Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter TWENTY-NINE



Rocco wondered if he would get away with tossing this little Napoleon down the stairs. Broissard was strutting and ambitious, dismissive of anyone outside his own department, especially of policemen. Fond of hinting at friends with influence, in reality, his authority was limited.

‘I really can’t discuss that,’ he said, and introduced David Nialls. ‘What about you?’ he added, twisting the knife to show how much he cared for the man’s position.

Broissard almost shook with indignation. ‘We are here on matters of state security,’ he muttered. In other words, nothing to do with you. He belatedly remembered the man with him and introduced him with a casual flick of the hand. ‘Henri Portier, a colleague.’ Then he ducked away and moved on up the stairs before they could ask any further questions.

‘Not a friend, I take it?’ said Nialls with a grin.

‘No. Not a friend,’ said Rocco. He was trying to remember something, a fleeting image prodding at his memory. They were halfway along Whitehall before it finally came to him.

Henri Portier, Broissard’s silent colleague. He’d seen him before, too – and recently. He was one of the two suited visitors who had accompanied Colonel Saint-Cloud to the Amiens police station just a few days ago.



The Allendale Club in Mayfair was sleek, smart and busy, with a scattering of expensive suits and early-evening cocktail dresses among the clientele. David Nialls nodded at the doorman, a pug-faced man in a dinner jacket and bow tie, who stood aside to allow them in.

The interior was glossy and richly decorated, with a long curved bar at one side of the main room and tables set for dinner beyond a gold-coloured balustrade at the rear. A three-piece band was playing soft jazz in one corner. Opposite the bar was a row of small booths with bench seats for four and a small table.

Nialls bellied up to the bar and ordered two glasses of whisky, and they carried their drinks over to one of the booths and sat down. Nialls took off his coat and sipped his drink.

‘You might as well make yourself comfortable, Lucas,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a while before anyone interesting gets here. Until then we can watch how the other half plays. Are you hungry, by the way?’

It was a reminder to Rocco that he had not eaten since this morning. Nothing on the train or boat had been of interest, and he’d been too busy thinking of this meeting to bother.

‘Not yet. Are you recommending this place?’

Nialls grunted. ‘A bit rich for my wallet, I’m afraid. But I know a good place near Piccadilly where we can get a decent steak.’ He took another small sip. ‘We’ll wait to see if Ketch turns up and then go eat.’

It was soon very clear to Rocco that the main room, bar and restaurant were not the prime attractions to the Allendale Club, as pleasant as they no doubt were. A door at the rear, which Rocco had missed at first because it was covered by the same wallpaper as the walls on either side, opened discreetly every now and then, and clients would slip through accompanied by a member of the security staff. Most were men of apparent substance above the age of forty, he noted, although there were one or two female companions, notable for their youth, the willingness of their laughter and the casual displays of jewellery. Nialls did not seem particularly interested, but was watching the front entrance, taking occasional sips from his glass.

‘It is a casino?’ Rocco asked.

‘Of course.’ Nialls didn’t turn to reply. He was intent on watching a group of men who had just entered from the street and were handing over their coats to a young woman attendant.

It was a good place to clean money and make a nice profit in the process, Rocco figured. Mayfair was a wealthy area and the club well placed to draw in those with money to burn. And special clients were allowed access by appointment only, which no doubt gave a measure of their net worth. He’d seen it before in other cities.

He turned to follow Nialls’ line of sight. Two of the newcomers were in their fifties, dressed in smart suits and smoking fat cigars. They were accompanied by a slim man in an ordinary business suit and carrying a hat with a brim. He looked relaxed, and it was clear that he was the focus of attention of the two men, who were already hustling him to the bar and calling for drinks. The bartender responded with speed, nodding smartly as he took the order.

‘Is one of them Ketch?’ said Rocco. He could almost feel Nialls quivering with interest.

‘I’m afraid not.’ Nialls sat back in his seat and buried his nose in his glass as the three men walked by under the guidance of the maître d’, who was hustling ahead of them like a mother hen, clicking his fingers to gain the attention of a waiter. ‘The one on the right,’ he continued, ‘is Godfrey Harding. He runs a chain of betting shops. The one on the left is known as Turkish John. He has a number of massage parlours and so-called beauty salons across the South East, all centres for prostitution. Both men are about as trustworthy and honest as a two-pound note.’ He watched the three men with an air of disgust, adding sadly, ‘The man in the plain suit is a detective inspector based at West End Central Station in Savile Row.’

A table was ready and waiting, and a waiter in attendance to take their orders as the men sat down. It was clear that the police detective was being given special treatment.

‘Is that normal?’ Rocco wasn’t sure of the norm here, but in France, policemen and criminals mixed strictly at their own risk, and rarely for any good.

Nialls pulled a face. ‘Not normal, no. There’s a belief among some older coppers that mixing with the main players keeps them in line … allows us to gain intelligence on their activities.’

‘You don’t believe that.’

‘No, and I never did. The only guarantee is that we learn only what they want us to learn, and we end up looking bad in the eyes of the public when a case falls apart because of a conflict of interests. But some habits die hard.’

Rocco could only agree with him. Either the man was working, or he was here for some other reason. It seemed Nialls wasn’t sure which. ‘Are these two men friends of Ketch?’

Nialls nodded. ‘Friends, associates – as thick as thieves, to coin an appropriate phrase. Harding has friends in high places, including the Government and the City, and Turkish John has lots of cash money from his businesses. The two go hand in hand. Whatever they’re talking about, you can be sure that Ketch has a hand in there somewhere.’ He drained his glass and stood up. ‘But I don’t think we’ll see him here this evening; he’ll probably steer clear while those three are in. They like to give each other breathing room when they’re cooking up a new relationship.’ He picked up his coat. ‘No doubt the DI will call it working, but cosying up to men like that is never a good thing. Shall we eat?’

As they walked out, a burst of raucous laughter sounded from the restaurant, and Rocco turned to look. A fourth person had joined the three men at their table, and was shaking hands all round. It was clear they were all acquainted. As the waiter stepped away to give them room, the newcomer looked up, giving Rocco a clear view of his profile. He was tall, slim and tanned, with immaculate grey hair and wearing an expensive grey suit, every bit a successful corporate lawyer or businessman.

But Rocco knew better, and felt a cold stab of recognition. He had known the man for years; had even arrested him once in connection with a bank robbery near Clignancourt, in northern Paris, during which a cashier had died. That time he had walked free, thanks to a clever legal counsel.

His name was Patrice Delarue, and he was one of the French capital’s most dangerous criminals.



As they left the club, they passed a mirror set into the wall above the bar. It was a two-way observation point, where an eye could be kept open for important visitors so that they could be assigned a waiter or a girl, depending on their status, or potential troublemakers could be pinpointed and watched before any problems occurred. What neither of the men could see, behind the glass watching with disbelief as the tall Frenchman made his way through the crowd, was George Tasker.

Seconds later, he was reaching for the phone.