Adrian Magson - Death on the Pont Noir

‘Delarue’s just keeping it in the family,’ said Rocco. ‘But he keeps his hands clean and the Debussy woman can always claim her husband was working without her knowledge. Nice people. Can we use it?’

‘Well, it’s enough to allow us in there to look at their paperwork, given a helpful judge to sign it off. If we can trace a receipt for the DS battery, it proves a link. We’ll probably find it hard to make that stick, but it’ll disrupt his organisation for a while until we get something better.’

‘Good work, Michel. I’ve a feeling a lunch is in order.’ It was a step nearer, and one that the Paris police would jump on. They had been after Delarue for far too long to let go easily of a chance to bring him down.

‘At last,’ Santer breathed, and laughed. ‘Food. The man’s talking my language. I can’t wait.’

‘You’ve earned it. What was the other thing?’

‘You recall the paratrooper, Captain Lamy, wounded in the N19 attack?’

‘Yes.’

‘It seems he’s just been found and questioned by the DST, our esteemed internal security organisation. He caught a secondary infection and had to be taken to hospital. He’s currently spilling his guts and claims he took part in the attack to help his brother. You now have to ask me who his brother is.’

‘I have no idea but you’re clearly about to tell me.’ He could sense Santer was enjoying this moment of triumph.

‘Actually, his name doesn’t really matter. Suffice to say he’s a gambler and general black sheep of the Lamy crop. Not a good gambler, because he owes a small fortune to a private casino owned by none other than Patrice Delarue. Captain Lamy claims Delarue told him if he didn’t help out, his delinquent brother would end his days in the Seine tied to a large piece of concrete. Personally, I think Lamy had to have been a sympathiser, anyway, so the decision wasn’t too hard for him to make. It just needed something like his brother’s skin to justify why he’d go along with it.’

‘That proves Lamy’s involved with Delarue. But is he tied in to any anti-Gaullist groups?’

‘I can’t prove that. But I did find out one little snippet.’

‘Which is?’

‘Six months ago, Captain Lamy applied to join the presidential security department run by your new best friend, Colonel Saint-Cloud.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. And in spite of his record of discontent, his name was placed on a reserve list. Given a few weeks and he could have been on the inside.’

Wheels within wheels, thought Rocco, wondering at such audacity — or was it stupidity? — between brother officers. It was always the same: one hand shook another and favours got passed along. But this was a favour like no other. What the hell was Saint-Cloud thinking? Couldn’t he see the danger to his own position? Or had he got a blind spot when it came to fellow officers?

He shook his head. It was too much to speculate about. He’d have to come back to it. ‘Delarue,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know he was politically active.’

‘Me neither. But he’s a crook, so what’s the difference? The DST reckons he’s trying to spread his power base overseas and is playing at middleman for various contracts. The OAS and Corsican gangs are just a couple of the groups he’s getting into bed with, and they’re prepared to pay good money for the right expertise. Delarue is playing at being a broker.’

‘You can add the British to that list. A gangster named Ketch in London, and his associates. If the DST wants chapter and verse, they can contact Detective Inspector David Nialls at Scotland Yard. But don’t give the information to Jules Broissard. Find someone else.’

‘If you say so.’ There was hesitation in Santer’s voice. ‘Lucas, have you told anyone else about all this?’

‘I’ve tried. They don’t believe in the criminal connection.’

‘Jesus, you have to push harder; you’re leaving yourself open, otherwise.’

‘I will, I promise. But right now what I need is something concrete.’

‘Good. You haven’t said why I shouldn’t tell Broissard.’

‘I think he’s too close to this, and we’re hardly friends. I can’t prove it, but I don’t want to take any chances that he’ll just sit on the information until it’s too late.’

‘Good enough for me. I’ll find a way round him.’

Rocco put down the phone and found Claude looking at him with a serious expression.

‘Sounds like this is getting heavy, Lucas.’

‘It is. I just don’t know how heavy.’

The phone rang again and he scooped it up. Probably Massin or the Ministry, summoning him to a disciplinary interview. The Foreign Legion was suddenly looking like an attractive proposition… if they took mature recruits with police experience.

But it wasn’t Massin or the Ministry. It was David Nialls.

‘Something’s going on, Lucas,’ the CID man said crisply. ‘Just had word that Tasker, Fletcher and Calloway have just got on a late boat for Calais.’

Like a snowball, Rocco thought. This business was rolling downhill, gathering speed and volume.

‘There’s not much I can do without some hard facts to pass on,’ he said.

Nialls sighed sympathetically. ‘Yes, I know. All I can tell you is, two other men have gone to ground, possibly on the same trip. They’re known associates, used mainly as heavies. Their names are Biggs and Jarvis. Ring any bells?’

The two others involved in the wrecking of the Canard Dore. Rocco felt a trickle of excitement running through his veins. There was no way these five men would be coming back for another bout of fun and drinking; it just wasn’t feasible. It had to be something else.

Nialls confirmed it.

‘Look for the distraction, Lucas. It’s how they operate.’

‘I would if I could figure out what it might be.’

‘Well, I’m not sure if this will help, but there’s one thing to bear in mind about Tasker: putting aside everything else he does now, he’s a born-and-raised bank robber. And he’s got two drivers with him. Would that be distraction enough?’

DCI David Nialls sat deep in thought for some time after putting the phone down. The conversation with Rocco had been a disturbing one with some personal echoes; he himself had been accused of taking bribes once, a long time ago. As a young detective trying to make his way up the career ladder, he had run foul of a bookie he’d hauled in for demanding money with menaces. The man had retaliated by claiming Nialls had only arrested him because the cash offer he’d made hadn’t been big enough. The accusation had been flawed, and Nialls had assumed that nobody had taken it seriously. But he’d soon discovered that even a light brush with mud has a habit of sticking. It had taken him a couple of years to shake off the allegations completely.

Now Rocco would be going through the same thing and he knew what that felt like. He checked his watch and picked up the phone. There was only one thing for it.

Direct action.

He made a call to an acquaintance in the French embassy, followed by an internal call. Then he walked north to Dean Street, in Soho. He stopped outside a plain wooden door sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and a strip club. A speaker pad with three buttons was fixed to the side. In the background was the usual volley of touts tasked to entice punters into the various establishments in the area, overlaid by arguments and bursts of laughter from passers-by and residents.

A squat man with the shoulders of a wrestler was standing outside the plain door. He nodded as Nialls approached.

‘Hello, Mr Nialls. He’s upstairs.’

Nialls smiled. ‘You can drop the title, Tom,’ he said. ‘I’m almost a civilian now. And this job is off the books.’