Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN



Tasker was back at the Old Bourbon, in Stepney. Ketch was behind the desk as usual, with Brayne sitting in like a watchful Buddha, saying little but absorbing every word.

‘We’ve had word from our friends across the Channel,’ Ketch announced grandly, studying the end of a fat cigar and blowing gently on the burning tip. ‘Your pal Inspector Rocco has been suspended pending investigation for corruption. How about that? They don’t hang about, do they? One whiff and those Frenchies bring down the chopper.’

Tasker smiled. It was the best bit of news he’d heard all day. ‘Pity it doesn’t work that quick with our own lot,’ he muttered. He was surprised by the speed of events; he’d expected a couple of days at least before anything happened.

‘If only. It seems someone dropped off some very tasty pictures showing him accepting a packet of readies. Good work, George. You done well. There’ll be a pressie for Bones, too. Nice snaps, they were. Classy.’

Tasker glowed. It was nice earning some praise after the last lash-up. It also made up for the nightmare of a flight that Ketch had put him through. The tiny plane had creaked and rattled all the way over and back, with the pilot acting like a Battle of Britain ace until Tasker had threatened to break a few of his fingers. ‘Yeah, well … he walked right into it, the mug.’

‘Thing is, will it stick? They’re not stupid; they’ll know it’s a bit iffy, done out in the open like that. Still, short notice, it was the best we could do.’

‘It might slow Rocco down and put a dent in his career prospects,’ Brayne ventured. ‘The smell lingers. Trust is very difficult to keep under those circumstances.’

Ketch nodded and settled back in his chair. ‘You’re right there, Brayne. Still, that’s done and dusted. On to other things, eh?’ He looked at Tasker. ‘Our French friends want us to run another “scenario” like the last one. Different place this time, but similar tactics.’

‘Again?’ Tasker couldn’t help it; he needed another trip to France like a dose of the clap. And what were the French playing at?

‘Yes. Again. And why?’ Ketch lifted his eyebrows, daring Tasker to argue. ‘Because we’re being paid to do it, that’s why. It’s a business contract, pure and simple. The only difference is, as well as this scenario,’ he lifted his hands and mimed speech marks, ‘you’ll be doubling up.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘We’ve been doing a bit of research on the side, George.’ He glanced at Brayne. ‘What was the term you used, Brayne?’

‘Expanding our area of operations,’ the accountant said softly.

‘That’s it. Expanding our area of operations. And one way of doing that is to look further afield, to somewhere where the bleedin’ Sweeney don’t have any influence.’ He checked the end of his cigar and explained, ‘There’s a little bank in a small town called Béthune, just across the water, about an hour from Calais. As close as that, it hardly counts as in France, does it? Anyway, word is, this bank is just waiting to be knocked over, and sits on the outskirts of the town. No traffic snarl-ups, good getaway routes to the Channel … and who’d ever think of a bunch of London boys knocking over a bank over there, eh?’

‘What’s the risk?’ said Tasker. It was something he was allowed to say. Risk was something they all shared. For risk, read cops.

‘Now that’s the beauty of it, see. The cops’ll all be looking the other way. Guaranteed.’ He grinned knowingly. ‘We’ll get a friendly local to drop a couple of rumours about jobs planned elsewhere.’ He threw his arms out. ‘The elegance of this job is bleedin’ amazing.’

‘What’s so special about this place?’ Tasker didn’t get it. A bank was a bank. Some offered more promise than others, some more risk. Elegance didn’t come into it. ‘And why now?’

‘I’m glad you asked, George. This particular branch is right next to a new industrial zone. They get regular drops of cash for the local factory workers, nicely packed in metal cases … and it’s ours for the taking. In, out and away, neat as ninepence. You won’t even need any gear. Just good timing, a show of strength and a fast car. A real old-style blagging. What d’you reckon?’

Tasker thought it sounded too good to be true. No bank in the world just sat there waiting to be knocked over. ‘Won’t the Frenchies object, us moving in on their turf?’

‘The Frenchies, as you insist on calling them, George, are helping us do it. They’ve scouted it out, they’re supplying plans of the inside – everything we need bar them doing it for us.’

‘Why don’t they do it themselves?’

‘Search me. Personally, I think it’s a thank you for our help with these scenarios. Never look a gift horse, George, that’s what me old mum used to say.’ He tapped ash off his cigar. ‘Now, are you up for it or not?’

‘Two jobs on the same day.’ Tasker thought about the men available, men he could trust. ‘That’s pushing it.’

Ketch showed his teeth. ‘Not only on the same day, George. Simultaneously.’

‘Eh? How?’

‘Division of labour, that’s how.’ He waved a hand, clearly enjoying the situation. ‘It doesn’t need more than Fletcher to drive the truck. He’s more than capable of buggering up a car with a truck all by himself, as we know.’ He gave a malevolent smile. ‘And this time, it’s for real, not play-acting.’

Tasker suddenly saw where this was going. He felt a shiver of excitement. Christ, this wasn’t just messing about; it had all been for a reason. He felt annoyed that he hadn’t been told before, but said nothing. ‘Who’s the target – anyone I know?’

It was a question too far; he saw that instantly. Ketch’s face shut down like a fridge door slamming. ‘Not your worry, George. While Fletch’s doing his bit, you and the boys, with Calloway as wheelman doing what he does best, will be relieving the Crédit Agricole – that’s the name of this bank – of a nice amount of folding francs.’ He pulled on his cigar, watching the grey smoke curling into the air. ‘Think you can do that?’

Tasker looked offended. He’d earned his stripes doing bank jobs. His first was aged twenty, with a team in Chelmsford, using a sawn-off and lots of attitude to hide his gut-churning fear from the more experienced men with him. Since then, there had been plenty more, often with him holding the reins. In fact, he prided himself on having become something of an expert over the years, even though he’d copped a couple of prison terms here and there, although never for anything serious like carrying firearms. As soon as he’d been able to, he’d left that to others.

He’d never robbed a French bank before. How hard could it be?

He said, ‘No problem, boss. Be nice to get back to the old game.’ He hadn’t done one for at least a year. He wouldn’t want to get out of practice.

‘That’s the spirit, George. Good man.’ Ketch smiled and blew out a perfect smoke ring. ‘And you don’t even have to worry about sourcing replacement vehicles. It’s all being laid on by our friends over there. Any questions?’

Tasker thought about how the last job had gone down. ‘Only about the truck. If this is for real, wouldn’t it be better to use a bigger model? More punch that way.’ And Fletcher, the mad f*cker, would love it, he thought nastily. Like a giant kid in a toyshop, looking for something to break.

Ketch shook his head. ‘No. It has to be the same model as last time. Personally, I agree with you, bigger would be better. But it’s their money, so their call. They said the driver would see why when he gets there. The Renault was reliable enough, wasn’t it? Tough little motor, as I hear it.’

‘I suppose.’ Tasker thought about how hard the small truck had hit them. Anything bigger would have run right over the top.

Ketch’s eyes glittered. ‘That’s that, then. You’d better get going. By train and boat this time, I’m afraid. We need to keep the flights for special occasions.’

Tasker stood up, an electric feeling building in his veins. It was always like this before a job. Now he knew what it was, and what was required, he was itching to go. And by train and boat suited him fine.

‘Before you do …’ Ketch stood up and came round his desk. ‘You asked why now. Our French pals tell me the weather’s closing in and there could be a lot of snow on the way. It’s changed the agenda over there, that’s all. Still, no worries, eh? A job’s a job. Tell Fletcher all he needs to do is what he did last time: wind up the spring, wait for the target and hit it square on. As for you, you do your bit and don’t you worry about him. He’ll be busy.’

Tasker felt uneasy. No matter what Ketch was saying, this was nothing like last time. Last time hadn’t been for real.

‘He’ll be on his own, then.’ Jesus, that was cold. Fletcher out in the middle of nowhere … he’d never make it back. Other than his usual delivery routes, the big idiot barely knew his way around the south-east of England, let alone some foreign patch of mud.

Ketch’s next words put a cap on the subject with chilling finality.

‘Casualties of war, George. Casualties of war.’