Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter NINETEEN



Back downstairs, Rocco rang Michel Santer, his former boss in Clichy. Although a long way from where the attack on the official car had taken place, he was aware of how tight the police community was. Details of the incident would have spread very quickly throughout the force, gathering speed because of the unusual nature of the offence. Among all gossips, cops were high on the list of overachievers, and Santer, like many long-time cops, seemed to act as a filter for much of it.

‘Who?’ Santer’s voice echoed down the line as Rocco’s call was transferred. ‘Did you say Rocco? Never heard of him. Is he the new community dog catcher?’

‘Very droll,’ said Rocco. ‘You were a sad loss to the music hall.’

‘Oh, that Rocco! The one who only ever calls me when he’s in trouble and owes me at least several long lunches.’ A dry chuckle followed. ‘How are you, you bloody paysan?’

Rocco ignored the friendly insult. ‘Not in any trouble. At least, I don’t think so.’

‘Really? That doesn’t sound right. What’s up?’

‘The attack on the N19 a few days ago.’

‘What about it?’ Santer sounded immediately cautious, and Rocco heard a grunt as the captain stood up and closed his office door with a bang. The signal would be clear to everyone outside: don’t disturb.

‘That’s what I’d like to know. I’ve had the official line but that’s all. Anything you can tell me?’

‘Like what? You think I have the security departments in my back pocket? They don’t tell us anything, you know that. Anyone would think we were the enemy, the way they behave.’

‘But you hear stuff.’ The attack had taken place on the opposite side of the city, well beyond the Clichy boundaries. Due to the target, it would have received an immediate security clampdown to avoid any details getting out other than those officially sanctioned for broadcast via news channels. But for the police fraternity, Paris was a small world and Rocco knew how bad news travelled faster than good. It was the unofficial grapevine of which even official orders couldn’t dam the flow completely.

‘You haven’t got one of those recorder things going, have you?’

‘Spare me. What do you know?’

‘A little. We had a security guy through here a few days ago, dropping the odd bit of news. His cousin works here in the back office, so he was strutting his stuff and trying to impress the new kids. I was surprised he didn’t insist on taking out his gun and letting off a few rounds. Anyway, beyond juicing it up slightly, he pretty much stuck to the official bulletin.’

‘That’s it?’ Rocco felt a sense of disappointment. He had hoped for something more, although he wasn’t sure what.

‘That’s it.’ Santer’s voice dropped suddenly. ‘Unless you count a second gunman being spirited away.’

‘Say again?’ The report had mentioned one body, a former NCO who must have joined the OAS for reasons best known to himself, no doubt hatred of de Gaulle being one of them.

‘There were two left behind, not one. The security guy reckons the other was taken away on orders from on high before the press got to him.’

Something Saint-Cloud hadn’t known or had kept to himself? ‘Did he say why?’

‘No. Possibly because the second man had a face they didn’t want identified.’

He was probably right, Rocco thought. After the Bastien-Thiry incident, there was a genuine fear among the authorities of another highly placed or high-born individual being revealed to be a member of a terrorist organisation. Too many examples like that and people might begin to wonder about their own stance. Even in a republic, where the old ways of deference were supposed to be long gone, it was a subtle method of influencing popular thought in favour of the Government line.

‘Any idea what happened to him?’

‘None. A quiet family funeral in the country, I imagine. Why?’

‘No reason. Just curious.’

‘Yeah, right. Now that makes me curious, too. What’s going on, Lucas? You got your nose into something you shouldn’t?’

Rocco debated how far to go with Santer. They were friends and former colleagues, and for that reason he didn’t want to involve him in any way that would compromise him. But neither did he want to insult Santer by being coy. And he trusted the captain more than anyone he could think of, with the exception, perhaps, of Claude Lamotte.

‘Saint-Cloud. You know him?’

‘Saint-Cloud?’ Santer’s voice went even lower. ‘Would that be the Colonel Saint-Cloud who runs the—’

‘That’s him.’

‘Christ. Of course, I know of him. How the hell do you?’

Rocco explained in brief what Saint-Cloud had asked him to do. ‘He has others doing the same thing – a sort of territorial eyes and ears on the lookout for groups likely to consider an attack.’

‘You mean other investigators?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Pfff.’ A noise indicating disbelief came down the line. ‘Why would he need to do that? They’ve got the entire security directorate to do that stuff – why get ordinary cops involved? No offence, mind.’

Santer had a point, but it wouldn’t be the first time a security agency had stepped outside its normal parameters of operation to get what it wanted. In any case, the Directorate of Territorial Surveillance (DST) was part of the National Police, and responsible for domestic intelligence. As such, it could demand whatever assistance it liked. Quite where Saint-Cloud came in the scheme of things Rocco wasn’t sure, but as he had demonstrated in Amiens, he clearly had the power to walk in anywhere he pleased.

‘Oh – hang on.’ Santer wasn’t finished. ‘There was something else. I made a note. Yes, they found the car, as the briefing said.’

‘A Simca Ariane. I know.’

‘What they didn’t say was that it wasn’t as clean as the bad guys thought it was. They found a packet of cigarettes beneath one of the seats. An English make, with filters. Could be nothing, of course, but pretty unusual all the same.’

Rocco knew what he was getting at. People were moving around much more than they ever did, in the search for jobs, a better life, more opportunity. And criminals were no different. The world was smaller than it used to be, and those with money had access to things such as cigarettes that wouldn’t have been quite so easy just a few years ago. But still. English cigarettes in a car used for an attack on the Establishment? It was a little odd. French criminals, if anything, were inclined towards the more popular American brands, especially those seen in the latest Hollywood films. It carried a special cachet, being seen to smoke an imported brand; made the user somehow more appealing, even if only in his own imagination.

‘Do they know who might have been using them?’ Find the smoker and check his movements; it was the logical step towards tracing the person’s history and contacts.

‘He didn’t say. If they know, they’re not including us in the briefing notes. Maybe one of them had been hiding out in England. It happens.’ He hesitated, then added carefully, ‘You know you should watch your back, Lucas. These people … they’re not to be trusted, you know what I’m saying?’

‘I know.’ Santer was warning him about Saint-Cloud. The security establishment as a group had their own agendas, and Saint-Cloud was no different. He had enormous responsibilities for the French head of state’s safety, and that meant that he would use any means he could to do his job. And if that included using a cop like Rocco in the line of duty, and not looking back if things went sour, he wouldn’t hesitate. ‘Did you hear anything over the wires from last night, about the South East?’ It might be too early for word of the police raid on the garage to have reached Santer’s ears, but it was worth a try.

‘Like what? This is a big city, you know, with lights and the Métro and everything.’ His voice was a sarcastic drawl. ‘We even have cars and trucks and trains and buildings which almost reach the sky.’

‘Créteil, you cretin. A raid on a garage. Three men taken in.’

‘No. I haven’t heard that. But I’ll ask around.’

‘Thanks. There’s one more thing. Is Caspar still around?’

A heavy silence. For a brief moment Rocco thought Santer had gone. Then the captain said, ‘He’s around. Why?’ He sounded cagey, and Rocco knew why.

‘I might have some light work for him, if he’s up to it.’ Marc Casparon, better known as Caspar, was a burnt-out cop who’d worked too long undercover and had had to be quietly retired. Rocco had recently used him to penetrate an Algerian gang, and it had nearly got him killed. But he knew Caspar was desperate to get back into the job; it was all he knew how to do. Rocco’s problem might be getting past Santer, who was fiercely protective of the man.

‘What sort of work?’

‘Some legwork among the OAS groups and their affiliates. Who their contacts might be out this way. Is he well?’

‘Actually, he’s fine.’ Santer surprised him. ‘He’s been doing jobs for a security company in St Denis. It seems to be working for him. You know he has limits, though, right? He pushes himself too far.’

In other words, don’t put Caspar in direct danger.

‘I understand.’

‘Fine. You got his number?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right.’ An urgent voice sounded in the background and Santer said, ‘Listen I’ve got to go. I’ll call if I hear anything else about … you know. Remember what I said, Lucas: watch yourself. And start saving for that big lunch you owe me.’

The phone went dead.



Rocco dialled Caspar’s number. It rang six times before the familiar voice answered. Caspar sounded alert, much more so than when Rocco had last seen him a few weeks ago. Then, he had been through a grinder and very nearly lost his life. Fortunately, he was made of tough stuff and had escaped with a slight flesh wound and a beating from a group of Algerian gangsters.

‘It’s Rocco,’ he said. ‘I need some help. It’s police work but private billing. Are you available?’

He could almost hear the smile as Caspar’s voice came down the line. ‘You bet. Where and when?’