Adrian Magson - Death on the Pont Noir

‘Hey!’ Tasker was on his feet in an instant. ‘Come back here, copper! Why aren’t you questioning me? Hey — frog!’

But Rocco’s footsteps were already fading along the corridor.

Tasker could only watch as the officers lifted Calloway from his seat and took him away.

‘One of my colleagues,’ Rocco said in a conversational tone when they were all seated in a room upstairs, ‘recognised you from Le Mans a few years ago. You were good, he says, but your team let you go after an accident. Is that correct?’

‘Something like that.’ Calloway shifted in his seat. It was clear even to Rocco from his accent that the former race driver came from a different strata of English society to the other men, and he wondered about the man’s apparent fall from grace. He was good-looking in a soft-focus kind of way, like a film star just past his prime. Clean-shaven and tanned, he’d clearly been following the sun. No doubt some women would find him attractive.

‘You do not seem at ease with those others, Mr Calloway. Would you care to tell me why you are with them?’

‘A couple are friends from way back,’ Calloway replied easily. ‘I heard they were coming here for a bit of fun and decided to tag along.’

‘Fun. In Picardie in December? What kind of fun would that be? You think we have skiing here?’

A wry grin. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’ The comment showed a level of wit and intelligence, highlighting further his difference from the other men.

Rocco flicked a hand sideways. ‘You call what you did to that cafe fun?’

‘Yeah, well, maybe it did get out of hand a bit. We’re sorry. Your English is pretty good. Where did you learn it?’

‘Here and there.’ Rocco reached across the table and grasped Calloway’s hands. The palms were clean and soft. Driver’s hands, unmarked by rough labour… or glass splinters from a wall mirror. He flipped them over. Not a scratch on the backs, either.

‘You didn’t take part, did you? In that destruction. Why is that? Were you looking after your hands?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Calloway was beginning to look uncomfortable under the closeness of Rocco’s scrutiny. He tugged his hands out of Rocco’s grip and thrust them in his pockets.

‘Of course you do.’ Rocco stood up and grabbed the Englishman by the collar and lifted him off his feet with no great effort. He sniffed. Aftershave, like old leather, but sweeter. Calloway was a man who cared about his appearance, unlike his companions. Something else that set him apart.

‘You are not drunk, either.’ Another oddity. He released the driver, who flopped back into his seat, his face suddenly pale under the tan.

Calloway tugged his collar down and looked resentful. ‘I don’t need it, that’s why. I only drink to be sociable. The others, though… they expect it.’

‘Do you always do what they want?’

‘I like a quiet life.’

‘You were not alone.’ When Calloway looked puzzled, Rocco explained, ‘The leader of your little group of violent drunks: Tasker. He has had a few drinks, but he’s a long, long way from being drunk.’

‘I don’t know how you can tell.’

‘His eyes are too clear and his movements too relaxed. Believe me, as a policeman in Paris, I’ve seen more than enough to be able to read the signs.’

‘I’m sure. Look, Inspector, is this going to take long? I know we did a lot of damage, and I’ll be happy to pay for my share, but I have to be back in England for work in a couple of days.’

‘Your share?’ Rocco pulled a sheet of paper towards him. It listed the property of each of the men arrested. ‘You have just over thirty pounds sterling on you, your colleagues even less. Except for Mr Tasker, who has rather more. Quite a lot more, in fact.’ He looked up. ‘How do you propose to pay? I should warn you we don’t take cheques.’

‘Tasker will cover it.’

Before Rocco could respond, the door opened and Detective Desmoulins appeared.

Rocco beckoned him in.

‘I’ve checked all the hospitals,’ Desmoulins explained. ‘No bodies, serious injuries or records of facial damage since last weekend. And no permits issued for filming. The truck and car search is going to take longer.’ He gestured at the Englishman. ‘Is he being cooperative?’ He flexed his muscular shoulders and rubbed his knuckles with a menacing grin, which made Calloway shrink in his seat.

‘No. Not really.’ Rocco pursed his lips and sat back. He wasn’t going to get much from this man, and the others were clearly too in awe of Tasker to say anything. A waste of time, therefore.

He said to the guards, ‘Take him to a separate cell and bring Tasker.’

When they brought the big man upstairs, he came without a fight, Rocco noted. He wasn’t surprised; he’d seen it before in groups with an obvious hierarchy. Better for the lead man to go voluntarily and try to score a point in front of his men than to be dragged out ignominiously by the heels.

He pointed to the chair. ‘Sit.’

Tasker did so, a sly smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. He glanced round at Desmoulins, and gave him a sneer, but pointedly ignored the two members of Godard’s squad who had brought him upstairs and were now standing by the door. ‘What’s up, copper, safety in numbers? Got to go mob-handed?’ When there was no answer, he changed tack. ‘Calloway give you the old silent treatment, did he? You should learn how to speak nice to people.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Where is he, by the way?’

Rocco eyed him coldly. The more he saw of this man the less he liked him. Very few people affected him this way — usually the worst of criminals or the most pompous of officials. But there was something about Tasker which went beyond the norm. It was as if he were trying deliberately not to be liked.

And that puzzled him.

He emptied an envelope containing Tasker’s personal effects onto the table. A large amount of cash in sterling and francs, a cheap pen, a packet of mints, a contraceptive in a foil packet, a comb, a wallet, a small key with no brand name.

‘I said, where’s Calloway?’ Tasker growled.

‘He is in another room, writing a statement.’

‘Statement?’ Tasker frowned, then sat up suddenly as Rocco picked up the key. ‘Hey — that’s my stuff!’ He reached forward but was brought up short by Desmoulins clamping a muscular hand on one shoulder and slamming him back in his chair.

Rocco signalled for Desmoulins to let him go, then dropped the key back on the table. ‘No need to get excited, Mr Tasker. It is merely “stuff”, as you call it. What is so special about it — apart from the money? That is a lot to be carrying around with you.’

‘That’s a crime in this poxy country, is it?’ Tasker’s eyes glittered and he suddenly relaxed, looking away from Rocco. ‘Like having a bit of fun.’

‘Of course not.’ Rocco dropped a finger on the key. ‘What is this for?’

Tasker’s face went blank. ‘No idea. It’s not mine. Probably someone else’s crap.’

Rocco changed tack. ‘I brought you up here to give you a chance to

… spill the beans, isn’t that the expression?’

‘About what?’

‘About what you are doing here and why you wrecked the bar.’

‘We were visiting, that’s all. Like you said, seeing the cemeteries, a bit of food, some drink.’ He shrugged. ‘Yeah, okay, a lot of drink. The boys can get a bit excitable when they get away from the manor. Don’t tell me you’ve never let rip before.’

‘Manor?’

‘The area where we live.’

Rocco gave a cold smile. ‘Somehow I did not think you meant a big house.’ He scratched his chin. ‘So, you came for a visit and… it got out of hand. Is that all? Only, I have to say, Mr Tasker, the more I think about this, the more it seems to me to have been almost… deliberate.’