Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter FORTY-TWO



DCI David Nialls sat deep in thought for some time after putting the phone down. The conversation with Rocco had been a disturbing one with some personal echoes; he himself had been accused of taking bribes once, a long time ago. As a young detective trying to make his way up the career ladder, he had run foul of a bookie he’d hauled in for demanding money with menaces. The man had retaliated by claiming Nialls had only arrested him because the cash offer he’d made hadn’t been big enough. The accusation had been flawed, and Nialls had assumed that nobody had taken it seriously. But he’d soon discovered that even a light brush with mud has a habit of sticking. It had taken him a couple of years to shake off the allegations completely.

Now Rocco would be going through the same thing and he knew what that felt like. He checked his watch and picked up the phone. There was only one thing for it.

Direct action.

He made a call to an acquaintance in the French embassy, followed by an internal call. Then he walked north to Dean Street, in Soho. He stopped outside a plain wooden door sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and a strip club. A speaker pad with three buttons was fixed to the side. In the background was the usual volley of touts tasked to entice punters into the various establishments in the area, overlaid by arguments and bursts of laughter from passers-by and residents.

A squat man with the shoulders of a wrestler was standing outside the plain door. He nodded as Nialls approached.

‘Hello, Mr Nialls. He’s upstairs.’

Nialls smiled. ‘You can drop the title, Tom,’ he said. ‘I’m almost a civilian now. And this job is off the books.’

‘Suits me, boss. Just point the way.’

Sergeant Tom McLean had worked the Soho area for many years, and knew his way around its streets, clubs and watering holes like few others. He had an instinct for trouble and had worked with Nialls several times before. The two held each other in mutual respect. Nialls had caught him just as he was on his way home, and had asked for a small favour. The sergeant had agreed without question.

‘Skelton has helped drop a friend of mine in hot water with some sneaky photos – a false bribery allegation. I’d like to lean on him and make him squeak. There might be some opposition.’

‘Sounds like his usual style. He doesn’t normally have any minders, but it depends who he’s working for. We going straight in?’

‘I think so. Hard and fast and don’t give him time to think.’

The sergeant stepped up to the door and put the flat of his hand against all three speaker buttons. ‘Stay behind me until we get in.’ He leant on the buttons until the door clicked, then pushed it back and ran lightly up a flight of grubby stairs littered with cardboard boxes. Nialls was right behind him. They came to a landing with two doors. A Chinese woman in a patterned overall and slippers stood outside one door, scowling at the two men. The other door was open, the flat inside empty. McLean continued on past and up another flight of stairs to a smaller landing with a single door. He waited for Nialls to reach the top step and catch his breath.

Nialls leant against the wall and signalled for McLean to continue. He would have liked to kick it in himself, but it would be a waste of talent.

‘Go ahead,’ he told him.

The door was flimsy and gave in without a struggle, crashing back against the inside wall and showering the floor with flakes of paint. Both men stepped inside and found themselves in a single room furnished with a couch, a small desk overflowing with camera equipment and spools of film, a wardrobe, a plain screen and an enormous bowl of flowers. Behind the flowers was a buxom, naked woman in her forties, scrambling to hide herself. Sets of angled lights with coloured lenses gave her body a curiously marbled effect.

There was no sign of ‘Bones’ Skelton, but he was clearly not far away.

‘Where is he?’ breathed Nialls.

The woman pointed at the backdrop screen. Behind it was a door with a red light overhead. ‘It’s a developing room.’ She remembered that her hand was supposed to be covering her modesty and snatched it back, blushing crimson.

‘Get him out, Tom,’ Nialls told McLean, and waited while the sergeant stepped behind the screen and opened the door. There was a strangled shout, then he dragged out the skinny frame of Patrick Daniel Skelton. He was dressed in a shirt and trousers, and his feet were bare.

‘Sorry, Bones,’ Nialls greeted him blandly. He sniffed at the sudden smell of chemicals in the air and studied the photographer’s feet. ‘Did we interrupt something seedy?’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ Skelton protested. ‘I always work barefoot. It helps my artistic creativeness.’

‘God help us: a porno snapper with pretensions. And the lady – she’s your muse, I suppose.’

‘You what?’

‘You heard.’

‘She’s a client. Straight up. She wants some photos for her husband.’ He stared imploringly at the woman who was struggling to conceal her ampleness inside a silk robe. ‘Go on, tell him.’

The woman nodded. ‘That’s right. It’s our wedding anniversary and I wanted to surprise him with some nice … photos.’

You’ll certainly do that, thought Nialls. But who was he to criticise?

‘No law against it, is there?’ the woman muttered.

Nialls relaxed. He wasn’t interested in her. Skelton was enough to be going on with. ‘No, madam, there isn’t.’ His face softened. ‘And your husband is a lucky man. But I’m afraid you’ll have to reschedule. I need to borrow Mr Skelton and it might take some time.’

They waited while the woman hustled behind the screen and got dressed. As soon as she had gone, Nialls turned on the photographer. ‘Get your socks on – we’re going out.’

‘Why? I haven’t done anything!’

‘You’ve done plenty, you unpleasant little oik. We’re going to the French embassy.’

Skelton looked alarmed. ‘Why would I want to go there?’

‘Because you’re going to make a verbal and written statement about your recent trip across the Channel.’ He held up a hand to silence the inevitable protest. ‘And don’t bother denying it – we’ve got witnesses who saw you take off from Thurrock airfield in Essex. The pilot’s already made a full statement.’ Neither detail was true, but Nialls said it with absolute conviction and a steady, cold gaze. He turned to the desk and extracted a British passport from beneath the edge of a pile of papers. ‘And look what I’ve found.’

Skelton swallowed. ‘What if I don’t want to go?’

‘Then I’ll have Sergeant McLean here tuck your rancid body under his arm and carry you. I’ll also arrange for a quiet word to be dropped in certain clubs around here that you’ve been most helpful with our investigations with names, dates and times. What’s it to be?’

‘You can’t do that!’ Skelton yelped. ‘Jesus – they’ll kill me!’

‘You don’t deny it, then?’

Skelton said nothing, but looked as if he were about to bolt for the door.

Nialls nodded at McLean. ‘Pick him up, Sergeant.’

‘Wait! No need for that … I’m coming.’ Skelton bent and picked up a pair of socks and began to struggle into them. ‘What have I got to do to get you lot off my back?’

Nialls felt a rush of relief. None of this was legal or proper, and if it ever got out, he’d find himself having to answer some awkward questions from his superiors. But right now he didn’t care. He’d had enough of stepping around people like Skelton all his working life just because they could rustle up a clever lawyer when it suited them. He was helping a fellow police officer in trouble, and the simple fact was, he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years.

‘Just tell the truth, Bones, for once in your scummy existence. I know that’s a difficult concept for you, but believe me, the alternative is not one you want to contemplate.’

‘Alternative?’ Skelton paused in tying his shoes’ laces.

‘Tasker and his bosses hearing on the grapevine that you’ve been helping our enquiries.’

‘How would they? I’m not going to say anything.’

‘You might not,’ McLean muttered tightly, ‘but I wouldn’t bet on me not letting it slip before the night’s out. I fancy a bit of a pub crawl.’

‘That’s blackmail!’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Nialls. ‘It’s a public service.’ He glanced at the cameras on the desk. It was an impressive collection and clearly top of the range. ‘Before I forget, bring one of those with you.’

‘Eh? Why?’

‘You’ll find out.’

Twenty minutes later, they were inside the French embassy and being ushered into a side room by a security guard. Moments later, an official appeared and greeted Nialls with a warm handshake.

‘David. How nice to see you again. Can I offer you some tea?’

‘No thanks, Dominique. It’s late enough and I don’t want to keep you.’ He introduced Sgt McLean and the two men shook hands.

‘Very well. You wished someone to make a statement, I believe?’

Nialls nodded at Skelton. ‘This … gentleman wants to confirm his part in attempting to bribe a French police officer in a village called Poissons-le-Marais, near Amiens. He took the photos of the inspector being set up.’

Dominique, a third secretary and a liaison officer between the British and French police, whom Nialls had already briefed in his phone call, gestured at the table in the centre of the room, which held a recorder and a notepad. He switched on the recorder and stared at Skelton with a show of disapproval. ‘I have spoken to colleagues since your phone call, and the suspension is not yet official, pending investigations. The photographs are quite clear, I understand, although taken at night. They show an officer apparently taking an envelope from a second man. But if this gentleman has something to say on the matter, his … cooperation would be appreciated.’

‘Damn right,’ Nialls muttered. ‘Taken at night, eh? Not easy to do, I’d have thought … although you’re used to snapping away in the dark, aren’t you? Care to enlighten us amateurs, Bones?’

The photographer looked as if he were going to argue. Then his ego got the better of him. ‘It’s easy enough, if you know what you’re doing.’

‘And I bet you do. Go on, then: blind us with science.’

‘Does 800 ASA mean anything?’ At Nialls’ blank look, he sniggered. ‘Didn’t think so. It’s a new fast film, just out. Dead simple. Got him in the headlights.’ He simulated the clicking of a camera and winked, enjoying his own cleverness.

Nialls wanted to hit him, but smiled instead. The rest would be easy. Once someone like Bones began talking, he’d be hard to stop. He glanced at Dominique. ‘You have developing facilities here?’

‘Of course. Our security manager can deal with that and have the prints ready for you very quickly. We have a courier going across the Channel first thing in the morning. They should be in Amiens very early.’

‘Prints?’ Skelton looked from one man to the other. ‘What prints?’

‘Of you and your statement,’ said Nialls. He smiled coolly, although he doubted Skelton would appreciate the irony of the situation. ‘You’re going to be famous, Bones. I think this is the first time anyone’s photographed a statement and sent it to another country with a snap of the guilty party. How about that?’

Skelton scowled, clearly torn between incriminating himself further and being any kind of front runner in the photography world. ‘This isn’t right. I should call my lawyer.’

‘If you think he can protect you, go ahead.’ Skelton didn’t sound convinced, and was probably weighing up the odds of going along with this against the probability of what would happen if word got out that he’d talked to the police. To speed the photographer’s thinking, Nialls leant close and said softly, ‘But if you do, I’ll have to let you go immediately, won’t I? Then you’re on your own. And it’s cold and dark out there, Skelton. Very dark.’

Skelton blinked rapidly. ‘I’ve got no choice, have I?’

‘Put like that – no, you bloody don’t. Now start talking, chapter and verse.’



Three hundred and fifty kilometres away, in a smoke-filled bar near Belleville in the north-east of Paris, Marc Casparon was having second thoughts about the wisdom of what he was doing.

He’d found his way here on the recommendation of a contact from his days on the force. He’d ordered a light beer to clear his head while waiting for a man named Susman, who claimed to have an inside link with a hard-core student group calling themselves Red Machine. Opposed to almost anything de Gaulle proposed or did, they were more than a bunch of activist malcontents, having shown themselves capable of violence in street marches, rapidly escalating to organised raids on opposition groups. Now they were rumoured to have picked up some financial backing. It was a worrying development. Rebellious students with no cash soon ran out of everything but hot air; those same students with access to funds were a whole different ball game.

He sipped his beer and reflected on how much time he had spent over the years waiting in late-night bars like this for contacts like Susman to show up. Too many, whatever it was – and not always with anything worth trading. It probably added up to a lot of wasted hours. But that was the life he’d chosen and at least Susman had always proven reliable. Well, fairly reliable. The man had a marijuana habit and sometimes behaved as if he had demons after him. He shook off the thoughts. At least now he was here by choice. It made him wonder how Lucas Rocco was holding up. The news of the investigator’s suspension had travelled quickly, but few believed it; every cop worth his salt got accusations flung at him at least once in his career. It was part of the job and didn’t mean there was any truth to it. And nothing he’d heard led him to believe Rocco was corrupt. Some cops were and he could call their names to mind. But not Rocco; he’d stake his life on it.

He saw movement at the door, and a face appeared, eyes scanning the room through the glass. Chubby, white, moustache, lank hair. Not a face he recognised. Hard eyes, though, like flints. Another man crowded behind him, almost a carbon copy, but bigger. Their eyes met.

Caspar’s survival instincts kicked in. He glanced at the clock above the bar. Susman was thirty minutes overdue. Where the hell had time gone? He’d been daydreaming. He sipped his beer like a man with time to kill, but the training he’d gone through was already kicking in, along with all the hints and tricks he’d picked up over the years of operating undercover. You never, never waited longer than ten minutes for a meet, no matter what. When the agreed time plus ten went by, you got out fast and reassessed the situation. Contacts lived for the small cash payments you handed out and the power that trading secret information gave them. If they were late, it was because they weren’t coming. Simple as that.

This wasn’t good. He’d pushed someone too hard, asked one too many questions; touched a nerve at the wrong moment.

It was time to go.

He left his beer on the bar and wandered towards the back, pausing to watch a game of baby-foot in one corner. The two contestants were drunk, spinning the players enthusiastically with no hope of hitting anything. He clapped one of them on the shoulder and shouted encouragement, then stepped casually through the rear door and hurried along a narrow corridor.

As he did so, he heard a volley of voices near the street door, and someone shouted an objection. Then there was the sound of a fist smacking something fleshy.

As he exited the back door into a yard and ran past the entrance to the pissoirs, he was surprised to see Susman standing in the shadows, beckoning to him.

‘Where the hell were you?’ he said, and dragged Susman along with him. The man was overweight and soft-looking, dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers from his job as a waiter at a restaurant frequented by members of several street gangs, where he picked up most of his leads. ‘We’d better move; there’s trouble coming.’

‘I know, I heard,’ said Susman. He pointed off down the street. ‘This way – I don’t fancy getting my face rearranged if they see us together.’

When they were three streets away, Susman stopped in a building site between two apartment blocks and stood with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. ‘This is far enough; I’d better get back there or they’ll know something’s up. I go there most nights, so …’

‘Who are those men?’

‘Nothing. A couple of bully boys.’

‘They didn’t look like nothing.’

‘I know them from way back. I was talking to them earlier and touching them up about a group they run with. They suddenly got really touchy – and I mean paranoid. Something’s in the wind.’

‘Yeah, but what?’ Caspar felt a shiver of excitement. This was what all those wasted hours had been about: the kick of getting some information before anyone else did and building it into something he could feed back down the line.

‘I’m not sure. It’s heavy, that’s all I can tell you.’

‘Heavy. That doesn’t help. Heavy as in … a hit?’

Susman ducked his head, then scrambled for a cigarette, eyeing the street behind them. He lit it and blew out a plume of smoke. ‘I think so.’

‘Think so? Think or know? Come on, there’s money on this.’

‘Yes. It’s a hit.’

‘On the big man?’ He didn’t want to mention the president by name, even out here.

‘Who else? He’s the nation’s favourite bullseye at the moment, isn’t he?’

‘Tell me something I don’t know. Come on, man. I need names.’

‘I don’t have any, honest. Things are getting difficult … people have shut down since the last failures. It’s like … there’s been a run of bad luck and they’re scared it’s contagious.’

Caspar swore quietly. ‘Bad luck. Christ, anyone would think it was a game of boules. You must have a feeling, though, right? Which groups are likely to be up for a try right now?’

‘That’s just it – I don’t know. Not even a hint. Not with the groups. All I can tell you is, it’s not political.’

‘Right. There’s going to be a hit on the big man and it’s not political. It’s all political, for God’s sake!’

Susman took a deep breath and flicked his cigarette into the gutter, clapped his hands together and stuffed them under his arms. ‘No. Not this time.’

‘What?’ The statement had been too definite to ignore. Caspar grabbed Susman’s shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The sort of people I’ve been hearing about … the ones behind the hit: they’re gangsters.’