Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter THIRTY-ONE



By noon the following day, Rocco was on the Dover train with a firm promise from David Nialls to keep him informed of the movements of Simon Calloway and George Tasker. He was studying the summary file on Calloway provided by Nialls’ colleagues. It didn’t tell him much of any great relevance: aged thirty-four, the son of a chemist, he was educated at a minor public school – which Rocco knew meant a private establishment – and had gone off the rails at an early age by ‘borrowing’ cars and running with a group of undesirables. Avoiding a prison sentence by the narrowest of margins and his father’s influence, he had found himself using his driving skills with an up-and-coming racing team based in Surrey, to the south of London. He had won a place as a standby driver, until a first-team driver had fallen ill a few days before an appearance at Le Mans. Calloway had stepped in and finished fifth – a more than respectable result for a newcomer, and one that had ensured him a regular place on the team. But whatever was bad in Calloway’s make-up had soon made its way to the fore, and after an ‘incident’ at 150 mph, which had resulted in another driver being seriously burnt, he had been dropped.

The rest of the file gave little information that was current, and Rocco felt a sense of disappointment. No mention of running with Tasker or Ketch, no involvement in politics or anti-Gaullist movements, no recorded views on social injustice abroad which might have been a clincher to this latest business. Then he sat up, his heart thudding. He was looking at a brief sentence describing Calloway’s current listed occupation: he worked as a film stunt driver and as a member of a travelling stunt display team.

He put the document away, trying not to jump too quickly to the logical conclusion. Better to let the idea ferment for a while in his mind. But once there, it wouldn’t go away. Who was better to use in a crash scene than a trained stunt driver? Even so, was that enough to assume that Calloway would be involved in a potential ‘hit’ on the president? And was there a connection between Calloway’s occupation and the presence in London of Patrice Delarue? He couldn’t see it, but neither could he ignore it.

He flicked at the lapel of his new coat. It was dark, as were the trousers, jacket and new brogues. He had taken the opportunity, reminded by Nialls’ mention of Savile Row, the location of West End Central Police Station and a number of upmarket tailors, to replenish the parts of his wardrobe that had been spoilt by his immersion in the canal. He’d always had a preference for English clothes, and this had been an opportunity to indulge himself.

It was late by the time he got back to Amiens, but lights were still burning in the upstairs offices used by Saint-Cloud and Massin. He decided to brief Massin first, and told him what he had found out about Calloway’s current occupation as a stunt driver.

Massin listened carefully, then said, ‘So you think this Calloway will drive the truck which will be used to force the president’s car off the road?’

‘Well, he’s certainly an expert at setting up these things. It would require timing and accuracy – something stuntmen live by.’

‘Have you informed Saint-Cloud?’

‘Not yet.’ He considered his words carefully. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure there’s much to tell that he would believe.’

‘You might be right. But you should brief him, anyway.’ Massin stood up and took a turn around the office. ‘The fact that you bumped into Broissard and Portier, though – that’s a puzzle, although it could be nothing. They both have broad duties to do with the security of the state, and that includes by its nature the president. They could have been in London for any number of reasons. But I’m glad you mentioned it. I’ll amend your “sick” note accordingly. In case anyone should ask questions.’

‘Thank you.’ Rocco was still puzzled by Massin’s change of attitude. Here he was being helpful on a grand scale, a total contrast to their early days. ‘What about Delarue’s presence in London?’

‘All I can do is alert the Ministry. We can only speculate about why he was there. I’m sure the criminal intelligence section will be interested to hear about it … unless they already know, of course.’



Rocco left Massin to it and walked along to the office Saint-Cloud was using. Unsurprisingly, the security chief was less welcoming, having already heard of Rocco’s ‘sick leave’ and his visit to London.

‘Was there really a need for such subterfuge, Inspector?’ he asked coolly. ‘We are, after all, working for the same side.’

‘I needed to check out a few facts first.’

‘I see. Did you discover anything?’ Saint-Cloud sat back and examined his fingernails in a manner that indicated he was about to hear nothing of great importance.

‘I’ve got a location,’ said Rocco, ‘as I told you already. Now I think I know who the driver will be.’

‘Really?’ Saint-Cloud looked unimpressed. ‘Who?’

Rocco told him and placed Calloway’s summary file on the desk, reminding him that the driver had previously been in the Amiens area in company with a gangster named Tasker, who worked for a well-known London gang boss named Gerald Ketch.

‘A stunt driver?’ Saint-Cloud exclaimed. ‘Why on earth would such a man risk his life for this kind of venture? It makes no sense. He’s not even French, for the love of God!’

‘Nor were some of the previous attackers,’ Rocco pointed out. ‘The men in the garage at Créteil, for example, were Spanish and Corsican.’ He knew he was on weak ground here. He still hadn’t figured out what would make Calloway do such a thing, unless the man loved the idea of extreme danger to such an extent that he actually harboured a death wish. But not acting on it carried too much risk. ‘I also saw Patrice Delarue in a London restaurant used by criminals. He was with two men who are very close to Ketch.’

‘Patrice who?’

Rocco reminded himself that Saint-Cloud was not necessarily familiar with the current big names of the Paris underworld. ‘He’s a gang boss based in Paris.’

‘Did you witness all these people together?’

‘No. But they are known by the Metropolitan Police to have close connections.’ He felt himself losing ground, and added, ‘There’s something else. I need more information about the attackers at Guignes.’

‘Why?’ Saint-Cloud’s voice was flat, unpromising. He pushed the summary file to one side with a flick of his hand. ‘How can that help now?’

‘Because there may be a link. We do the same with crimes bearing similar hallmarks; one bank robbery may have similarities with another because one man might be connected with both teams. Criminals share and trade information and expertise all the time. If one group can’t handle a job, they’ll trade it on to someone who can. The planning of a bank job or a jewel raid will carry certain recognisable facets – a signature. If the job is a success, sooner or later that signature will occur again.’

‘But we are not talking about a bank raid, are we?’

‘I know. This is far more serious. All I need is the file on the attack. If it proves unhelpful, well, we’ve lost nothing.’

‘What do you expect the file to tell you that I cannot here and now?’

‘The names of the men involved. Where they came from, who else they knew; connections, affiliations, everything about them.’

‘But we know of only one man who was killed. Another was thought to have been wounded, but he got away.’

Rocco took a deep breath. ‘What about the police escort?’

‘What about them? They did their duty, that is all you need to know.’

‘They might have seen something that could help; something they didn’t recall at the time.’

But Saint-Cloud was already shaking his head. ‘No, Inspector, this really will not help.’ He stood up and walked over to the door. ‘I think you have just wasted two days chasing shadows. Frankly, I had expected better of you.’

Rocco resisted the hand that was trying to propel him towards the door. He sensed that he now had nothing to lose. ‘Why were Jules Broissard and Henri Portier at New Scotland Yard? Were they investigating an English link, too?’

Saint-Cloud gave him an almost sympathetic look, shaking his head. ‘Inspector, that is an impertinence. What members of the security services do is no concern of yours.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘In fact, you may consider yourself no longer assigned to this project. I will bring in another officer capable of being more detached and less … shall we say, fanciful about what constitutes a real threat to the safety of the president. I will advise Commissaire Massin accordingly. Good day to you.’



By the time Rocco was back home in Poissons, he had climbed down off his furious high at Saint-Cloud’s decision, realising that there was little he could do about it. The man had the power to do whatever he pleased, and if that meant ignoring warnings about a threat to the president’s life, that was up to him. But he was determined not to let the matter rest. For now, though, he had other things to attend to.

He walked round to Mme Denis next door, to thank her for taking in his mail and bread.

‘My pleasure, Lucas,’ she murmured. ‘Would you care for some tea?’

He shook his head. ‘That’s very kind, but I need sleep more.’ He placed a paper bag on the table and explained about having had to go to London at a moment’s notice. ‘I tried to steal one from Buckingham Palace, but there were too many guards. I hope this is a good substitute.’

The old lady opened the bag with ill-concealed eagerness and took out a folded square of linen. Throwing Rocco a mock scowl, she opened the square with a small sigh of delight, shaking out the colours into the room like a magician performing a conjuring trick. It was a table square, an intricate design of yellows and golds and subtle blues, and she gazed at it with her mouth forming an oval.

‘Mon Dieu, que c’est beau,’ she whispered, and looked at him. ‘How did you know?’

‘I’m a cop,’ he said dryly. ‘It’s my job.’

She flapped a gently admonishing hand against his arm and turned, pulling the existing coated cotton tablecloth off the table and spreading the new one in its place with a practised flick of her hands. She smoothed it down, then stood back and admired it. ‘Now that,’ she said decisively, ‘merits a coffee morning tomorrow, let me tell you. Let the other old biddies try and top that!’ She shrugged and smiled. ‘I know – a touch of vanity. But every now and then, it’s good for the soul.’

But when she turned back, Rocco had already slipped out, pulling the door closed behind him.



‘Ah, the wanderer returns.’ Claude answered his door in an open shirt, with a smell of cooking wafting around him and a towel thrown across one shoulder. ‘I heard you’d gone sick, but I figured that was a ruse. Care to come in and share with your closest colleague or are you sworn to secrecy on pain of the big chop?’ He drew a hand across his throat and made a hissing sound.

Rocco handed Claude a duty-free bag. ‘Sworn to secrecy but a glass might loosen my tongue.’

‘Aiee, yi yi.’ Claude opened the bag and extracted a bottle of single malt whisky. He looked at Rocco with raised eyebrows. ‘You haven’t turned bank robber, have you? I mean, I don’t mind if you have, but just so I know.’ He called over his shoulder, ‘Alix – quick, three glasses before I wake up from this dream and this excellent whisky goes pouf and disappears!’

Rocco was surprised when Alix stepped into view, holding a serving spoon. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I didn’t know you had company. I won’t stop—’

‘Ah, non!’ Claude grabbed his arm. ‘You don’t come bearing gifts and depart like a thief into the night, my friend. You must stay for dinner, at least. We have enough, don’t we, Alix?’

‘Luckily, yes.’ Alix gave Rocco a wry smile. ‘How did you know I liked whisky?’

‘Umm … I didn’t.’ It was a moment before Rocco realised she was teasing. He allowed himself to be dragged inside, deciding that sleep would have to wait.

‘So,’ said Claude, pouring generous measures, his voice dropping conspiratorially as Alix moved away to the kitchen, ‘how is Madame Drolet?’ He grinned and raised his glass, winking meaningfully. ‘Santé, mon vieux.’

‘What do you mean?’ Rocco drank, pretending ignorance. No doubt the village rumour mill had been grinding away, making, as his mother used to say, a cake out of a brioche.

‘Well, word is she’s been circling you like an elegant black widow spider, waiting to strike.’ He fluttered his eyebrows. ‘Are you feeling frightened?’

‘She’s harmless.’

‘No, she’s not. Take my word, if you’re not careful, she’ll drag you behind the counter one dark evening, roll you up in her web and paff! – Mme Denis will be needing a new neighbour.’

‘Who needs a new neighbour?’ Alix came to join them and relieved her father of his glass and took a small sip. ‘Are you two ready to eat?’