Death on the Pont Noir (16 page)

Rocco stopped a car’s length further on and got out. His MAB 38 was in his coat pocket but he left it there. If these men had wished him harm, they would have waited to catch him unawares, preferably somewhere more remote. And they wouldn’t have wanted the area stage-lit like this.

Tasker smirked as he recognised Rocco, and stepped away from the vehicle, placing himself half in shadow. But his hands were in plain sight. He was dressed in a sharp suit with a loud tie, and looked heavy and solid and unstoppable.

‘Well, look who’s come home at last,’ he said, cocking his head to one side. ‘You know, you’re a hard man to find, Rocco. The locals clammed up when I asked where you lived. Well, I say I asked them … it was actually Bones here who did the talking on account of he’s clever like that and I don’t like even thinking about your shitty language. What’s all the secrecy about, then? You a bit shy?’ 

‘What do you want, Mr Tasker?’ said Rocco. ‘I am busy.’

‘Hey – is that any way to welcome a man to your manor?’ Tasker threw his hands wide, the picture of innocence. ‘I mean, you come to mine and I’ll make you welcome.’ He grinned nastily. ‘Very welcome indeed – eh, Bones?’

The man known as Bones shrugged but said nothing. He climbed back in the car and started the engine. Speaking was clearly not his job. Rocco kept his eyes flicking between the two men. He didn’t see Bones as a threat; he was probably a driver and interpreter. If Tasker was here to do something physical, he’d want to take care of it himself. But there were still two of them and one of him. What concerned him was that they had gone to the trouble of finding out where he lived. There had to be a reason for that.

‘Get to the point.’

Tasker sneered. ‘Fair enough. I’ve got something for you. It’s in my jacket, so don’t you go shooting me, will you?’ He reached very carefully into his inside pocket and took out a white envelope. He stepped forward into the glare of the headlights, turning to glance at the house and gesturing with the envelope. ‘Nice place, by the way. Yours, is it?’

Rocco ignored him.

‘Never mind. See, thing is, little birdies have been telling us that you’ve been looking into things which don’t concern you. You even went and spoke to DI Nialls in New Scotland Yard.’ He lifted his eyebrows, waiting for a reaction from Rocco. ‘Yeah, you were spotted, don’t worry. We’ve got spies everywhere. Especially in the Allendale. I thought it was a bit outside your jurisdiction, you being French and all. But there you were, large as life. What was that about?’ 

‘What. Do. You. Want?’

Tasker scowled in mock hurt. ‘Aw, come on – don’t be like that.’ He pointed the envelope at Rocco and said, ‘We could’ve planted you first chance we got, you know that? Followed you back to that fleapit hotel you stayed in near Victoria and you’d have been found the next morning with your throat cut. Or we could have dropped you in the river with some weights tied round your ankles.’ He paused, dropping the smile. ‘I’d have paid good money to see that, you kicking against the current. But the boss said he didn’t want no “international incident”.’

‘Which boss is that?’ said Rocco. ‘Ruby Ketch?’

A flicker touched Tasker’s eyes. ‘Yeah, you have been busy, haven’t you? A right little French beaver. Well, fat lot of good it’ll do you … if you’re dead.’ He lifted the envelope and slapped it hard against Rocco’s chest. ‘But you’re lucky – for now. The boss said to give you this. A little goodwill gesture, he called it. Personally, I’d rather give you a bullet.’

He let the envelope go, forcing Rocco to catch it by reflex before it fell to the ground. It felt heavy, pliable, a good two-centimetres thick. Paper.

‘There’s a good boy.’ The words were uttered softly, and Tasker’s grin was sly. ‘Now, you stay away from our business, Rocco, me boy, and we’ll forget you ever existed.’

Rocco tossed the envelope back at him. ‘Trying to bribe a policeman in France is a serious offence,’ he said. ‘Tell Mr Ketch that I do not play those games.’

Tasker’s smile was still in place. He slipped the envelope back into his jacket and shrugged. ‘I told the boss it was a no-go, but he insisted. He likes to be nice, see, to avoid 
nastiness.’ He pointed a finger at Rocco and mimed pulling a trigger. ‘But I don’t.’

He turned and walked to the passenger side and got in. Bones was already behind the wheel and closing his door.

Seconds later, they were gone, leaving a whiff of exhaust fumes in the air, and the uncomfortable feeling in Rocco’s mind that something bad had just taken place.

Caspar nudged open the door of the
Bar Relais
and felt the welcoming brush of warmth against his face. After the cold of the streets outside, his skin began to tingle in response. He walked up to the bar, nodding at one or two faces around the room.

He was on familiar ground here in the 10th arrondissement, not far from the Gare de l’Est. But it didn’t mean he felt relaxed. Just a few streets away was the Arab quarter of Belleville, a place he wasn’t keen on seeing again anytime soon. Not so long ago he’d run foul of a man named Farek, an Algerian gangster who had been hell-bent on tracking down and killing his runaway wife … and, as it happened, Lucas Rocco. They had all three been lucky to escape with their lives, especially Caspar, and ever since he had made a point of keeping a careful eye out for hostile forces. The main man might have gone, shot dead on his own brother’s instructions it 
was rumoured, but memories here were long.

‘Caspar – you dog!’ A tall man with a hooked nose turned and grinned, seeing his reflection in the mirror, and said, ‘I thought you were dead. You want a drink?’

‘Yeah, thanks, Babon. Ricard, please.’ Maurice Babonneau was a former policeman turned co-owner of the café, and spent more time on the customers’ side of the bar than behind it, stoking up friendships, trading gossip and generally making sure he could jump on any trouble before it got too heavy. The regular clientele was a mixed brew of North Africans, Asians and Chinese, with a steady flow of cops and ex-soldiers trawling the street network for information or work, depending on their needs. Most were genial neighbours, but occasionally, old enemies ran into each other by chance.

‘You working?’ Babon’s voice dropped. He knew of Caspar’s suspension from the force, and was one of the few who were aware of Caspar’s former undercover role.

‘Here and there. This and that. You know how it is. Is Tatar in?’

‘Not yet. Soon will be, though. You need a booth?’ The bar had a few private booths in a back room, originally used years ago for assignations between men with money and women without. They were now a favoured meeting place for discreet business of a very different kind.

‘Please.’

Babon nodded. ‘Okay. Go through to number three. I’ll send him in.’

Caspar took his drink and went through a rear door and into a booth made of plywood and leather, with enough room for four people at a crush. The walls had been lined 
many times over the years, and short of someone standing right outside the curtained entrance with their ear bent round the frame, conversations were guaranteed private.

He sipped his drink and worked on settling his nerves. He hadn’t done this for a while, ducking into bars to tap contacts for information. Not people like Tatar, anyway. The sort of security work he did now was more corporate in nature, and free of the kind of threat he’d become used to … or was it addicted to? He still wasn’t sure.

Tatar was a man with a chequered history, most of it washed with the grim spray of illegality. Born and brought up in a Berber family in North Africa, he had joined the OAS almost out of boredom, but also as a way of escaping what he saw as the dying way of life of his forebears. He wanted to get to France, where he saw opportunity. Possessed of a sharp brain, he worked his way up, gathering a pot of money to trade with. It was the way things were done; you got a pot together as a sign of goodwill and intention. A deal here, a deal there, and soon you were in on the best deals and latest news where credit, if you were trusted, was readily available. From there, the sky was your limit. He had soon begun to set up deals smuggling gold and other valued items across the Med into France, and was now one of the top deal-makers in the city.

He also knew more people than anyone Caspar could think of, with a contacts list like the PTT directory.

The curtain swished back and a large man with a generous belly slipped onto the bench seat across from Caspar. Tatar was dressed in a smart suit and expensive silk shirt and tie. He was in his forties but looked older, a physical attribute he always claimed gave him
gravitas
and was the reason for 
his success. People didn’t trust Young Turks, he reckoned; they liked to deal with men of substance.

‘Christ, you’ve gone over to the dark side,’ said Caspar, eyeing the man’s clothes, and held out a hand. ‘They’ll soon have your name down for a private seat at the Bourse.’ The last time he’d seen Tatar, the man had been wearing the casual clothes of his part-Berber, part-French way of life, easily mixing with both sides. He’d clearly gone up in the world, a fact he confirmed.

‘Been there, done it,’ he grinned, and sipped his brandy. ‘I’ve been lucky. Don’t worry, Marc; I’m all respectable and glad of the change. As is my wife.’ He eyed Caspar with genuine friendship, although neither man could recall how it had formed, only that they had never been enemies. ‘What can I do for you?’

Caspar hunched over his drink. ‘The attack at Guignes, on the N19.’ He’d left a message for Tatar giving the nature of his query. It was the way the Berber did business. ‘Anything you can tell me?’

Tatar winced in disgust. ‘
Quelle horreur!
Like Oran and Tunis in the old days. Bullets flying like mosquitoes. What did you want to know?’

‘Who was involved?’

Tatar shook his head. ‘Bunch of amateurs, from what I hear. Didn’t even get their facts right.’ He sniffed. ‘They won’t be doing it again for a long while, that’s for sure.’

Caspar bit his lip. He’d been counting on Tatar to come up with the goods. ‘Pity. Never mind.’

‘I didn’t say I knew nothing.’ Tatar gave a slow smile, the look of a man proud to be the bearer of news. ‘I’ve got a brother who works in the Medici Hospital near Versailles.’ 

‘Never heard of it.’

‘You wouldn’t. It’s a small place for the rehabilitation and treatment of special patients. It’s not the sort of place to get much publicity.’

Caspar forgot his drink. ‘What sort of special patients?’

‘Military. The kind they can’t put in open wards.’

‘Go on.’

‘They had two wounded brought in the night of the attack and one dead. One of the wounded was a motorcycle cop, the other a civilian. No papers on him, so probably just a gun hand. He was taken away the same night, only lightly wounded, apparently. But I had my brother get hold of the file on the cop, just out of interest.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘And guess what? Turns out he’s no ordinary traffic cop.’ He slid a folded sheet of paper across the table. ‘It’s all in there. You didn’t get that from me, okay?’

‘Of course. It’s hot?’

‘It’s very hot. So hot I don’t want to carry it with me any longer than I have to.’

‘Tell your brother I owe him.’

‘Forget it. He owes me far more. It’s about time he paid something back.’ He drained his drink and slapped Caspar on the shoulder, his expression suddenly serious. ‘You want my opinion, that whole business was a set-up.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Simple. The idiots thought they were staging an ambush; but it was them who ended up being whacked. Now, ask yourself who could have arranged such a thing – and why?’

‘Inspector Rocco?’ Massin appeared in the door to the main office. Behind him was
Commissaire
Perronnet and further along the corridor, Colonel Saint-Cloud, watching closely. ‘My office, please.’

He turned and walked away, followed by the other two officers, leaving Rocco with a feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. The mood wasn’t helped by the knowledge that this little scene had been played out in front of several colleagues, including Alix and Desmoulins.

He walked up to Massin’s office and stepped inside. The three men were waiting for him. Massin pointed to a large brown envelope lying on the edge of his desk. It was addressed to Massin in large black letters, but with no stamps. Hand delivered.

He knew it wasn’t going to be good news, and he was right.

‘Perhaps, Inspector,’ Massin began coolly, ‘you would 
like to comment on the contents of this envelope? It was delivered less than thirty minutes ago.’ He remained standing and stared at Rocco with a fixed expression. Saint-Cloud and Perronnet said nothing, but their presence was ominous.

Rocco tipped up the envelope, and out slid a number of photographs, cascading across the polished surface of the desk. They were black and white, fairly grainy but large enough to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind what the subject matter was. They had been shot, he noted, at dusk, and in the glare of a car’s headlights.

They showed Rocco facing the hulking figure of George Tasker. In the background was Rocco’s Citroën Traction, the number plate clear to see. The shots were progressive, a series of images which were as condemning a display of wrongdoing as any Rocco had ever seen. The first showed Tasker taking a white envelope from his pocket; the second showed him holding it out to Rocco; the third showed Rocco holding it against his chest. To the uninitiated, he appeared to be putting it inside his coat.

There was no shot of Rocco throwing the envelope back at Tasker. Nor of the English gangster putting it back in his pocket.

‘It’s a set-up,’ said Rocco, the words sounding uncomfortably lame, even to him. How often had he heard those same words from others? But he knew what had happened. The man Bones had taken the shots from inside the car while Tasker had manoeuvred Rocco into position. With Rocco’s full attention on Tasker as the ‘handover’ was made, the engine noise had effectively drowned out any sound of a camera shutter operating. 

Saint-Cloud made a noise and looked away in an open display of contempt. Perronnet looked embarrassed, staring down at his shoes. Only Massin showed no expression.

‘Who is the man?’

‘His name is George Tasker. He’s a criminal from London. He and a man he called Bones were waiting outside my house last night.’

‘Tasker?’ Perronnet looked up. ‘Wasn’t he one of the Englishmen who smashed up the
Canard Doré
?’

‘The same. He works for a London gang boss named Ketch.’

‘How do you know this?’ Saint-Cloud was enjoying this. Rocco could see it in his eyes and the set of his chin.

‘Because I’ve just been to London, as you know. The Metropolitan Police confirmed the connection between Tasker and Ketch. I also believe Ketch has close links with Patrice Delarue.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Saint-Cloud softly, cocking his head to one side, ‘you could explain who he is?’

‘I told you already: he’s a known bank robber and gang boss in Paris.’

The security chief looked blank. It was a convincing performance of someone being presented with information for the very first time. ‘Huh. Never mind … You have seen this Ketch and Delarue together? Was Tasker there, too?’

You know he wasn’t because I told you, you devious bastard
, Rocco wanted to say. But he held it in. Losing his temper with a man like Saint-Cloud would get him nowhere. He felt suddenly powerless to stop this interview going downhill; whatever he said now was going to sound lame and unconvincing. 

‘Do you still have the envelope?’ said Massin. His voice was bleak and he looked shaken, as if his feet had been kicked out from under him.

‘No. I threw it straight back.’

The silence from all three men was brutal. They didn’t believe him. He cursed under his breath; what a dumb move that had been. He should have kept it and handed it in immediately.

‘I gave it back because they were trying to bribe me,’ he insisted. ‘I should have seen it coming but I didn’t.’

‘Bribe you to do what?’ asked Perronnet.

‘To drop my investigation into the activities of George Tasker and his colleagues.’ He stared hard at Saint-Cloud. ‘I believe they are complicit in a potential assassination attempt on the president when he comes to the region to visit the burial site at a place called Pont Noir. I’ve already made my suspicions clear. I even showed Colonel Saint-Cloud the location.’

‘He showed me some godforsaken spot, that’s true,’ replied Saint-Cloud, biting off the words with contempt, ‘in the middle of nowhere. There is no planned visit there and Rocco has fabricated this entire “plan” out of nothing. I must confess I was partly convinced by the outside possibility at first because that is my job: investigating and nullifying any threat to the president. But the more Inspector Rocco talked, the less convinced I became. In the end, I was forced to end his assignment to the local security review.’

‘What?’ Massin looked surprised.

Saint-Cloud turned to him with an apologetic lift of his hands. ‘I’m sorry, François – truly I am. I was reluctant 
to tell you of this development, especially in view of your confidence in your man’s abilities. But having such wild speculation attached to the assignment was, frankly, damaging. And now,’ he added silkily, sliding in another thrust of the dagger, ‘there is this matter of corruption …’

‘There is no proof of that,’ said Massin sharply. But he didn’t sound convinced, and stared down at the photos with a sickened expression. He also could not have failed to pick up the deliberate hint of accusation in the words ‘your man’, uttered by Saint-Cloud – a damaging piece of word association that would no doubt be repeated higher up the chain of command, adding question marks against his own name.

‘If you say so.’ Saint-Cloud’s voice was silkily soft, insinuating. ‘Although one wonders whether there is, perhaps, a connection here.’

‘What do you mean?’ Even Perronnet, usually
self-effacing
, was startled enough to make a comment.

‘I mean, gentlemen, that experience shows that whenever there is an assassination attempt on a head of state, there is often a … distraction event not far away.’ He flapped a vague hand, the expert bestowing on lesser mortals the benefit of his knowledge. ‘It is nothing new, but highly effective.’

‘What kind of distraction?’ Massin looked puzzled.

Saint-Cloud shrugged expansively. ‘Anything. Roadworks causing chaos, a fire, a crash of some kind … anything to tie up the emergency services and divert the attention of the security cordon. Even,’ he stared pointedly at Rocco, ‘a fabricated
possibility
of a threat from alleged outsiders conceived to absorb a great deal 
of our time and resources. Is that not the possibility you discussed with Chief Inspector Nialls in London? Trying to implicate a harmless gang of drunks in some kind of malevolent plot?’

Rocco felt a chill slide across his back.
Broissard. Or Portier
. It had to be. There would have been no reason for Nialls to conceal the subject of his meeting with Rocco from senior men like them.

‘Well?’

‘We talked about the possibility, yes. And these men are far from harmless—’

‘See?’ Saint-Cloud made a guttural noise of disbelief. ‘He admits it.’ He shook his head. ‘It is fanciful rubbish and I have heard enough. I will be bringing in another man to help me instead. Someone we can all trust to focus on getting to these criminals before they can act. And I do not mean chasing bar-room brawlers from London.’

‘Bring in somebody who believes your version of horseshit, you mean?’ Rocco said softly. ‘I wish them well; they’ll need it.’

‘That’s enough!’ Massin stepped forward and held out his hand. This time there was none of the
play-acting
used when he had placed Rocco on ‘sick leave’. ‘I need your weapon and your card, Inspector. You are suspended pending further investigations of this matter. You will remain at home until needed.’ His eyes flickered momentarily past Rocco’s shoulder and Rocco turned his head at the sound of movement.

Sous-Brigadier
Godard and two of his men were standing outside the open door. Godard looked deeply uncomfortable. 

‘What the hell are they here for?’ Rocco demanded, and looked at Massin for support.

But the senior officer could not meet his eye. ‘Your weapon and card, please, Inspector,’ he said.

Rocco took out his gun. But instead of handing it to Massin, he ejected the magazine and placed it and the weapon side by side on the desk. Then he dropped his police card alongside them and walked out of the office.

The walk down the stairs and through the main office accompanied by Godard and his men was probably the most humiliating of Rocco’s life. All talk subsided from a feverish high, no doubt speculating on what was going on upstairs, and dwindled to nothing as he walked by. Telephones went unanswered and all movement ceased, save for faces turning towards him and following his progress.

The news had already spread, disseminated by that peculiar method experienced only in close office environments. Rocco wondered whether a sly whisper here and there from Saint-Cloud had helped it along the way.

Then Detective René Desmoulins stood up and stepped in front of him, his weightlifter’s bulk blocking the way. One of Godard’s men put out a hand to warn him off, but Desmoulins sneered at him and the man backed off. Alix hovered in the background, her face pale.

‘This is shit, Lucas,’ Desmoulins said quietly. ‘Tell them.’

‘I tried,’ said Rocco. ‘They prefer to believe photos.’ He patted Desmoulins on the arm and shook his outstretched hand. ‘This isn’t over, don’t worry.’

As he walked out to his car, he was holding a folded slip of paper Desmoulins had pressed unseen into his palm.