Adrian Magson - Death on the Pont Noir

He checked the odometer. The numbers were fairly high but not a killer. The condition of the seats and carpet wasn’t bad, either. A wash and brush-up and they’d look like new. The rest of the bodywork was sound, as were the tyres. The way the side had been caved in was a bit serious, there was no denying, and there might be some underlying problems with the structure. But he knew a couple of guys who could take care of that.

He stared up at the sky, juggling the need for some quick cash from a punter wanting a cheap DS to show off to his neighbours, and the likelihood of The Man in Paris ever finding out that his instructions had not been carried out to the letter.

The Man in Paris. Bellin licked his lips nervously. Now there was someone he didn’t like to think about. Several guys who’d disobeyed him were rumoured to have disappeared over the years, probably in yards pretty much like this one, come to think of it. And he had no wish to end up the same way.

He turned and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window of the cabin, which served as his office. He saw himself with one hand on the Citroen’s roof like he owned it. It caught him by surprise, standing alongside a picture-perfect DS as if born to it. He smiled.

No doubt about it, it was too good to pass up. He made a decision.

Unfortunately for Olivier Bellin, it was the worst mistake of his life.

‘Any thoughts?’ Rocco rejoined Claude Lamotte and they watched Simeon throw his leg over an ancient moped and wobble away down the road in a cloud of blue smoke.

‘Only one: if he makes it home without falling off, it’ll be a miracle.’ He turned to stare at the clump of pine trees, then the road. ‘But this… it all sounds a bit bizarre to me.’

‘Bizarre why?’ Rocco valued Claude’s opinion; although a countryside policeman based in Poissons, and looked on with faint derision by some on the force, he was a better cop than they knew and had the instincts of a born hunter. He also knew the people around here, which was a big advantage.

‘The camera. If it was back there by the trees, it would have been pointing east to catch the action, right?’

‘Agreed. So?’

‘Right into the morning sun? I doubt it.’ When Rocco didn’t respond, he puffed out his cheeks and said, ‘What — you think I don’t know about these things?’

‘Not at all. I just wondered how.’

‘Because back when I was driving a taxi in Paris, before I put on the uniform-’

‘Which, lets be honest,’ Rocco pointed out, ‘you don’t very often.’ As if to prove it, Claude was currently dressed in a pair of shabby brown corduroys, lace-up boots and a green hunting jacket. With his heavy build and round face, he looked more like a bandit than an officer of the law.

‘I have to blend in, don’t I? People won’t talk if I look like a cop all the time. Where was I? Oh, yes. There was this regular ride; he used to get me to take him to the Bois de Boulogne, where he made short films that never sold. They call it cinema verite now. Real life, it’s supposed to be, without all the glitzy crap they have in Hollywood. Myself, I quite like the glitzy crap. But he was eccentric, like lots of people in that business. Before his time, but okay — and he always paid his bills, so…’ He shrugged. ‘He liked to talk about his work while I drove and listened. That’s how I know about shooting against the sun.’

‘Don’t they have filters and lenses for that?’

‘Of course.’ Claude held out his hand and rubbed his fingers and thumb together. ‘But they’re expensive. Also, why have the camera there, so close to the track? Once the truck goes by, the shot’s ruined. Vibration, see — that’s something else he told me about. Kills a good scene like a dead dog.’

‘Maybe it’s all part of the verite,’ Rocco murmured with a wry smile. He changed the subject. ‘How’s Alix?’

Claude scowled. ‘Always busy. She’s trying to make commissaire before I retire, I reckon.’ One of Claude’s two daughters, Alix had returned to Poissons following a failed marriage, but having joined the police force. Claude had been both shocked and proud at once, and Rocco guessed he was still trying to come to terms with having a daughter in uniform and a looming divorce in the family.

‘She has a lot to prove, that’s all. It was a tough move, joining the uniforms.’

Claude huffed his cheeks. ‘You don’t need to tell me that. I still can’t believe she did it. Still, I bet you see her more often than I do.’ He peered speculatively at Rocco. ‘How’s she shaping up?’

Rocco squinted back at him. The comment had contained a certain tone, and he thought he knew why. ‘Actually, I don’t see her that much. Canet assigns her work, not me. But I think she’ll be fine. She’s got good instincts, like someone else I know.’

Claude looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, Lucas. I’m an idiot. It’s not my place to worry about her. She’s a grown woman. I just…’

‘Worry about her?’

‘Yes. Pathetic, isn’t it, because she’d flay the skin off me if she knew. But what’s a man to do in my position?’

‘Don’t ask me, for a start,’ Rocco murmured. ‘I’m no expert.’

A police van arrived and the driver hopped out and saluted. ‘We’ve come to mark out the scene, Inspector. Dr Rizzotti is on his way, and there’s a message for you from Captain Canet.’

‘What about?’

‘There’s been a big fight in town. A bar’s been wrecked and he thinks you might be able to help.’

The Canard Dore was more than wrecked. It looked like a tornado had gone through the place after a carpet-bombing. What wasn’t broken seemed scarred and ripped beyond repair; half the furniture was on the pavement outside, having taken the plate glass windows and net curtains with it, and the front door was hanging from the hinges. Inside, the drinks-bottle shelves had been swept clean, a coffee machine flattened and the full-length wall mirrors had been hammered into fragments. The cash till was lying upside down in the sink, a scattering of coins and notes on the floor and drainer, and the pinball machine was lying flat on its belly like a beached whale, the glass splintered and the light display gutted. Only the counter, built of solid hardwood, seemed to have survived intact, although the surface was awash with spilt alcohol and embedded with fragments of broken glass. The aroma of beer and spirits was heavy in the air, mixing with a tang of stale sweat and cheap tobacco.

The bar owner, Andre Mote, was sporting a large bruise over one eye and a bloodied shirt, and sitting in a corner looking murderous. The object of his anger was a group of five men who had been corralled in a corner of the bar by a number of tough Gardes Mobiles and a muscular Detective Rene Desmoulins. With batons drawn, they looked as if they were itching for an excuse to teach the fighters a lesson.

‘Why are they still here?’ said Rocco to Sous-Brigadier Godard, the head of the group.

‘It was easier keeping them confined here than trying to transfer them to the station on a charge of fighting, only to have a magistrate let them go. And there are too many civilians around to do it safely.’ Godard, a big man with a battle-scarred face, had the scepticism of many policemen, but was good at his job. He was right, too. If this lot were transferred to the street without taking precautions, they’d cause mayhem.

Rocco nodded. ‘Good thinking. But this wasn’t a fight — it was open warfare. Now they’re subdued, get them cuffed and back to the station and lock them up. I’ll be along in a while.’

‘They’re foreign visitors, Lucas. English. Won’t there be repercussions if we lock them up?’ He rubbed his fingers and thumb together, referring to the recent ‘advisory’ bulletins circulated to all forces by the Interior Ministry regarding the treatment of visitors from overseas, and how the economy depended on not alienating foreign currency and those with the willingness to spend it.