Death on the Pont Noir Page 22

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Skelton yelped. ‘Jesus – they’ll kill me!’

  ‘You don’t deny it, then?’

  Skelton said nothing, but looked as if he were about to bolt for the door.

  Nialls nodded at McLean. ‘Pick him up, Sergeant.’

  ‘Wait! No need for that … I’m coming.’ Skelton bent and picked up a pair of socks and began to struggle into them. ‘What have I got to do to get you lot off my back?’

  Nialls felt a rush of relief. None of this was legal or proper, and if it ever got out, he’d find himself having to answer some awkward questions from his superiors. But right now he didn’t care. He’d had enough of stepping around people like Skelton all his working life just because they could rustle up a clever lawyer when it suited them. He was helping a fellow police officer in trouble, and the simple fact was, he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years.

  ‘Just tell the truth, Bones, for once in your scummy existence. I know that’s a difficult concept for you, but believe me, the alternative is not one you want to contemplate.’

  ‘Alternative?’ Skelton paused in tying his shoes’ laces.

  ‘Tasker and his bosses hearing on the grapevine that you’ve been helping our enquiries.’

  ‘How would they? I’m not going to say anything.’

  ‘You might not,’ McLean muttered tightly, ‘but I wouldn’t bet on me not letting it slip before the night’s out. I fancy a bit of a pub crawl.’

  ‘That’s blackmail!’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Nialls. ‘It’s a public service.’ He glanced at the cameras on the desk. It was an impressive collection and clearly top of the range. ‘Before I forget, bring one of those with you.’

  ‘Eh? Why?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  Twenty minutes later, they were inside the French embassy and being ushered into a side room by a security guard. Moments later, an official appeared and greeted Nialls with a warm handshake.

  ‘David. How nice to see you again. Can I offer you some tea?’

  ‘No thanks, Dominique. It’s late enough and I don’t want to keep you.’ He introduced Sgt McLean and the two men shook hands.

  ‘Very well. You wished someone to make a statement, I believe?’

  Nialls nodded at Skelton. ‘This … gentleman wants to confirm his part in attempting to bribe a French police officer in a village called Poissons-le-Marais, near Amiens. He took the photos of the inspector being set up.’

  Dominique, a third secretary and a liaison officer between the British and French police, whom Nialls had already briefed in his phone call, gestured at the table in the centre of the room, which held a recorder and a notepad. He switched on the recorder and stared at Skelton with a show of disapproval. ‘I have spoken to colleagues since your phone call, and the suspension is not yet official, pending investigations. The photographs are quite clear, I understand, although taken at night. They show an officer apparently taking an envelope from a second man. But if this gentleman has something to say on the matter, his … cooperation would be appreciated.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Nialls muttered. ‘Taken at night, eh? Not easy to do, I’d have thought … although you’re used to snapping away in the dark, aren’t you? Care to enlighten us amateurs, Bones?’

  The photographer looked as if he were going to argue. Then his ego got the better of him. ‘It’s easy enough, if you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘And I bet you do. Go on, then: blind us with science.’

  ‘Does 800 ASA mean anything?’ At Nialls’ blank look, he sniggered. ‘Didn’t think so. It’s a new fast film, just out. Dead simple. Got him in the headlights.’ He simulated the clicking of a camera and winked, enjoying his own cleverness.

  Nialls wanted to hit him, but smiled instead. The rest would be easy. Once someone like Bones began talking, he’d be hard to stop. He glanced at Dominique. ‘You have developing facilities here?’

  ‘Of course. Our security manager can deal with that and have the prints ready for you very quickly. We have a courier going across the Channel first thing in the morning. They should be in Amiens very early.’

  ‘Prints?’ Skelton looked from one man to the other. ‘What prints?’

  ‘Of you and your statement,’ said Nialls. He smiled coolly, although he doubted Skelton would appreciate the irony of the situation. ‘You’re going to be famous, Bones. I think this is the first time anyone’s photographed a statement and sent it to another country with a snap of the guilty party. How about that?’

  Skelton scowled, clearly torn between incriminating himself further and being any kind of front runner in the photography world. ‘This isn’t right. I should call my lawyer.’

  ‘If you think he can protect you, go ahead.’ Skelton didn’t sound convinced, and was probably weighing up the odds of going along with this against the probability of what would happen if word got out that he’d talked to the police. To speed the photographer’s thinking, Nialls leant close and said softly, ‘But if you do, I’ll have to let you go immediately, won’t I? Then you’re on your own. And it’s cold and dark out there, Skelton. Very dark.’

  Skelton blinked rapidly. ‘I’ve got no choice, have I?’

  ‘Put like that – no, you bloody don’t. Now start talking, chapter and verse.’

  Three hundred and fifty kilometres away, in a smoke-filled bar near Belleville in the north-east of Paris, Marc Casparon was having second thoughts about the wisdom of what he was doing.

  He’d found his way here on the recommendation of a contact from his days on the force. He’d ordered a light beer to clear his head while waiting for a man named Susman, who claimed to have an inside link with a hard-core student group calling themselves Red Machine. Opposed to almost anything de Gaulle proposed or did, they were more than a bunch of activist malcontents, having shown themselves capable of violence in street marches, rapidly escalating to organised raids on opposition groups. Now they were rumoured to have picked up some financial backing. It was a worrying development. Rebellious students with no cash soon ran out of everything but hot air; those same students with access to funds were a whole different ball game.

  He sipped his beer and reflected on how much time he had spent over the years waiting in late-night bars like this for contacts like Susman to show up. Too many, whatever it was – and not always with anything worth trading. It probably added up to a lot of wasted hours. But that was the life he’d chosen and at least Susman had always proven reliable. Well, fairly reliable. The man had a marijuana habit and sometimes behaved as if he had demons after him. He shook off the thoughts. At least now he was here by choice. It made him wonder how Lucas Rocco was holding up. The news of the investigator’s suspension had travelled quickly, but few believed it; every cop worth his salt got accusations flung at him at least once in his career. It was part of the job and didn’t mean there was any truth to it. And nothing he’d heard led him to believe Rocco was corrupt. Some cops were and he could call their names to mind. But not Rocco; he’d stake his life on it.

  He saw movement at the door, and a face appeared, eyes scanning the room through the glass. Chubby, white, moustache, lank hair. Not a face he recognised. Hard eyes, though, like flints. Another man crowded behind him, almost a carbon copy, but bigger. Their eyes met.

  Caspar’s survival instincts kicked in. He glanced at the clock above the bar. Susman was thirty minutes overdue. Where the hell had time gone? He’d been daydreaming. He sipped his beer like a man with time to kill, but the training he’d gone through was already kicking in, along with all the hints and tricks he’d picked up over the years of operating undercover. You never, never waited longer than ten minutes for a meet, no matter what. When the agreed time plus ten went by, you got out fast and reassessed the situation. Contacts lived for the small cash payments you handed out and the power that trading secret information gave them. If they were late, it was because they weren’t coming. Simple as that.

 
This wasn’t good. He’d pushed someone too hard, asked one too many questions; touched a nerve at the wrong moment.

  It was time to go.

  He left his beer on the bar and wandered towards the back, pausing to watch a game of baby-foot in one corner. The two contestants were drunk, spinning the players enthusiastically with no hope of hitting anything. He clapped one of them on the shoulder and shouted encouragement, then stepped casually through the rear door and hurried along a narrow corridor.

  As he did so, he heard a volley of voices near the street door, and someone shouted an objection. Then there was the sound of a fist smacking something fleshy.

  As he exited the back door into a yard and ran past the entrance to the pissoirs, he was surprised to see Susman standing in the shadows, beckoning to him.

  ‘Where the hell were you?’ he said, and dragged Susman along with him. The man was overweight and soft-looking, dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers from his job as a waiter at a restaurant frequented by members of several street gangs, where he picked up most of his leads. ‘We’d better move; there’s trouble coming.’

  ‘I know, I heard,’ said Susman. He pointed off down the street. ‘This way – I don’t fancy getting my face rearranged if they see us together.’

  When they were three streets away, Susman stopped in a building site between two apartment blocks and stood with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. ‘This is far enough; I’d better get back there or they’ll know something’s up. I go there most nights, so …’

  ‘Who are those men?’

  ‘Nothing. A couple of bully boys.’

  ‘They didn’t look like nothing.’

  ‘I know them from way back. I was talking to them earlier and touching them up about a group they run with. They suddenly got really touchy – and I mean paranoid. Something’s in the wind.’

  ‘Yeah, but what?’ Caspar felt a shiver of excitement. This was what all those wasted hours had been about: the kick of getting some information before anyone else did and building it into something he could feed back down the line.

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s heavy, that’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Heavy. That doesn’t help. Heavy as in … a hit?’

  Susman ducked his head, then scrambled for a cigarette, eyeing the street behind them. He lit it and blew out a plume of smoke. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Think so? Think or know? Come on, there’s money on this.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a hit.’

  ‘On the big man?’ He didn’t want to mention the president by name, even out here.

  ‘Who else? He’s the nation’s favourite bullseye at the moment, isn’t he?’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know. Come on, man. I need names.’

  ‘I don’t have any, honest. Things are getting difficult … people have shut down since the last failures. It’s like … there’s been a run of bad luck and they’re scared it’s contagious.’

  Caspar swore quietly. ‘Bad luck. Christ, anyone would think it was a game of boules. You must have a feeling, though, right? Which groups are likely to be up for a try right now?’

  ‘That’s just it – I don’t know. Not even a hint. Not with the groups. All I can tell you is, it’s not political.’

  ‘Right. There’s going to be a hit on the big man and it’s not political. It’s all political, for God’s sake!’

  Susman took a deep breath and flicked his cigarette into the gutter, clapped his hands together and stuffed them under his arms. ‘No. Not this time.’

  ‘What?’ The statement had been too definite to ignore. Caspar grabbed Susman’s shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The sort of people I’ve been hearing about … the ones behind the hit: they’re gangsters.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  A new day brought a flurry of snow to Poissons, powered by a cutting wind which rattled the trees and curled around the house with a soft whining sound. Rocco went for a short run anyway to get his blood moving and his brain in gear.

  He kept going over what Nialls had said on the phone. The idea of an English gang’s involvement in hitting a French bank as a distraction exercise hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. But that had now taken on a greater significance. Tasker was known by the London police to have experience at robbing banks; he had two drivers with him, one of them expert in high-speed cars; and with the possible inclusion of Patrice Delarue into the mix – also with a history of high-profile bank robberies – it seemed to point inexorably in one direction. And what other possibilities were there? In a largely rural and unpopulated area, anything less simply wouldn’t pull in the police attention that Tasker and his men would be aiming for.

  Robbing a bank, however, couldn’t fail to attract maximum attention.

  He returned home after fifteen minutes of increasing cold and worked through the mundane routine of cleaning the house, setting a fire round the pump to draw water – even checking the car’s oil level, all activities designed to help pass time. As soon as it hit eight o’clock, he picked up the phone and dialled the number for the War Graves Commission office in Arras. It was early but he had a feeling the superintendent wouldn’t be far away.

  A woman answered and identified herself as Jean Blake. The superintendent’s wife.

  ‘Mrs Blake,’ said Rocco, and introduced himself. ‘My apologies for ringing so early, but I was wondering if your husband was in?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Inspector. You just missed him.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Yes. He’s been invited to the town hall – to a reception.’ Her voice carried a hint of quiet pride, he thought, held carefully in check, and he felt a buzz of energy go through him.

  Today. It was today.

  ‘I see. I just wanted to check his timings and movements.’

  ‘I can’t help you exactly, although I do know he’s been advised that the … event will take place in private at ten, followed by a reception at the town hall and a signature ceremony for the monument to be given the go-ahead. It’s all very hush-hush, of course.’

  ‘Of course. I won’t say anything.’ Rocco swore silently. At ten this morning? It meant that any diversion or distraction event would take place earlier … and just in time to attract the maximum amount of attention. He made his apologies and disconnected, then immediately dialled Desmoulins’ home number. The detective was the only one he could trust.

  ‘There’s going to be a bank robbery,’ he told him, the moment Desmoulins answered. ‘This morning some time before ten. I don’t know where, but somewhere in this region. You’ll only get a call when it’s in progress. The gang will be the same men who trashed the Canard Doré. They’ll probably head back towards the coast immediately afterwards, so as soon as you hear about it, get cars positioned along the main routes to Calais and Boulogne.’

  ‘A bank job? Is that what this has all been about – money?’

  ‘No. That’s the point. They’re using it as a diversion.’ He told Desmoulins about the Pont Noir and de Gaulle’s proposed secret visit. ‘They’ll time the bank job to pull in police resources and tie up lines of communication, leaving the way clear for the hit to go ahead.’

  ‘Christ – we’d better get the troops out. Does Saint-Cloud know about this?’

  ‘Probably more than he lets on. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘He wasn’t around much yesterday, but he doesn’t exactly take me into his confidence. Do you want me to find him?’

  ‘No. Don’t bother. I’ll deal with it. You look into the bank end. You might start looking for one with a larger than average cash movement going on today.’

  ‘That’s easy enough,’ said Desmoulins. ‘The main banks in Amiens, Lille and Arras all have cash movements today for paying local factory workers. And Béthune.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It’s a regular thing; after a couple of jobs two years ago, we had requests from the banks to have patrol cars keep an ey
e out for when the deliveries are made.’

  ‘And do they?’ Two years for any kind of standing instruction to be maintained rigorously was a long time, and any lack of activity could soon make officers less than attentive in their duties.

  ‘Depends if there’s anything else going on and if patrols can be spared. I wouldn’t want to bet on it, though.’

  ‘Why Béthune?’ Unlike the others, it was a small town about sixty kilometres away, between Arras and Lille. Rocco had only been once, but it had been a fleeting visit and had given him no feel for the place.

  ‘It was set up to service the Bridgestone tyre factory, among others. The Crédit Agricole. It’s right next to the industrial zone on the outskirts of town.’

  ‘That’s got to be it.’ Suddenly Rocco knew deep down that this was where it was going to happen. English gangsters wouldn’t want to fight their way through busy traffic in a foreign town, especially if they were planning a quick getaway. That automatically knocked Amiens, Lille and Arras out of the equation. But a bank on the outskirts of a small town, loaded with wages money and on the way to the coast? It was a sitting target.

  He let Desmoulins get on with his job and disconnected, then called Claude and told him to get ready.

  ‘You’re not going into the office?’ said Claude.

  ‘I can’t. I’m suspended, remember? If I show my face there I’m likely to be arrested.’ And even if he managed to get Massin to believe him and a show of force turned up at the bridge, the attackers would simply call it off and go underground. And that would end his chances of proving he’d been right all along.

  ‘So let me get this right,’ said Claude slowly. ‘You’re going to let an attack on you-know-who go ahead … to prove you haven’t been blowing smoke.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Mother of God, that’s risky, Lucas.’