Death on the Pont Noir Page 21

  Rocco said, wondering if he wasn’t hoping for too much, ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I saw the big one hand you an envelope. Is that what this is all about? He was giving you money? Damn stupid of you to take it, if you ask me. No wonder someone thinks you’re a bad one.’ She pursed her lips and poured water onto the coffee, then placed the percolator on the stove, where it began to bubble with a regular, gloopy sound.

  Rocco felt his spirits sag. He could have done with the support of this woman more than most. But if asked, all she would be able to say was that she saw him take an envelope from a stranger. It wasn’t going to make for the most convincing defence.

  ‘Still,’ she continued, dropping two sugar lumps into his cup, ‘you did the right thing by throwing it back at him, although,’ she prodded him in the chest, ‘I was hoping you were going to knock his head off – but you didn’t.’

  ‘You saw me give it back?’ He felt a weight lift off his chest. It was no guarantee, bearing in mind that she was his neighbour and friend. But it offered a slim chance that his story might now be believed.

  ‘Of course I did.’ She looked up at him and nudged him with her elbow, eyes twinkling. ‘What good are nosey neighbours if they never see anything?’

  Rocco smiled down at her. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now, don’t go getting all emotional,’ she told him. ‘You’re not out of the mud yet. Who do I speak to?’

  Massin. It had to be. ‘Commissaire Massin is my immediate boss,’ he said. ‘He might pass you on to someone higher – maybe in another station. But he’s a start.’

  ‘How do you get on with this Massin? Is he a good boss?’

  He shrugged. He wasn’t about to go into their shared history, but she might as well know that they were not exactly best copains. ‘We manage – but that’s about all.’

  ‘That’s good.’ She nodded approvingly. ‘Because if he believes you, you’re in with a chance.’ She walked to the door. ‘I’ll call him from the phone in the café tomorrow first thing and put him right. And don’t worry – I’ll make sure all the gossipmongers are out of the room when I do it.’

  Half an hour later, there was a knock at the door.

  It was Claude Lamotte, carrying a shoebox under one arm.

  ‘Sorry it’s late,’ he announced, although he didn’t look it. He was puffing against the cold. ‘Are you in to visitors?’ He sniffed. ‘Ah, coffee. Lovely. I could do with a cup, thank you.’ He brushed past Rocco and dropped the box on the table, then helped himself to a cup and looked into it as if searching for gold.

  Rocco took the hint. He lifted a bottle of cognac from the cupboard and handed it over. Claude grinned and added a liberal dose to his cup. He took a sip and looked at Rocco, eyes suddenly serious.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘I’ve felt better,’ said Rocco. The police grapevine worked, even out here. Or maybe Alix had filled her father in on his news.

  Claude cleared his throat and pushed the shoebox across the table. ‘That might help.’

  Rocco lifted the lid. From the weight, he knew instantly what was inside, even before he smelt the familiar soft tang of oil.

  Claude said nothing, merely studied the ceiling, rocking back and forth on his heels and slurping his coffee.

  Rocco dropped the lid to one side. Wrapped in cloth in the bottom of the box lay a Walther P38. It had a walnut grip and included several loose rounds of ammunition.

  ‘It’s not right,’ Claude said quickly, when Rocco looked up at him, ‘a cop without a gun. Where the hell do they think this is – England?’ He looked flushed and blew out his cheeks with indignation. ‘Never heard anything so outrageous.’

  Rocco took the pistol out of the box and checked the mechanism. It was in perfect working order and lightly oiled, the metal parts sliding together with immaculate precision. It had been well cared for over the years.

  ‘I suppose it’s no good me asking where you got this,’ he said.

  ‘I found it in a field.’ Claude stared innocently back at him without blinking, then shrugged expansively, daring him to suggest different. ‘It’s criminal what people leave lying around.’

  By ‘people’, Rocco figured it had been a member of the German military. He wondered if that was all he’d lost. He put the gun down. ‘Thank you.’

  Claude looked pleased. ‘Hey, don’t thank me – it was Alix’s idea.’ His eyebrows lifted and he looked decidedly proud. ‘Bloody kids … no respect for regulations. Still, what can you do, huh?’

  The phone rang. Rocco leant across and picked it up. It was Santer.

  ‘Right, two things,’ the captain said without preamble. ‘The Lilas garage in St Gervais is a chop shop. They don’t like casual callers; Caspar went in as a buyer and nearly got himself tenderised with iron bars.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s fine. His radar was working and he ducked out. I told him to stay away, and he’s going after some OAS group he’s got word on. After that, I did some digging. The garage is owned by a woman called Debussy … who is the wife of the manager. He in turn happens to be a nephew of … Patrice Delarue.’ He gave a bark of disgust. ‘The nerve of these people – they don’t even bother trying to hide what they’re doing! An intern could have found this in minutes.’

  ‘Delarue’s just keeping it in the family,’ said Rocco. ‘But he keeps his hands clean and the Debussy woman can always claim her husband was working without her knowledge. Nice people. Can we use it?’

  ‘Well, it’s enough to allow us in there to look at their paperwork, given a helpful judge to sign it off. If we can trace a receipt for the DS battery, it proves a link. We’ll probably find it hard to make that stick, but it’ll disrupt his organisation for a while until we get something better.’

  ‘Good work, Michel. I’ve a feeling a lunch is in order.’ It was a step nearer, and one that the Paris police would jump on. They had been after Delarue for far too long to let go easily of a chance to bring him down.

  ‘At last,’ Santer breathed, and laughed. ‘Food. The man’s talking my language. I can’t wait.’

  ‘You’ve earned it. What was the other thing?’

  ‘You recall the paratrooper, Captain Lamy, wounded in the N19 attack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It seems he’s just been found and questioned by the DST, our esteemed internal security organisation. He caught a secondary infection and had to be taken to hospital. He’s currently spilling his guts and claims he took part in the attack to help his brother. You now have to ask me who his brother is.’

  ‘I have no idea but you’re clearly about to tell me.’ He could sense Santer was enjoying this moment of triumph.

  ‘Actually, his name doesn’t really matter. Suffice to say he’s a gambler and general black sheep of the Lamy crop. Not a good gambler, because he owes a small fortune to a private casino owned by none other than Patrice Delarue. Captain Lamy claims Delarue told him if he didn’t help out, his delinquent brother would end his days in the Seine tied to a large piece of concrete. Personally, I think Lamy had to have been a sympathiser, anyway, so the decision wasn’t too hard for him to make. It just needed something like his brother’s skin to justify why he’d go along with it.’

  ‘That proves Lamy’s involved with Delarue. But is he tied in to any anti-Gaullist groups?’

  ‘I can’t prove that. But I did find out one little snippet.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Six months ago, Captain Lamy applied to join the presidential security department run by your new best friend, Colonel Saint-Cloud.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes. And in spite of his record of discontent, his name was placed on a reserve list. Given a few weeks and he could have been on the inside.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Wheels within wheels, thought Rocco, wondering at such audacity – or was it stupidity? – between brother officers. It was always the same: one hand shook another and favours got p
assed along. But this was a favour like no other. What the hell was Saint-Cloud thinking? Couldn’t he see the danger to his own position? Or had he got a blind spot when it came to fellow officers?

  He shook his head. It was too much to speculate about. He’d have to come back to it. ‘Delarue,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know he was politically active.’

  ‘Me neither. But he’s a crook, so what’s the difference? The DST reckons he’s trying to spread his power base overseas and is playing at middleman for various contracts. The OAS and Corsican gangs are just a couple of the groups he’s getting into bed with, and they’re prepared to pay good money for the right expertise. Delarue is playing at being a broker.’

  ‘You can add the British to that list. A gangster named Ketch in London, and his associates. If the DST wants chapter and verse, they can contact Detective Inspector David Nialls at Scotland Yard. But don’t give the information to Jules Broissard. Find someone else.’

  ‘If you say so.’ There was hesitation in Santer’s voice. ‘Lucas, have you told anyone else about all this?’

  ‘I’ve tried. They don’t believe in the criminal connection.’

  ‘Jesus, you have to push harder; you’re leaving yourself open, otherwise.’

  ‘I will, I promise. But right now what I need is something concrete.’

  ‘Good. You haven’t said why I shouldn’t tell Broissard.’

  ‘I think he’s too close to this, and we’re hardly friends. I can’t prove it, but I don’t want to take any chances that he’ll just sit on the information until it’s too late.’

  ‘Good enough for me. I’ll find a way round him.’

  Rocco put down the phone and found Claude looking at him with a serious expression.

  ‘Sounds like this is getting heavy, Lucas.’

  ‘It is. I just don’t know how heavy.’

  The phone rang again and he scooped it up. Probably Massin or the Ministry, summoning him to a disciplinary interview. The Foreign Legion was suddenly looking like an attractive proposition … if they took mature recruits with police experience.

  But it wasn’t Massin or the Ministry. It was David Nialls.

  ‘Something’s going on, Lucas,’ the CID man said crisply. ‘Just had word that Tasker, Fletcher and Calloway have just got on a late boat for Calais.’

  Like a snowball, Rocco thought. This business was rolling downhill, gathering speed and volume.

  ‘There’s not much I can do without some hard facts to pass on,’ he said.

  Nialls sighed sympathetically. ‘Yes, I know. All I can tell you is, two other men have gone to ground, possibly on the same trip. They’re known associates, used mainly as heavies. Their names are Biggs and Jarvis. Ring any bells?’

  The two others involved in the wrecking of the Canard Doré. Rocco felt a trickle of excitement running through his veins. There was no way these five men would be coming back for another bout of fun and drinking; it just wasn’t feasible. It had to be something else.

  Nialls confirmed it.

  ‘Look for the distraction, Lucas. It’s how they operate.’

  ‘I would if I could figure out what it might be.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure if this will help, but there’s one thing to bear in mind about Tasker: putting aside everything else he does now, he’s a born-and-raised bank robber. And he’s got two drivers with him. Would that be distraction enough?’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  DCI David Nialls sat deep in thought for some time after putting the phone down. The conversation with Rocco had been a disturbing one with some personal echoes; he himself had been accused of taking bribes once, a long time ago. As a young detective trying to make his way up the career ladder, he had run foul of a bookie he’d hauled in for demanding money with menaces. The man had retaliated by claiming Nialls had only arrested him because the cash offer he’d made hadn’t been big enough. The accusation had been flawed, and Nialls had assumed that nobody had taken it seriously. But he’d soon discovered that even a light brush with mud has a habit of sticking. It had taken him a couple of years to shake off the allegations completely.

  Now Rocco would be going through the same thing and he knew what that felt like. He checked his watch and picked up the phone. There was only one thing for it.

  Direct action.

  He made a call to an acquaintance in the French embassy, followed by an internal call. Then he walked north to Dean Street, in Soho. He stopped outside a plain wooden door sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and a strip club. A speaker pad with three buttons was fixed to the side. In the background was the usual volley of touts tasked to entice punters into the various establishments in the area, overlaid by arguments and bursts of laughter from passers-by and residents.

  A squat man with the shoulders of a wrestler was standing outside the plain door. He nodded as Nialls approached.

  ‘Hello, Mr Nialls. He’s upstairs.’

  Nialls smiled. ‘You can drop the title, Tom,’ he said. ‘I’m almost a civilian now. And this job is off the books.’

  ‘Suits me, boss. Just point the way.’

  Sergeant Tom McLean had worked the Soho area for many years, and knew his way around its streets, clubs and watering holes like few others. He had an instinct for trouble and had worked with Nialls several times before. The two held each other in mutual respect. Nialls had caught him just as he was on his way home, and had asked for a small favour. The sergeant had agreed without question.

  ‘Skelton has helped drop a friend of mine in hot water with some sneaky photos – a false bribery allegation. I’d like to lean on him and make him squeak. There might be some opposition.’

  ‘Sounds like his usual style. He doesn’t normally have any minders, but it depends who he’s working for. We going straight in?’

  ‘I think so. Hard and fast and don’t give him time to think.’

  The sergeant stepped up to the door and put the flat of his hand against all three speaker buttons. ‘Stay behind me until we get in.’ He leant on the buttons until the door clicked, then pushed it back and ran lightly up a flight of grubby stairs littered with cardboard boxes. Nialls was right behind him. They came to a landing with two doors. A Chinese woman in a patterned overall and slippers stood outside one door, scowling at the two men. The other door was open, the flat inside empty. McLean continued on past and up another flight of stairs to a smaller landing with a single door. He waited for Nialls to reach the top step and catch his breath.

  Nialls leant against the wall and signalled for McLean to continue. He would have liked to kick it in himself, but it would be a waste of talent.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he told him.

  The door was flimsy and gave in without a struggle, crashing back against the inside wall and showering the floor with flakes of paint. Both men stepped inside and found themselves in a single room furnished with a couch, a small desk overflowing with camera equipment and spools of film, a wardrobe, a plain screen and an enormous bowl of flowers. Behind the flowers was a buxom, naked woman in her forties, scrambling to hide herself. Sets of angled lights with coloured lenses gave her body a curiously marbled effect.

  There was no sign of ‘Bones’ Skelton, but he was clearly not far away.

  ‘Where is he?’ breathed Nialls.

  The woman pointed at the backdrop screen. Behind it was a door with a red light overhead. ‘It’s a developing room.’ She remembered that her hand was supposed to be covering her modesty and snatched it back, blushing crimson.

  ‘Get him out, Tom,’ Nialls told McLean, and waited while the sergeant stepped behind the screen and opened the door. There was a strangled shout, then he dragged out the skinny frame of Patrick Daniel Skelton. He was dressed in a shirt and trousers, and his feet were bare.

  ‘Sorry, Bones,’ Nialls greeted him blandly. He sniffed at the sudden smell of chemicals in the air and studied the photographer’s feet. ‘Did we interrupt something seedy?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that,�
� Skelton protested. ‘I always work barefoot. It helps my artistic creativeness.’

  ‘God help us: a porno snapper with pretensions. And the lady – she’s your muse, I suppose.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘She’s a client. Straight up. She wants some photos for her husband.’ He stared imploringly at the woman who was struggling to conceal her ampleness inside a silk robe. ‘Go on, tell him.’

  The woman nodded. ‘That’s right. It’s our wedding anniversary and I wanted to surprise him with some nice … photos.’

  You’ll certainly do that, thought Nialls. But who was he to criticise?

  ‘No law against it, is there?’ the woman muttered.

  Nialls relaxed. He wasn’t interested in her. Skelton was enough to be going on with. ‘No, madam, there isn’t.’ His face softened. ‘And your husband is a lucky man. But I’m afraid you’ll have to reschedule. I need to borrow Mr Skelton and it might take some time.’

  They waited while the woman hustled behind the screen and got dressed. As soon as she had gone, Nialls turned on the photographer. ‘Get your socks on – we’re going out.’

  ‘Why? I haven’t done anything!’

  ‘You’ve done plenty, you unpleasant little oik. We’re going to the French embassy.’

  Skelton looked alarmed. ‘Why would I want to go there?’

  ‘Because you’re going to make a verbal and written statement about your recent trip across the Channel.’ He held up a hand to silence the inevitable protest. ‘And don’t bother denying it – we’ve got witnesses who saw you take off from Thurrock airfield in Essex. The pilot’s already made a full statement.’ Neither detail was true, but Nialls said it with absolute conviction and a steady, cold gaze. He turned to the desk and extracted a British passport from beneath the edge of a pile of papers. ‘And look what I’ve found.’

  Skelton swallowed. ‘What if I don’t want to go?’

  ‘Then I’ll have Sergeant McLean here tuck your rancid body under his arm and carry you. I’ll also arrange for a quiet word to be dropped in certain clubs around here that you’ve been most helpful with our investigations with names, dates and times. What’s it to be?’