Adrian Magson - Death on the Pont Noir

‘You recognise it?’

‘Yes, I do. It was one of several on the old man’s jacket.’ He stared at Rocco. ‘I know what you’re going to ask, Inspector: why should I recognise a simple button?’

‘And I hope you’re going to tell me.’

‘It’s very easy. One of our helpers, a wonderful woman — she used to be a mission worker in Gabon — noticed one day that Pantoufle had lost all the buttons from his jacket. He had a habit of twisting them — a bit like a child does when anxious — until they fell off. Anyway, she came in one Friday, when we were giving out food, and persuaded him to take off his jacket so she could replace the buttons. He wasn’t keen to begin with, but she showed him these birthday buttons from a child’s coat that was too damaged to give away, and he agreed. She sewed them on using fishing line so he couldn’t twist them off.’ He stared down at the button and pushed it with the tip of his finger. ‘Where did you find it? Could it have fallen off and he’s out there wandering-’

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Rocco interrupted him. This wasn’t a family matter and he saw no point in pretending there was any great chance of finding the missing vagrant alive. Besides, experience told him that most people preferred the truth rather than false hope. ‘We found it at the scene of a car crash. There was no sign of a body, but the indications are that he might have been hit by a car or a truck.’

‘Indications? Inspector, come on — I used to do work in Africa. I’m not going to faint with shock.’

‘There was a lot of blood.’

‘I see.’ A repeat flick of the hand as Father Maurice crossed himself. ‘I’ll say a prayer for him this evening.’

‘Do whatever you think is best.’ Rocco finished his coffee and scooped up the button. He would have to speak to Simeon again; the man might recall seeing Pantoufle in the area just before the crash. ‘Only I don’t think prayer’s done him a lot of good so far.’

‘Do you think that’s it?’ said Claude, once they were outside. ‘It’s just one button.’

‘You tell me.’ Rocco led the way back to the car. ‘What’s your instinct?’

Claude puffed and clambered into the passenger seat with a sigh. ‘Yes, you’re right. He was too much a man of habit to miss some free food.’ He stared out of the window towards the church. ‘I’d still like to find him, though. It doesn’t feel right, him being out there somewhere.’

‘Same here.’ Rocco started the car. ‘I’d also like to find out how he died.’

Claude said, ‘You don’t like the clergy much, do you?’

‘I’ve never found one I’d care to share a car with, no.’

Claude’s eyebrows shot up and down, and he smiled. ‘Thanks — I’ll take that as a compliment.’ He turned on the radio and began spinning the dial.

As they drove out of the village, Rocco was surprised to see Simeon standing by the side of the road, waving them down. His old moped was leaning against a concrete lamp post. Rocco pulled over and stopped.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Other way round, Inspector,’ the old farmer replied. ‘It’s I who can help you. I’ve just remembered something else about that business yesterday.’

‘Like what?’

‘There was someone else out there.’

Rocco felt his spirits plummet. With some witnesses, it was like their memory came in dribbles, each one smaller and more distant than the last. It was as if they couldn’t let go, determined to recall every detail until, inevitably, they began to remember things which had never happened.

‘Pantoufle, I know. We’re trying to find him. We think he’s dead.’

‘What makes you say that? I know about the blood and stuff. But it wasn’t him I saw.’

‘Who, then?’

‘There was someone in the wood, watching what was going on. A man. But not Pantoufle — I’d know him immediately. I only worked it out this morning; it was bothering me all night. He was standing right at the back of the trees — in shadow. Just watching. But as I was leaving, I heard a motorbike moving away after the crash. Not hurrying, though — like he was being careful not to make too much noise.’

‘He might have been with the other men,’ said Claude.

‘The cameraman,’ Rocco agreed, and wondered how he’d missed the signs. Taking a leak, most likely, away from his precious equipment. Odd lapse in timing, though, with all the action going on out front.

‘That’s just it, Inspector; he was riding along the track in the opposite direction. I mean, if he was with the others, why go the other way?’

George Tasker stared out through the window as the Calais train drifted slowly into the channel port, and shifted uncomfortably on the shiny plastic seat. He’d be glad to get off this cattle wagon and hit the ferry bar for a few bevvies. Set himself up for their arrival back in the smoke. That’s when the tough questions would start.

‘What do you reckon they’ll say?’ said Calloway, voicing their collective concerns.

Tasker shrugged, feigning indifference, although he didn’t feel it. ‘Search me. We’ll soon find out, won’t we?’ He gave a nasty smile and looked around at the other men. ‘Nothing’s changed, right? You let me do the talking. If the bosses ask, we did what we came to do. Any of you talk out of turn, you’ll have me to answer to. Got it?’

Privately, he wasn’t looking forward to getting back. They’d been told to keep it going for at least two days, hopefully tying up resources as much as they could, creating a logjam for the simple country Frenchies to fight their way out of. He’d have done it, too, if it hadn’t been for Calloway getting a sneak phone call out to one of his friends. Bloody nancy boy was too clever for his own good, fooling the guards with that lame story. He was asking for a good smack… and he’d get one if this all went tits up because of that call.

He was also niggled by the way the French cop, Rocco, had questioned Calloway first. Being overlooked in front of the others was something he wasn’t used to, and the more he thought about it the more it got under his skin. He had a name and reputation in London and across the South, and it had been earned the hard way. Having some snooty Frog copper treat him like a nobody just wasn’t on. Christ, he got more respect from the Sweeney — the Flying Squad. He was also annoyed at the game Rocco had played. Calloway hadn’t been writing a statement at all; he’d been kept in an adjacent room, then put back in with the others while Tasker was being questioned. Unfortunately, Tasker had already given him a rough time before anyone had clued him in.

And there was the truck key. He shifted in his seat; he’d made a mistake there. He should have told Rocco it was his front door key or something. Instead he’d fluffed it and ended up sounding false. Still, what were the chances they’d connect the key to the truck? It was a blank copy with no serial number or brand name, so no way would they trace it back.

He sniffed at the strong smell of stale seawater and engine smoke. At least they were getting off French soil; he didn’t like France or the French, and if he never came back, it would be too soon. Except that he was beginning to fantasise about having a quiet talk with Rocco — preferably down a dark alley. Nobody treated him like second best. And that woman copper with the nice arse; now, she was something else. He’d like to get her down a dark alley, too. Only it wouldn’t be to do any talking.

‘You reckon the big guy was an ordinary copper, George?’ Fletcher asked. He hadn’t said much since last night, which had surprised nobody. With the face on him, it was clear he was still fighting off the effects of all the booze he’d poured down his gullet in the bar.