Adrian Magson - Death on the Pont Noir

‘Don’t you know how to cook cutlets?’ She reached up and patted her hair, which was frozen in some kind of unmoving, shimmering beehive. ‘I could pop down and do them for you, if you like.’

‘There’s no need-’

‘It’s really no problem. I’m nearly done here. Just give me fifteen minutes to freshen up.’

If she was any fresher, Rocco decided, she’d be as crisp as a newly peeled endive. He pointed at a piece of beef under the glass and said, ‘That minced would be fine. Really.’

She gave him a half smile, one eyebrow curving upwards. ‘There’s no need to be frightened, Inspector… I was only offering to cook, you know.’ She picked up the beef and fed it through the mincer, turning the handle with what seemed unnecessary vigour, and he wondered whether she had eaten any husbands in the past.

At the house he rented down the lane from the village square, he found some eggs in a basket on the front step. Mme Denis, his neighbour, making sure he was well stocked with the basics in life. Some days it was vegetables, others it was fruit. Today eggs.

He glanced through the fence separating their properties and caught a fleeting glimpse of the old lady ducking indoors, and smiled. She habitually wore an apron over a grey dress, and a triangle of headscarf pinned over her head. It was her uniform, her and others of her age; a sign of cleanliness, hard work and a lack of show. She was an independent old bird, and had become fiercely protective of the flic living next door. Her defensiveness had even included flinging hot tisane in a man’s face when he’d threatened her with a gun, saving Rocco’s life in the process.

‘You think because I’m old I’m a charity case?’ she had once asked him, eyes flashing dangerously behind thick glasses. Rocco had just offered to take her out for a meal in return for all her kindness since he’d arrived in the village. Big mistake. ‘You are a welcome guest here, Inspector,’ she’d explained primly. ‘We look after our guests.’

‘In that case,’ he’d replied, ‘feel free to go out on the town and get drunk and disorderly, and I’ll make sure they drop any charges.’

She’d giggled and told him she would hold him to it.

The interior of the house was cold. He lit the fire and fixed dinner, then rang Claude to check if there were any developments from Father Maurice. There were none. Wherever Pantoufle had disappeared to, it was not looking good.

He did a stint at the ancient hand pump out in the garden. It was reluctant to draw water, a sure sign that the cold in the atmosphere was reaching freezing levels once more. He’d already had to set a fire around it to loosen the ice more than once, and would no doubt have to do so again. The laying of pipes in the road outside had been completed and covered over, but there the work had stopped, nobody knew why.

Back indoors, the fouines — fruit rats — were skittering back and forth in the loft as if excited by his return. They seemed oblivious to the drop in temperature and intent on playing their nightly games instead of hibernating. Rocco had become used to them, finding their presence oddly comforting. He still wasn’t sure who was the guest and who the host here, but so far, the relationship had worked well.

And in his experience, there were far worse rats in the world to deal with.

Up close, Rocco thought Colonel Jean-Philippe Saint-Cloud, formerly Lt Colonel of the 1er Regiment Etranger de Parachutistes — 1st Foreign Parachute Regiment — looked older than his walk or demeanour showed. He had sallow skin, but still possessed the build and apparent vitality of a younger man. His neat moustache and haircut en brosse were clear visual clues to his military background, as were the neat double-breasted suit and highly polished shoes, and the tie knot as tight and hard as a nut.

He was waiting for Rocco at the front desk, staring into the middle distance and ignoring the gaggle of overnight miscreants gathered for logging or release, depending on their offences. He turned and led Rocco without greeting through the office, where the daily briefing was being conducted by Commissaire Perronnet and Captain Canet. Numerous pairs of eyes swivelled to follow as Rocco and the security chief passed down the corridor, which made Rocco question how discreet his involvement with Saint-Cloud was going to be.

‘Sit down, Inspector.’ Saint-Cloud led the way into an empty office and closed the door. ‘Thank you for being so prompt.’ His voice was calm, with the quiet confidence of a man accustomed to his authority. He sat and crossed his legs, his movements economic and controlled. He put Rocco in mind of an attack dog he’d once seen in a scrapyard: not the slavering, snarling beast most commonly imagined, but a quiet, almost serene animal with quite possibly the most evil eyes he’d ever seen.

Rocco sat and waited. This was probably one of the most powerful men in the land. But it wasn’t through any position in the chain of command, rather his close association with the president. In fact, there was rumoured to be only one man closer, and that was the main physical bodyguard himself, Paul Comiti, a man sworn to protect de Gaulle to the death.

Saint-Cloud, however, was the organiser, the bureaucrat with quiet muscle, always behind the scenes, pulling strings, making arrangements. To him fell the task of keeping the president’s visits and sorties as minutely planned and as secure as possible. At the point of contact with the public, however, it was down to Comiti’s small team of men to catch the bullet.

So far, they had succeeded in their job against many expectations and attempts.

‘You have an impressive record, Rocco,’ Saint-Cloud continued. ‘Both in the army and the police. You were in Indochina, I believe.’

Rocco nodded. As were the 1st REP, he recalled. A tough bunch of men, they had been disbanded in 1961 following service in Algeria. It seemed Lt Colonel Saint-Cloud had moved on to better, if not bigger, things.

‘What can I do for you, Colonel?’ he asked. He wanted to find out what this man wanted of him, not to relive old war stories.

‘I want you to do your duty as a sworn police officer and help protect the president, of course.’ Saint-Cloud’s eyebrows lifted slightly, as if surprised by Rocco’s blunt approach. ‘I appreciate this is not your normal work, and I’m sure you have many pressing matters to investigate. But as the man on the ground here, I would like to seek your cooperation in ensuring that those… forces keen to confront the president with violence are not successful. You’ve heard about the latest attempt?’

‘I have.’

‘Badly planned, poorly executed, but a clear warning that we cannot relax our guard while the dangers still exist.’ He studied his fingernails. ‘I need you to act as our eyes and ears on the matter of security in this area. Other of your colleagues spread around the country are doing the same. It is vital that you unearth anything — any group or individual — threatening the safety of the president, and by inference, France.’

‘Don’t you have files on these people already?’ Rocco was puzzled. As far as he was aware, the names of the main conspirators were well documented and their movements monitored and recorded. Unless Saint-Cloud was holding something back, he wasn’t sure what new groups or individuals were out there or where they had emerged from. Many of the existing ones had originated years before, some no doubt now advancing in age and lacking in strength, numbers or organisation. It took energy and commitment to keep anti-government groups active, especially when no certain progress in their aims was being made. Other groups, younger ones, such as students, were more difficult to pin down because they were harder to infiltrate due to their age, or lacked the cohesiveness required to mount an effective attack. But even they eventually became careless, and were generally known to the authorities.