Death on the Pont Noir Page 24

  He laughed out loud at the absurd beauty of it. Because they bloody would know, of course they would; in the few seconds it would take them to suss it out, by which time it would be too late, they’d go mental as the realisation of what Ketch had planned for them actually sank in.

  ‘We got a big job for you, Jack.’ Ketch had said two days ago. He’d treated Fletcher to a few drinks before telling him what he’d wanted. ‘Seems we’ve got a couple of bleedin’ twicers in the camp.’

  ‘What?’ Fletcher wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Twicers. Cheats. Traitors. ‘Who?’

  Ketch had told him, lighting up a big cigar while Fletcher absorbed the information.

  Tasker and Calloway? He could hardly believe it. On the other hand, he’d never liked Tasker, and Calloway was too smooth for his own bleedin’ good. Smarmy young git. He found he’d been ready to believe anything of them.

  ‘We need someone we can rely on, Jack, to sort this out,’ Ketch had continued, flicking away the match. ‘Someone with the balls to do it right.’ He’d looked Fletcher in the eye from close up, the smell of the cigar mixing with cologne and filling Fletcher’s nose. ‘We need ’em to go away, Jack. Gone for good – know what I mean?’

  He’d accompanied the words by taking out his trademark pen and writing a number on a paper napkin. It was a big number, so big it had almost made Fletcher’s eyes water. And preceded by a pound sign. It was more than Fletcher had earned in years, and he swore the number sat there looking up at him with a devilish grin on its face, calling out to him to pick it up.

  Ketch had leant closer, a reassuring hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. ‘Money like this, you could retire, Jack.’

  ‘Eh?’ That had come as a surprise. But not an unwelcome one.

  ‘Call it your signing-off fee, eh? Bloody good sign-off, too. You’d be in clover. And the job you’d be doing, you’d be a legend.’ The final four words were said in a hushed whisper, and Jack Fletcher felt his chest would explode.

  He’d picked up the napkin and thought, a job like this, I’d do it for bloody nothing.

  Now, watching through the gap he’d made between the planks in the wall, he waited for the black Citroën to appear. They’d be driving at a steady pace, he’d been assured, unsuspecting because Tasker and Calloway had been told the crash would take place a good mile further down the road, on a bend. They’d probably be gassing, telling themselves how clever they were to be cheating on Ketch and the rest, and wouldn’t even give the shed a passing glance. To them, it would be a shitty structure in the middle of a vast brown rolling sea of muddy fields.

  He looked at his wing mirrors out of habit, before remembering that he’d ripped them off before driving into the shed. They’d have only got in the way, and he wasn’t going to use them in any case. And he sure as buggery wasn’t going to hand the truck back to anyone, not once he’d finished with it. The drum of petrol in the back would see to that. One match and woof – all gone, just like the last one.

  He checked his watch. Another five minutes. He was ahead of himself. And nervy. He needed to calm down. He left the motor running and jumped out, squeezing through the narrow gap between the truck and the side of the shed. He shuffled to the back of the truck where he’d made a hole in the rear doors to let out the exhaust smoke. He sparked up a last cigarette, feeling the cold bite of a draught fanning the air around him. That was better. He could do this, no sweat.

  He checked the time again. He wasn’t sure why it was so critical; Tasker had never been punctual for anything. Still, best follow orders. He tossed the cigarette aside and made his way back to the cab.

  A flash of movement showed in the spyhole between the boards, and he revved the engine, his heart going with it. Christ, they were early. No, wait. It was a dark-blue saloon with a cupboard strapped on the top, bobbing about like a jelly. Christ, he’d be pulled over for that back in England, daft bugger. He breathed out in short sharp bursts, willing his heart rate to return to normal.

  He coughed, eyes fixed on the road through the gap. His throat was hurting and a veil of smoke drifted in through the open side window. Exhaust fumes were building up inside the shed. He swore but didn’t dare take his eyes off the road. He’d been revving the engine too much and it wasn’t being carried away sufficiently at the back. He should have thrown out all the wooden crates instead of cramming them alongside the truck. Trouble was, a local might have noticed and come to investigate.

  Two minutes seemed to drag by achingly slowly. Then another car appeared. Black, shiny, a pale flash of blinds at the windows.

  A Citroën DS.

  Fletcher hit the accelerator hard, relieved he’d kept the engine warmed and ready to fly. He coughed again, his throat raw now, as the stubby little truck leapt forward like a terrier going after a rabbit. It hit the front doors with a mighty crash, the railway sleeper strapped to the front ripping through the rotten wood like paper and showering the cab and bonnet with years of accumulated dust and debris, cobwebs and bird shit. The rush of daylight flooding the cab made him blink after the gloom. The truck bounced as it hit the track, and shook off a cascade of planks tumbling around the roof. As it hit clear air, it seemed to gather speed as if revelling in the cold, clear atmosphere like a bull let out to grass.

  And Jack Fletcher, fired by the excitement of it all, screamed unintelligible words at the top of his lungs, pounding the steering wheel with his fist, eyes streaming with tears but fixed on the target vehicle, now about two hundred yards away and approaching the end of the track and the bridge without a care in the world.

  The instructions had been clear as day. No messing. No hesitation. Do it.

  So intense was he on the target, so high with excitement, that Fletcher failed to notice the billowing rage of smoke trailing behind him; failed to see the flames started by the cigarette landing in the old dried grass beginning to consume the rear of the truck … and creeping towards the drum of petrol lashed in the back.

  ‘Broadside on, Jack, as hard as you can. Push the bastard twicers right over the edge.’

  He was going to be a legend.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Rocco and Claude had a clear view of what happened next. A stubby Renault truck emerged from the inferno of the shed like a horse out of a starting gate. But this horse was hell-bent on death and left destruction in its wake. Without bothering to open the doors, the driver had simply burst through the rotten wood as if they didn’t exist. The impact against the padlocked hasp had been enough to send a shock wave rippling throughout the flimsy structure, tearing away the walls and supports and lifting the corrugated roof. Then everything had crashed downwards. But not before the truck was tearing itself clear of the debris and accelerating along the track, its engine screaming in protest and the rear end trailing a gushing swirl of smoke and flames.

  ‘It’s the same as before,’ said Rocco. The same model truck, the same railway sleeper strapped across the front, the same target.

  Only this time the target was real.

  They jumped in the car and took off, accelerating hard. It was a fruitless task and Rocco knew they would never make it. What could they hope to do – stop the official car carrying the president and his bodyguards? The DS would leave them standing. He debated shooting at the truck in an attempt to put Fletcher off his aim, but he knew that was futile, too. The distance was too great and the Englishman would be too focused on his target to even notice. What was more likely was that the bodyguards in the DS would see Rocco and Claude as the attackers and turn their automatic weapons on them instead.

  He flashed his lights, hoping the guards would notice and at least look at the area around them. The angle of the Renault’s approach was such that it was in a blind spot, and might not be seen until it was too late.

  The DS continued its run, cruising smoothly along the tarmac. Rocco even fancied he saw the oval of a face looking through the rear-side window. De Gaulle, perhaps, getting his first view of a site of past death and dest
ruction, unaware that if the truck now bearing down on him did its job, he would be joining all the departed souls in the ground below.

  At the last moment, as the DS began to draw level with the mouth of the track, something must have caught the attention of the guards. The noise of the shed being destroyed carrying above the car engine, maybe the swirl of smoke trailing after the burning truck catching the eye or simply a bodyguard’s instinct kicking in and warning of an impending attack. There was movement inside as the occupants turned to stare at the side where the attacker was coming from.

  ‘Get out of there!’ Claude shouted. ‘Move it, you idiot!’

  As if responding to his call, the DS seemed to sink on its suspension as the driver put on a surge of power, and began to pull away at speed. But they were already a fraction of a second too late. The truck blasted out of the track and across the road, mud churning up from its heavy tyres, the driver’s face close to the windscreen, his mouth open in a snarl. Was he even aware of the flames creeping across the back of his vehicle? Did he care?

  The railway sleeper seemed almost about to miss its target … to have all been for nothing. Then it brushed against the rear of the car. It was a near miss, but enough, flicking the heavily armoured DS sideways with near disdain.

  The car driver corrected and accelerated again, fighting the wheel. For just a second one of his rear tyres slid out over the bank, spinning in thin air, and Rocco and Claude swore in unison, expecting the worst. But the car’s extra weight was its saving grace. With a waggle of its tail, it settled and took off across the bridge trailing a damaged rear wing and bumper.

  The truck, still under full power and carried by its own mass, was unable to stop in time. It soared out over the edge, dragging earth, grass, white marker posts and fiery smoke with it, the engine howling as if in a frustrated rage all of its own.

  Then it dropped out of sight.

  The DS flew towards Rocco’s car without stopping, the driver and guard in the front staring hard and clearly expecting another attack. Rocco stamped on the brakes and pulled over to let them pass, holding up his empty hands and bracing himself for a hail of defensive gunfire. But the guards knew their job and held off shooting.

  As the car disappeared, Rocco drove across the bridge and stopped. Then he and Claude jumped out and looked over the edge of the drop, standing by the ripped scar where the DS driver had nearly come to grief and where the Renault driver had plunged to his death.

  Far below, the truck was just visible, its nose buried in the ice-covered pond and surrounded by a vast cloud of steam and smoke. It held for a moment, and Rocco thought it had gone in as far as it could. Then with a groan, it began to sink further. As it did so, the water around it rippled violently, lighting up with a vivid flash, and a wave of heat came up the bank towards them. Then the remains of the truck sank from sight.

  There was no sign of the driver.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  ‘Not far off now,’ said Calloway, who had been watching signposts. He had a flair for navigating which Tasker lacked, and had only needed to glance at the map once more to know where he was on the twisting and narrow country roads leading towards the village of Poissons-les-Marais.

  Little had been said since they had changed course, although Biggs had kept up a regular muttering about going the wrong way and wasting valuable time. Tasker had said nothing in reply, too absorbed in staring out of the window at the unfolding panorama of brown fields rolling by.

  They had met virtually no traffic save for the occasional van or tractor and one or two cyclists, the latter hunched over their handlebars, faces pinched and grey against the cold air. The route Calloway had chosen had kept them clear of villages, passing only one or two ramshackle farms, and a café with a giant Pernod advert painted on the side wall.

  ‘How far?’ The words seemed to stir Tasker from his thoughts. He lifted the sawn-off and took out the two spent cartridges, replacing them with the fresh ones. He snapped it shut.

  From behind him came a click of metal as Biggs also checked his gun.

  ‘About two miles.’

  ‘This is a waste of time,’ the former soldier muttered, slapping a hand on the back of the seat for emphasis. ‘What the hell are we doing out here? We’d be in Calais by now if we’d kept going north.’

  ‘We’re here because I said so,’ Tasker growled. ‘It’s part of the job, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah – and a proper bleedin’ lash-up that was. My mate’s dead, thanks for asking, and we’re stuck in the middle of bleedin’ nowhere. My mother could’ve organised things better than this. Friggin’ amateurs.’ He clicked the cylinder back into place and turned to watch the road behind them.

  There was silence for a while as they rumbled gently along a stretch of uneven tarmac. Then a vehicle appeared coming the other way.

  A police car.

  Tasker said calmly, ‘Keep going. Don’t even eyeball them, you hear?’

  The two cars passed each other, and the three Englishmen caught a glimpse of two men in uniform, eyeing the DS with interest.

  Tasker turned and looked back. The police car was slowing with a flash of its brake lights. They were turning back. ‘Put your foot down,’ he said quietly. ‘Get us a good lead.’

  Calloway nodded and the car leapt forward. They drove in silence for a mile, each alone in their thoughts. Then Tasker said, ‘Stop the car.’

  Calloway glanced at him. ‘You what? They’ll be on us in a minute.’

  ‘I said, stop the bloody car. Now!’ To emphasise his point, Tasker dropped the stock of the sawn-off into the crook of his elbow so that the barrels were nudging Calloway’s ribcage.

  Calloway did as he was told, applying the brakes firmly but smoothly. Any sudden movement right now would cost him his life. He coasted to a halt. They were near an expanse of woodland, the trees spiky and rimed with frost. A gathering of crows circled around the uppermost branches, disturbed by the car’s arrival, while below them, some cows in a field looked up, breathing out clouds of vapour at this sudden intrusion.

  Tasker said without looking round, ‘Biggs. Get round to the back and rip off the number plate. Somebody will have reported it and we need to keep ’em guessing.’

  Biggs eyed the gun in Tasker’s hands, then shrugged and climbed out.

  ‘Right, go,’ said Tasker quietly, and lifted the barrels of the sawn-off. ‘Nice and quick, now.’

  Calloway had no choice. He nodded and stamped on the accelerator. The car fishtailed slightly on the greasy surface, then they were away, leaving Biggs standing at the side of the road, his mouth open in shock.

  ‘What was that for?’ said Calloway.

  ‘Because he annoyed me. And he called us amateurs.’ He sniffed and lowered the gun to the floor between his knees. ‘And he’ll slow down that cop car. Now get me close to this bloody village before they catch up with us.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  It didn’t take long for the cavalcade of patrol cars, emergency crews, support vehicles and other interested parties to arrive, summoned by the bodyguards in the DS.

  Rocco and Claude waited on the bridge, immune to the cold, hands in plain sight as the first cars skidded to a stop and officers jumped out, guns drawn; it would have been too disturbingly ironic to have had a zealous patrol cop, anxious to make a name for himself, start blazing away without asking questions as soon as he saw two men at the site of an attack on the president.

  Some looked surprised to see Rocco, men who had heard about his suspension. They either avoided his gaze or muttered between themselves about what he was doing here. Most nodded with familiarity or called a greeting, and went to investigate the crash site.

  Among the vehicles were two blue vans with Godard and his Gardes Mobiles, who quickly put up roadblocks to keep unwanted gawkers at bay and isolate the scene from the press. A car carrying Commissaire Perronnet, Captain Canet and Dr Rizzotti arrived and parked on the far side of the bridge. Both officers nodded a
t Rocco without comment before walking by and studying the scene of the truck’s descent into the pond.

  Rizzotti stopped alongside Rocco and Claude, and took one look over the edge before shaking his head. He eyed Rocco for a moment, then gave him a covert wink before suggesting loudly that someone call a rescue truck with heavy lifting gear.

  Then Commissaire Massin appeared.

  The senior officer uncurled himself from the rear of Perronnet’s car with an air of reluctance. He viewed the area for a moment, adjusting his cap with care, then walked along the road onto the bridge, his shoes clicking with parade ground precision. He nodded at Rocco and Claude, then went to view the scene for himself, before returning accompanied by Canet and Perronnet.

  As he did so, Detective Desmoulins arrived in a patrol car and jogged across the bridge. He was grinning widely.

  ‘You were right all along, Lucas,’ he said loudly, while still several metres away. His words carried clearly in the thin air, drawing the attention of the uniformed officers and support crews securing the scene. All conversation ceased. ‘They hit the Crédit Agricole in Béthune; four Englishmen in a DS, armed with shotguns and pistols. Three went in and one stayed with the car.’ He stopped in front of Rocco and looked around, enjoying the audience. ‘Unfortunately, someone else had the same idea. They ran slap bang into another crew and there was a gunfight. I just heard it over the radio. Sounds like it was a rerun of the Valentine’s Day Massacre.’