Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter THIRTY-NINE



The Lilas Garage in St Gervais was a hive of activity when Caspar arrived and parked across the street. It was just after seven in the evening. Set amid a row of small houses down a cul-de-sac, the place had an air of neat respectability, with a freshly painted frontage and a large roller door keeping the noise in and, he suspected, unwanted visitors out.

He’d driven out from the city as soon as he’d got the call from Santer, keen to help in any way that he could with Rocco’s dilemma, the need to go trawling for OAS leads forgotten. If the DS wrecked near Amiens had come from this garage, and it was tied in with an assassination plot against the president, then he was ready to do whatever it took to prove the link. Not that he felt overly bothered by a threat to de Gaulle. But helping out Rocco, who had given him a chance when nobody else had, was very high on his list of priorities. If that also helped preserve Le Grand Charles for another day … well, you couldn’t have everything.

A tour of local bars, playing the part of a cautious motorist seeking a reputable garage to supply and service a decent car, had thrown up the names of one or two local businesses. Oddly, few had mentioned Ets. Lilas Moteurs, and those who had had been reluctant to give glowing endorsements, with one or two clamming up when he’d pressed them for details. Caspar’s nose for the faintly dubious, along with a friendly call to a one-time colleague in the area, had soon verified that the garage was not quite what it seemed. They did not encourage walk-in customers, and had no visible used-car lot. They appeared, however, to process a good number of vehicles, although few, if any, buyers were ever seen on the premises.

Caspar watched the place and waited. He’d picked up a hint from his one-time colleague that the owner was actually only a manager, but it was going to be difficult to prove who owned the place without going through a lengthy process of accessing business records with the local town hall. That was something Santer would be able to do legitimately. In the meantime, Caspar preferred to see if he could shake something up the old-fashioned way.

A heavyset man in blue overalls appeared from a Judas gate in the roller door, stepping to one side and lighting up a cigarette. Behind him as the door opened and closed came the bright flutter of a welding torch and the clatter of metal hitting a concrete floor.

Caspar climbed out of his car and wandered across the street, lighting up a cigarette and holding it with the glowing end cupped in his hand. He nodded at the mechanic, who grunted in return, but eyed Caspar warily.

‘A guy said this might be a good place to pick up a decent car,’ he said casually, and named one of the bars where the garage had been mentioned. ‘I think his name was Marco.’

‘Is that right?’ The man studied him carefully. ‘I don’t know any Marco.’

‘Well, maybe I got it wrong. But you do sell cars, right? For cash?’

‘Now and then.’ The man indicated with his chin Caspar’s car, a dark-blue Peugeot. ‘But it looks like you’ve already got one.’

‘It belongs to my brother. He lent it to me but he needs it back.’ He dropped the cigarette and stamped on it. ‘Still, if you’re not interested.’

‘Depends how much you want to spend,’ said the man. ‘We do good work – we’re not cheap. And it would have to be cash.’

‘Sure. Are you the owner? Only I like to deal with the boss.’

‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’ The man looked prickly, his eyes narrowing. His voice had dropped to a low growl.

‘I’m not suggesting that. I just like to know who I’m dealing with, that’s all – especially if I’m going to spend a decent amount of money.’

‘Then I’m the boss, yes. You dealing or not?’

The man was lying. Caspar didn’t know who he was, but he wasn’t the main man – he could feel it. ‘Okay. Have you got any models I can see?’

‘Not here.’ The mechanic flicked his cigarette away and turned to go inside. ‘Meet me in thirty minutes … I need to finish up here first.’

‘Sure. Where?’

‘Back to the main road, go right and take the third on the right. There’s a lock-up down there where we keep our cars. Bring cash. You do have cash, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’ Caspar held out his hand. ‘I’m Michel.’

The man ignored the hand. ‘Good for you. See you in thirty.’

Caspar drove out of the street and followed the directions to the lock-up. It was as the man had said. The building was fairly new, a brick-built, metal-clad unit of the type springing up everywhere, and big enough, he estimated, to house about a dozen vehicles. It was in darkness, with no cars outside and no signs of life. He parked along the road and walked back to the front door, and peered through the glass. All he could see was an office containing two desks and a scattering of paperwork. He checked he wasn’t being watched and walked around the back, where he found a large roller door opening out to a hardstanding. The area was unlit, sunk in heavy shadows. There were no cars here, either. He stepped up close to the roller shutter, where an oval window was set in one of the metal sections. He rubbed away a film of grime and put his face against the glass. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the poor light.

The lock-up was empty.

He stepped back from the roller door and kept moving, walking away from the building until he was standing in the shadow of some trees fifty metres away, off-site. His skin was prickling and he felt his pulse quickening. He’d been in this situation many times before, and had learnt to follow his instincts; and right now, his instincts were telling him to get out – fast.

But he waited.

Ten minutes later, a car appeared and turned in at the front of the building.

The man was early.

Then he saw movement inside the vehicle. At least three occupants, all big. He stood absolutely still. The glow of the headlights wasn’t strong enough to reach back here, but he didn’t want to take any chances. This was their turf, not his, and they’d soon pick up on anything unusual.

He heard the car doors opening and closing. A murmur of voices, then footsteps. One man appeared, walking away up the road, passing briefly beneath a street light. He was wearing a leather jacket and boots, broad-shouldered and with a shaved head. Checking out the parked cars, Caspar decided.

Then two more men came round the side of the building and checked the rear yard. They were dressed in work clothing and heavy boots, and moved in concert without talking, as if they had done this before.

Caspar heard an oath when they found the area empty, and watched as the men walked back to the front and stood chatting. The first man came back, and as he met his colleagues, he shook his arm and a length of metal pipe slid out of his sleeve.

The three men laughed and got back in the car and drove away.



Caspar found a bar and used the phone at the back. He called Santer at home. ‘It’s a chop shop,’ he reported, using an Americanism. ‘And they’re very jumpy. Word locally is, they don’t do any normal trade, just specialised stuff.’

‘Did you talk to anyone inside?’

‘Briefly. Their idea of customer relations is a bit unusual. I arranged a buying meet, and three of them came armed with iron bars.’

‘Ouch. You okay?’

‘Yes. I had a feeling about them and stayed out of the way. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t made – I just think they’re on high alert. I couldn’t even get a name. You’ll have to go through the paperwork.’

‘I can do that. Thanks, Marc. You’d better put your head down and stay out of trouble.’

‘I can follow up one of the OAS leads I’ve got.’

‘Okay. But watch your back.’