Adrian Magson - Death on the Pont Noir

‘Tell me something I don’t know. Come on, man. I need names.’

‘I don’t have any, honest. Things are getting difficult… people have shut down since the last failures. It’s like… there’s been a run of bad luck and they’re scared it’s contagious.’

Caspar swore quietly. ‘Bad luck. Christ, anyone would think it was a game of boules. You must have a feeling, though, right? Which groups are likely to be up for a try right now?’

‘That’s just it — I don’t know. Not even a hint. Not with the groups. All I can tell you is, it’s not political.’

‘Right. There’s going to be a hit on the big man and it’s not political. It’s all political, for God’s sake!’

Susman took a deep breath and flicked his cigarette into the gutter, clapped his hands together and stuffed them under his arms. ‘No. Not this time.’

‘What?’ The statement had been too definite to ignore. Caspar grabbed Susman’s shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The sort of people I’ve been hearing about… the ones behind the hit: they’re gangsters.’

A new day brought a flurry of snow to Poissons, powered by a cutting wind which rattled the trees and curled around the house with a soft whining sound. Rocco went for a short run anyway to get his blood moving and his brain in gear.

He kept going over what Nialls had said on the phone. The idea of an English gang’s involvement in hitting a French bank as a distraction exercise hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. But that had now taken on a greater significance. Tasker was known by the London police to have experience at robbing banks; he had two drivers with him, one of them expert in high-speed cars; and with the possible inclusion of Patrice Delarue into the mix — also with a history of high-profile bank robberies — it seemed to point inexorably in one direction. And what other possibilities were there? In a largely rural and unpopulated area, anything less simply wouldn’t pull in the police attention that Tasker and his men would be aiming for.

Robbing a bank, however, couldn’t fail to attract maximum attention.

He returned home after fifteen minutes of increasing cold and worked through the mundane routine of cleaning the house, setting a fire round the pump to draw water — even checking the car’s oil level, all activities designed to help pass time. As soon as it hit eight o’clock, he picked up the phone and dialled the number for the War Graves Commission office in Arras. It was early but he had a feeling the superintendent wouldn’t be far away.

A woman answered and identified herself as Jean Blake. The superintendent’s wife.

‘Mrs Blake,’ said Rocco, and introduced himself. ‘My apologies for ringing so early, but I was wondering if your husband was in?’

‘I’m afraid not, Inspector. You just missed him.’

‘Already?’

‘Yes. He’s been invited to the town hall — to a reception.’ Her voice carried a hint of quiet pride, he thought, held carefully in check, and he felt a buzz of energy go through him.

Today. It was today.

‘I see. I just wanted to check his timings and movements.’

‘I can’t help you exactly, although I do know he’s been advised that the… event will take place in private at ten, followed by a reception at the town hall and a signature ceremony for the monument to be given the go-ahead. It’s all very hush-hush, of course.’

‘Of course. I won’t say anything.’ Rocco swore silently. At ten this morning? It meant that any diversion or distraction event would take place earlier… and just in time to attract the maximum amount of attention. He made his apologies and disconnected, then immediately dialled Desmoulins’ home number. The detective was the only one he could trust.

‘There’s going to be a bank robbery,’ he told him, the moment Desmoulins answered. ‘This morning some time before ten. I don’t know where, but somewhere in this region. You’ll only get a call when it’s in progress. The gang will be the same men who trashed the Canard Dore. They’ll probably head back towards the coast immediately afterwards, so as soon as you hear about it, get cars positioned along the main routes to Calais and Boulogne.’

‘A bank job? Is that what this has all been about — money?’

‘No. That’s the point. They’re using it as a diversion.’ He told Desmoulins about the Pont Noir and de Gaulle’s proposed secret visit. ‘They’ll time the bank job to pull in police resources and tie up lines of communication, leaving the way clear for the hit to go ahead.’

‘Christ — we’d better get the troops out. Does Saint-Cloud know about this?’

‘Probably more than he lets on. Do you know where he is?’

‘He wasn’t around much yesterday, but he doesn’t exactly take me into his confidence. Do you want me to find him?’

‘No. Don’t bother. I’ll deal with it. You look into the bank end. You might start looking for one with a larger than average cash movement going on today.’

‘That’s easy enough,’ said Desmoulins. ‘The main banks in Amiens, Lille and Arras all have cash movements today for paying local factory workers. And Bethune.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘It’s a regular thing; after a couple of jobs two years ago, we had requests from the banks to have patrol cars keep an eye out for when the deliveries are made.’

‘And do they?’ Two years for any kind of standing instruction to be maintained rigorously was a long time, and any lack of activity could soon make officers less than attentive in their duties.

‘Depends if there’s anything else going on and if patrols can be spared. I wouldn’t want to bet on it, though.’

‘Why Bethune?’ Unlike the others, it was a small town about sixty kilometres away, between Arras and Lille. Rocco had only been once, but it had been a fleeting visit and had given him no feel for the place.

‘It was set up to service the Bridgestone tyre factory, among others. The Credit Agricole. It’s right next to the industrial zone on the outskirts of town.’

‘That’s got to be it.’ Suddenly Rocco knew deep down that this was where it was going to happen. English gangsters wouldn’t want to fight their way through busy traffic in a foreign town, especially if they were planning a quick getaway. That automatically knocked Amiens, Lille and Arras out of the equation. But a bank on the outskirts of a small town, loaded with wages money and on the way to the coast? It was a sitting target.

He let Desmoulins get on with his job and disconnected, then called Claude and told him to get ready.

‘You’re not going into the office?’ said Claude.

‘I can’t. I’m suspended, remember? If I show my face there I’m likely to be arrested.’ And even if he managed to get Massin to believe him and a show of force turned up at the bridge, the attackers would simply call it off and go underground. And that would end his chances of proving he’d been right all along.

‘So let me get this right,’ said Claude slowly. ‘You’re going to let an attack on you-know-who go ahead… to prove you haven’t been blowing smoke.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Mother of God, that’s risky, Lucas.’

‘It’s the only way.’

Claude grunted. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll see you in ten.’

Rocco shrugged into his coat and picked up the Walther P38 Claude had left behind. He tested the mechanism out of habit and loaded the shells, then slipped the gun in his coat pocket. If he had to use it and there was any fallout, so be it.

His phone rang. It was Santer.

‘Caspar says a criminal gang’s involved. It’s not political.’