Adrian Magson - Death on the Pont Noir

‘Nah. Just another French bean picker, full of himself because he could speak English.’ He wanted to add that it was lucky Rocco had had the other cops there, but he knew it would sound false. Sod ’em. Let them think what they liked.

‘He didn’t look much like a bumpkin to me,’ Calloway murmured. ‘Not the way he was dressed. Expensive clothes, good shoes. Quality stuff… for a bumpkin.’ He smiled and stretched his legs, and Tasker very nearly launched himself across the carriage to wipe the grin off his face. He’d have enjoyed shoving his fist down that smarmy throat. But starting a fight here wasn’t clever, and anyway, Calloway wasn’t without influential friends back in London; friends of people who paid Tasker his wages. No, now they were out, they had to stay out and get home.

‘Forget him,’ he growled. ‘And once we’re on the boat, keep your mouths shut. There’s too many people about who’ll be earwigging what we say. So button it.’ He stared at Calloway in particular. ‘And you all know who we’ll have to deal with if word gets out about what we were doing.’

That put a dampener on the atmosphere, until Fletcher looked up and said, ‘I suppose we could always go and join the Richardsons.’

The comment was met by a stunned silence all round. There were certain names that were never mentioned in some quarters, and the Richardsons, who ran a gang south of the river, sat right at the top of the list.

Tasker shook his head. He wasn’t smiling, and everyone knew why: it was the thought of what might happen if a certain someone closer to home took the way the operation had gone the wrong way.

‘Glad you’re feeling so bloody cocky, Fletch,’ Tasker breathed finally. ‘Just remember, when they ask who cut the operation short by crocking that truck, there’s only one name in the frame — and it ain’t mine.’

While Tasker and his men were travelling home, Rocco drove back to the scene of the crash thinking about what had happened here, trying to build a series of images in his mind to match the location. Was it simply a bit of wild filming which had gone wrong? Or a bizarre accident? If so, why out here? What the hell were the odds of a truck and a smart car coming to grief together in the middle of nowhere like this?

He walked along the road from the supposed point of impact to the trees. Remembering what Simeon had said about the watcher, he scouted round the back of the small copse and found where someone had arrived on a moped or motorcycle, and had pulled the machine onto its stand, leaving two indentations in the mud behind the trees. It was away from the track, he noted, and far enough to one side to be out of sight from anyone taking a casual glance.

So, the men involved in the crash had had a covert watcher. Interesting.

He walked back to the car. It was the small details of an incident that very often told the full story; the details that were missed at first glance, or were concealed by accident or intent. Among that detail was often some anecdotal fact thrown up by a witness like Simeon, which might have no obvious significance, yet which turned out to be fundamental to an investigation.

And right now, he felt he was missing too much.

‘Shut the door, Inspector.’ Massin was seated behind his desk, shuffling through a thin batch of papers. He gestured to a chair and continued reading for a moment, then sat back and looked at Rocco. ‘You appear to have consigned a group of English visitors to the cells. Would you care to explain why?’

‘They got drunk and wrecked a bar.’ Rocco wondered where this was going, although he could guess. Massin was having a twitch about the treatment of foreigners. He had no doubt found out about the reasons for the men’s detention from Canet, but had clearly chosen to go head-to — head about it.

‘Is that all — a bar brawl?’

‘By “wrecked”, I mean destroyed. They also assaulted the owner and Desmoulins got a headbutt to the face. A magistrate was lined up to deal with them today.’

‘Is Desmoulins all right?’

‘He’ll survive.’

‘So why were you involved? I would have thought you had better things to be doing than dealing with drunks on the rampage.’

‘I was called in because I speak English. They were being difficult.’

‘I see.’ Massin flicked at a piece of fluff on his desk and arranged a pencil in line with his blotter. ‘Well, I’ve had the prisoners released and put on a train to Calais.’ He held up a hand to stop Rocco’s automatic reaction. ‘Not my doing, I assure you. I actually agreed with your actions; a spot of time in the cells would have done them good. But…’ He shrugged. ‘They should be on the boat by now.’

‘Orders from the Ministry?’ Rocco bit hard down on the words he really wanted to utter. Querying Massin’s unwillingness to stand up to the senior drones in the Ministry would not have improved the prickly relationship that existed between them. Besides, he was puzzled by Massin’s obvious air of discomfort. Maybe, he thought, it was merely a spot of verbal indigestion at having agreed with his decision to hold the men in the first place.

‘In a manner of speaking.’ Massin pursed his lips. ‘It seems representations were made to the Ministry very early this morning by the British consulate office in Lille, originating from the office of a member of the British Parliament.’

‘What?’ Rocco had difficulty relating the men he’d seen with any member of the British Government. He was aware that even politicians were rarely the best judges of the company they kept, but picturing any public servant interested in helping out a man like Tasker took a real stretch of the imagination. He wondered instinctively about who had made the phone call to London in the first place.

‘How did the British find out?’

‘One of the men…’ Massin leant forward and checked a note on his blotter. ‘… named Calloway, indicated that he had chest pains and needed some allergy tablets. The duty officer quite rightly didn’t want to take a chance of a foreign prisoner dying in custody, but he couldn’t find an appropriate remedy here. Calloway asked permission to call his doctor in London for information.’

So Calloway spoke French — or, at least, enough. It showed he was smart, even devious, and he knew how to talk to people. It was more than could be said of the other thugs.

‘Don’t tell me: there was no doctor.’

‘Probably not. Less than an hour later, the Ministry called and recommended the release of all five men.’ He waved a hand. ‘It’s hard to accept, I know, after what they did. But the Ministry’s concern was that we should show willing… in the interests of international relations, you understand. The men deposited a sum of money to compensate the owner of the Canard Dore. He’s lucky — it’ll allow him to refurbish the dump.’ He shuffled the papers on his desk and sat up, smoothly changing the subject. ‘However, that is not why I asked you in here.’ His expression grew grave.

Great, thought Rocco. Here it comes. Remembered hurts coming back to bite him.

But Massin surprised him. ‘This is confidential for the time being, but I know you will not discuss this outside. I have just been briefed about what appears to be another attempt on the life of the president, two days ago. Thankfully, it failed, which is a blessing, of course.’

‘Another?’ How many attempts had there been on de Gaulle over the years? Some said it was already more even than there had been on Adolf Hitler. Unless you counted the efforts of British Bomber Command; that would increase the numbers a fair bit.

Massin sighed. ‘Perhaps it would be simpler if you read the summary yourself.’ He passed a sheet of paper across to Rocco and stood up, taking a walk around the room.