Death on the Pont Noir (13 page)

‘I need to go to England. To Scotland Yard.’

Rocco was in early next morning, and went straight to Massin’s office. After another fitful night’s sleep listening to the
fouines
play, and going over and over in his mind the events at the scrapyard, he had decided on a course of action; but it needed Massin’s cooperation, something he couldn’t entirely guarantee.

Massin looked up from the papers he was studying, and sat back, eyeing Rocco with a dour expression. ‘Do you, indeed? Does it have anything to do with your current caseload?’

‘Actually, yes. Partly.’

There was a flicker of interest. ‘Go on.’

Rocco explained about the burnt-out truck with the body in the back, and the Citroën DS found in Bellin’s scrapyard, followed by Bellin’s execution. ‘I believe there may be a link between those vehicles and the Englishmen who wrecked 
the
Canard Doré
.’ He began to explain about the car and Bellin’s description of the driver, but Massin held up a hand to stop him. He picked up a sheet of paper from his in tray.

‘I have Dr Rizzotti’s report. It’s very detailed. A fake camera, an English cigarette under the mat. But why these men? You have no proof that they were involved in the fake ramming incident. And you still have no proof that it actually happened, beyond some farmer’s early morning ramblings.’

‘There’s the blood at the scene and we have a dead body. Two dead bodies,’ he amended, ‘if we count Bellin.’

‘The first burnt beyond recognition. I doubt even the miracles of modern science will prove who it was.’

‘Possibly not. But I think the dead man – a tramp named Pantoufle – happened to be at or near the scene. It was on his usual route and it never varied, winter, summer or spring. I don’t know if he died by accident or was killed deliberately. Either way, they burnt his body to conceal his death and prevent recognition.’

‘Buttons. Is that the sum total of your clues?’ Massin made it sound as if Rocco were grasping at straws.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not much, is it? And you still can’t tie the Englishmen to the truck or the DS. Not definitely.’

‘No. Not yet.’ Rocco fought to keep a hold on his impatience. He felt he was fighting a losing battle, but refused to give way to Massin’s open scepticism. He doubted the
commissaire
had ever followed a clue in his life; had never felt the thrill of a case building out of virtually nothing nor ever felt the clarion call of a chase. ‘They were in the Amiens area at the same time,’ he pointed out. ‘Five men with no valid explanation for being here. And I recognised 
the smell of Calloway’s aftershave from the damaged DS. It wasn’t easy to forget.’

‘You noticed a man’s cologne?’

‘In a place where the customary fragrance is sump oil and burnt metal, it stood out.’ He wasn’t prepared to let it go. ‘They set fire to a dead man’s body and tried to hide the evidence; normal people don’t do that.’

‘Is that your argument?’ Massin threw a hand in the air. ‘You think these men, who trashed a local bar, are some kind of criminal group who also killed a tramp while pretending to make a film?
If
it’s the same men – and I say that with great emphasis – they appear to have some influence in the British Parliament, for God’s sake. Enough to get them set free!’

‘Exactly my point.’ Rocco kept his face straight. ‘How many ordinary people have that privilege? I don’t. Do you? Calloway,’ he added quickly as Massin’s face clouded dangerously, ‘has a different background to the others. It was he who made the phone call that secured their release. But he was still part of the group. I’d like to speak to the British police to find out more about him. I believe they were here for a specific reason.’

‘What reason?’ Massin tapped the report from Rizzotti. ‘How does any of this give you such an impression? Give me even a hint of why I should listen further, Inspector, because right now you are not making much sense. A bunch of English drunks on the rampage, that is
all
you have.’

‘I think it might have something to do with the attack Saint-Cloud is investigating.’

It was out before he could stop it, but it was too late to backtrack.

‘Ah, yes. Colonel Saint-Cloud and his security review.’ 
The words came out tinged with resentment. It was clear that he did not like Rocco being assigned to the security chief, but was powerless to stop it. Rocco wondered how long he’d been sitting here grinding his teeth over it.

He considered for a moment what Saint-Cloud had said about keeping this assignment quiet. The man had great powers, and in effect, Rocco was now following orders approved by the Interior Ministry. Even so, there were some lines you didn’t cross. Being forced by another official to conceal details from his superior officer was one. And while he himself didn’t always tell Massin everything he was working on, this was very different.

He took a deep breath, choosing his words with care. ‘I believe these Englishmen and the reasons for the local security review are somehow connected.’

A brief silence. ‘How?’

‘The ramming, the use of a black, official-looking DS … and the real possibility of a visit to the area by the president.’ He mentioned his talk with Blake at the War Graves Commission office. ‘It all coincides. I think the ramming witnessed by the farmer, Simeon, may have been a practice run.’ He then told him about finding the Pont Noir on the map, and its uncanny similarity to the ramming site. He concluded with the visit with Saint-Cloud to the bridge and the security chief’s complete scepticism. ‘That aside, I think killing Bellin was closing a door. He knew too much, so he had to go. Someone higher up the chain decided he was a liability. We can’t get anything out of Bellin anymore, but we might be able to get something out of the man who delivered the car: Calloway.’

Massin said nothing, his face carefully blank. A car revved up outside, and a burst of laughter drifted up from 
the street. It highlighted to Rocco how everything had receded while he was in this room, as if the outside world had been shut out. Finally Massin sat forward. ‘You have to admit, Rocco, that this is all one hell of a leap of the imagination, even for you. You could be wrong.’

‘I hope I am,’ Rocco replied calmly, adding, ‘but dare we take that risk? The location is remote, it fits exactly with where the ramming took place, and if de Gaulle fulfils his expressed wish to make an unpublicised visit to this location, he’ll be out in the open with only his immediate guards to protect him.’

‘They’ve never failed him yet.’

‘There’s always a first time. And the last attempt resulted in one dead and one seriously wounded. In terms of an attack to kill the car’s occupants, that would be classified as a success.’

Massin took in a deep breath, his nose pinched. He lifted his chin to ease his collar, and said, ‘Have you told Colonel Saint-Cloud all of this?’

‘Not everything.’

‘Really? What a surprise. I suppose I should feel comforted that you keep him underinformed as well. What did you leave out?’

‘The English connection.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to be certain of my facts. If there’s a proven foreign element to this, it’s very different to anything else that’s gone before. Any hint of British involvement will not be kept quiet for long, and if it is a planned attack, the organisers will go underground. Next time we might not get to hear about it until it’s too late.’ 

‘But you could still be wrong. This could all be … circumstantial and coincidental.’

‘I agree. But I need a couple of days to check it out. Nobody need know that … apart from you.’

Massin looked sceptical. ‘Why am I not reassured by your consideration?’ He tapped his fingers on the desk, then said, ‘Leave it with me for a few minutes. You have presented me with an awkward situation, Rocco. I need to consider my decision carefully. Don’t leave the building.’

Rocco was surprised, then puzzled. At least Massin hadn’t thrown him out and put him on traffic duties. But why the delay? Then, as he turned to open the door, he saw Massin reaching for the telephone, and knew what was going to happen: he was going to phone the Interior Ministry. It was his way out of a tricky situation.

Fifteen minutes later, the desk sergeant put his head round the door of the main office and said, ‘Lucas? The chief wants to see you.’ He dropped his lower lip in sympathy and disappeared.

Rocco walked upstairs and into Massin’s office. He found the officer staring out of the window. A plain white envelope lay on the desk in front of him.

He wondered how this was going to play out. If ever he had given Massin a reason to get rid of him, short of claiming to see flying saucers over Amiens, an attack of paranoid insanity about foreign involvement in an attack on the president pretty much had the edge on anything else he could think of.

Finally Massin said gravely, ‘I’m not convinced by your arguments, Inspector Rocco.’ 

‘Why not?’

‘With immediate effect, I’m placing you on sick leave. I believe you are suffering from stress after your recent immersion in the canal, and you need some time off.’

Rocco was stunned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ The incident Massin was referring to had happened just a few weeks before. Rocco had been locked in a canal barge which had been sunk deliberately in the hopes that it would cover up the murder of an illegal immigrant and the illicit employment of others by a local factory with government contracts. It was as close as Rocco had ever come to a watery grave, and he still didn’t like to think about it.

Massin stood up and held up a hand to stop Rocco speaking. ‘In fact, I suggest you take yourself away for a couple of days to recuperate.’ He sniffed and gave a hint of a smile. ‘London might be a useful destination.’

Rocco almost didn’t hear that; he was about to tell Massin what he could do with his sick leave. But he stopped. ‘London?’

‘Yes. I hear the air there is quite bracing at this time of year. Especially along the Embankment.’ Massin picked up the envelope and held it out to Rocco. ‘Here is your letter of authority. It will permit you to talk with a man I met on a seminar in Paris last year. His name is Detective Chief Inspector David Nialls of their Flying Squad. He is expecting you at New Scotland Yard.’ His mouth gave a twitch, almost suggesting that he possessed a sense of humour. ‘Get well soon, Inspector. I hope when you return, you have a much clearer understanding of your duties. I suggest you leave immediately and without broadcasting your plans.’

Rocco came out of a bustling Victoria station and threaded his way through the streets to the River Thames. It was late afternoon and already dark, the air cold and dry. There had been delays on the line from Dover, but he’d relished the chance to sit and contemplate the emptiness of the opposite seat, or the faux cheerfulness of a poster advertising the delights of a coastal resort called Margate. Such moments were rare enough.

Exchanging the gritty tang of locomotive smoke for the sour odour of street traffic was not much of a trade, no more than the metallic taste of river water in the air; but it was London, and he relished the sights and sounds so different from Paris – or, more dramatically, Poissons-
les-Marais
. He’d been here once before, with Emilie, shortly after his promotion to inspector in Clichy. It had been a rare break from the pressures of work and ambition and a desire to do something positive. On one level it had been 
a success: Emilie had loved it, sensing perhaps that her husband’s life wasn’t entirely dominated by the call of his job. But the time had gone by all too quickly and their relationship had not survived much beyond his return to the office – the late nights, early mornings and especially the days away, working undercover, when she didn’t know if he would come back in one piece or in a box, victim of taking a step too far into the dark.

The sight of the Thames brought a tug of regret like a pain in his chest, and he stood for a moment taking in the scenery: the occasional flash of white from the
cross-currents
, the passing river craft with their dim pilot lights and unnamed cargoes, and the rush of water in the gloom below. They had done this together many times, he recalled, enjoying the ebb and flow of the water when pavements became too crowded, traffic too noisy or the pull of museums and art galleries faded. Too late now for regrets; Emilie was gone and living another life. He wasn’t even sure where. He’d allowed too much outside their married life to dictate the pattern of living successfully in it, and had paid the price.

He followed the embankment to the north, passing the elegant seat of the British Government on the way and turning onto the approach to Westminster Bridge, then taking a sharp left to the imposing Gothic
brick-and
-concrete structure that was New Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police.

‘Inspector Rocco?’ The sergeant on the desk swivelled the signing-in book and studied his name, then asked him to wait. ‘Very good, sir. If you would hang on a bit, I’ll ask Chief Inspector Nialls to come down.’ 

Five minutes later, a tall, slim man in an immaculate grey suit appeared and shook his hand. He had greying hair and a slim moustache, and looked tired; the kind of tired that seeps into the bones. Rocco had seen it before in senior cops on his side of the water. ‘Inspector Rocco. David Nialls. I act as liaison with your DGPN. I’ve been expecting you.’

Rocco showed him the signed letter of authority and waited while the policeman read it. The fact that DCI Nialls had contact with the
Direction Générale de la Police Nationale
, which came second only to the Interior Ministry, was in itself no guarantee of cooperation. The correct protocol would have been to go through channels; but channels were something Rocco had little time for. Massin’s last-minute letter was a bonus he hadn’t counted on, however. All he had to do now was hope it carried some weight.

It took a moment to realise that Nialls had been reading the letter without great difficulty. The detective looked up and gave a sheepish smile. ‘I speak some French, but it’s not that brilliant. Do you mind if we speak English?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good. François Massin said you could do with some information. I’m not sure how much I can help you, Inspector Rocco, but if you come with me, I’ll force you to drink some of our appalling tea and see what we can accomplish.’ He led Rocco through a side door and up a flight of narrow stairs, stopping to speak to a young woman in an apron on the way. Then he turned into a small office and shut the door. ‘The tea will be along in a moment. Sit down and fire away.’ 

They sat and Rocco explained about the ramming incident, and the wrecking of the bar by the drunken gang. Nialls seemed little more than politely interested at first, and only reacted at the point where Rocco mentioned George Tasker. Then he sat forward with a frown.

‘Tasker? Can you describe him?’

Rocco did so.

They were interrupted by the appearance of the young woman bearing a tray of tea and some biscuits, but Nialls barely allowed her out of the door before continuing. ‘I wondered where the bloody man had disappeared to. He dropped off the scene for a few days, and we wondered whether he’d become a building block.’ At Rocco’s blank look, he explained, ‘Got buried under an office block somewhere, victim of revenge for past misdeeds. Obviously he didn’t. Still, there’s always hope.’

‘You know him, then?’

Nialls nodded and sipped his tea. ‘Sadly, I do. He’s a nasty bit of work suspected of involvement in at least two gangland killings and numerous bank jobs. He’s employed by a man named Gerald ‘Ruby’ Ketch, who’s the frontman for an extensive East London gang. They’ve been around for a few years now, gradually building up their power base. Just recently, Ketch’s bosses have been staying in the background pulling strings, but we know they’re responsible for pretty much every nasty crime in the book.’

‘You do not have enough to convict them?’

‘Sadly, no.’ He rubbed his face. ‘We’ve been trying, but they have some very competent lawyers and rule by fear. Witnesses have a habit of developing amnesia … or disappearing altogether. My building block reference was 
not entirely in jest.’ He stared out of the window. ‘But what the hell were they doing in France?’

‘If my suspicions are correct,’ said Rocco, ‘pretending to make a film.’ He gave him the men’s names and described the crash scene witnessed by Simeon, and the state of the Citroën with its interior reinforcements. ‘But along the way they appear to have killed a man. It could be an accident, but we will probably never know for sure.’

‘What does your instinct tell you?’

‘That they were doing something else – but not making films.’

‘Like what? They’re not exactly known for working outside London and the South East. Our criminal gangs tend to have territories like everyone else.’

Rocco debated how much to tell this man. He didn’t know Nialls from a stick of celery, but he couldn’t walk away without gaining something from this visit. If his instincts were correct, there was too much riding on getting it wrong. Yet if he suggested that Tasker and his men were somehow involved with an attempted assassination of the French head of state, Nialls might feel compelled to take the matter higher, running the risk of word getting out and driving the plotters underground.

‘I think there is a chance that these men, Tasker and his colleagues,’ he said carefully, ‘may be involved in something much bigger than their usual operations.’

‘Like what?’ Then Nialls’ eyes widened. ‘Good God, you don’t mean an attempt on—’

‘Perhaps. But not directly.’ There. It was out now and too late to take back. Nialls was clearly no fool. He’d instantly run his mind over all the various possibilities that 
he could think of, and had settled unerringly on the correct one.

‘Have you discussed this with your superiors?’

‘Some of it. But they are sceptical.’

‘Why? I mean, don’t misunderstand me, but there have been plenty of attempts on your man already, so it’ll hardly come as much of a shock to anyone if someone has another go … especially on the heels of the Kennedy assassination.’ The recent death of the American president was still headline news everywhere, and had caused many world leaders to review their security precautions.

‘They have already tried.’ Rocco told him about the latest attack on the N19 to the south-east of Paris, and how it had failed, allegedly because of bad information supplied to the gang. Even had de Gaulle been in the car, it might not have carried the same magnitude outside France as the killing of the US president John Kennedy in Dallas, Texas.

Nialls picked up on the failure of information. ‘You don’t think it was simply a mistake on the attackers’ part?’

‘I am not sure. So far, the information these groups have worked on has always been correct. The failures have come because of poor organisation, good defensive tactics by the bodyguards … or simply bad luck. Whichever group is involved, they do not seem to have much difficulty finding out what the president’s movements are.’

Nialls lifted an eyebrow. ‘Someone on the inside?’

‘Possibly. But I never said that.’ Roco knew all too well that it was next to impossible to keep everything secret. Word leaked out and there was always someone ready to trade on it.

‘Maybe this lot were more amateurish than the others.’ 

‘Maybe.’

‘But you don’t think so.’

He was sharp, Rocco decided. His policeman’s nose had picked up on Rocco’s hesitation and he had drawn his own conclusions.

‘I have been working with a representative of the presidential security team, but I want to be sure of my facts before I go any further.’

‘Very wise, although waiting might be risky, don’t you think, if there’s a plot afoot?’

‘Possibly. But we have time. That is all I can say.’

Nialls shrugged. ‘Fair enough. What do you want from me?’

Rocco was surprised. ‘You will help?’

‘As much as I can, yes. It depends what you need, though.’ Nialls smiled and explained, ‘I’m on my way out of here, due for retirement in a few weeks. It means I have a certain amount of leeway; nobody expects me to begin any new investigations or to be running around like a spring chicken. But you’ll have to be quick.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s talk of the complete file on Ketch and his people being handed over to another team.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I can’t say I’m too sorry, but I’d like to think I can do something useful before I go.’

‘Such as solving your train robbery?’ Britain’s biggest ever cash robbery had been carried out three months previously on a train transporting used banknotes due for incineration. So far they had come nowhere near finding out who had organised it.

Nialls grinned. ‘It would be a good one to go out on, 
wouldn’t it? But no, I don’t think I’ll get that one.’

‘Can you tell me anything about Tasker and his people? Calloway in particular – I am sure he has an important role in this. Who they know, who their contacts are in France.’

‘That last bit’s easy enough, especially with Tasker. He doesn’t have any contacts outside London. George Tasker’s a thug – a muscleman with enough brains to make him dangerous but with limited horizons. He’s like a sergeant in the military; he does what he’s told, passes on instructions, and chivvies the troops to do their bit.’ He lifted a hand in apology. ‘Sorry – “chivvies” means to encourage. Keep forgetting myself.’

‘I understood. But thank you for the explanation.’

‘Your English is impressive. How come?’

‘Thank you,’ said Rocco. ‘My mother insisted. She felt the world was becoming smaller and it would be an advantage. I was also with United Nations forces in Korea in 1952 for a while, attached to a British unit. I had to learn quickly.’

‘That would account for it. Wish I could claim the same with my French.’ He got back to the subject under discussion. ‘Anyway, Ketch is the man you should be looking at. He’s the operational head of the gang. If anyone’s in the know about what they were up to over in your neck of the woods, it’ll be him. He’s a very clever man.’

‘You admire him?’

‘No. I don’t. But I don’t underestimate him. Ketch is a broad thinker. He’s suspected of having put together a number of clever jobs over the years, every one of them successful and with a big return on their investment.’ A dry smile. ‘Makes him sound like the boss of ICI, doesn’t it? 
But it’s what he’s good at: the planning … and what we’ve come to recognise recently as smoke and mirrors.’

‘I’m sorry …?’

‘He takes the widest possible view of staging a job. He doesn’t simply look at the direct details, like most of his kind, focusing on the place to hit, how to get in, the men to use, that kind of thing. He uses distraction techniques. The first we’ll hear is a welter of rumours, usually spreading from drinking haunts around his manor, some conflicting with others until we don’t know what’s going on. Then the rumour becomes solid, and a mail van gets jumped. Then another, somewhere else. While we’re involved with those two, his men are busy running another – usually bigger job somewhere else. It’s a strategy we believe he borrowed from reading about the desert campaigns in North Africa.’

‘Hit and run, you mean?’ Rocco was familiar with the term; French forces had also used the tactics, relying on feeding out false information about possible attacks, then staging a surprise assault elsewhere.

‘Exactly. It’s only recently become recognisable, and we’re still playing catch-up. If you can get there first, I’d take my hat off to you.’

‘But?’ Rocco sensed a problem.

‘You’ll never get close to him. Ketch is paranoid about cops and snitches – informers. He uses Tasker to organise jobs and be the blunt instrument, and has a financial planner and crooked accountant named Brayne to help with his deep thinking. Between them they’re a very clever team. He compartmentalises, in other words.’

Rocco shook his head at the term. He thought he could guess, but guesses were no good at this point. 

‘He keeps everything separate. You know in intelligence structures, they keep cells and cut-outs? If one goes down, they don’t compromise the others? Well, it’s similar to that. Most of the men he uses never even meet him. Tasker’s the recruitment sergeant.’

Rocco understood. It was a tried-and-tested system, also used by some Corsican gangs to reduce risks in case of penetration by undercover police.

Nialls glanced at his watch. ‘I won’t be able to get you an introduction to Ketch, but I know where he can be found most evenings. At least you’ll get a sighting of the man.’