had escaped had done so through a knowledge of the area, of being able to slip away through narrow backstreets and hide among the local population. Or by sheer unadulterated good fortune. Because sometimes luck favoured the ungodly, too.

But if Rocco’s suspicions were correct, what use would a racing driver be on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere? With none of the usual security, public or press 
on hand, why would they need speed to escape afterwards? If the planned visit to the Pont Noir was going to be private, even the normal publicity machine would be unaware of the president’s presence. Any ensuing getaway would therefore be almost surreally casual in its execution.

Which meant Calloway wouldn’t be required. Not there, at any rate.

Because Fletcher would be the instrument of assault. Fletcher would be the giant fist driving a very blunt instrument. Everything hinged on him.

He’d been looking at the wrong man.

The Lilas Garage in St Gervais was a hive of activity when Caspar arrived and parked across the street. It was just after seven in the evening. Set amid a row of small houses down a cul-de-sac, the place had an air of neat respectability, with a freshly painted frontage and a large roller door keeping the noise in and, he suspected, unwanted visitors out.

He’d driven out from the city as soon as he’d got the call from Santer, keen to help in any way that he could with Rocco’s dilemma, the need to go trawling for OAS leads forgotten. If the DS wrecked near Amiens had come from this garage, and it was tied in with an assassination plot against the president, then he was ready to do whatever it took to prove the link. Not that he felt overly bothered by a threat to de Gaulle. But helping out Rocco, who had given him a chance when nobody else had, was very high on his list of priorities. If that also helped preserve
Le Grand Charles
for another day … well, you couldn’t have everything. 

A tour of local bars, playing the part of a cautious motorist seeking a reputable garage to supply and service a decent car, had thrown up the names of one or two local businesses. Oddly, few had mentioned
Ets. Lilas Moteurs
, and those who had had been reluctant to give glowing endorsements, with one or two clamming up when he’d pressed them for details. Caspar’s nose for the faintly dubious, along with a friendly call to a one-time colleague in the area, had soon verified that the garage was not quite what it seemed. They did not encourage walk-in customers, and had no visible used-car lot. They appeared, however, to process a good number of vehicles, although few, if any, buyers were ever seen on the premises.

Caspar watched the place and waited. He’d picked up a hint from his one-time colleague that the owner was actually only a manager, but it was going to be difficult to prove who owned the place without going through a lengthy process of accessing business records with the local town hall. That was something Santer would be able to do legitimately. In the meantime, Caspar preferred to see if he could shake something up the old-fashioned way.

A heavyset man in blue overalls appeared from a Judas gate in the roller door, stepping to one side and lighting up a cigarette. Behind him as the door opened and closed came the bright flutter of a welding torch and the clatter of metal hitting a concrete floor.

Caspar climbed out of his car and wandered across the street, lighting up a cigarette and holding it with the glowing end cupped in his hand. He nodded at the mechanic, who grunted in return, but eyed Caspar warily.

‘A guy said this might be a good place to pick up a decent 
car,’ he said casually, and named one of the bars where the garage had been mentioned. ‘I think his name was Marco.’

‘Is that right?’ The man studied him carefully. ‘I don’t know any Marco.’

‘Well, maybe I got it wrong. But you do sell cars, right? For cash?’

‘Now and then.’ The man indicated with his chin Caspar’s car, a dark-blue Peugeot. ‘But it looks like you’ve already got one.’

‘It belongs to my brother. He lent it to me but he needs it back.’ He dropped the cigarette and stamped on it. ‘Still, if you’re not interested.’

‘Depends how much you want to spend,’ said the man. ‘We do good work – we’re not cheap. And it would have to be cash.’

‘Sure. Are you the owner? Only I like to deal with the boss.’

‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’ The man looked prickly, his eyes narrowing. His voice had dropped to a low growl.

‘I’m not suggesting that. I just like to know who I’m dealing with, that’s all – especially if I’m going to spend a decent amount of money.’

‘Then I’m the boss, yes. You dealing or not?’

The man was lying. Caspar didn’t know who he was, but he wasn’t the main man – he could feel it. ‘Okay. Have you got any models I can see?’

‘Not here.’ The mechanic flicked his cigarette away and turned to go inside. ‘Meet me in thirty minutes … I need to finish up here first.’

‘Sure. Where?’ 

‘Back to the main road, go right and take the third on the right. There’s a lock-up down there where we keep our cars. Bring cash. You do have cash, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’ Caspar held out his hand. ‘I’m Michel.’

The man ignored the hand. ‘Good for you. See you in thirty.’

Caspar drove out of the street and followed the directions to the lock-up. It was as the man had said. The building was fairly new, a brick-built, metal-clad unit of the type springing up everywhere, and big enough, he estimated, to house about a dozen vehicles. It was in darkness, with no cars outside and no signs of life. He parked along the road and walked back to the front door, and peered through the glass. All he could see was an office containing two desks and a scattering of paperwork. He checked he wasn’t being watched and walked around the back, where he found a large roller door opening out to a hardstanding. The area was unlit, sunk in heavy shadows. There were no cars here, either. He stepped up close to the roller shutter, where an oval window was set in one of the metal sections. He rubbed away a film of grime and put his face against the glass. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the poor light.

The lock-up was empty.

He stepped back from the roller door and kept moving, walking away from the building until he was standing in the shadow of some trees fifty metres away, off-site. His skin was prickling and he felt his pulse quickening. He’d been in this situation many times before, and had learnt to follow his instincts; and right now, his instincts were telling him to get out – fast. 

But he waited.

Ten minutes later, a car appeared and turned in at the front of the building.

The man was early.

Then he saw movement inside the vehicle. At least three occupants, all big. He stood absolutely still. The glow of the headlights wasn’t strong enough to reach back here, but he didn’t want to take any chances. This was their turf, not his, and they’d soon pick up on anything unusual.

He heard the car doors opening and closing. A murmur of voices, then footsteps. One man appeared, walking away up the road, passing briefly beneath a street light. He was wearing a leather jacket and boots, broad-shouldered and with a shaved head. Checking out the parked cars, Caspar decided.

Then two more men came round the side of the building and checked the rear yard. They were dressed in work clothing and heavy boots, and moved in concert without talking, as if they had done this before.

Caspar heard an oath when they found the area empty, and watched as the men walked back to the front and stood chatting. The first man came back, and as he met his colleagues, he shook his arm and a length of metal pipe slid out of his sleeve.

The three men laughed and got back in the car and drove away.

Caspar found a bar and used the phone at the back. He called Santer at home. ‘It’s a chop shop,’ he reported, using an Americanism. ‘And they’re very jumpy. Word locally is, they don’t do any normal trade, just specialised stuff.’ 

‘Did you talk to anyone inside?’

‘Briefly. Their idea of customer relations is a bit unusual. I arranged a buying meet, and three of them came armed with iron bars.’

‘Ouch. You okay?’

‘Yes. I had a feeling about them and stayed out of the way. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t made – I just think they’re on high alert. I couldn’t even get a name. You’ll have to go through the paperwork.’

‘I can do that. Thanks, Marc. You’d better put your head down and stay out of trouble.’

‘I can follow up one of the OAS leads I’ve got.’

‘Okay. But watch your back.’

‘I didn’t realise today was a national police holiday.’ Mme Denis was waiting in the dark outside Rocco’s gate when he returned from a punishing five kilometres run along the Danvillers road. A sharp night chill had settled across the countryside – not ideal weather for running, but he’d used the exercise on the deserted road to vent some of the impatience and frustration from his system, and to free up his mind for what lay ahead. He was well aware that if he didn’t manage to clear himself of suspicion very quickly, he’d face a rough time indeed and be out of a job at the very least. And that was without the looming possibility that there was a credible threat to the president’s life, no matter what Colonel Saint-Cloud believed.

He opened the gate and led his neighbour into the house, his skin tingling at the sudden warmth. The road surface had been a shimmering patchwork of early ice crystals, promising a heavier than normal morning frost, and the 
grass on the verges was already showing stiff and pale. But the run had managed to make him feel energised once more. He considered how much he could tell his neighbour, and what the likelihood was that she would find out soon enough what had happened to him.

‘I’ve been suspended,’ he told her, putting some water on to boil. ‘Accused of taking a bribe.’

There, it was out. But he couldn’t think of handling it any other way. Mme Denis had welcomed him to Poissons and helped ease him into the village community as much as Claude Lamotte had done, albeit in her own way, and she was no fool; she knew today was no holiday for the police or anyone else.

‘Hah!’ She barked at him and nudged him to one side. She took the lid off his percolator, inspecting the filter before upending it and banging it onto a sheet of newspaper and dropping the contents into his rubbish bin. She rubbed her fingers on her apron. ‘I knew they were up to no good.’ She rinsed off the filter and replaced it, then filled it with fresh ground coffee from a tin in the cupboard.

Rocco watched her with amusement. ‘I’m glad you know your way around my kitchen. Who are you talking about?’

‘Those men who came to see you. Why do strangers think they can sit outside a house in a place like this with the engine running and not be noticed?’ She placed two cups and saucers on the table. ‘I saw him, the big one. He tried your front door, then went and stood out in the road with the other one. He looked like a weasel.’ She looked at Rocco with piercing eyes. ‘Not friends of yours, I hope. They looked like trouble. Foreigners. You shouldn’t be 
drinking coffee this late at night – it’s bad for the digestion.’

Rocco said, wondering if he wasn’t hoping for too much, ‘What did you see?’

‘I saw the big one hand you an envelope. Is that what this is all about? He was giving you money? Damn stupid of you to take it, if you ask me. No wonder someone thinks you’re a bad one.’ She pursed her lips and poured water onto the coffee, then placed the percolator on the stove, where it began to bubble with a regular, gloopy sound.

Rocco felt his spirits sag. He could have done with the support of this woman more than most. But if asked, all she would be able to say was that she saw him take an envelope from a stranger. It wasn’t going to make for the most convincing defence.

‘Still,’ she continued, dropping two sugar lumps into his cup, ‘you did the right thing by throwing it back at him, although,’ she prodded him in the chest, ‘I was hoping you were going to knock his head off – but you didn’t.’

‘You saw me give it back?’ He felt a weight lift off his chest. It was no guarantee, bearing in mind that she was his neighbour and friend. But it offered a slim chance that his story might now be believed.

‘Of course I did.’ She looked up at him and nudged him with her elbow, eyes twinkling. ‘What good are nosey neighbours if they never see anything?’

Rocco smiled down at her. ‘Thank you.’

‘Now, don’t go getting all emotional,’ she told him. ‘You’re not out of the mud yet. Who do I speak to?’

Massin. It had to be. ‘
Commissaire
Massin is my immediate boss,’ he said. ‘He might pass you on to someone higher – maybe in another station. But he’s a start.’ 

‘How do you get on with this Massin? Is he a good boss?’

He shrugged. He wasn’t about to go into their shared history, but she might as well know that they were not exactly best
copains
. ‘We manage – but that’s about all.’

‘That’s good.’ She nodded approvingly. ‘Because if
he
believes you, you’re in with a chance.’ She walked to the door. ‘I’ll call him from the phone in the café tomorrow first thing and put him right. And don’t worry – I’ll make sure all the gossipmongers are out of the room when I do it.’

Half an hour later, there was a knock at the door.

It was Claude Lamotte, carrying a shoebox under one arm.

‘Sorry it’s late,’ he announced, although he didn’t look it. He was puffing against the cold. ‘Are you in to visitors?’ He sniffed. ‘Ah, coffee. Lovely. I could do with a cup, thank you.’ He brushed past Rocco and dropped the box on the table, then helped himself to a cup and looked into it as if searching for gold.

Rocco took the hint. He lifted a bottle of cognac from the cupboard and handed it over. Claude grinned and added a liberal dose to his cup. He took a sip and looked at Rocco, eyes suddenly serious.

‘You all right?’

‘I’ve felt better,’ said Rocco. The police grapevine worked, even out here. Or maybe Alix had filled her father in on his news.

Claude cleared his throat and pushed the shoebox across the table. ‘That might help.’ 

Rocco lifted the lid. From the weight, he knew instantly what was inside, even before he smelt the familiar soft tang of oil.

Claude said nothing, merely studied the ceiling, rocking back and forth on his heels and slurping his coffee.

Rocco dropped the lid to one side. Wrapped in cloth in the bottom of the box lay a Walther P38. It had a walnut grip and included several loose rounds of ammunition.

‘It’s not right,’ Claude said quickly, when Rocco looked up at him, ‘a cop without a gun. Where the hell do they think this is – England?’ He looked flushed and blew out his cheeks with indignation. ‘Never heard anything so outrageous.’

Rocco took the pistol out of the box and checked the mechanism. It was in perfect working order and lightly oiled, the metal parts sliding together with immaculate precision. It had been well cared for over the years.

‘I suppose it’s no good me asking where you got this,’ he said.

‘I found it in a field.’ Claude stared innocently back at him without blinking, then shrugged expansively, daring him to suggest different. ‘It’s criminal what people leave lying around.’

By ‘people’, Rocco figured it had been a member of the German military. He wondered if that was all he’d lost. He put the gun down. ‘Thank you.’

Claude looked pleased. ‘Hey, don’t thank me – it was Alix’s idea.’ His eyebrows lifted and he looked decidedly proud. ‘Bloody kids … no respect for regulations. Still, what can you do, huh?’

The phone rang. Rocco leant across and picked it up. It was Santer. 

‘Right, two things,’ the captain said without preamble. ‘The Lilas garage in St Gervais is a chop shop. They don’t like casual callers; Caspar went in as a buyer and nearly got himself tenderised with iron bars.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘He’s fine. His radar was working and he ducked out. I told him to stay away, and he’s going after some OAS group he’s got word on. After that, I did some digging. The garage is owned by a woman called Debussy … who is the wife of the manager. He in turn happens to be a nephew of … Patrice Delarue.’ He gave a bark of disgust. ‘The nerve of these people – they don’t even bother trying to hide what they’re doing! An intern could have found this in minutes.’

‘Delarue’s just keeping it in the family,’ said Rocco. ‘But he keeps his hands clean and the Debussy woman can always claim her husband was working without her knowledge. Nice people. Can we use it?’

‘Well, it’s enough to allow us in there to look at their paperwork, given a helpful judge to sign it off. If we can trace a receipt for the DS battery, it proves a link. We’ll probably find it hard to make that stick, but it’ll disrupt his organisation for a while until we get something better.’

‘Good work, Michel. I’ve a feeling a lunch is in order.’ It was a step nearer, and one that the Paris police would jump on. They had been after Delarue for far too long to let go easily of a chance to bring him down.

‘At last,’ Santer breathed, and laughed. ‘Food. The man’s talking my language. I can’t wait.’

‘You’ve earned it. What was the other thing?’

‘You recall the paratrooper, Captain Lamy, wounded in the N19 attack?’ 

‘Yes.’

‘It seems he’s just been found and questioned by the DST, our esteemed internal security organisation. He caught a secondary infection and had to be taken to hospital. He’s currently spilling his guts and claims he took part in the attack to help his brother. You now have to ask me who his brother is.’

‘I have no idea but you’re clearly about to tell me.’ He could sense Santer was enjoying this moment of triumph.

‘Actually, his name doesn’t really matter. Suffice to say he’s a gambler and general black sheep of the Lamy crop. Not a good gambler, because he owes a small fortune to a private casino owned by none other than Patrice Delarue. Captain Lamy claims Delarue told him if he didn’t help out, his delinquent brother would end his days in the Seine tied to a large piece of concrete. Personally, I think Lamy had to have been a sympathiser, anyway, so the decision wasn’t too hard for him to make. It just needed something like his brother’s skin to justify why he’d go along with it.’

‘That proves Lamy’s involved with Delarue. But is he tied in to any anti-Gaullist groups?’

‘I can’t prove that. But I did find out one little snippet.’

‘Which is?’

‘Six months ago, Captain Lamy applied to join the presidential security department run by your new best friend, Colonel Saint-Cloud.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. And in spite of his record of discontent, his name was placed on a reserve list. Given a few weeks and he could have been on the inside.’