Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter ELEVEN



George Tasker stared out through the window as the Calais train drifted slowly into the channel port, and shifted uncomfortably on the shiny plastic seat. He’d be glad to get off this cattle wagon and hit the ferry bar for a few bevvies. Set himself up for their arrival back in the smoke. That’s when the tough questions would start.

‘What do you reckon they’ll say?’ said Calloway, voicing their collective concerns.

Tasker shrugged, feigning indifference, although he didn’t feel it. ‘Search me. We’ll soon find out, won’t we?’ He gave a nasty smile and looked around at the other men. ‘Nothing’s changed, right? You let me do the talking. If the bosses ask, we did what we came to do. Any of you talk out of turn, you’ll have me to answer to. Got it?’

Privately, he wasn’t looking forward to getting back. They’d been told to keep it going for at least two days, hopefully tying up resources as much as they could, creating a logjam for the simple country Frenchies to fight their way out of. He’d have done it, too, if it hadn’t been for Calloway getting a sneak phone call out to one of his friends. Bloody nancy boy was too clever for his own good, fooling the guards with that lame story. He was asking for a good smack … and he’d get one if this all went tits up because of that call.

He was also niggled by the way the French cop, Rocco, had questioned Calloway first. Being overlooked in front of the others was something he wasn’t used to, and the more he thought about it the more it got under his skin. He had a name and reputation in London and across the South, and it had been earned the hard way. Having some snooty Frog copper treat him like a nobody just wasn’t on. Christ, he got more respect from the Sweeney – the Flying Squad. He was also annoyed at the game Rocco had played. Calloway hadn’t been writing a statement at all; he’d been kept in an adjacent room, then put back in with the others while Tasker was being questioned. Unfortunately, Tasker had already given him a rough time before anyone had clued him in.

And there was the truck key. He shifted in his seat; he’d made a mistake there. He should have told Rocco it was his front door key or something. Instead he’d fluffed it and ended up sounding false. Still, what were the chances they’d connect the key to the truck? It was a blank copy with no serial number or brand name, so no way would they trace it back.

He sniffed at the strong smell of stale seawater and engine smoke. At least they were getting off French soil; he didn’t like France or the French, and if he never came back, it would be too soon. Except that he was beginning to fantasise about having a quiet talk with Rocco – preferably down a dark alley. Nobody treated him like second best. And that woman copper with the nice arse; now, she was something else. He’d like to get her down a dark alley, too. Only it wouldn’t be to do any talking.

‘You reckon the big guy was an ordinary copper, George?’ Fletcher asked. He hadn’t said much since last night, which had surprised nobody. With the face on him, it was clear he was still fighting off the effects of all the booze he’d poured down his gullet in the bar.

‘Nah. Just another French bean picker, full of himself because he could speak English.’ He wanted to add that it was lucky Rocco had had the other cops there, but he knew it would sound false. Sod ’em. Let them think what they liked.

‘He didn’t look much like a bumpkin to me,’ Calloway murmured. ‘Not the way he was dressed. Expensive clothes, good shoes. Quality stuff … for a bumpkin.’ He smiled and stretched his legs, and Tasker very nearly launched himself across the carriage to wipe the grin off his face. He’d have enjoyed shoving his fist down that smarmy throat. But starting a fight here wasn’t clever, and anyway, Calloway wasn’t without influential friends back in London; friends of people who paid Tasker his wages. No, now they were out, they had to stay out and get home.

‘Forget him,’ he growled. ‘And once we’re on the boat, keep your mouths shut. There’s too many people about who’ll be earwigging what we say. So button it.’ He stared at Calloway in particular. ‘And you all know who we’ll have to deal with if word gets out about what we were doing.’

That put a dampener on the atmosphere, until Fletcher looked up and said, ‘I suppose we could always go and join the Richardsons.’

The comment was met by a stunned silence all round. There were certain names that were never mentioned in some quarters, and the Richardsons, who ran a gang south of the river, sat right at the top of the list.

Tasker shook his head. He wasn’t smiling, and everyone knew why: it was the thought of what might happen if a certain someone closer to home took the way the operation had gone the wrong way.

‘Glad you’re feeling so bloody cocky, Fletch,’ Tasker breathed finally. ‘Just remember, when they ask who cut the operation short by crocking that truck, there’s only one name in the frame – and it ain’t mine.’



While Tasker and his men were travelling home, Rocco drove back to the scene of the crash thinking about what had happened here, trying to build a series of images in his mind to match the location. Was it simply a bit of wild filming which had gone wrong? Or a bizarre accident? If so, why out here? What the hell were the odds of a truck and a smart car coming to grief together in the middle of nowhere like this?

He walked along the road from the supposed point of impact to the trees. Remembering what Simeon had said about the watcher, he scouted round the back of the small copse and found where someone had arrived on a moped or motorcycle, and had pulled the machine onto its stand, leaving two indentations in the mud behind the trees. It was away from the track, he noted, and far enough to one side to be out of sight from anyone taking a casual glance.

So, the men involved in the crash had had a covert watcher. Interesting.

He walked back to the car. It was the small details of an incident that very often told the full story; the details that were missed at first glance, or were concealed by accident or intent. Among that detail was often some anecdotal fact thrown up by a witness like Simeon, which might have no obvious significance, yet which turned out to be fundamental to an investigation.

And right now, he felt he was missing too much.