Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN



‘I need to go to England. To Scotland Yard.’

Rocco was in early next morning, and went straight to Massin’s office. After another fitful night’s sleep listening to the fouines play, and going over and over in his mind the events at the scrapyard, he had decided on a course of action; but it needed Massin’s cooperation, something he couldn’t entirely guarantee.

Massin looked up from the papers he was studying, and sat back, eyeing Rocco with a dour expression. ‘Do you, indeed? Does it have anything to do with your current caseload?’

‘Actually, yes. Partly.’

There was a flicker of interest. ‘Go on.’

Rocco explained about the burnt-out truck with the body in the back, and the Citroën DS found in Bellin’s scrapyard, followed by Bellin’s execution. ‘I believe there may be a link between those vehicles and the Englishmen who wrecked the Canard Doré.’ He began to explain about the car and Bellin’s description of the driver, but Massin held up a hand to stop him. He picked up a sheet of paper from his in tray.

‘I have Dr Rizzotti’s report. It’s very detailed. A fake camera, an English cigarette under the mat. But why these men? You have no proof that they were involved in the fake ramming incident. And you still have no proof that it actually happened, beyond some farmer’s early morning ramblings.’

‘There’s the blood at the scene and we have a dead body. Two dead bodies,’ he amended, ‘if we count Bellin.’

‘The first burnt beyond recognition. I doubt even the miracles of modern science will prove who it was.’

‘Possibly not. But I think the dead man – a tramp named Pantoufle – happened to be at or near the scene. It was on his usual route and it never varied, winter, summer or spring. I don’t know if he died by accident or was killed deliberately. Either way, they burnt his body to conceal his death and prevent recognition.’

‘Buttons. Is that the sum total of your clues?’ Massin made it sound as if Rocco were grasping at straws.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not much, is it? And you still can’t tie the Englishmen to the truck or the DS. Not definitely.’

‘No. Not yet.’ Rocco fought to keep a hold on his impatience. He felt he was fighting a losing battle, but refused to give way to Massin’s open scepticism. He doubted the commissaire had ever followed a clue in his life; had never felt the thrill of a case building out of virtually nothing nor ever felt the clarion call of a chase. ‘They were in the Amiens area at the same time,’ he pointed out. ‘Five men with no valid explanation for being here. And I recognised the smell of Calloway’s aftershave from the damaged DS. It wasn’t easy to forget.’

‘You noticed a man’s cologne?’

‘In a place where the customary fragrance is sump oil and burnt metal, it stood out.’ He wasn’t prepared to let it go. ‘They set fire to a dead man’s body and tried to hide the evidence; normal people don’t do that.’

‘Is that your argument?’ Massin threw a hand in the air. ‘You think these men, who trashed a local bar, are some kind of criminal group who also killed a tramp while pretending to make a film? If it’s the same men – and I say that with great emphasis – they appear to have some influence in the British Parliament, for God’s sake. Enough to get them set free!’

‘Exactly my point.’ Rocco kept his face straight. ‘How many ordinary people have that privilege? I don’t. Do you? Calloway,’ he added quickly as Massin’s face clouded dangerously, ‘has a different background to the others. It was he who made the phone call that secured their release. But he was still part of the group. I’d like to speak to the British police to find out more about him. I believe they were here for a specific reason.’

‘What reason?’ Massin tapped the report from Rizzotti. ‘How does any of this give you such an impression? Give me even a hint of why I should listen further, Inspector, because right now you are not making much sense. A bunch of English drunks on the rampage, that is all you have.’

‘I think it might have something to do with the attack Saint-Cloud is investigating.’

It was out before he could stop it, but it was too late to backtrack.

‘Ah, yes. Colonel Saint-Cloud and his security review.’ The words came out tinged with resentment. It was clear that he did not like Rocco being assigned to the security chief, but was powerless to stop it. Rocco wondered how long he’d been sitting here grinding his teeth over it.

He considered for a moment what Saint-Cloud had said about keeping this assignment quiet. The man had great powers, and in effect, Rocco was now following orders approved by the Interior Ministry. Even so, there were some lines you didn’t cross. Being forced by another official to conceal details from his superior officer was one. And while he himself didn’t always tell Massin everything he was working on, this was very different.

He took a deep breath, choosing his words with care. ‘I believe these Englishmen and the reasons for the local security review are somehow connected.’

A brief silence. ‘How?’

‘The ramming, the use of a black, official-looking DS … and the real possibility of a visit to the area by the president.’ He mentioned his talk with Blake at the War Graves Commission office. ‘It all coincides. I think the ramming witnessed by the farmer, Simeon, may have been a practice run.’ He then told him about finding the Pont Noir on the map, and its uncanny similarity to the ramming site. He concluded with the visit with Saint-Cloud to the bridge and the security chief’s complete scepticism. ‘That aside, I think killing Bellin was closing a door. He knew too much, so he had to go. Someone higher up the chain decided he was a liability. We can’t get anything out of Bellin anymore, but we might be able to get something out of the man who delivered the car: Calloway.’

Massin said nothing, his face carefully blank. A car revved up outside, and a burst of laughter drifted up from the street. It highlighted to Rocco how everything had receded while he was in this room, as if the outside world had been shut out. Finally Massin sat forward. ‘You have to admit, Rocco, that this is all one hell of a leap of the imagination, even for you. You could be wrong.’

‘I hope I am,’ Rocco replied calmly, adding, ‘but dare we take that risk? The location is remote, it fits exactly with where the ramming took place, and if de Gaulle fulfils his expressed wish to make an unpublicised visit to this location, he’ll be out in the open with only his immediate guards to protect him.’

‘They’ve never failed him yet.’

‘There’s always a first time. And the last attempt resulted in one dead and one seriously wounded. In terms of an attack to kill the car’s occupants, that would be classified as a success.’

Massin took in a deep breath, his nose pinched. He lifted his chin to ease his collar, and said, ‘Have you told Colonel Saint-Cloud all of this?’

‘Not everything.’

‘Really? What a surprise. I suppose I should feel comforted that you keep him underinformed as well. What did you leave out?’

‘The English connection.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to be certain of my facts. If there’s a proven foreign element to this, it’s very different to anything else that’s gone before. Any hint of British involvement will not be kept quiet for long, and if it is a planned attack, the organisers will go underground. Next time we might not get to hear about it until it’s too late.’

‘But you could still be wrong. This could all be … circumstantial and coincidental.’

‘I agree. But I need a couple of days to check it out. Nobody need know that … apart from you.’

Massin looked sceptical. ‘Why am I not reassured by your consideration?’ He tapped his fingers on the desk, then said, ‘Leave it with me for a few minutes. You have presented me with an awkward situation, Rocco. I need to consider my decision carefully. Don’t leave the building.’

Rocco was surprised, then puzzled. At least Massin hadn’t thrown him out and put him on traffic duties. But why the delay? Then, as he turned to open the door, he saw Massin reaching for the telephone, and knew what was going to happen: he was going to phone the Interior Ministry. It was his way out of a tricky situation.



Fifteen minutes later, the desk sergeant put his head round the door of the main office and said, ‘Lucas? The chief wants to see you.’ He dropped his lower lip in sympathy and disappeared.

Rocco walked upstairs and into Massin’s office. He found the officer staring out of the window. A plain white envelope lay on the desk in front of him.

He wondered how this was going to play out. If ever he had given Massin a reason to get rid of him, short of claiming to see flying saucers over Amiens, an attack of paranoid insanity about foreign involvement in an attack on the president pretty much had the edge on anything else he could think of.

Finally Massin said gravely, ‘I’m not convinced by your arguments, Inspector Rocco.’

‘Why not?’

‘With immediate effect, I’m placing you on sick leave. I believe you are suffering from stress after your recent immersion in the canal, and you need some time off.’

Rocco was stunned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ The incident Massin was referring to had happened just a few weeks before. Rocco had been locked in a canal barge which had been sunk deliberately in the hopes that it would cover up the murder of an illegal immigrant and the illicit employment of others by a local factory with government contracts. It was as close as Rocco had ever come to a watery grave, and he still didn’t like to think about it.

Massin stood up and held up a hand to stop Rocco speaking. ‘In fact, I suggest you take yourself away for a couple of days to recuperate.’ He sniffed and gave a hint of a smile. ‘London might be a useful destination.’

Rocco almost didn’t hear that; he was about to tell Massin what he could do with his sick leave. But he stopped. ‘London?’

‘Yes. I hear the air there is quite bracing at this time of year. Especially along the Embankment.’ Massin picked up the envelope and held it out to Rocco. ‘Here is your letter of authority. It will permit you to talk with a man I met on a seminar in Paris last year. His name is Detective Chief Inspector David Nialls of their Flying Squad. He is expecting you at New Scotland Yard.’ His mouth gave a twitch, almost suggesting that he possessed a sense of humour. ‘Get well soon, Inspector. I hope when you return, you have a much clearer understanding of your duties. I suggest you leave immediately and without broadcasting your plans.’