Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter THIRTY-FIVE



‘Inspector Rocco?’ Massin appeared in the door to the main office. Behind him was Commissaire Perronnet and further along the corridor, Colonel Saint-Cloud, watching closely. ‘My office, please.’

He turned and walked away, followed by the other two officers, leaving Rocco with a feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. The mood wasn’t helped by the knowledge that this little scene had been played out in front of several colleagues, including Alix and Desmoulins.

He walked up to Massin’s office and stepped inside. The three men were waiting for him. Massin pointed to a large brown envelope lying on the edge of his desk. It was addressed to Massin in large black letters, but with no stamps. Hand delivered.

He knew it wasn’t going to be good news, and he was right.

‘Perhaps, Inspector,’ Massin began coolly, ‘you would like to comment on the contents of this envelope? It was delivered less than thirty minutes ago.’ He remained standing and stared at Rocco with a fixed expression. Saint-Cloud and Perronnet said nothing, but their presence was ominous.

Rocco tipped up the envelope, and out slid a number of photographs, cascading across the polished surface of the desk. They were black and white, fairly grainy but large enough to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind what the subject matter was. They had been shot, he noted, at dusk, and in the glare of a car’s headlights.

They showed Rocco facing the hulking figure of George Tasker. In the background was Rocco’s Citroën Traction, the number plate clear to see. The shots were progressive, a series of images which were as condemning a display of wrongdoing as any Rocco had ever seen. The first showed Tasker taking a white envelope from his pocket; the second showed him holding it out to Rocco; the third showed Rocco holding it against his chest. To the uninitiated, he appeared to be putting it inside his coat.

There was no shot of Rocco throwing the envelope back at Tasker. Nor of the English gangster putting it back in his pocket.

‘It’s a set-up,’ said Rocco, the words sounding uncomfortably lame, even to him. How often had he heard those same words from others? But he knew what had happened. The man Bones had taken the shots from inside the car while Tasker had manoeuvred Rocco into position. With Rocco’s full attention on Tasker as the ‘handover’ was made, the engine noise had effectively drowned out any sound of a camera shutter operating.

Saint-Cloud made a noise and looked away in an open display of contempt. Perronnet looked embarrassed, staring down at his shoes. Only Massin showed no expression.

‘Who is the man?’

‘His name is George Tasker. He’s a criminal from London. He and a man he called Bones were waiting outside my house last night.’

‘Tasker?’ Perronnet looked up. ‘Wasn’t he one of the Englishmen who smashed up the Canard Doré?’

‘The same. He works for a London gang boss named Ketch.’

‘How do you know this?’ Saint-Cloud was enjoying this. Rocco could see it in his eyes and the set of his chin.

‘Because I’ve just been to London, as you know. The Metropolitan Police confirmed the connection between Tasker and Ketch. I also believe Ketch has close links with Patrice Delarue.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Saint-Cloud softly, cocking his head to one side, ‘you could explain who he is?’

‘I told you already: he’s a known bank robber and gang boss in Paris.’

The security chief looked blank. It was a convincing performance of someone being presented with information for the very first time. ‘Huh. Never mind … You have seen this Ketch and Delarue together? Was Tasker there, too?’

You know he wasn’t because I told you, you devious bastard, Rocco wanted to say. But he held it in. Losing his temper with a man like Saint-Cloud would get him nowhere. He felt suddenly powerless to stop this interview going downhill; whatever he said now was going to sound lame and unconvincing.

‘Do you still have the envelope?’ said Massin. His voice was bleak and he looked shaken, as if his feet had been kicked out from under him.

‘No. I threw it straight back.’

The silence from all three men was brutal. They didn’t believe him. He cursed under his breath; what a dumb move that had been. He should have kept it and handed it in immediately.

‘I gave it back because they were trying to bribe me,’ he insisted. ‘I should have seen it coming but I didn’t.’

‘Bribe you to do what?’ asked Perronnet.

‘To drop my investigation into the activities of George Tasker and his colleagues.’ He stared hard at Saint-Cloud. ‘I believe they are complicit in a potential assassination attempt on the president when he comes to the region to visit the burial site at a place called Pont Noir. I’ve already made my suspicions clear. I even showed Colonel Saint-Cloud the location.’

‘He showed me some godforsaken spot, that’s true,’ replied Saint-Cloud, biting off the words with contempt, ‘in the middle of nowhere. There is no planned visit there and Rocco has fabricated this entire “plan” out of nothing. I must confess I was partly convinced by the outside possibility at first because that is my job: investigating and nullifying any threat to the president. But the more Inspector Rocco talked, the less convinced I became. In the end, I was forced to end his assignment to the local security review.’

‘What?’ Massin looked surprised.

Saint-Cloud turned to him with an apologetic lift of his hands. ‘I’m sorry, François – truly I am. I was reluctant to tell you of this development, especially in view of your confidence in your man’s abilities. But having such wild speculation attached to the assignment was, frankly, damaging. And now,’ he added silkily, sliding in another thrust of the dagger, ‘there is this matter of corruption …’

‘There is no proof of that,’ said Massin sharply. But he didn’t sound convinced, and stared down at the photos with a sickened expression. He also could not have failed to pick up the deliberate hint of accusation in the words ‘your man’, uttered by Saint-Cloud – a damaging piece of word association that would no doubt be repeated higher up the chain of command, adding question marks against his own name.

‘If you say so.’ Saint-Cloud’s voice was silkily soft, insinuating. ‘Although one wonders whether there is, perhaps, a connection here.’

‘What do you mean?’ Even Perronnet, usually self-effacing, was startled enough to make a comment.

‘I mean, gentlemen, that experience shows that whenever there is an assassination attempt on a head of state, there is often a … distraction event not far away.’ He flapped a vague hand, the expert bestowing on lesser mortals the benefit of his knowledge. ‘It is nothing new, but highly effective.’

‘What kind of distraction?’ Massin looked puzzled.

Saint-Cloud shrugged expansively. ‘Anything. Roadworks causing chaos, a fire, a crash of some kind … anything to tie up the emergency services and divert the attention of the security cordon. Even,’ he stared pointedly at Rocco, ‘a fabricated possibility of a threat from alleged outsiders conceived to absorb a great deal of our time and resources. Is that not the possibility you discussed with Chief Inspector Nialls in London? Trying to implicate a harmless gang of drunks in some kind of malevolent plot?’

Rocco felt a chill slide across his back. Broissard. Or Portier. It had to be. There would have been no reason for Nialls to conceal the subject of his meeting with Rocco from senior men like them.

‘Well?’

‘We talked about the possibility, yes. And these men are far from harmless—’

‘See?’ Saint-Cloud made a guttural noise of disbelief. ‘He admits it.’ He shook his head. ‘It is fanciful rubbish and I have heard enough. I will be bringing in another man to help me instead. Someone we can all trust to focus on getting to these criminals before they can act. And I do not mean chasing bar-room brawlers from London.’

‘Bring in somebody who believes your version of horseshit, you mean?’ Rocco said softly. ‘I wish them well; they’ll need it.’

‘That’s enough!’ Massin stepped forward and held out his hand. This time there was none of the play-acting used when he had placed Rocco on ‘sick leave’. ‘I need your weapon and your card, Inspector. You are suspended pending further investigations of this matter. You will remain at home until needed.’ His eyes flickered momentarily past Rocco’s shoulder and Rocco turned his head at the sound of movement.

Sous-Brigadier Godard and two of his men were standing outside the open door. Godard looked deeply uncomfortable.

‘What the hell are they here for?’ Rocco demanded, and looked at Massin for support.

But the senior officer could not meet his eye. ‘Your weapon and card, please, Inspector,’ he said.

Rocco took out his gun. But instead of handing it to Massin, he ejected the magazine and placed it and the weapon side by side on the desk. Then he dropped his police card alongside them and walked out of the office.



The walk down the stairs and through the main office accompanied by Godard and his men was probably the most humiliating of Rocco’s life. All talk subsided from a feverish high, no doubt speculating on what was going on upstairs, and dwindled to nothing as he walked by. Telephones went unanswered and all movement ceased, save for faces turning towards him and following his progress.

The news had already spread, disseminated by that peculiar method experienced only in close office environments. Rocco wondered whether a sly whisper here and there from Saint-Cloud had helped it along the way.

Then Detective René Desmoulins stood up and stepped in front of him, his weightlifter’s bulk blocking the way. One of Godard’s men put out a hand to warn him off, but Desmoulins sneered at him and the man backed off. Alix hovered in the background, her face pale.

‘This is shit, Lucas,’ Desmoulins said quietly. ‘Tell them.’

‘I tried,’ said Rocco. ‘They prefer to believe photos.’ He patted Desmoulins on the arm and shook his outstretched hand. ‘This isn’t over, don’t worry.’

As he walked out to his car, he was holding a folded slip of paper Desmoulins had pressed unseen into his palm.