Death on the Pont Noir (22 page)

Rocco and Claude had a clear view of what happened next. A stubby Renault truck emerged from the inferno of the shed like a horse out of a starting gate. But this horse was hell-bent on death and left destruction in its wake. Without bothering to open the doors, the driver had simply burst through the rotten wood as if they didn’t exist. The impact against the padlocked hasp had been enough to send a shock wave rippling throughout the flimsy structure, tearing away the walls and supports and lifting the corrugated roof. Then everything had crashed downwards. But not before the truck was tearing itself clear of the debris and accelerating along the track, its engine screaming in protest and the rear end trailing a gushing swirl of smoke and flames.

‘It’s the same as before,’ said Rocco. The same model truck, the same railway sleeper strapped across the front, the same target.

Only this time the target was real.

They jumped in the car and took off, accelerating hard. It was a fruitless task and Rocco knew they would never make it. What could they hope to do – stop the official car carrying the president and his bodyguards? The DS would leave them standing. He debated shooting at the truck in an attempt to put Fletcher off his aim, but he knew that was futile, too. The distance was too great and the Englishman would be too focused on his target to even notice. What was more likely was that the bodyguards in the DS would see Rocco and Claude as the attackers and turn their automatic weapons on them instead.

He flashed his lights, hoping the guards would notice and at least look at the area around them. The angle of the Renault’s approach was such that it was in a blind spot, and might not be seen until it was too late.

The DS continued its run, cruising smoothly along the tarmac. Rocco even fancied he saw the oval of a face looking through the rear-side window. De Gaulle, perhaps, getting his first view of a site of past death and destruction, unaware that if the truck now bearing down on him did its job, he would be joining all the departed souls in the ground below.

At the last moment, as the DS began to draw level with the mouth of the track, something must have caught the attention of the guards. The noise of the shed being destroyed carrying above the car engine, maybe the swirl of smoke trailing after the burning truck catching the eye or simply a bodyguard’s instinct kicking in and warning of an impending attack. There was movement inside as the occupants turned to stare at the side where the attacker was coming from.

‘Get out of there!’ Claude shouted. ‘Move it, you idiot!’

As if responding to his call, the DS seemed to sink on its suspension as the driver put on a surge of power, and began to pull away at speed. But they were already a fraction of a second too late. The truck blasted out of the track and across the road, mud churning up from its heavy tyres, the driver’s face close to the windscreen, his mouth open in a snarl. Was he even aware of the flames creeping across the back of his vehicle? Did he care?

The railway sleeper seemed almost about to miss its target … to have all been for nothing. Then it brushed against the rear of the car. It was a near miss, but enough, flicking the heavily armoured DS sideways with near disdain.

The car driver corrected and accelerated again, fighting the wheel. For just a second one of his rear tyres slid out over the bank, spinning in thin air, and Rocco and Claude swore in unison, expecting the worst. But the car’s extra weight was its saving grace. With a waggle of its tail, it settled and took off across the bridge trailing a damaged rear wing and bumper.

The truck, still under full power and carried by its own mass, was unable to stop in time. It soared out over the edge, dragging earth, grass, white marker posts and fiery smoke with it, the engine howling as if in a frustrated rage all of its own.

Then it dropped out of sight.

The DS flew towards Rocco’s car without stopping, the driver and guard in the front staring hard and clearly expecting another attack. Rocco stamped on the brakes and pulled over to let them pass, holding up his empty hands
and bracing himself for a hail of defensive gunfire. But the guards knew their job and held off shooting.

As the car disappeared, Rocco drove across the bridge and stopped. Then he and Claude jumped out and looked over the edge of the drop, standing by the ripped scar where the DS driver had nearly come to grief and where the Renault driver had plunged to his death.

Far below, the truck was just visible, its nose buried in the ice-covered pond and surrounded by a vast cloud of steam and smoke. It held for a moment, and Rocco thought it had gone in as far as it could. Then with a groan, it began to sink further. As it did so, the water around it rippled violently, lighting up with a vivid flash, and a wave of heat came up the bank towards them. Then the remains of the truck sank from sight.

There was no sign of the driver.

‘Not far off now,’ said Calloway, who had been watching signposts. He had a flair for navigating which Tasker lacked, and had only needed to glance at the map once more to know where he was on the twisting and narrow country roads leading towards the village of Poissons-
les-Marais
.

Little had been said since they had changed course, although Biggs had kept up a regular muttering about going the wrong way and wasting valuable time. Tasker had said nothing in reply, too absorbed in staring out of the window at the unfolding panorama of brown fields rolling by.

They had met virtually no traffic save for the occasional van or tractor and one or two cyclists, the latter hunched over their handlebars, faces pinched and grey against the cold air. The route Calloway had chosen had kept them clear of villages, passing only one or two ramshackle farms,
and a café with a giant Pernod advert painted on the side wall.

‘How far?’ The words seemed to stir Tasker from his thoughts. He lifted the sawn-off and took out the two spent cartridges, replacing them with the fresh ones. He snapped it shut.

From behind him came a click of metal as Biggs also checked his gun.

‘About two miles.’

‘This is a waste of time,’ the former soldier muttered, slapping a hand on the back of the seat for emphasis. ‘What the hell are we doing out here? We’d be in Calais by now if we’d kept going north.’

‘We’re here because I said so,’ Tasker growled. ‘It’s part of the job, that’s all.’

‘Yeah – and a proper bleedin’ lash-up that was. My mate’s dead, thanks for asking, and we’re stuck in the middle of bleedin’ nowhere. My mother could’ve organised things better than this. Friggin’ amateurs.’ He clicked the cylinder back into place and turned to watch the road behind them.

There was silence for a while as they rumbled gently along a stretch of uneven tarmac. Then a vehicle appeared coming the other way.

A police car.

Tasker said calmly, ‘Keep going. Don’t even eyeball them, you hear?’

The two cars passed each other, and the three Englishmen caught a glimpse of two men in uniform, eyeing the DS with interest.

Tasker turned and looked back. The police car was
slowing with a flash of its brake lights. They were turning back. ‘Put your foot down,’ he said quietly. ‘Get us a good lead.’

Calloway nodded and the car leapt forward. They drove in silence for a mile, each alone in their thoughts. Then Tasker said, ‘Stop the car.’

Calloway glanced at him. ‘You what? They’ll be on us in a minute.’

‘I said, stop the bloody car. Now!’ To emphasise his point, Tasker dropped the stock of the sawn-off into the crook of his elbow so that the barrels were nudging Calloway’s ribcage.

Calloway did as he was told, applying the brakes firmly but smoothly. Any sudden movement right now would cost him his life. He coasted to a halt. They were near an expanse of woodland, the trees spiky and rimed with frost. A gathering of crows circled around the uppermost branches, disturbed by the car’s arrival, while below them, some cows in a field looked up, breathing out clouds of vapour at this sudden intrusion.

Tasker said without looking round, ‘Biggs. Get round to the back and rip off the number plate. Somebody will have reported it and we need to keep ’em guessing.’

Biggs eyed the gun in Tasker’s hands, then shrugged and climbed out.

‘Right, go,’ said Tasker quietly, and lifted the barrels of the sawn-off. ‘Nice and quick, now.’

Calloway had no choice. He nodded and stamped on the accelerator. The car fishtailed slightly on the greasy surface, then they were away, leaving Biggs standing at the side of the road, his mouth open in shock.

‘What was that for?’ said Calloway.

‘Because he annoyed me. And he called us amateurs.’ He sniffed and lowered the gun to the floor between his knees. ‘And he’ll slow down that cop car. Now get me close to this bloody village before they catch up with us.’

It didn’t take long for the cavalcade of patrol cars, emergency crews, support vehicles and other interested parties to arrive, summoned by the bodyguards in the DS.

Rocco and Claude waited on the bridge, immune to the cold, hands in plain sight as the first cars skidded to a stop and officers jumped out, guns drawn; it would have been too disturbingly ironic to have had a zealous patrol cop, anxious to make a name for himself, start blazing away without asking questions as soon as he saw two men at the site of an attack on the president.

Some looked surprised to see Rocco, men who had heard about his suspension. They either avoided his gaze or muttered between themselves about what he was doing here. Most nodded with familiarity or called a greeting, and went to investigate the crash site.

Among the vehicles were two blue vans with Godard and his
Gardes Mobiles
, who quickly put up roadblocks to
keep unwanted gawkers at bay and isolate the scene from the press. A car carrying
Commissaire
Perronnet, Captain Canet and Dr Rizzotti arrived and parked on the far side of the bridge. Both officers nodded at Rocco without comment before walking by and studying the scene of the truck’s descent into the pond.

Rizzotti stopped alongside Rocco and Claude, and took one look over the edge before shaking his head. He eyed Rocco for a moment, then gave him a covert wink before suggesting loudly that someone call a rescue truck with heavy lifting gear.

Then
Commissaire
Massin appeared.

The senior officer uncurled himself from the rear of Perronnet’s car with an air of reluctance. He viewed the area for a moment, adjusting his cap with care, then walked along the road onto the bridge, his shoes clicking with parade ground precision. He nodded at Rocco and Claude, then went to view the scene for himself, before returning accompanied by Canet and Perronnet.

As he did so, Detective Desmoulins arrived in a patrol car and jogged across the bridge. He was grinning widely.

‘You were right all along, Lucas,’ he said loudly, while still several metres away. His words carried clearly in the thin air, drawing the attention of the uniformed officers and support crews securing the scene. All conversation ceased. ‘They hit the
Crédit Agricole
in Béthune; four Englishmen in a DS, armed with shotguns and pistols. Three went in and one stayed with the car.’ He stopped in front of Rocco and looked around, enjoying the audience. ‘Unfortunately, someone else had the same idea. They ran slap bang into another crew and there was a gunfight. I just heard it over
the radio. Sounds like it was a rerun of the Valentine’s Day Massacre.’

Massin was the first to speak. ‘What are you talking about?’ He clearly hadn’t heard the news.

‘The English gang who smashed up the café? Lucas said they were here to do a job, and he was right; they came back to rob the bank in Béthune. Three got away but one was killed. One of the second gang was killed and one wounded. I’d already warned the Béthune office as Lucas suggested, but they were a bit reluctant to believe me, especially …’ he paused, then added innocently, ‘as they’d heard about his suspension.’

Massin said nothing for a moment, the skin around his eyes going tight. Then he said, ‘What else? Was anything stolen?’

‘No. That was the joke. There was a last-minute change to the schedule. The bank said the main bulk of money was delivered a day early at the request of the tyre factory. Something about shutting the lines down for a maintenance check, so they paid the workers yesterday instead.’

‘Who were the other crew?’ Rocco asked.

‘One of the local cops reckons the dead man is an old gang soldier from St Denis in Paris who’d retired years ago. The wounded guy and the third one they caught right outside were amateurs. A bunch of nobodies.’

‘I see.’ Massin looked bemused. ‘Where are the Englishmen now?’

‘Last seen heading north – probably back to Calais and the white cliffs of Dover. I alerted the Calais division and they’re putting out patrols to stop them.’ He looked at Rocco and gestured towards the truck below them. ‘Sounds
like the distraction you described, while all this was going on.’

Rocco nodded, his eyes on Massin. The next step was up to him.

The
commissaire
looked uncomfortable and lifted his chin, then turned and spoke directly to Rocco. ‘I have had … representations from an eyewitness who confirms that you were handed an envelope by a man answering the description of the Englishman, Tasker.’ He glanced around as if making sure everyone was listening, although not a sound could be heard. ‘She confirmed that you handed the envelope back with … “a degree of force”, was how she described it.’

Mme Denis
, thought Rocco.
You beauty
.

‘I have also received documentation via our embassy in London, supporting the fact that you refused on the spot to take the money.’

‘Documentation?’ Rocco couldn’t believe it.

‘A copy of a statement made by the accomplice of the man Tasker – the same one who took the photographs – witnessed by a third secretary of our embassy and two members of the Metropolitan Police, one of them Detective Chief Inspector Nialls, who I can vouch for personally.’

Rocco blinked at that. It was quite a thing to say, for Massin.

‘I consider it sufficient to back up your claim that it was an attempted entrapment, Inspector, and have already issued directions for your suspension to be lifted. And I apologise for the … regrettable accusations made against you. I’m sure you understand, however, that I had to follow certain … procedures.’ He coughed. ‘I believe you, too,
unwittingly, became part of the distraction.’

‘Thank you,’ he said.

Massin nodded and reached down to his side. For the first time Rocco realised he was wearing a sidearm. Massin unclipped it and held it out. ‘I’m sorry – I did not bring your weapon. You might need this.’

It was as good as he was going to get, Rocco figured. And better than he’d expected. He tapped his coat pocket, where he’d put the Walther. ‘Thanks. But I’m good to go.’ He found his respect for Massin rising a spectral level or two; the senior officer could have hidden behind the procedural veil of further investigations into the affair, but had clearly decided to come out in the open – and in front of these other officers.

Someone clapped him on the back and he heard a volley of congratulations.

Then a stocky figure eased through the crowd, holding up a slim wallet for Massin to see. He had impressively broad shoulders and the face of a fighter, although dressed in a smart suit and tie. He spoke directly to Massin.

‘Are you in charge here?’

‘I am,’ Massin confirmed, and looked at the man’s ID. His face registered surprise. ‘How can I help you?’

The man pointed at Rocco and Claude. ‘You and these two – a word, please?’ He turned and walked away a few metres, distancing himself from the crowd of policemen and leaving the other three to follow.

‘This is my authority,’ the newcomer said, when they were standing alongside him. He showed Rocco and Claude his card. ‘It trumps anything you’re likely to see here today.’ He glanced at Massin with a grim smile. ‘I
mean no offence,
Commissaire
, I promise you – but this is vitally important.’

‘Of course. I understand.’ Massin turned to Rocco and Claude. ‘This gentleman is one of the president’s protection team.’

‘Damn,’ Claude muttered. ‘You were in the front of the car!’

‘And you were in the Traction coming towards the bridge. Your names?’

Rocco said, ‘I’m Rocco, he’s Lamotte. Out of Amiens.’

‘Really. Are you undercover?’ The bodyguard seemed fascinated by the contrast between Claude and Rocco, one in corduroys and boots, the other in dark, tailored clothing and black brogues.

‘That’s right,’ Massin interjected. ‘These officers are under my command. Is the president safe?’

‘Perfectly, thank you. All I want to say is, what happened here today stops here.’ He glanced at the crowd of policemen, who were now going about their duties. ‘No reports, no press interviews, nothing. The president would prefer that another … incident following on so soon after the last one would not be in the best interests of the state or the people.’

‘What about the truck?’ Rocco asked, nodding towards the crash site, although he knew it was academic; if the president requested a press blackout, that’s what he would get.

The man lifted his shoulders. ‘It was an accident. A drunk who took the corner too fast.’

‘Corner?’ Claude looked up and down the straight road. ‘Which one?’

The man smiled with a touch of genuine humour. ‘Well, who knows what a drunk sees, huh? You’ll think of something.
Commissaire
?’ He glanced meaningfully towards the other policemen.

Massin got the message and walked away to spread the word.

The bodyguard turned to go, and Rocco said, ‘I’m surprised Colonel Saint-Cloud isn’t here to deliver that message himself.’

The bodyguard frowned. ‘Saint-Cloud? Why would he?’

‘He’s in charge of your unit.’

‘Not anymore.’ The man gave Rocco a hard stare. ‘The colonel retired on … health grounds three weeks ago. It’s not been officially announced yet, but he’s no longer responsible for this or any other unit.’ His face showed no emotion, but the phrasing carried all the meaning Rocco needed.

With that, the bodyguard turned and walked away to the black Citroën DS waiting across the bridge.

Moments later, a uniformed officer hurried across and addressed Rocco.

‘A man with a gun has been spotted by a patrol on a back road near Poissons,’ he told him. ‘They think he was dropped off by a DS with two others on board. The DS disappeared but the patrol stayed near the man’s last location.’

‘What sort of gun?’ The last thing Rocco needed was to waste time hunting a farmer chasing rabbits. He was still trying to digest the bombshell delivered by the bodyguard, and figuring out what to do about it.

‘A handgun,’ the officer replied.

Rocco pushed the Saint-Cloud business to one side. The colonel would keep for now. He said to Claude, ‘Get Desmoulins, Godard and some of his men. The fewer targets the better until we find out what this is.’ He had no doubts that it was Tasker and his remaining companions, but flooding the area with uniforms would only create pandemonium, during which the robbers might manage to slip away.

And, in any case, this was personal.

The journey took fifteen minutes, with Rocco driving as fast as he dared over the slippery roads and Claude and Desmoulins riding shotgun. Godard was following in a van with three of his men. The sleet had returned and was beginning to turn softer, falling more slowly but with the relentless regularity that would soon turn to snow. Rocco studied the sky and thought about advantages: it wasn’t yet heavy enough to settle, but it might help them by showing traces of footsteps around the location where the gunman had been seen.

He saw a patrol car parked at the side of the road not far from a wood and stopped behind it. Godard pulled up in front. The two patrol officers climbed out to greet them, stamping their feet.

‘He was running toward the trees when we saw him,’ said one, and pointed a thumb over a fence at the wood. ‘We thought it best to wait for backup. He didn’t look as if he wanted to stop and chat.’

‘Wise choice,’ said Rocco. ‘Where did the car go?’

The man jerked his chin up the road. ‘Towards Poissons. There are no other turns off this road unless they go straight past.’

‘They won’t,’ Rocco said. He glanced at the wood. ‘How thick is it in there?’ He knew the trees and copses in the area varied greatly, some thinned by woodcutters and farmers for logs, others left to nature. If anyone would know, Claude would.

‘In there? Heavy going. The owner won’t let anyone near it. You thinking of going in?’

Rocco nodded. Whoever was in there wasn’t going to come out willingly, he was certain of that. But he was damned if he was going to sit out here and wait for the man to get bored or freeze to death. And neither could he send in men who had no experience of this kind of thing.

He also needed the names of who was behind this business.

He took out the Walther and said to Claude, ‘Bring your shotgun. You others, stay here.’ He saw one of Godard’s men carrying a rifle. ‘He any good with that?’

Godard smiled. ‘Best in the unit.’

‘If our man comes out, go for a leg wound. If he fights …’ He left the rest unsaid. If the man came out, it was likely that he’d have scored one, if not two hits already, and he and Claude would be unable to help.

He ducked beneath the fence and set off across the field with Claude close behind, following the faint tracks left by the fleeing man. Flecks of snow soon began settling on their coat shoulders and in their eyebrows, and the air had gone very quiet. A few cows over by the wood stomped away as they approached.

‘You think he’ll be in there?’ Claude said softly. ‘It’s a bit obvious.’

‘It’s the only cover for several kilometres. He’ll take what he can get.’

Rocco stopped twenty metres short of the first line of trees and listened. All he could hear was a faint hum of wind, and in the background, a chatter of radio from the police vehicles. That would be good, he thought; hearing it would cut into the man’s confidence even more than being stranded out here alone. The knowledge that he was effectively cut off would be demoralising.

‘You ready?’

Claude nodded and lifted his shotgun.

At a nod from Rocco, they stepped apart to reduce the targets and walked forward into the trees.