Death on the Pont Noir (20 page)

This wasn’t good. He’d pushed someone too hard, asked 
one too many questions; touched a nerve at the wrong moment.

It was time to go.

He left his beer on the bar and wandered towards the back, pausing to watch a game of
baby-foot
in one corner. The two contestants were drunk, spinning the players enthusiastically with no hope of hitting anything. He clapped one of them on the shoulder and shouted encouragement, then stepped casually through the rear door and hurried along a narrow corridor.

As he did so, he heard a volley of voices near the street door, and someone shouted an objection. Then there was the sound of a fist smacking something fleshy.

As he exited the back door into a yard and ran past the entrance to the
pissoirs
, he was surprised to see Susman standing in the shadows, beckoning to him.

‘Where the hell were you?’ he said, and dragged Susman along with him. The man was overweight and soft-looking, dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers from his job as a waiter at a restaurant frequented by members of several street gangs, where he picked up most of his leads. ‘We’d better move; there’s trouble coming.’

‘I know, I heard,’ said Susman. He pointed off down the street. ‘This way – I don’t fancy getting my face rearranged if they see us together.’

When they were three streets away, Susman stopped in a building site between two apartment blocks and stood with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. ‘This is far enough; I’d better get back there or they’ll know something’s up. I go there most nights, so …’

‘Who are those men?’ 

‘Nothing. A couple of bully boys.’

‘They didn’t look like nothing.’

‘I know them from way back. I was talking to them earlier and touching them up about a group they run with. They suddenly got really touchy – and I mean paranoid. Something’s in the wind.’

‘Yeah, but what?’ Caspar felt a shiver of excitement. This was what all those wasted hours had been about: the kick of getting some information before anyone else did and building it into something he could feed back down the line.

‘I’m not sure. It’s heavy, that’s all I can tell you.’

‘Heavy. That doesn’t help. Heavy as in … a hit?’

Susman ducked his head, then scrambled for a cigarette, eyeing the street behind them. He lit it and blew out a plume of smoke. ‘I think so.’

‘Think so? Think or know? Come on, there’s money on this.’

‘Yes. It’s a hit.’

‘On the big man?’ He didn’t want to mention the president by name, even out here.

‘Who else? He’s the nation’s favourite bullseye at the moment, isn’t he?’

‘Tell me something I don’t know. Come on, man. I need names.’

‘I don’t have any, honest. Things are getting difficult … people have shut down since the last failures. It’s like … there’s been a run of bad luck and they’re scared it’s contagious.’

Caspar swore quietly. ‘Bad luck. Christ, anyone would think it was a game of
boules
. You must have a feeling, 
though, right? Which groups are likely to be up for a try right now?’

‘That’s just it – I don’t know. Not even a hint. Not with the groups. All I can tell you is, it’s not political.’

‘Right. There’s going to be a hit on the big man and it’s not political. It’s
all
political, for God’s sake!’

Susman took a deep breath and flicked his cigarette into the gutter, clapped his hands together and stuffed them under his arms. ‘No. Not this time.’

‘What?’ The statement had been too definite to ignore. Caspar grabbed Susman’s shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The sort of people I’ve been hearing about … the ones behind the hit: they’re gangsters.’

A new day brought a flurry of snow to Poissons, powered by a cutting wind which rattled the trees and curled around the house with a soft whining sound. Rocco went for a short run anyway to get his blood moving and his brain in gear.

He kept going over what Nialls had said on the phone. The idea of an English gang’s involvement in hitting a French bank as a distraction exercise hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. But that had now taken on a greater significance. Tasker was known by the London police to have experience at robbing banks; he had two drivers with him, one of them expert in high-speed cars; and with the possible inclusion of Patrice Delarue into the mix – also with a history of high-profile bank robberies – it seemed to point inexorably in one direction. And what other possibilities were there? In a largely rural and unpopulated area, anything less simply wouldn’t pull in the police 
attention that Tasker and his men would be aiming for.

Robbing a bank, however, couldn’t fail to attract maximum attention.

He returned home after fifteen minutes of increasing cold and worked through the mundane routine of cleaning the house, setting a fire round the pump to draw water – even checking the car’s oil level, all activities designed to help pass time. As soon as it hit eight o’clock, he picked up the phone and dialled the number for the War Graves Commission office in Arras. It was early but he had a feeling the superintendent wouldn’t be far away.

A woman answered and identified herself as Jean Blake. The superintendent’s wife.

‘Mrs Blake,’ said Rocco, and introduced himself. ‘My apologies for ringing so early, but I was wondering if your husband was in?’

‘I’m afraid not, Inspector. You just missed him.’

‘Already?’

‘Yes. He’s been invited to the town hall – to a reception.’ Her voice carried a hint of quiet pride, he thought, held carefully in check, and he felt a buzz of energy go through him.

Today. It was today.

‘I see. I just wanted to check his timings and movements.’

‘I can’t help you exactly, although I do know he’s been advised that the … event will take place in private at ten, followed by a reception at the town hall and a signature ceremony for the monument to be given the go-ahead. It’s all very hush-hush, of course.’

‘Of course. I won’t say anything.’ Rocco swore silently.
At ten this morning?
It meant that any diversion or 
distraction event would take place earlier … and just in time to attract the maximum amount of attention. He made his apologies and disconnected, then immediately dialled Desmoulins’ home number. The detective was the only one he could trust.

‘There’s going to be a bank robbery,’ he told him, the moment Desmoulins answered. ‘This morning some time before ten. I don’t know where, but somewhere in this region. You’ll only get a call when it’s in progress. The gang will be the same men who trashed the
Canard Doré
. They’ll probably head back towards the coast immediately afterwards, so as soon as you hear about it, get cars positioned along the main routes to Calais and Boulogne.’

‘A bank job? Is that what this has all been about – money?’

‘No. That’s the point. They’re using it as a diversion.’ He told Desmoulins about the Pont Noir and de Gaulle’s proposed secret visit. ‘They’ll time the bank job to pull in police resources and tie up lines of communication, leaving the way clear for the hit to go ahead.’

‘Christ – we’d better get the troops out. Does
Saint-Cloud
know about this?’

‘Probably more than he lets on. Do you know where he is?’

‘He wasn’t around much yesterday, but he doesn’t exactly take me into his confidence. Do you want me to find him?’

‘No. Don’t bother. I’ll deal with it. You look into the bank end. You might start looking for one with a larger than average cash movement going on today.’

‘That’s easy enough,’ said Desmoulins. ‘The main banks 
in Amiens, Lille and Arras all have cash movements today for paying local factory workers. And Béthune.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘It’s a regular thing; after a couple of jobs two years ago, we had requests from the banks to have patrol cars keep an eye out for when the deliveries are made.’

‘And do they?’ Two years for any kind of standing instruction to be maintained rigorously was a long time, and any lack of activity could soon make officers less than attentive in their duties.

‘Depends if there’s anything else going on and if patrols can be spared. I wouldn’t want to bet on it, though.’

‘Why Béthune?’ Unlike the others, it was a small town about sixty kilometres away, between Arras and Lille. Rocco had only been once, but it had been a fleeting visit and had given him no feel for the place.

‘It was set up to service the Bridgestone tyre factory, among others. The
Crédit Agricole
. It’s right next to the industrial zone on the outskirts of town.’

‘That’s got to be it.’ Suddenly Rocco knew deep down that this was where it was going to happen. English gangsters wouldn’t want to fight their way through busy traffic in a foreign town, especially if they were planning a quick getaway. That automatically knocked Amiens, Lille and Arras out of the equation. But a bank on the outskirts of a small town, loaded with wages money and on the way to the coast? It was a sitting target.

He let Desmoulins get on with his job and disconnected, then called Claude and told him to get ready.

‘You’re not going into the office?’ said Claude.

‘I can’t. I’m suspended, remember? If I show my face 
there I’m likely to be arrested.’ And even if he managed to get Massin to believe him and a show of force turned up at the bridge, the attackers would simply call it off and go underground. And that would end his chances of proving he’d been right all along.

‘So let me get this right,’ said Claude slowly. ‘You’re going to let an attack on you-know-who go ahead … to prove you haven’t been blowing smoke.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Mother of God, that’s risky, Lucas.’

‘It’s the only way.’

Claude grunted. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll see you in ten.’

Rocco shrugged into his coat and picked up the Walther P38 Claude had left behind. He tested the mechanism out of habit and loaded the shells, then slipped the gun in his coat pocket. If he had to use it and there was any fallout, so be it.

His phone rang. It was Santer.

‘Caspar says a criminal gang’s involved. It’s not political.’

‘A gang is mixed up in it,’ Rocco confirmed, ‘but it’s definitely political. Tell Caspar thanks. I owe him.’

‘Not as much as you owe me, you big lug. Oh, and another thing: I checked that Créteil thing you mentioned. Three men picked up at a lock-up? The security boys got a tip-off and sent in a special unit. Turns out they were planning a hit on the president, down near his place in Colombey.’

‘A tip-off.’

‘Yes. They think it was a rival group getting rid of the competition. Either way, Saint-Cloud should be happy, because that’s another threat off the list. Maybe he can relax a bit.’ 

‘No,’ said Rocco. ‘I don’t think so. It’s the exact opposite. That’s what everyone was meant to think.’ Another distraction move, only this time closer to home.

‘What’s going on? I can hear that tone in your voice.’

‘I’ve got to go – it’s started.’

‘Hellfire. Anything I can do?’

‘Stroke a rabbit’s foot for me.’

‘Take it easy, you hear? Don’t get yourself killed. And call me.’

Rocco put down the phone and walked out to the car.

Things began to go wrong the moment George Tasker and his men stepped through the door of the bank.

It was nine-fifteen, with snow in the air dusting the roads and pavements outside. The kind of day you were better off staying at home if you had any sense and nothing more important to do. The kind of day, he reflected, not to be relying on having to drive anywhere fast.

But some days you had no choice.

Leaving Calloway at the wheel of the black DS outside the entrance and facing towards the crossroads ready for a fast getaway, he’d led Biggs and Jarvis, each tooled up with old service revolvers, through the front door. Without pausing, he’d fired a shot from the sawn-off provided by their French contact into the ceiling, bringing down a portion of the tiling and stopping everyone dead in their tracks. Short of shooting someone, it was the single most 
effective method he’d come across of getting everybody’s full and undivided attention.

With the security van gone only minutes ago, Tasker had expected – indeed had been told – to find three handy metal boxes of cash waiting to be picked up. What he saw was one small box, and three men in suits staring at him and his fellow gang members as if they were creatures from outer space.

He plucked a piece of ceiling plaster from his jacket and flicked it away, then stepped over to the centre of the floor. Biggs and Jarvis stayed to cover the door and watch for anyone foolhardy enough to try anything heroic. Pointing his gun at an older man with grizzled grey hair and a hangdog expression, Tasker shouted, ‘
Where’s the money, you French git
?’ He fired another shot over the man’s head, breaking and reloading the gun in seconds, his hands a blur. It was a make of weapon he’d never seen before, stripped bare and filed clean, but it worked well enough and that was all he needed.

It galvanised the man into action. He muttered something at one of his colleagues, who walked over to a large metal door set in the rear wall. He swung the door back a fraction, revealing a glimpse over the counter of a small room lined with shelves.

‘Tasty,’ said Jarvis, and made to leap the counter.

‘Wait.’ Tasker stopped him. It was all too easy. Something about this set-up wasn’t right. Forget the fact that it was French; a bank was a bank was a bank. But this one didn’t feel good. The manager showing them the bank vault so readily was also odd; it stank of a distraction.

He looked around. No customers. Maybe it was too 
early in the day – and he hadn’t thought to ask about opening times. And most banks he’d ever seen had at least a couple of women workers. But not here.

Then he saw a coat stand in one corner. It held two coats, one red and the other a dull mauve colour, a man’s mackintosh and a couple of colourful scarves. Women’s stuff.

He pointed at the manager who was glaring at him. ‘You. Come here.’ He stabbed at a spot in front of him, making sure the man was looking down the twin snouts of the sawn-off.

The man complied. It was only when he was standing before him that Tasker realised something else was missing: that tangible element he was so accustomed to on a bank job, the inevitable reaction of a worker ant being faced by a man with a gun who was not afraid to use it.

Fear.

Something made him lift onto his toes so he could see over the counter into the safe room. A woman was lying on the floor, eyes bulging over a gag around her face, her legs wrapped in rope. Nice legs, too. He could just see a man’s shoulder next to her, and beyond that, another
stocking-covered
leg and a woman’s shoe.

‘Tasker!’ It was Jarvis, shouting a warning.

Tasker turned back to the man in front of him, saw him flicking back his suit jacket and reaching inside. Saw the butt of a revolver stuffed down his waistband.

‘
It’s a set-up!
’ he shouted. He pulled the trigger, realising in the instant that he did so that this was no police trap. The man in front of him, in spite of being armed, was too old for this kind of job in the name of the state. Too old 
and, up close, not smart or quick enough. The shot was deafening in the enclosed space, and caught the man in the centre of his chest, hurling him backwards across the floor. At the same moment Biggs began firing at the other two, who had dived for cover behind the counter, drawing weapons of their own.

The small room reverberated to the sounds of gunshots, and for a fleeting second, Tasker felt his blood stir at the noise, the smell of gunpowder and the pounding of conflict. Then survival kicked in and brought him back to reality. This was a dead end; they’d been fooled, suckered into colliding with someone else’s job. It was a total lash-up. He fired at the two men behind the counter, seeing one man’s hand dissolve under the hail of shot. There was a scream, then the other man stood up and blazed away like a maniac. A yelp came from alongside Tasker and Jarvis was flipped onto his back, his face a bloody mess. Dead.

‘
Out!
’ Tasker shouted at Biggs, and stooped to pick up Jarvis’s revolver. This was beyond going wrong; it couldn’t get any worse. If they stayed here they were dead meat. Running was their only option. He could already hear the first sounds of a siren … or was it his imagination? Surely the local cops couldn’t have got themselves together already.

He felt a shiver go through him, and the first tremors of panic in his legs.

Until that moment, George Tasker had always been lucky. He’d found himself in situations before where things had not run in his favour due to surprise, superior firepower or better tactics by the opposition. You couldn’t 
get it right every time. But he’d always coped and brazened it out; stood up and blasted his way through. But this was different; it was like some kind of horror film unfolding. In the space of two minutes or less, he was a man down and facing gunmen who were on home soil and mad enough to fight back like crazies. And the police sirens were real – and getting louder.

The last brought a disturbing realisation.

They had been sold out.

While Tasker and his men were finding themselves on the brink of disaster, Jack Fletcher was a very happy man. He was sitting alone in the cab of a small Renault truck identical to the previous one he’d driven, with no Tasker watching over him and no smart-Alec Calloway making snide remarks about his driving. And he was doing a job solo. It didn’t get much better than this.

He was humming as he followed on the heels of a white Peugeot as it negotiated a series of narrow,
snow-dusted
country lanes, working the pedals of the Renault with care to avoid the truck going into a terminal skid on the slippery surface. Weighed down by the addition of a railway sleeper across the front bumper, covered by a piece of tarpaulin to avoid raising suspicions, the steering was jittery but manageable. But Fletcher wasn’t bothered; he’d driven in far more challenging weather and in worse vehicles than this, and even though he was in a left-hooker, he was beginning to get a feel for the way the vehicle handled. All he had to do was follow the Frenchman in front of him, a sour-looking grump in his fifties who had nodded once on introduction, then 
gestured for Fletcher to stick to his tail before driving off.

Tasker and the others had stood and watched him go, and he’d waved cheerfully and called out, ‘Bump into you later, boys!’

He’d enjoyed knowing that they could have no idea of just how prophetic his words were going to be.