Death on the Pont Noir Page 2

  You’d have had trouble seeing it with anyone else’s, Rocco wanted to say, still dulled by lack of sleep in spite of Claude’s industrial-strength coffee. He forced himself to concentrate. ‘Where were you when you saw this crash happen?’

  ‘Out there.’ Simeon pointed across the fields, still sugar-iced by the remnants of frost. ‘By the old machine-gun site. I was about to hitch the horse up to drag an old stump out of the ground when I heard the noise. See the blackthorn?’ He leant towards Rocco as he pointed, bringing with him a waft of sour breath and cheap wine. ‘Just to the left. There’s a bit of dead ground, so they couldn’t see me.’

  Rocco nodded. He had to assume that a blackthorn was what he was looking at because it was the only bush in sight. ‘But you could see them?’

  ‘Sure. Well, pretty good, anyway. The light wasn’t great and my eyesight’s not what it was, but it was clear enough.’

  Rocco wondered if the day would ever come when he’d get a witness carrying a camera and a total power of recall. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Well, as I already told Lamotte, here, after the truck rammed the car, both vehicles stopped, then two men jumped out from the side of the road and threw things – but I couldn’t see what they were. Then they took out guns and started shooting. I got out of here as quick as I could at that point. It was like a war zone … apart from the camera.’

  ‘Camera?’ There had been no mention of a camera in his call to Claude Lamotte. A car being rammed by a truck and guns firing had been the sum total of the story.

  Rocco glanced at Claude who looked blank. ‘He didn’t mention it before.’

  ‘Didn’t I? I thought I did. By the trees over there.’ Simeon pointed at the only clump of trees around, two hundred metres away. Pines, Rocco noted, sharp and spiky and rigid with cold against the horizon, like a scene from the Eastern Front. ‘The truck came down the track from behind the trees, and that’s when I noticed the camera, sitting on a tripod thing. But there was nobody with it. Don’t they usually have a man sitting behind it with a megaphone shouting at everyone and wearing riding britches?’ He looked at Rocco. ‘Don’t they?’

  Rocco decided to change tack before he lost the will to live. ‘Can you describe the men?’

  Simeon considered the question, then said, ‘No. Not really. At least four, I’d say. Two drivers, two gunmen … and maybe one other.’ He mimed drawing a gun and firing, making a soft paff-paff noise, and smiled. ‘But from here …? I didn’t get any detail.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Earlier today – about eight. Roughly. I don’t have a watch. No need, see. Seasons are more important in my line of work.’ He pursed his lips and frowned, as if he’d just surprised himself by saying something profound.

  Rocco shook his head and walked away towards the copse. It was shaping up to be another tale of unlikely events unsubstantiated by reality or facts, and likely due to the after-effects of too much vin de pays and a bad night’s sleep.

  Simeon watched him go, then nudged Claude. ‘Is he for real? I heard we had a new flic in the neighbourhood, but not one like him.’

  ‘Where’ve you been hiding?’ Claude muttered. ‘He’s been here a while now. And he’s good, so you’d better watch yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve been off sick, haven’t I? It’s why I’m trying to catch up, pulling out tree roots in this shitty weather instead of leaving it until spring.’ He sniffed and lifted his chin towards Rocco. ‘Does he always dress like he’s going to a funeral?’

  ‘Always. He goes hunting in the marais like that, too, when he has to. Just mind you don’t tick him off because when he goes after someone, he doesn’t stop. He’s … what do they call it – relentless.’

  ‘That was him?’ Simeon’s eyes widened. ‘I heard about that. A gun battle, so they say. Grenades, too.’ He pulled a face then spat on the ground. ‘And to think it used to be so peaceful around here.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rocco reached the trees and did a careful examination, quartering the ground in a grid fashion. If anyone had been here, especially with a camera, there would be signs. It was a godforsaken spot, made worse by the bitter breeze cutting through the branches and whining like a soul in torment. The ground surrounding the trees was mostly covered with clumps of coarse grass, with a carpet of pine needles closer in. He noted other details and dismissed them: scraps of fertiliser bags rotting away beneath a bush; old bottles without labels glinted dully in the shadows; a rusting bucket without a handle; and further back, where the ground was clear, a set of footprints side by side where someone had stood and taken a leak, the story etched in the frosty ground. Size 42 or 43, he guessed, which told him nothing he could use. He finally found a spot by the side of the road where three holes had been pierced in the earth in a triangular spread about a metre across. A tripod, just as Simeon had said. So he hadn’t imagined that bit. But was it a camera or something else? The grass around it was trampled flat, but not as much as he would have expected if a cameraman had been working it. So what had been the point?

  He flicked some pine needles from the cuffs of his trousers and walked back to join Claude and Simeon, scanning the ground as he went. Then he saw something in the grass verge. He stopped. The stems here had been either crushed or churned up, as if something heavy had rolled across here recently. But it wasn’t the grass or the earth that caught his attention.

  It was the blood. Lots of it.

  He took a rubber glove from his coat pocket and slipped it on, then carefully lifted some of the grass clumps to one side. The earth beneath was dark brown, and in parts, where it had been covered, more of a dark red. He wondered if a wild boar had been shot by a farmer and carted off as a trophy. Or maybe hit by a car. Both were possibilities. But the spread of blood seemed too extensive. And tied in with what Simeon had witnessed, there seemed to be another, less mundane possibility. He stepped back along the verge, his unease growing. More blood, flecks of it scattered across the grass, some on the edge of the tarmac, the bigger flecks with a covering of insects feeding on this rare bounty.

  And a human tooth.

  Forget the boar, then.

  The tooth was worn down, and chipped around the top edges. A molar, by the look of it, stained with blood. Not a young one, either.

  There was something else in among the bloody earth. Too uniform to be a stone and too rounded to be a piece of dirt. Rocco plucked the object out of the blood and turned it over.

  It was a metal button embossed with a number five. A child’s button? His blood ran cold at the implication. But the tooth went against that – it was definitely an adult’s.

  He scanned the fields, feeling a familiar buzz building in his head: the signal which told him something was beginning; that something bad had happened here. If anyone had been killed or injured in the crash seen by Simeon, then Amiens hospital, less than twenty kilometres away, would soon provide the answer.

  Failing that, he would need Rizzotti’s help. In the absence of a bigger budget, the on-loan doctor was the only person approaching a scientific presence the local police force had. Although he might not be able to make sense of this with his limited equipment and experience, he would be able to gather evidence to prove whether the blood was animal or human, although the teeth pretty much made that a given.

  ‘Lucas,’ Claude Lamotte called. His voice sounded odd. He was standing a couple of metres away, holding in his hand a fragment of curved glass that glinted in the weak sunlight. Then he picked up another fragment and walked over to join Rocco. He was holding the top of a bottle, with a piece of rag stuffed through it. Both pieces of glass were dark green, clearly from the same vessel. ‘There’s more fragments back there, in the grass,’ Claude said. ‘Could be what Simeon saw being thrown.’

  Rocco wrapped the button in a scrap of paper and put it in his pocket, then took the bottle top with the piece of rag and sniffed. No smell. Yet the rag was wet. He touched it with his finger. Not
oily. ‘It’s water.’

  ‘That’s a Molotov cocktail, that is,’ said Simeon knowingly, shuffling over to join them and lifting one leg to scratch at his groin. ‘Light the rag and chuck the bottle, the car goes up in flames. Pouf!’ He grinned, revealing a mouthful of discoloured teeth.

  Rocco didn’t doubt him. The farmer was of an age where he would know; where men and women just like him would have learnt the art of sabotage against an invading foe; where a wine bottle filled with petrol was an easily sourced weapon and all it took to be useful was someone willing to get in close, light the rag and throw it.

  ‘Can you describe the car?’ he asked.

  Simeon shrugged. ‘Fancy. Black. Shiny – like the ones they use in official processions. Citroën, I think. I’m better with horses, of course … I know about them.’

  ‘A DS?’ Claude suggested. ‘They’re used in processions – especially black ones. And funerals. There are none round here, though. Too expensive, and who wants to drive round looking like a funeral director – or a politician?’

  Rocco shook his head as the buzz increased. So what they had was a truck ramming an official-looking car, and two men jumping out of the ditch and throwing pretend petrol bombs and firing guns. It prompted a thought. He turned to where Claude had picked up the glass.

  ‘Any shell cases?’

  ‘No. I thought about that. They must have picked them up … unless they used revolvers.’

  ‘They weren’t real, anyway.’

  Rocco and Claude turned and looked at Simeon, who was scrubbing at his groin again like an old dog.

  ‘Say again?’ Rocco was trying not to imagine what was going on down there. The man looked as if he and hot water and soap were distant acquaintances.

  ‘Guns. I know guns, too. They weren’t firing live rounds. The sound wasn’t right. Too flat and dull, like damp fireworks.’

  Make that pretend petrol bombs and blank rounds, thought Rocco. He said, ‘Did you see where they went afterwards?’

  ‘No. Like I told you, I was on my way back home with the horse. But I could hear them. Sound travels out here, you see; nothing to stop it. Wherever it was they went, they had a sick Renault to take with them. It sounded more like a tractor and kept banging, like there was something broken—’

  ‘Hey!’ Claude jumped in. ‘You didn’t say anything about it being a Renault before.’

  ‘Well, I only just realised, didn’t I? There’s a builder over towards Fonzet uses one just like it. Got it cheap off the military, he said.’ He nodded. ‘Renault. Bet you anything.’

  Rocco shook his head. No bet. Camera, men, vehicles, fake petrol bombs and blank bullets, lots of blood and a tooth. On the surface it added up to nothing more improbable than a makeshift film set. He wasn’t sure but he had a feeling film-makers were supposed to get a licence for shooting scenes on public roads, even out here. It could soon be checked. And the blood might well turn out to be a simple accident; a stuntman who’d miscalculated and performed his final cascade.

  Except, where were the film crew and equipment?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  George Tasker sat back and eyed the long mirror above the café bar. It glittered under the lights, and had gold-coloured patterns at each corner, like scrolls. That had to go, he decided; something that big was just asking for it. A well-placed chair would do it – maybe a table if things really got going.

  He sipped at a glass of cognac and watched the others getting tanked. He didn’t much care for spirits, and would rather have had a pint of Guinness. But the excuse for a bar they had chosen didn’t stock decent beer and the bartender didn’t seem to care one way or another. The food on offer was pretty much limited to bread, boiled eggs and cold meat, which didn’t hold a candle to free booze as far as Fletcher and the others were concerned. They’d piled in with venom, eager to try drinks they never would have normally, encouraged by the wad of francs Tasker had slapped on the bar.

  He sighed and rubbed the calloused knuckles of his right hand, waiting for the fun to kick off. Instructions were to take root here and let the rest take care of itself … with a little help from him and the readies supplied for the trip. He didn’t know and didn’t much care what else was going on, only that he had his part to play. The truck and the dented Citroën had been dumped as instructed, the truck torched along with the body of whoever it was had fallen underneath it, and the car left at a breaker’s yard to be ‘disappeared’. It seemed a waste to him, chopping a decent set of wheels like that, but arguing tactics wasn’t his call. They’d be getting a train out of here, anyway.

  He felt something sharp and metallic in his pocket. It was the spare key to the truck; he’d trousered it when they’d first picked up the vehicle, in case Fletcher lost his. The big man was useful in tight corners and for jobs that didn’t require much thinking, but there were times when his age began to show and he got careless. Like the way he’d hit the Citroën full pelt, nearly taking Tasker and Calloway out of the game for good. No judgement, that was his problem. Brains scrambled by too many lost fights and too much booze. If he had his way, this would be Fletcher’s last job for the Firm before he got relegated to something where he couldn’t harm anyone.

  He watched as the man chugged back a tall glass of thin, gassy beer, egged on by roars of approval from the others, before slamming the empty down on the bar and laughing like he’d won the Olympics. The bartender said something Fletcher clearly heard but didn’t understand. His response was to stick a thick middle finger in the air right in front of the man’s face and belch, then watch the Frenchie go red.

  Big bloke to upset, that bartender, Tasker noted. Probably handy in a ruckus, too; like any barman worth his job, accustomed to chucking out troublesome drunks. But he wasn’t big enough or handy enough for these lads once they got going. He sipped the cognac and waited. Checked his watch. Nearly lunchtime already.

  Time for some fun.

  Less than three miles away, Olivier Bellin, the owner of the breaker’s yard where the Citroën DS had been left, walked round the car studying the damage. It was pretty serious, he noted. Whatever this had skidded into had been solid enough not to give. Still, he’d seen worse over the years; driven some, too, when he’d had to. As bad as it seemed, though, given the right treatment it could be made to look right. As long as nobody looked too close.

  He scratched his head. He was in a not uncommon dilemma. He’d been paid to take in this car, no questions asked, and get rid of it. He’d done it plenty of times before when a vehicle had to cease to exist. That was ‘get rid’ as in destroy, chop up, crush, cut and reduce down to the last nut and washer. But Bellin was greedy, always on the lookout to make an easy killing. His view was that since the man paying for the job to be done was a long way from here, and unlikely ever to show his face anywhere near Amiens – and certainly not down this end of town – what was the problem? And this car was just so tasty … if viewed from the right angle. Suffering the indignity of being reduced to scrap this early in its life would be a sacrilege.

  He checked the odometer. The numbers were fairly high but not a killer. The condition of the seats and carpet wasn’t bad, either. A wash and brush-up and they’d look like new. The rest of the bodywork was sound, as were the tyres. The way the side had been caved in was a bit serious, there was no denying, and there might be some underlying problems with the structure. But he knew a couple of guys who could take care of that.

  He stared up at the sky, juggling the need for some quick cash from a punter wanting a cheap DS to show off to his neighbours, and the likelihood of The Man in Paris ever finding out that his instructions had not been carried out to the letter.

  The Man in Paris. Bellin licked his lips nervously. Now there was someone he didn’t like to think about. Several guys who’d disobeyed him were rumoured to have disappeared over the years, probably in yards pretty much like this one, come to think of it. And he had no wish to end up the same way.

  He turned and caugh
t a glimpse of his reflection in the window of the cabin, which served as his office. He saw himself with one hand on the Citroën’s roof like he owned it. It caught him by surprise, standing alongside a picture-perfect DS as if born to it. He smiled.

  No doubt about it, it was too good to pass up. He made a decision.

  Unfortunately for Olivier Bellin, it was the worst mistake of his life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Any thoughts?’ Rocco rejoined Claude Lamotte and they watched Simeon throw his leg over an ancient moped and wobble away down the road in a cloud of blue smoke.

  ‘Only one: if he makes it home without falling off, it’ll be a miracle.’ He turned to stare at the clump of pine trees, then the road. ‘But this … it all sounds a bit bizarre to me.’

  ‘Bizarre why?’ Rocco valued Claude’s opinion; although a countryside policeman based in Poissons, and looked on with faint derision by some on the force, he was a better cop than they knew and had the instincts of a born hunter. He also knew the people around here, which was a big advantage.

  ‘The camera. If it was back there by the trees, it would have been pointing east to catch the action, right?’

  ‘Agreed. So?’

  ‘Right into the morning sun? I doubt it.’ When Rocco didn’t respond, he puffed out his cheeks and said, ‘What – you think I don’t know about these things?’

  ‘Not at all. I just wondered how.’

  ‘Because back when I was driving a taxi in Paris, before I put on the uniform—’

  ‘Which, lets be honest,’ Rocco pointed out, ‘you don’t very often.’ As if to prove it, Claude was currently dressed in a pair of shabby brown corduroys, lace-up boots and a green hunting jacket. With his heavy build and round face, he looked more like a bandit than an officer of the law.