Death on the Pont Noir (8 page)

If there had ever been a street name to the narrow run of ruined buildings on the outskirts of Créteil, in south-east Paris, it no longer existed save on old maps of the
commune
or in the memories of its more senior inhabitants.

Now, and in the dark, it was a place visited by bored kids looking for trouble, the occasional drunk seeking a place to doss down, and the various creatures of the night which had made it their own.

Halfway down the street stood the gutted remains of a butcher’s shop. The wooden sign was still there, hanging drunkenly by a single chain, but warped and rendered illegible by the elements. Only its telltale shape of a horse’s head remained. The building, though, like its neighbours, was a shell of crumbling brick and rotten plaster-
and-lath
construction, waiting for progress and the promised redevelopment of the area to erase its existence and replace it with another.

A dark Renault van with battered panelwork and a broken side window was the only vehicle in sight, left skewed at an angle to the kerb in front of the shop. A ripped plastic bench seat was leaning against the driver’s door, and a worn car tyre sat on the bonnet, indications to anyone passing that the vehicle had been abandoned to its fate.

A flicker of movement showed a small dog trotting along the pavement, following a zigzag course from scent to scent. It paused to cock its leg against a rear wheel, then sniffed along the van’s side before moving on into the night. A cat across the street watched it go, the fur on its back lifting momentarily, then settling as the dog vanished into the shadows.

Lights flickered in the darkness at the top of the street, where it connected with that part of the town which still had life and movement. The flicker grew to a glow, and a car’s engine puttered steadily over the silence as a vehicle nosed into the street, the headlights pushing back the dark and revealing the walls and empty windows of a dead zone. The light rushed on, washing quickly over the abandoned Renault and down to the far end, where a row of small garages with corrugated metal roofs stood like orphans, their walls and dilapidated wooden doors covered in graffiti, a tangled mess of emblems, slogans and angry cries for attention which would only ever come in the form of a developer’s bulldozer.

The car – a dark Panhard with a crumpled rear wing – slowed alongside the Renault, its occupants checking it out as the dog had before them. The car’s tyres crunched through a mess of rubble, a reminder that few vehicles ever
passed this way. It was enough to satisfy them; they drove on and did a U-turn at the end and stopped facing back the way they had come.

The headlights were extinguished, returning the street to darkness.

Five minutes ticked by. The engine remained on, a muffled rumble in the dark. Other than that, no lights, no sound.

Finally, the front passenger door opened and a man stepped out. He stood with his head back, like an animal probing the night air. He was tall and athletic, and moved with confidence. Moments later he was followed by two other men, one the driver, who left the engine running and the door open. His companion stepped to one side to keep watch.

The lead man moved to one of the garages and produced a key, opening a large padlock holding the double doors together. The two men disappeared inside the garage, lighting the dark with the yellow glow of a flashlight.

‘
Coucou
, Baptiste. Time to go tickle a trout.’ A hoarse whisper echoed softly in the dark of the abandoned Renault van, and a foot tapped on the floor. Moments later, a figure rolled out from between the wheels and stood upright on the pavement. Turning, he padded silently along the street, hugging the ratty buildings, unobserved by the watcher at the garage who was taking an artistic leak over a pile of bricks to one side.

Another figure appeared on the far side of the street, surprising even the cat, which vanished without a sound. This one paralleled the first, treading carefully over a route scouted earlier that evening to note any obstacles to be
avoided later. Both men were dressed in dark clothing and soft boots, and wore balaclavas pulled down over their faces.

Both were armed with handguns.

The man on watch shook himself and turned, mouth dropping open as he picked up a sound or a sense of something in the atmosphere. But he was too late. The first figure reached out a pair of brawny arms and plucked him off his feet, while the second stepped in and rammed an elbow into his stomach, stifling the warning he was about to utter. Only a soft
whoosh
of expelled air escaped.

But it was enough.

‘Franco?’ The light inside the garage moved and a voice called out softly, ‘You all right?’

‘Yeah. Hurry up!’ One of the newcomers hissed, and clamped a large hand over the prisoner’s mouth, staring into his eyes with a gaze cold enough to freeze the blood.

Then two more men appeared out of the night, taking up positions on either side of the garage entrance. Both carried pistols. A brief exchange of signals, and the first two men hustled silently away back down the street, carrying their prisoner with them.

Seconds passed, then a shrill whistle pierced the night. Suddenly the abandoned Renault burst into life. It charged away from the kerb, shrugging off the bench seat from the door and the tyre on the bonnet, and roared towards the garages, the high-performance whine of the engine giving lie to the poor state of the bodywork. The headlights flared on with shocking intensity, illuminating the garage and the two men who were emerging from the interior.

They froze, their faces registering shock at this sudden eruption of activity and the sight of men with guns standing
almost alongside them. With a scream of rubber, the van stopped facing the garage opening. Before they could gather themselves, they heard the rattle of weapons being cocked and a bellowed order from the Renault.

‘Stand still or we shoot!’

The men obeyed. Lit up like the fourteenth of July and facing automatic weapons, they were too stunned to do anything but stare dumbly around them at a scene which, moments earlier, had been theirs and theirs alone.

‘
Alors
. What have we got here, then?’ A slim figure in dark clothing stepped into view. Like the other men, his face was covered, but his eyes glittered with grim humour. ‘Doing a spot of tidying up, were we? Trying to make the place look nice?’ He peered into the garage, where a workbench against one wall held an array of weapons, the blued steel and wooden stocks clearly visible in the glow from the Renault’s lights. ‘Oh dear. Now that’s a prison sentence, all ready and waiting.’ He turned and looked at the lead man. ‘You three must have really upset someone, you know that? Shame. You can’t rely on anyone to keep a secret these days, can you?’ He signalled for his men to check them for weapons and cuff them. ‘We don’t want any nasty surprises, do we?’

‘What did you mean just then?’ The lead man seemed perfectly calm, as if accepting that being caught was part of the risk, and therefore to be expected. He spoke well, his voice carrying a natural tone of authority. He turned his back and clasped his hands behind him. ‘We upset someone.’

‘You were sold out, my friend,’ replied the slim figure, who seemed to enjoy turning the screw. ‘Like chickens at a Saturday market. Never mind; you’ll have plenty of time to figure out who by, I’m sure.’

The battered DS looked forlorn in the yard behind the police station the following morning, its black finish whitened under a layer of morning frost. It had been brought in on a trailer and was now lying low on its wheels like a beached whale. One of the front tyres had deflated overnight and its brief stay in Bellin’s oily pit of a yard had not done the coachwork many favours, even without the damaged bodywork.

Dr Rizzotti had drawn a chalk line around it, and had forbidden anyone from approaching it, taking his cue from a bulletin from the National Police Science Centre about crime scene protection. He had asked Captain Canet to assign an officer to take notes and help with the inspection, and a young, fresh-faced
gardien
was standing by with a clipboard, huddled inside a heavy coat and puffing vapour into the cold air.

When Rocco arrived, he found Rizzotti sitting behind
the wheel. He was motionless, absorbing the atmosphere. Rocco knew all about that; it was vitally important when studying a crime scene, and more could be gained by a few minutes of quiet reflection than charging in and spoiling whatever clues might be available.

Rizzotti checked the seat setting. ‘Whoever last drove this wasn’t very tall. A bit less than medium height.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Cigarette smoke – could be from the men at the scrapyard, of course. But something else, too.’ He sniffed again, then looked at the young policeman, who was making notes. ‘Do you have a good wine nose, boy?’ When the man shrugged, he glanced at Rocco. ‘Lucas?’

‘Not in this weather and not this early. Why?’

Rizzotti climbed out of the car and shut the door. ‘Pity. I can smell something other than the normal car smells. It could be perfume, but I need to be sure before the aroma fades altogether.’

‘You think it’s important?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ He chewed his lip. ‘Women are more sensitive to that kind of thing, in my experience.’ He looked to Rocco for help. ‘They like nice smells – especially in a man. To a woman, smell is important. Ask any of them.’ He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘My wife would know but only if it was on my shirt collar.’

‘There’s the new
gardienne
,’ the young uniformed officer volunteered tentatively. ‘Alix – I mean, Officer Poulon.’ He blushed. ‘Shall I get her?’

Rizzotti nodded. ‘Please do.’ He waited for the young man to leave, then said softly, ‘Sweet. I think he’s in love.’

When the officer returned, he had Alix with him. She looked at Rocco and Rizzotti with a frown as if sensing a
practical joke. ‘Is he serious?’ she murmured, nodding at her colleague. ‘You actually want me to smell this car?’

‘If you would, please,’ said Rizzotti. ‘I’d like you to get in and tell me what immediately comes to mind. Don’t think about it too much, simply use your instincts.’

She did as he requested and sat in the driver’s seat, closing the door behind her with a soft thump. She inhaled at length, then opened the door and climbed out again.

‘Aftershave,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I assume you know cigarette smoke, plastic and leather, so it must be the other smell you’re interested in.’

‘Excellent,’ said Rizzotti. He sounded impressed. ‘Good diagnosis. I don’t suppose you could tell us what brand and how expensive it is?’ His expression suggested that he was only half joking.

Alix shook her head. ‘Not unpleasant – but a bit heavy for my tastes. I don’t recognise it, but …’

‘But what?’

‘The man wearing this is trying to impress.’ She looked at Rocco with a faint lift of one eyebrow. ‘If you want my opinion, more men should try it. Oh, by the way, that man Saint-Cloud is looking for you.’ She turned and walked away, leaving them staring after her.

‘See what I mean?’ said Rizzotti, grinning as though he’d just solved the origins of the universe. ‘I told you. Women.’

‘I’ll put you in for a medal,’ Rocco growled. He wondered what the security chief wanted. If it was to demand what he’d found out about threats to the president, he was going to be unlucky. He ducked his head inside the car and sniffed for himself. It smelt like a railway carriage. Alix was right, though: plastic, leather and smoke and … He
sniffed again, drawing in a gentle lungful of air. There
was
something else; something familiar lurking at the edge of his consciousness, soft and fragrant. But where the hell had he come across it before? Was it soap? Damn, that was irritating—

Then it came to him.

Calloway
. When he’d grabbed the man during the interrogation, he’d picked up the smell of aftershave. He’d likened it to the aroma of leather at the time. Whatever it was, it had been distinctive and heavy. The kind of smell to hang in the air for a long time afterwards. Then he thought about Calloway the man: thirty-ish, tanned, dark hair, slim build. English. And as a former racing driver, he’d probably spent time on the French circuits. Most likely picked up a working knowledge of French, too – certainly enough to convey a message to someone like Olivier Bellin.

He got out of the car. ‘Did you find anything in here?’

‘I’ve only made a cursory check so far. But we’ve already found something interesting.’ Rizzotti indicated to his assistant to pop the boot and they gathered around. Nestling inside was a large cine-camera with a matt-black case. Folded around it were three lengths of metal joined by a small platform with a complicated screw assembly and rubber-lined handle grip.

‘I don’t know about you,’ said Rizzotti, ‘but I didn’t expect this. A body, maybe, or some weapons … but not a camera.’

‘It’s the car we’re looking for,’ Rocco confirmed. He was studying the ends of the camera tripod legs, which were coated in dried soil, and a scattering of pine needles
littering the floor of the boot. ‘But why dump an expensive piece of equipment like this?’

Rizzotti lifted one side of the casing. It moved with ease. ‘Because it’s not real,’ he explained. ‘At least, the casing is, but there’s nothing inside. It’s a dummy.’

Rocco tested the weight, then tapped the casing. Rizzotti was right: it was empty.

‘Damn. But why?’

Rizzotti shrugged. ‘Give me an hour or so and we’ll turn the car inside out. I’d rather do it alone with young Romeo here, to prevent any further contamination. I’ll call you if we find anything.’ He looked at the young officer, who was shivering. ‘Better put down your clipboard, young man, and be prepared to get dirty as well as cold.’

‘What about the truck and the body?’ Rocco asked him.

‘Ah, that. I’ve been on to the forensic laboratory in Lille. They’re sending a team to collect the remains and do an analysis. It could take some time, though. There’s not much to go on and they’ve got a backlog.’

‘Don’t worry. Any help they can give is better than none.’ There were half a dozen police scientific laboratories throughout the country, the nearest being Lille, but the advance in forensic skills being shared from Britain, the United States and other countries was making their workload increasingly tough; the more they became capable of doing, the more was asked of them.

Rocco left Rizzotti and his helper to their task and went in search of Saint-Cloud.

He found the colonel in one of the upstairs offices in conversation with one of the suited individuals who had
been with him and Massin two days before. This man nodded without introduction and walked away.

‘Inspector. Did you receive the files?’ Saint-Cloud asked.

‘What files?’ So far Rocco had seen nothing of the information promised by the security chief. Without it he was virtually powerless to even begin investigating any anti-Gaullist groups. It would be like throwing stones into a lake and hoping to hit a fish.

Saint-Cloud, however, seemed surprisingly sanguine. ‘They’re on their way, I assure you. I just wanted to see where we stood.’ He went round behind the desk and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘This news has just reached me. Three men were picked up last night in Créteil, in
south-east
Paris, and a cache of armaments discovered in a garage lock-up they were using. One of the guns shows evidence of recent firing and is thought to have been used in the N19 attack near Guignes.’

Rocco knew the area, but not well. Créteil and Guignes were hardly close neighbours, but near enough. ‘Who are they?’

‘One is a French national, the other two are one Spanish, one Corsican. What makes this interesting is that all three are former members of the Foreign Legion. So far they are not talking, but one has turned up on our files before. He’s affiliated to a pro-OAS group.’ He sniffed with distaste. ‘None of this is surprising, I suppose, but it’s a clear indication that there is more than one group wishing ill of the president.’

‘And more than one nationality.’

‘Quite. What we have to find out is whether there are any such groups with resources active in the Picardie region or,’ he dropped the paper on the desk, ‘whether we’re in danger
of overreacting. May I ask what you are doing at present?’

He seemed to have slipped very easily into using the ‘we’ all of a sudden, thought Rocco. But he gave him a summary of the ramming incident and the Englishmen destroying the café in Amiens. ‘The ramming looks like an illicit film project which may have gone badly wrong. The Englishmen, I’m not sure what that’s about. They could be what they claim: a group of men looking for some fun and it got out of hand. It wouldn’t be the first time. The English don’t react well to drink.’

Saint-Cloud nodded. ‘Neither of which seems to border on my concerns, I have to say, although …’ He paused and stared at the wall.

‘Yes?’

‘The use of a black DS seems a little … odd, though, don’t you think? The president uses such a vehicle. It could be what it seems – a film project. I wouldn’t like you to go wasting your time chasing shadows, Inspector.’

‘It’s hardly a shadow,’ Rocco pointed out mildly. ‘There’s a death involved.’

‘A tramp? Tramps die all the time. Considering their way of life, I imagine it’s an occupational hazard, isn’t it?’ Saint-Cloud’s face was bare of all emotion, but his voice betrayed indifference, and Rocco wondered whether anything beyond the president’s safety ever touched him. ‘Why is this one so special?’

‘He’s not. But investigating an unexplained death is what I do. If I find there’s been a crime, I go after the perpetrators.’

Saint-Cloud said nothing. After a moment, he nodded, his eyes clouding over.