Adrian Magson - Death on the Pont Noir

But Rocco didn’t need to hear them to know what the man was after. Tasker wanted him down there. Nothing else mattered. He’d been cut loose by his bosses and his twisted vision of what had happened saw only one ending: revenge. And that revenge was centred solely on Rocco.

He debated the wisdom of going down empty-handed. Whatever course he took, the chances were that Alix was in the greater danger — especially if Claude couldn’t get close enough. If he could appear powerless, however, while having even a slight edge available to him, he might just get away with it.

‘Give me your knife.’

Claude reached back and took out a bone-handled clasp knife he used for everything from skinning rabbits to peeling an apple, and passed it across.

Rocco quickly stripped out one of his shoelaces and cut it in two. He tied the end of one half through the trigger guard of the Walther, and looped the other end around his middle finger. Then he fed the gun down the right-hand sleeve of his coat. It was a close fit, but with enough play to move quite freely. He used the other half of the lace to secure his shoe, then stood up and brushed the layer of damp from the front of his coat.

Claude was staring up at him and hissed. ‘What the hell are you doing? This isn’t the OK Corral!’

‘I know. But I don’t see that we have much choice. He’s right on the edge. If I don’t go down there, he’ll kill Alix.’ He flicked a glance towards the square where Godard and his men were hustling people away. They seemed unaware of Tasker’s appearance and there was no way Rocco could get word to Godard’s sniper without warning the gunman. He would have to do this himself with Claude as a diversion. ‘Can you follow me down and cover me? You’ll have to get close.’

Claude nodded. ‘You won’t even hear me coming.’ He patted the stock of his shotgun. ‘Just give me one chance, that’s all I need.’

Rocco nodded and stepped over the edge of the overlook, and began skidding down the slope so that Tasker could see him coming all the way. It was steep and uneven, with few handholds. If he fell, he wouldn’t stop rolling until he hit the track below, which would be of no use to Alix. That would still put him above Tasker, with another hundred metres to go, but still too far away to do anything useful.

As he reached the track leading down to the square, Tasker’s voice drifted up to him.

‘Stick your hands out and show me they’re empty, Rocco, or I’ll shoot the bitch!’

Rocco did as he was told. As he started across the track, he looked towards the square and caught a glimpse of Godard standing in the open. The sous-brigadier glanced his way and did a double take. But seeing Rocco’s hands out, he caught on immediately that something was wrong. Rocco pretended to lose his balance momentarily and made a flattening gesture with his left hand, hoping Godard got the message to keep back. Having a bunch of gardes mobiles charging down the lane to the house would be disastrous.

He reached the other side of the track and checked for a way down that would bring him out onto the lane across from the house. The slope was less steep here, and littered with trees and bushes. But the absence of foliage meant Tasker would be able to see him coming all the way. If he tried to drop out of sight even for a second, he figured the Englishman was mad enough to take it out on Alix. Yet coming within gunshot range — even the shorter range of the sawn-off weapon — would be crazy and wouldn’t help her at all.

He just hoped Claude was close by. If an opportunity presented itself, it would be brief, then gone.

As he walked down the slope, his senses seemed to come alive with greater clarity. The crunch of still-frozen grass stems beneath his shoes; the cold reaching through to the soles of his feet; rabbit droppings littered everywhere like sultanas sprinkled on icing sugar; the smell of a wood fire from Mme Denis’ chimney and the sharper tang of cows in the farm building along the lane, with its steaming manure heap in the middle of the yard picked over by chickens. A cockerel crowed, blissfully unmindful of the drama unfolding out here, and Rocco tried to recall if this was how suddenly acute the various sounds and smells had become each time he’d faced danger and death in the jungles of Indochina.

Right now all he could remember from then was the sticky feel of camouflage paint on his face, the reek of unwashed clothing and the absolute stunning silence all around.

He brushed those thoughts aside. He had to focus on the here and now. Nothing else mattered.

Commissaire Massin walked back down the corridor to his office with an itchy sensation in the middle of his back. He tried not to hurry, but to preserve a sense of calm in spite of feeling that he had just stumbled on something truly grotesque.

Back in his office, he closed the door and went straight to his desk. Sliding open a side drawer, he took out his service revolver and checked the cylinder. Then he sat and waited. And listened.

He switched on the police channel loudspeaker fixed to the wall just behind him. He liked to keep an ear on daily events out in the field, but few days had held as much importance as this one. A subdued babble was coming in as officers came on the line seeking information and instructions, or giving out reports on their location and activities.

‘… farm worker saw a car heading north at speed. Am investigating

…’

‘Two-One, swing round and head towards Poissons. Reports of gunshots…’

Poissons. Massin’s ears pricked up. That was where Rocco lived.

‘… just heard the news… One Englishman dead! He got him… the inspector got him!’

Massin felt a jolt in his chest. The manhunt was closing in, and a man had been shot dead. ‘The inspector’ could only mean one person.

Rocco.

He desperately wanted more information, to get on the line and demand progress reports. But the channels needed to be kept clear so that the men could get on with the business in hand. He turned instead to the problem he had just discovered and thought about what to do. He was on the edge of feeling powerless, like some junior gardien on his first week in the job.

Should he ring the Ministry? If he did, how the hell could he even begin to explain what he suspected? They’d laugh him out of office and consign him to a mental ward down south, where he could be quietly forgotten, the crackpot commissaire who had finally found the job too much to handle.

What he needed was something concrete… some corroboration that wouldn’t be ignored. But how to get it?

‘… gunshots in Poissons… We’re getting everyone out. He’s in the village somewhere… armed with a shotgun. A civilian down but not seriously hurt. Rocco’s gone after the Englishman.’

Santer. Rocco’s former captain in Clichy. He would know. Massin was well aware that Rocco had regular contact with him, and that the two shared a close friendship.

‘… more shots. Can’t tell where, though. Bloody place is throwing echoes everywhere.’

‘Christ, I hope he leaves some for the rest of us.’

Massin turned down the radio, picked up the phone and asked the switchboard operator to put him through to Clichy. Keeping one ear on the corridor outside, he slid his revolver closer and waited while the phone rang.

‘Santer.’

‘Captain Santer,’ Massin said quietly, and introduced himself. ‘I want to advise you that I have ordered the suspension of Inspector Rocco to be lifted, following new evidence in his favour.’

‘That’s good news, sir,’ Santer replied. ‘Very good. I never doubted him. But… if you’ll excuse me asking, why are you telling me? Sir.’