Adrian Magson - Death on the Pont Noir

It was as good as he was going to get, Rocco figured. And better than he’d expected. He tapped his coat pocket, where he’d put the Walther. ‘Thanks. But I’m good to go.’ He found his respect for Massin rising a spectral level or two; the senior officer could have hidden behind the procedural veil of further investigations into the affair, but had clearly decided to come out in the open — and in front of these other officers.

Someone clapped him on the back and he heard a volley of congratulations.

Then a stocky figure eased through the crowd, holding up a slim wallet for Massin to see. He had impressively broad shoulders and the face of a fighter, although dressed in a smart suit and tie. He spoke directly to Massin.

‘Are you in charge here?’

‘I am,’ Massin confirmed, and looked at the man’s ID. His face registered surprise. ‘How can I help you?’

The man pointed at Rocco and Claude. ‘You and these two — a word, please?’ He turned and walked away a few metres, distancing himself from the crowd of policemen and leaving the other three to follow.

‘This is my authority,’ the newcomer said, when they were standing alongside him. He showed Rocco and Claude his card. ‘It trumps anything you’re likely to see here today.’ He glanced at Massin with a grim smile. ‘I mean no offence, Commissaire, I promise you — but this is vitally important.’

‘Of course. I understand.’ Massin turned to Rocco and Claude. ‘This gentleman is one of the president’s protection team.’

‘Damn,’ Claude muttered. ‘You were in the front of the car!’

‘And you were in the Traction coming towards the bridge. Your names?’

Rocco said, ‘I’m Rocco, he’s Lamotte. Out of Amiens.’

‘Really. Are you undercover?’ The bodyguard seemed fascinated by the contrast between Claude and Rocco, one in corduroys and boots, the other in dark, tailored clothing and black brogues.

‘That’s right,’ Massin interjected. ‘These officers are under my command. Is the president safe?’

‘Perfectly, thank you. All I want to say is, what happened here today stops here.’ He glanced at the crowd of policemen, who were now going about their duties. ‘No reports, no press interviews, nothing. The president would prefer that another… incident following on so soon after the last one would not be in the best interests of the state or the people.’

‘What about the truck?’ Rocco asked, nodding towards the crash site, although he knew it was academic; if the president requested a press blackout, that’s what he would get.

The man lifted his shoulders. ‘It was an accident. A drunk who took the corner too fast.’

‘Corner?’ Claude looked up and down the straight road. ‘Which one?’

The man smiled with a touch of genuine humour. ‘Well, who knows what a drunk sees, huh? You’ll think of something. Commissaire?’ He glanced meaningfully towards the other policemen.

Massin got the message and walked away to spread the word.

The bodyguard turned to go, and Rocco said, ‘I’m surprised Colonel Saint-Cloud isn’t here to deliver that message himself.’

The bodyguard frowned. ‘Saint-Cloud? Why would he?’

‘He’s in charge of your unit.’

‘Not anymore.’ The man gave Rocco a hard stare. ‘The colonel retired on… health grounds three weeks ago. It’s not been officially announced yet, but he’s no longer responsible for this or any other unit.’ His face showed no emotion, but the phrasing carried all the meaning Rocco needed.

With that, the bodyguard turned and walked away to the black Citroen DS waiting across the bridge.

Moments later, a uniformed officer hurried across and addressed Rocco.

‘A man with a gun has been spotted by a patrol on a back road near Poissons,’ he told him. ‘They think he was dropped off by a DS with two others on board. The DS disappeared but the patrol stayed near the man’s last location.’

‘What sort of gun?’ The last thing Rocco needed was to waste time hunting a farmer chasing rabbits. He was still trying to digest the bombshell delivered by the bodyguard, and figuring out what to do about it.

‘A handgun,’ the officer replied.

Rocco pushed the Saint-Cloud business to one side. The colonel would keep for now. He said to Claude, ‘Get Desmoulins, Godard and some of his men. The fewer targets the better until we find out what this is.’ He had no doubts that it was Tasker and his remaining companions, but flooding the area with uniforms would only create pandemonium, during which the robbers might manage to slip away.

And, in any case, this was personal.

The journey took fifteen minutes, with Rocco driving as fast as he dared over the slippery roads and Claude and Desmoulins riding shotgun. Godard was following in a van with three of his men. The sleet had returned and was beginning to turn softer, falling more slowly but with the relentless regularity that would soon turn to snow. Rocco studied the sky and thought about advantages: it wasn’t yet heavy enough to settle, but it might help them by showing traces of footsteps around the location where the gunman had been seen.

He saw a patrol car parked at the side of the road not far from a wood and stopped behind it. Godard pulled up in front. The two patrol officers climbed out to greet them, stamping their feet.

‘He was running toward the trees when we saw him,’ said one, and pointed a thumb over a fence at the wood. ‘We thought it best to wait for backup. He didn’t look as if he wanted to stop and chat.’

‘Wise choice,’ said Rocco. ‘Where did the car go?’

The man jerked his chin up the road. ‘Towards Poissons. There are no other turns off this road unless they go straight past.’

‘They won’t,’ Rocco said. He glanced at the wood. ‘How thick is it in there?’ He knew the trees and copses in the area varied greatly, some thinned by woodcutters and farmers for logs, others left to nature. If anyone would know, Claude would.

‘In there? Heavy going. The owner won’t let anyone near it. You thinking of going in?’

Rocco nodded. Whoever was in there wasn’t going to come out willingly, he was certain of that. But he was damned if he was going to sit out here and wait for the man to get bored or freeze to death. And neither could he send in men who had no experience of this kind of thing.

He also needed the names of who was behind this business.

He took out the Walther and said to Claude, ‘Bring your shotgun. You others, stay here.’ He saw one of Godard’s men carrying a rifle. ‘He any good with that?’

Godard smiled. ‘Best in the unit.’

‘If our man comes out, go for a leg wound. If he fights…’ He left the rest unsaid. If the man came out, it was likely that he’d have scored one, if not two hits already, and he and Claude would be unable to help.

He ducked beneath the fence and set off across the field with Claude close behind, following the faint tracks left by the fleeing man. Flecks of snow soon began settling on their coat shoulders and in their eyebrows, and the air had gone very quiet. A few cows over by the wood stomped away as they approached.

‘You think he’ll be in there?’ Claude said softly. ‘It’s a bit obvious.’

‘It’s the only cover for several kilometres. He’ll take what he can get.’

Rocco stopped twenty metres short of the first line of trees and listened. All he could hear was a faint hum of wind, and in the background, a chatter of radio from the police vehicles. That would be good, he thought; hearing it would cut into the man’s confidence even more than being stranded out here alone. The knowledge that he was effectively cut off would be demoralising.

‘You ready?’