Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter THIRTY



‘Well, George, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a problem.’

‘Ruby’ Ketch was sitting behind the desk of the GoGo Club in Gerard Street, Soho. It was a strictly members-only strip joint, with a few gambling tables for those whose preferred excitement came from naked cards and dice rather than girls. Dressed in a new chalk-stripe suit and pink shirt, he almost glowed with the appearance of good humour and health. But his eyes betrayed his real mood.

George Tasker was on a visitor’s chair across from him, while Brayne, the business advisor, was lounging on a couch against one wall, beneath a lurid oil painting of a naked woman wearing a carnation in her hair and a hollow smile.

‘Nothing I can’t deal with, boss,’ Tasker grated. ‘Just give me the nod.’ He rubbed his knuckles reflectively and smiled. He’d phoned Ketch from the Allendale less than thirty minutes ago, and had been told to get round to the GoGo immediately. The club downstairs was busy, with the thump of music hitting you in the face the moment you walked through the front door. But up here, the atmosphere was dulled to a faint rumble by extensive soundproofing and heavy flock wallpaper. ‘He’s just a nosey cop, that’s all.’

Ketch stared across the desk at him. ‘I know. But he’s not just any old cop, is he? He’s foreign. And that puts a different light on it. We’ve got to be careful. We don’t want this coming back to bite us.’ He glanced at Brayne. ‘What d’you reckon?’

‘I agree.’ The advisor pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling. ‘The last thing we need is any kind of diplomatic incident. That would ruin everything we’ve built up.’ He dropped his gaze and looked at Ketch, adding, ‘Are still building up, in fact. We could, of course, pay him to go away, forget what he saw.’

Tasker snorted. ‘No chance.’ The words came out before he could stop them.

‘Say again?’ Ketch lifted his heavy eyebrows. ‘You know something about this Inspector Clouseau that we don’t?’

Tasker prevented a scowl just in time. It was rumoured that Ketch had somehow obtained a pre-release copy of a new film starring Peter Sellers, called The Pink Panther. It was about a French detective named Clouseau, and Ketch had invited a few select cronies to a private viewing, including the Twins. That it painted the French police in a bumbling light made no difference; any police pratfalls were good for a laugh among the criminal elite, no matter what their nationality.

‘No, boss. I just don’t think he’d be up for it, that’s all.’ He had no reason for thinking that, other than instinct born of experience. He’d been around policemen long enough and close enough to be able to judge whether they could be bought or not. Some could, some couldn’t. And something told him Rocco wasn’t for sale.

‘Everyone’s up for it,’ Brayne muttered sourly, jealous of having his ideas countered by a man like Tasker. ‘There’s not a cop going who doesn’t have a price. All we have to do is find the number that turns them on. And the French are no different. Anyway, we’ve got the budget, we might as well give it a try.’

‘Budget?’ Ketch echoed. ‘What’s that mean?’

Brayne leant forward at his most earnest, ignoring Tasker’s scowl of disapproval and dropping smoothly into business mode. ‘We’ve got a new bank account in Paris, to cater for any … contingencies such as this. I set it up a couple of months ago after you expressed an interest in operating on the Continent. It was just in case we needed access to French francs.’ He sat back. ‘It’s in the name of a shell company, so we could pay him off using cash from that account, no comeback guaranteed.’

Ketch looked impressed. ‘Bloody Nora, Brayne, you never cease to amaze me.’ His eyes switched to Tasker. ‘Hear that, George? Now that’s what I call initiative. A bank account in Paris. Not bad for a bunch of East End boys, eh?’ He smoothed his hair back and nodded slowly, almost purring. ‘I like it. We’ll pay this Rocco twerp in his own currency to go away. Think you can handle that?’

Tasker shifted uneasily. Paying ‘bungs’ to people to look the other way was part of the business, and he was often the bagman. They did it all the time, paying off local officials, businesses, individuals – even cops. Especially the cops they needed to ‘dissuade’ from taking too close an interest in Ketch’s business arrangements. But that was here in London. He knew the ground and the people, the dangers and the risks he could take. France was a whole different game of skittles.

‘There’s a quicker way, boss,’ he breathed, throwing a sly glance at the accountant. ‘Cheaper, too – and permanent.’

‘Really? What’s that, then?’ Ketch caught the look and smiled, as if he couldn’t guess what was on Tasker’s mind. He enjoyed a little conflict between his employees; it kept them all on their toes, stopped them becoming complacent.

‘A bullet.’ Tasker mimed a two-fingered gun and pointed it at his temple, making a soft poof sound with his lips. ‘Quick, neat and no need to mess with no Frog money.’

Ketch appeared to consider the idea, tilting his head from side to side with a touch of drama. Then he said, ‘No, I don’t think so. It has … what’s the word, Brayne?’

‘Merit,’ Brayne muttered, and somehow made the word sound banal.

‘Merit – that’s right. It has merit. But not this time. Not with him having seen our French guest chatting with Harding and Turkish John. There’d be too many repercussions if he suffered an accident right after coming to London, especially as Nialls was with him. I reckon there’s a certain … elegance in paying off this nosey French cop through one of their own banks.’ He smiled. ‘After all, it’s what the Common Market’s supposed to be all about, isn’t it, making trade easier?’

‘Even though we’re not in it,’ Brayne put in dryly.

‘As you say, Brayne, as you say; even though Charlie de Gaulle’s playing silly buggers and keeping us out. After all we’ve done for him, too. But let’s not be bitter. We’ll pay the man, this Rocco fella. Buy him off. Get yourself over there toot sweet, George. Brayne will arrange access to the readies as soon as you hit Amiens. Isn’t that right?’

The accountant nodded. ‘No problem.’

‘Good. We’ll call it Plan A. Oh, and I hope you like flying.’

‘Eh?’

Ketch grinned with a touch of malice. ‘Little treat for you, George. There’s a small airfield at Thurrock, and a pilot who owes the boys a few favours. He’ll drop you near Amiens and bring you back.’

‘Thurrock?’ The idea of flying had caught Tasker unprepared. As hard as he was, he preferred to keep his feet on the ground and wheels in contact with the earth. But trying to get out of it would make him appear weak.

‘That’s right. Head out towards Tilbury and turn right; you can’t miss it. You’ll be over and back before you know it.’

‘Do I have to?’ Tasker couldn’t believe he’d had the balls to say it. He recovered quickly and said, ‘I mean, he might not go for it.’ More than anything, the idea of trying to pay off a man like Rocco filled him with alarm. Paying off people he didn’t like or trust, knowing what their weak points were and how to exploit their greed, was part of the game. Most times he actually enjoyed seeing them squirm before they grabbed the bait like greedy carp. But this idea was a bad one. He could feel it in his gut.

Ketch looked at him in surprise and the office went quiet. Switching the pen in his hand, he held it like a gun and pointed the barrel at Tasker’s face.

‘Then, George, mon ami,’ he said softly, eyes glittering, ‘you switch to Plan B. You fly back over there and you shoot the interfering French copper dead!’