Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter FOURTEEN



‘So. You lost the car and the truck. You smashed up a bar. Then you got tossed out of the country. All within forty-eight hours. Nice going, George.’ The words dripped into the room with a total lack of emotion, and George Tasker felt the skin go cold across his shoulders. The ‘nice going’ was not a term of praise. Not around this man. ‘Nice’ wasn’t good enough; ‘nice’ was for jobs half done and therefore unsatisfactory. Especially when delivered in this half-dead tone of voice.

As soon as he and the other men had got back to London, Tasker had been summoned to this upstairs room at the rear of a club called The Old Bourbon, in Stepney, and told to let the others go until they were needed. One of several properties spread across the city, it was more an occasional meeting point than a regular office, and owned – on paper, at least – by a friend of the man sitting in front of him. For that reason alone, Tasker was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t a more sinister reason for him being called here.

When displeased with anyone, it was common practice to make their final meeting at a location which couldn’t be linked directly back, should anything go wrong.

By ‘wrong’, read ‘dead’.

His throat had gone suddenly dry. He coughed. ‘That’s right, boss. But we figured since the car was going to be cut up and the truck torched, it was no problem.’ He shifted uneasily on the hardback chair, trying to find the words to deflect attention away from what was clearly being seen as a failure on his part.

‘Of course they were. Not the point, though, is it? It was meant to go on longer, wasn’t it? That was the plan.’ The man behind the desk played a slow drum tattoo on his thumbnail with a gold pen, the tap-tap loud and ominous in the quiet room. Heavily inscribed and crowned with a dark-red ruby, a nod of admiration to the man holding it, the pen was rumoured to have been a gift from an admirer named ‘Topper’ Harris. Harris, the wealthy owner of a string of betting shops across the South East, was now dead and buried after an ostentatious funeral cortège complete with carriage and black horses down the Mile End Road, East London.

It had been Gerald ‘Ruby’ Ketch who had arranged the hit, just as he’d subsequently arranged the flashy send-off funeral. But everyone knew that the orders had come from his employers, known only as the Twins. Ketch was a frontman, but wielded considerable power. His was the day-to-day running of the Firm, as the gang was known, but every move was monitored by his bosses, who reigned supreme in their manor but discreetly out of the picture.

Following several close calls with the police, and excessive interest from the Metropolitan Police Flying Squad, they had taken an apparent back seat, leaving Ketch to take over operations. It left him more exposed than them, but he was well paid for the risk and took his job seriously.

And he didn’t want to end up in the ground like some others in the past, enemies real or imagined.

The funeral had been no more than a cynical East End stunt, a warning to anyone else who fancied changing sides. Seen allegedly talking to the Richardson gang who operated in South London, the dead man had been scooped up and shot dead with little hesitation. Rivals in crime, the Richardsons operated slots, protection rackets and the large-scale handling of stolen goods. Even being seen on their manor was viewed as a betrayal with only one outcome.

Unfortunately late for the dead man, it had emerged that he was innocent, and had been set up by another gang member. He had died vainly protesting his innocence, closely followed by his accuser, who was now rumoured to be holding up part of a new council car park in Basildon.

‘You see, George, we came to an arrangement with certain parties across the water,’ Ketch continued. ‘That arrangement was for you and the boys to go through a—’ He snapped his fingers and looked past Tasker. ‘What was it called, Brayne?’

‘A scenario.’ The answer came from a man sitting near the door.

‘That’s it. A scenario.’ Ruby Ketch smiled, pleased with his choice of word, and ran a hand over his Brylcreemed hair. He had similar dark good looks to those of his bosses, slightly spoilt by a broken nose, the result of an opponent’s headbutt in the boxing ring. Tasker didn’t like to think about what had happened to the other fighter. ‘To go through a scenario. But you cut it short, didn’t you? You came out early. Now, how am I supposed to explain that to our associates over there, eh? It’s embarrassing, is what it is. And I don’t like being embarrassed.’

Tasker felt his blood running cold. Ketch wasn’t really bothered by what the French thought; he’d be more wary of the Twins and their reaction. They were closer, for one thing – and unpredictable.

‘Sorry, boss.’ Christ, was this it? He’d never imagined getting himself in this sort of crack. Cock-ups were inevitable every now and then, no matter what precautions you took; timings got screwed, plans went out the window, people didn’t do what they were supposed to, someone got lucky. F*cking Calloway. He wondered who the poncey driver had phoned from the French cop shop. He’d never thought to ask him, only relieved at the time that they’d got out before the Froggies got really pissed off and threw them all in the Bastille.

History wasn’t Tasker’s strong point.

As if reading his mind earlier, Ketch said, ‘How did Calloway perform? Do the business, did he?’

There was a discreet cough and Tasker glanced at the other man, whose name was Leslie Brayne. A bluff, well-fed individual in an expensive suit, he had sleek grey hair and a silk handkerchief tucked in his top pocket. Trying to look like the accountant he used to be, thought Tasker, who knew the man’s history. Now he just looked like the crooked numbers man he really was. He was nursing a glass of whisky, his favoured tipple and, as Ketch’s trusted advisor, was never far from his side.

Tasker considered dropping Calloway in it, then decided against it. ‘He did all right. Good enough wheel man … for a nancy boy.’

He realised his mistake the moment the words had left his mouth. Ketch went very still, his eyes hooded. Tasker felt sick. It was rumoured that one of the Twins, whom nobody saw much, had once taken against an associate who’d made a joke about homosexuals. The associate had disappeared shortly afterwards. ‘Sorry.’

‘What do you reckon, Brayne?’ Ketch started playing with his pen again. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

Brayne looked up at the ceiling, then at Tasker, before replying. ‘Well, no harm done, was there? They got a result, according to their man. No foul, no penalty.’

‘Their man?’ Tasker wondered what that meant.

Ketch didn’t answer. He dropped the pen onto the blotter and sat back, tugging at the sleeves of his pinstripe suit to reveal cufflinks glittering with stones. Nudged his large tie knot into place.

‘Yeah, I suppose.’ He leant forward and stared hard at Tasker, his eyes as cold as night. A thin bead of perspiration was showing on his brow. ‘Only thing is, I’m not sure what the result was. Are you, Brayne?’

‘A try-out, wasn’t that what they said? Testing the water.’

‘Yeah, but what for?’ Ketch was still looking at Tasker. ‘What do you reckon, George? What were they really looking for over there?’

‘No idea, boss. We did what you said, that’s all.’ He was puzzled. What the hell was Ketch talking about? How did he know what the point of it all had been? It was a job, that was all he knew. A bloody weird one, but just a job. Set it up, create the crash and away.

‘Yeah, so you did.’ He sat back. More tapping with the pen. ‘Okay. What about Fletcher?’

‘What about him?’

‘I hear he overdid things. Buggered the truck and bent the car. Could have been messy, getting stranded out there miles from home … especially if the cops had got involved. Not part of the plan, see, getting caught with the vehicles.’

‘That’s right.’ There was nothing more to say. Tasker was damned if he was going to defend the man. He was likely to end up going down with him if he did that, and he didn’t owe Fletcher a thing.

‘I reckon,’ Ketch murmured, ‘we might have to rethink Fletch’s terms of employment. Pity, though; he’s been with the Firm a long time. Knows a lot of stuff. And he’s got friends.’

Tasker waited, not sure if he was expected to make a contribution. If the ‘friends’ Ketch was referring to were the Twins, he was better off saying nothing. Let the man who was paid the money make the running with that one.

‘Yes, boss.’

‘You got lucky this time, George,’ Ketch murmured softly, and the temperature in the room suddenly seemed a few degrees colder. ‘Dead lucky. They had a watcher on you, see. Checking out how you and the boys did.’ He smiled without a trace of humour. ‘I bet you never saw him, did you?’

A watcher. Christ, where? Tasker had checked out the scenery before and after the crash. There had been nobody within miles, he was certain of it. Yet if Ketch said there was …

‘No, boss. Can’t say I did.’ He felt his ears redden at the admission.

‘Damn right, you can’t. Good job for you it went well, all I can say. They reckon it was just what they needed; they learnt a lot … whatever that was. Did you get rid of the wheels? Be a shame if they turned up and the cops got evidence. Did you know they still use the guillotine over there?’ His eyes were blank, and Tasker couldn’t make out whether he was out of the woods or not. This mad f*cker could change at the snap of a finger. ‘Chop-chop. No coming back from the big blade, is there? No appeal, no further statements possible.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Mind you, no more headaches, either.’ Ketch was rumoured to suffer from regular debilitating migraines.

‘Yeah. I heard.’ His voice was hoarse. Jesus, how long was this going to last?

Then Brayne pitched in with a question. He stood up and moved into Tasker’s line of sight and said, ‘I hear you had a spot of bother in Amiens nick.’

‘Nothing worth talking about.’ Tasker fought to keep his voice and temper level. This was taking the piss. What bloody right did this number-cruncher have to ask him questions? Then he realised Ketch was looking at him, waiting for an answer. ‘The cops got a bit heavy,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Pushed us around a bit. Nothing we couldn’t handle.’

Ketch looked at Brayne. ‘Is that what you heard?’

Brayne nodded, but with a tight smile on his heavy face. ‘That’s about the strength of it. They questioned Calloway and George, but left the others alone. Calloway made a call, our friend in Westminster did the business, then George handed over a wad of cash as compensation and they were out of there. No charges, no record.’ He looked at Tasker. ‘I think I got that straight?’

‘Yeah. That’s about it.’ Tasker barely bothered to hide a sneer, but he was worried. How the hell did he come to know so much? He really didn’t like Brayne; the man was a smooth talker and thought himself above everyone else in the organisation. Tasker knew he had a string of bankrupt businesses behind him and wasn’t as clever as he thought he was. But Ketch and the Twins had decided he was the dog’s bollocks and relied on him for financial advice. And that made him untouchable.

For now, anyway.

‘Okay, George.’ Ketch stood up and flicked his sleeves straight. He wasn’t as tall standing as he looked, and Tasker knew he wore lifts in his shoes to compensate. But he was no pushover and had done more than enough to gain a bad reputation. ‘Time we were going. You keep yourself handy, you hear? Might need you to go back over there for a repeat performance.’ He smiled and adjusted a handkerchief in his sleeve. ‘Actually, there’s no might about it. It’s a cert. You’d better start getting the team ready and practising your French.’

‘Sure, boss. When?’ Tasker felt his spirits slump. Out of the fire into … what?

‘Not sure, George. Waiting for the word … or le mot, as they say in French. Soon as I know, you’ll know. But soon.’ He flashed another smile, as false as the rest, and tapped Tasker’s chest with the back of his hand. ‘Chin up, my son; much more of this international travel and you might develop a taste for the old French cuisine, eh?’