Death on the Pont Noir Page 14

  ‘Do you trust him?’

  ‘Yes. Well, pretty much. What’s that got—’

  Rocco clamped a hand over Bellin’s mouth as his voice began to rise, cutting him off. ‘I’ve known some people all my life,’ he explained. ‘But I wouldn’t trust them further than I could throw one of these cars.’

  Bellin struggled free of Rocco’s grip and said softly, ‘All right. Maybe he’s got an angle – I don’t know. But it makes no difference now, does it? Where the hell would I go?’

  As he spoke, he heard a dull metallic clank. It had come from beyond the piles of junk at the front of the yard. Someone had pushed against one of the gates, disturbing the corrugated sheeting.

  Bellin reacted as if he’d been scalded. He jumped up and stared around as if demons were about to emerge from the scrap metal.

  Rocco grabbed his shoulder. ‘Are you expecting company?’

  ‘It’s them.’ Bellin’s voice was soft but high-pitched, childlike in fear. His face crumpled and he looked at Rocco as if he were about to burst into tears. ‘You’ve got to stop them.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Rocco, ‘if you don’t tell me who they are.’ He checked the gun again, a last-second-before-action subconscious habit. Full magazine. Then he looked around at their position. He’d been in worse spots when attacked before, but he couldn’t recall when. Indochina without a doubt. Only the ones coming here were unlikely to be communist Viet Minh. But neither was he accompanied by trained and battle-hardened troops. He looked at the fence in front of them. It was nearly three metres high and clad in bashed metal. No handholds and no pile of scrap close enough to get a leg-up. ‘How strong is that?’

  ‘Forget it.’ Bellin bit the words off, resentful and angry. ‘I built it so the locals wouldn’t steal everything I had. I can’t climb that.’

  ‘You should have thought of that, shouldn’t you? So tell me, who is it likely to be, out there?’

  Bellin swallowed and ducked his head. ‘Them. The ones who arranged the car thing. They’ve come to settle up.’

  ‘They must have a name?’

  Another noise, and Rocco turned towards the front. As he did so, a small shape soared high into the air. It seemed to hang for a moment against the dark grey sky, then fell and bounced with a series of tinny clatters as it penetrated the scrap piles.

  Someone had thrown a hubcap.

  Another one flew into the air, this one on a lower trajectory. It hit the jib of a crane and dropped harmlessly to the ground. Then another and another, each one aimed at different corners of the yard.

  Whoever was throwing them, Rocco decided coolly, had a good arm.

  A smaller shape came looping towards them. It tumbled through the air and landed with a crash on a door panel and bounced away, shedding splintered glass like broken fragments of silver.

  Scare tactics, Rocco recognised. He glanced at Bellin, who was now a quivering wreck, eyes wide open and waiting for the next one. The tactics were working.

  ‘Names,’ said Rocco. ‘Quickly.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Bellin was trembling. A patch of damp had appeared on the front of his trousers and was spreading fast down his legs, but he seemed not to have noticed. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We have to get out of here.’ Rocco figured Bellin must have a way of slipping away if an angry ‘customer’ came calling. To men like Bellin, in his line of business, a back door was as instinctive as breathing. ‘Where’s your escape route?’

  ‘Blocked.’ Bellin waved a hand towards the left-hand end of the yard. ‘They left a warning. The dog. Gutted it and left it for me to find.’

  ‘Oscar?’

  A quick nod. ‘Yes.’

  Rocco breathed out. Now he tells me, he thought savagely. And whoever was able to handle a big guard dog had to know what they were doing. Somehow he couldn’t picture Bellin with a poodle.

  With perfect and grisly timing, another object came soaring over the nearest pile of junk. It bounced, this time with a dull thud, off the car wing Rocco had been sitting on moments earlier. Ricocheting off a door panel, it rolled to stop at Bellin’s feet.

  It was a dog’s head. Not a poodle’s, either. Oscar had been a big, ugly Rottweiler.

  It was too much for Bellin. The fat man turned with a yelp and ran, surprisingly fast on his feet, out of the protective haven they were in, careering off a car body and nearly falling, but managing to stay upright, his trouser legs flapping around his ankles like flags.

  ‘Wait!’ Rocco hissed. But it was too late. Bellin was gone.

  Rocco chased after him. It was a lunatic thing to do, he decided, but there was no other way to handle it. At least he might be able to catch whoever was out there. If not, they were both dead.

  He found himself in another gap between two rows of scrap. There was plenty of cover if he was quick enough, but that counted just as much for the other man as well. He hunkered down for a moment, breathing easily and listening for sounds of Bellin’s progress. Trying to tune in to the atmosphere. He couldn’t hear anything, so he stood up and continued, carefully stepping away from shapes of metal rubbish lying in his path.

  As he came level with a row between piles of family saloons heaped one on the other, he saw Bellin disappearing into a virtual tunnel to one side, his fat body burrowing like a rat. He followed him in and saw a flash of movement up ahead. The idiot was digging himself deeper into the metal mountain, no doubt hoping the man or men after him would give up. Or that Rocco would act as a handy decoy.

  The thought was accompanied by a car window dissolving right next to him. Rocco dived into the open body of a truck cab, bouncing off the bench seat and disturbing a mound of broken windscreen glass and scraps of metal. He waited, lying on his back, the gun pointing at the source of the shot.

  Then he realised: there had been no sound. The gunman was using a silenced weapon.

  He slid on through the cab and out the other side, dropping to the ground and waiting.

  Whoever was out there, he thought, was being extra careful not to make any sound. Whoever was out there had done this before.

  He breathed out, straining his ears. It was just another kind of jungle, he told himself. Only not soft and hot and fragrant like the last one he’d been in. This one was hard and unforgiving, cold and full of sharp edges. But still a jungle.

  Then a dense shadow rose from a patch of gloom about ten metres away. A man, squat and heavy across the shoulders, wearing a short jacket. Something glinted in his hand. A gun with a long barrel. He was looking along the row, not moving.

  Rocco held his breath. One sudden movement and the gunman would see him. But the man seemed fixated on a spot further down. When Rocco looked, turning his head with infinite care, he saw a familiar shape coming along the row towards him.

  It was Bellin, and he was heading straight towards the gunman.

  The gunman moved, sinking to his heels, waiting. He evidently thought there was a risk that Bellin was armed, and was going to take him as he stepped by. The movement put him behind the cover of a car bonnet, where the chances of hitting him from Rocco’s position were virtually nil.

  Rocco reached behind him and felt around until his hand fastened on a hubcap lying on the ground. Time to play the man at his own game. He pulled his arm back and flicked the hubcap into the sky. It sailed in a smooth trajectory, catching the air for a moment before starting to fall. The gunman must have caught the sound of Rocco’s movement or seen a flash from the hubcap out of the corner of his eye. He spun round, pointing first at Rocco’s position, then spinning again as the hubcap landed with a deep boom on a car roof just behind him. Two flashes of vivid light lit him up as he fired, each shot no more than a ragged cough.

  Bellin, now just a few paces away, stopped and turned with a yelp, then ran. The gunman, moving smoothly, fired twice more after him, then jumped to his feet.

  Rocco whistled. The gunman spun towards him with a grunt of surprise, and almost without aiming, fired twice. The
first shot fanned Rocco’s face, the second went harmlessly away to one side.

  Rocco fired twice, and saw his second shot hit the man in his free arm. He staggered and grunted, then recovered, turned and ran. Seconds later Rocco thought he heard a grunt, followed by a noise like a slap. Then silence.

  Then a car started up outside the yard and moved away up the track at speed.

  It left behind a heavy silence.

  Rocco ran towards the gates. As he rounded the final corner, a flicker of movement came from inside a wrecked truck cab. He swung towards it, levelling his gun, his finger tightening on the trigger. Then he breathed out and relaxed: a strip of fabric caught on the breeze. False alarm.

  When he got to the cabin, he stopped.

  Bellin was lying face down near the door. His blood was soaking the ground, adding to the oil and other fluids in the soil.

  Rocco turned him over onto his back.

  He’d been shot in the chest and head, running towards the cabin.

  Rocco let out a long breath. A second gunman had been waiting.

  By the time Rocco had found a phone at a nearby shop and called for backup and for Rizzotti to come out, he was feeling sticky with humidity and depressed by Bellin’s senseless death. Whatever the man had done, he hadn’t deserved that. But then, gangland-style killings rarely had much to do with sense and only sometimes carried a hint of the rational.

  He met Desmoulins at the gates and got him to seal off and make a detailed search of the cabin. He didn’t expect to find anything, but maybe Bellin had been more cautious than he’d given him credit for.

  He returned to the station, where he filled out a report. It made grim reading, not least because he felt he’d failed, as the only policeman on the spot and one who’d not made an arrest. He made a notation about having wounded the gunman, suggesting that hospitals in the Paris region be made aware that they report to Amiens any patient being treated for a gunshot wound to the arm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘I need to go to England. To Scotland Yard.’

  Rocco was in early next morning, and went straight to Massin’s office. After another fitful night’s sleep listening to the fouines play, and going over and over in his mind the events at the scrapyard, he had decided on a course of action; but it needed Massin’s cooperation, something he couldn’t entirely guarantee.

  Massin looked up from the papers he was studying, and sat back, eyeing Rocco with a dour expression. ‘Do you, indeed? Does it have anything to do with your current caseload?’

  ‘Actually, yes. Partly.’

  There was a flicker of interest. ‘Go on.’

  Rocco explained about the burnt-out truck with the body in the back, and the Citroën DS found in Bellin’s scrapyard, followed by Bellin’s execution. ‘I believe there may be a link between those vehicles and the Englishmen who wrecked the Canard Doré.’ He began to explain about the car and Bellin’s description of the driver, but Massin held up a hand to stop him. He picked up a sheet of paper from his in tray.

  ‘I have Dr Rizzotti’s report. It’s very detailed. A fake camera, an English cigarette under the mat. But why these men? You have no proof that they were involved in the fake ramming incident. And you still have no proof that it actually happened, beyond some farmer’s early morning ramblings.’

  ‘There’s the blood at the scene and we have a dead body. Two dead bodies,’ he amended, ‘if we count Bellin.’

  ‘The first burnt beyond recognition. I doubt even the miracles of modern science will prove who it was.’

  ‘Possibly not. But I think the dead man – a tramp named Pantoufle – happened to be at or near the scene. It was on his usual route and it never varied, winter, summer or spring. I don’t know if he died by accident or was killed deliberately. Either way, they burnt his body to conceal his death and prevent recognition.’

  ‘Buttons. Is that the sum total of your clues?’ Massin made it sound as if Rocco were grasping at straws.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s not much, is it? And you still can’t tie the Englishmen to the truck or the DS. Not definitely.’

  ‘No. Not yet.’ Rocco fought to keep a hold on his impatience. He felt he was fighting a losing battle, but refused to give way to Massin’s open scepticism. He doubted the commissaire had ever followed a clue in his life; had never felt the thrill of a case building out of virtually nothing nor ever felt the clarion call of a chase. ‘They were in the Amiens area at the same time,’ he pointed out. ‘Five men with no valid explanation for being here. And I recognised the smell of Calloway’s aftershave from the damaged DS. It wasn’t easy to forget.’

  ‘You noticed a man’s cologne?’

  ‘In a place where the customary fragrance is sump oil and burnt metal, it stood out.’ He wasn’t prepared to let it go. ‘They set fire to a dead man’s body and tried to hide the evidence; normal people don’t do that.’

  ‘Is that your argument?’ Massin threw a hand in the air. ‘You think these men, who trashed a local bar, are some kind of criminal group who also killed a tramp while pretending to make a film? If it’s the same men – and I say that with great emphasis – they appear to have some influence in the British Parliament, for God’s sake. Enough to get them set free!’

  ‘Exactly my point.’ Rocco kept his face straight. ‘How many ordinary people have that privilege? I don’t. Do you? Calloway,’ he added quickly as Massin’s face clouded dangerously, ‘has a different background to the others. It was he who made the phone call that secured their release. But he was still part of the group. I’d like to speak to the British police to find out more about him. I believe they were here for a specific reason.’

  ‘What reason?’ Massin tapped the report from Rizzotti. ‘How does any of this give you such an impression? Give me even a hint of why I should listen further, Inspector, because right now you are not making much sense. A bunch of English drunks on the rampage, that is all you have.’

  ‘I think it might have something to do with the attack Saint-Cloud is investigating.’

  It was out before he could stop it, but it was too late to backtrack.

  ‘Ah, yes. Colonel Saint-Cloud and his security review.’ The words came out tinged with resentment. It was clear that he did not like Rocco being assigned to the security chief, but was powerless to stop it. Rocco wondered how long he’d been sitting here grinding his teeth over it.

  He considered for a moment what Saint-Cloud had said about keeping this assignment quiet. The man had great powers, and in effect, Rocco was now following orders approved by the Interior Ministry. Even so, there were some lines you didn’t cross. Being forced by another official to conceal details from his superior officer was one. And while he himself didn’t always tell Massin everything he was working on, this was very different.

  He took a deep breath, choosing his words with care. ‘I believe these Englishmen and the reasons for the local security review are somehow connected.’

  A brief silence. ‘How?’

  ‘The ramming, the use of a black, official-looking DS … and the real possibility of a visit to the area by the president.’ He mentioned his talk with Blake at the War Graves Commission office. ‘It all coincides. I think the ramming witnessed by the farmer, Simeon, may have been a practice run.’ He then told him about finding the Pont Noir on the map, and its uncanny similarity to the ramming site. He concluded with the visit with Saint-Cloud to the bridge and the security chief’s complete scepticism. ‘That aside, I think killing Bellin was closing a door. He knew too much, so he had to go. Someone higher up the chain decided he was a liability. We can’t get anything out of Bellin anymore, but we might be able to get something out of the man who delivered the car: Calloway.’

  Massin said nothing, his face carefully blank. A car revved up outside, and a burst of laughter drifted up from the street. It highlighted to Rocco how everything had receded while he was in this room, as if the outside world had been shut out. Finally Mas
sin sat forward. ‘You have to admit, Rocco, that this is all one hell of a leap of the imagination, even for you. You could be wrong.’

  ‘I hope I am,’ Rocco replied calmly, adding, ‘but dare we take that risk? The location is remote, it fits exactly with where the ramming took place, and if de Gaulle fulfils his expressed wish to make an unpublicised visit to this location, he’ll be out in the open with only his immediate guards to protect him.’

  ‘They’ve never failed him yet.’

  ‘There’s always a first time. And the last attempt resulted in one dead and one seriously wounded. In terms of an attack to kill the car’s occupants, that would be classified as a success.’

  Massin took in a deep breath, his nose pinched. He lifted his chin to ease his collar, and said, ‘Have you told Colonel Saint-Cloud all of this?’

  ‘Not everything.’

  ‘Really? What a surprise. I suppose I should feel comforted that you keep him underinformed as well. What did you leave out?’

  ‘The English connection.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to be certain of my facts. If there’s a proven foreign element to this, it’s very different to anything else that’s gone before. Any hint of British involvement will not be kept quiet for long, and if it is a planned attack, the organisers will go underground. Next time we might not get to hear about it until it’s too late.’

  ‘But you could still be wrong. This could all be … circumstantial and coincidental.’

  ‘I agree. But I need a couple of days to check it out. Nobody need know that … apart from you.’

  Massin looked sceptical. ‘Why am I not reassured by your consideration?’ He tapped his fingers on the desk, then said, ‘Leave it with me for a few minutes. You have presented me with an awkward situation, Rocco. I need to consider my decision carefully. Don’t leave the building.’