Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter FIVE



‘Any thoughts?’ Rocco rejoined Claude Lamotte and they watched Simeon throw his leg over an ancient moped and wobble away down the road in a cloud of blue smoke.

‘Only one: if he makes it home without falling off, it’ll be a miracle.’ He turned to stare at the clump of pine trees, then the road. ‘But this … it all sounds a bit bizarre to me.’

‘Bizarre why?’ Rocco valued Claude’s opinion; although a countryside policeman based in Poissons, and looked on with faint derision by some on the force, he was a better cop than they knew and had the instincts of a born hunter. He also knew the people around here, which was a big advantage.

‘The camera. If it was back there by the trees, it would have been pointing east to catch the action, right?’

‘Agreed. So?’

‘Right into the morning sun? I doubt it.’ When Rocco didn’t respond, he puffed out his cheeks and said, ‘What – you think I don’t know about these things?’

‘Not at all. I just wondered how.’

‘Because back when I was driving a taxi in Paris, before I put on the uniform—’

‘Which, lets be honest,’ Rocco pointed out, ‘you don’t very often.’ As if to prove it, Claude was currently dressed in a pair of shabby brown corduroys, lace-up boots and a green hunting jacket. With his heavy build and round face, he looked more like a bandit than an officer of the law.

‘I have to blend in, don’t I? People won’t talk if I look like a cop all the time. Where was I? Oh, yes. There was this regular ride; he used to get me to take him to the Bois de Boulogne, where he made short films that never sold. They call it cinéma vérité now. Real life, it’s supposed to be, without all the glitzy crap they have in Hollywood. Myself, I quite like the glitzy crap. But he was eccentric, like lots of people in that business. Before his time, but okay – and he always paid his bills, so …’ He shrugged. ‘He liked to talk about his work while I drove and listened. That’s how I know about shooting against the sun.’

‘Don’t they have filters and lenses for that?’

‘Of course.’ Claude held out his hand and rubbed his fingers and thumb together. ‘But they’re expensive. Also, why have the camera there, so close to the track? Once the truck goes by, the shot’s ruined. Vibration, see – that’s something else he told me about. Kills a good scene like a dead dog.’

‘Maybe it’s all part of the vérité,’ Rocco murmured with a wry smile. He changed the subject. ‘How’s Alix?’

Claude scowled. ‘Always busy. She’s trying to make commissaire before I retire, I reckon.’ One of Claude’s two daughters, Alix had returned to Poissons following a failed marriage, but having joined the police force. Claude had been both shocked and proud at once, and Rocco guessed he was still trying to come to terms with having a daughter in uniform and a looming divorce in the family.

‘She has a lot to prove, that’s all. It was a tough move, joining the uniforms.’

Claude huffed his cheeks. ‘You don’t need to tell me that. I still can’t believe she did it. Still, I bet you see her more often than I do.’ He peered speculatively at Rocco. ‘How’s she shaping up?’

Rocco squinted back at him. The comment had contained a certain tone, and he thought he knew why. ‘Actually, I don’t see her that much. Canet assigns her work, not me. But I think she’ll be fine. She’s got good instincts, like someone else I know.’

Claude looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, Lucas. I’m an idiot. It’s not my place to worry about her. She’s a grown woman. I just…’

‘Worry about her?’

‘Yes. Pathetic, isn’t it, because she’d flay the skin off me if she knew. But what’s a man to do in my position?’

‘Don’t ask me, for a start,’ Rocco murmured. ‘I’m no expert.’

A police van arrived and the driver hopped out and saluted. ‘We’ve come to mark out the scene, Inspector. Dr Rizzotti is on his way, and there’s a message for you from Captain Canet.’

‘What about?’

‘There’s been a big fight in town. A bar’s been wrecked and he thinks you might be able to help.’



The Canard Doré was more than wrecked. It looked like a tornado had gone through the place after a carpet-bombing. What wasn’t broken seemed scarred and ripped beyond repair; half the furniture was on the pavement outside, having taken the plate glass windows and net curtains with it, and the front door was hanging from the hinges. Inside, the drinks-bottle shelves had been swept clean, a coffee machine flattened and the full-length wall mirrors had been hammered into fragments. The cash till was lying upside down in the sink, a scattering of coins and notes on the floor and drainer, and the pinball machine was lying flat on its belly like a beached whale, the glass splintered and the light display gutted. Only the counter, built of solid hardwood, seemed to have survived intact, although the surface was awash with spilt alcohol and embedded with fragments of broken glass. The aroma of beer and spirits was heavy in the air, mixing with a tang of stale sweat and cheap tobacco.

The bar owner, André Mote, was sporting a large bruise over one eye and a bloodied shirt, and sitting in a corner looking murderous. The object of his anger was a group of five men who had been corralled in a corner of the bar by a number of tough Gardes Mobiles and a muscular Detective René Desmoulins. With batons drawn, they looked as if they were itching for an excuse to teach the fighters a lesson.

‘Why are they still here?’ said Rocco to Sous-Brigadier Godard, the head of the group.

‘It was easier keeping them confined here than trying to transfer them to the station on a charge of fighting, only to have a magistrate let them go. And there are too many civilians around to do it safely.’ Godard, a big man with a battle-scarred face, had the scepticism of many policemen, but was good at his job. He was right, too. If this lot were transferred to the street without taking precautions, they’d cause mayhem.

Rocco nodded. ‘Good thinking. But this wasn’t a fight – it was open warfare. Now they’re subdued, get them cuffed and back to the station and lock them up. I’ll be along in a while.’

‘They’re foreign visitors, Lucas. English. Won’t there be repercussions if we lock them up?’ He rubbed his fingers and thumb together, referring to the recent ‘advisory’ bulletins circulated to all forces by the Interior Ministry regarding the treatment of visitors from overseas, and how the economy depended on not alienating foreign currency and those with the willingness to spend it.

‘Maybe.’ Rocco thought the advice applied less to areas like Picardie, and more to the tourist resorts in the south where visitors had money to splash around. ‘Just make sure they don’t fall down any stairs on the way. It won’t do them any harm to taste a bit of French jail comfort for a couple of hours.’ He knew that Godard was referring to Commissaire Massin, their boss, and his known fear of causing waves which might reach his superiors in Paris. ‘And you can leave Massin to me.’

Godard grinned. ‘D’accord. Can I cuff them really tight?’

‘After what they’ve done here, I’d insist on it.’

He waited while Godard organised his men and swiftly got the five Englishmen restrained before they could resist. Four of them made do with mild protests, but one man, who seemed to be their leader, pulled his wrists away and swore at Godard. He stood up, showing an impressive breadth of shoulders and a beaten pug face.

‘Piss off, Froggy. Nobody puts them things on me.’

Godard turned and scowled at Rocco. ‘What did he say?’

Rocco said, ‘I think he called you a frog-eater and an ugly son of an ugly bitch. You going to stand for that?’

‘No. I’m not. Can you look away, please?’ As soon as Rocco did so, Godard signalled to two of his men and they closed in on either side of the Englishman. Grabbing him by the arms, they slammed him unceremoniously against the wall and cuffed his hands behind him, then turned him around for Godard to plant a heavy knee into his groin. The Englishman gasped and his face lost all its colour.

‘And that, Monsieur Rosbif,’ Godard muttered, ‘is how we treat animals like you.’ He prodded the man’s shoulder. ‘And for your information, if you could speak our language, anyway, which you obviously cannot, I don’t eat frogs.’ He signalled to his men to take the five men away.



‘How many of them were involved?’ To Rocco it was academic, but it was useful to know for the record how many men Mote had seen causing the damage.

‘All of them,’ growled Mote. ‘All English, all drunk and violent, like pigs. Animals!’ His eyes glittered with anger and bruised pride. He brushed his face with damaged knuckles. ‘Mostly it was the big one. I want them arrested and charged, Inspector. Do you know how many years it has taken me to build this business, me and my wife? Hein?’ He slapped his chest with the flat of his hand and stared around at his wife for her support. Mme Mote, a mousy-looking woman in a floral apron, nodded dutifully and patted her husband’s hand, then dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. She had a large mole on her chin with a single hair sprouting from it, which Rocco found himself suffering an irrational desire to point out to her.

‘Charges will follow,’ he assured Mote. ‘What started it?’

He listened with detachment as the story unfolded. It was a well-worn route to strife: someone had drunk too much, remarks and gestures had been made, the owner had refused further drinks and a brawl had ensued. It was nothing unusual for the establishment, Desmoulins had earlier confided. The Canard Doré wasn’t known for its upscale clientele and had been the location of more than a few bar brawls. But this damage was of a greater scale than normal.

‘I’ll say.’ Rocco had seen the results of far worse bar fights than this, especially in Marseilles when visiting naval ships were in and men had been too long at sea on service rations. But for Amiens, it was extreme.

‘I’ll have someone come round to take statements and assess the damage,’ he said finally, when Mote had finished his story. ‘You’ll have to apply for compensation, but the court will probably make it a condition of their sentence.’

‘You mean in return for their release?’ Mote didn’t sound very surprised. Maybe, thought Rocco, the idea of money to refurbish the bar would be enough to salve his feelings and let the matter drop.

‘We’ll see what the magistrate says.’

Outside, he found a uniformed officer waiting for him.

‘Inspector Rocco? Captain Canet would be pleased if you could return to the station. The five men charged with the assault are all English.’

‘I know. So?’

The man shrugged. ‘You are the only person with that language, sir. We have to take their statements … but …’ He hesitated.

‘But what?’

‘They are being difficult, sir. Even with Sous-Brigadier Godard’s men to help. They seem happy to just sit there laughing at us.’

‘The fresh air must have woken them up.’ Men in Godard’s unit – often mistaken for the national Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité (CRS) – were used when strength in numbers was needed. If even they were having trouble, then the leader of the Englishmen must have stirred his men into making a fuss.

‘Two of them are pretty big, sir – possibly ex-boxers. The others are just drunk.’

‘I noticed.’

Fifteen minutes later, Rocco was talking to Captain Eric Canet, in charge of the uniformed officers. The captain looked mildly unsettled, as if facing a problem he didn’t much relish dealing with.

‘We don’t need this, Lucas,’ he breathed. ‘We need to get rid of these louts as soon as possible. The magistrate has agreed to deal with them at a special sitting in the morning. He’ll impose a fine and compensation big enough to please the bar owner, after which we can wave them goodbye. But I think you should talk to them; warn them off coming back.’ He handed Rocco a filing tray piled with wallets, passports and envelopes containing money and other personal effects.

‘If they’ll listen.’ Rocco looked around. ‘Where’s Massin?’ The commissaire had a nose for bad news and was usually quick to stamp on trouble taking place in his precinct. Rocco was surprised he wasn’t already out here handing out advice.

‘He’s been called to a conference in headquarters. Something about a security review … or should I say, another security review. Perronnet went with him.’ Commissaire Perronnet was Massin’s deputy, and clung to him like a tick. It was the job of a commissaire like Massin to attend numerous meetings which seemed on the surface to have little to do with day-to-day policing, but a lot to do with a visible national readiness after years of doubt. It also gave him the opportunity he craved, which was to consort with the upper levels of the police force and the Interior Ministry in the hopes of gaining a more favourable posting. ‘I’d like to get this done before he comes back,’ Canet added dryly, ‘then we can all go back to the usual levels of violence and mayhem.’

Rocco nodded. It was a wise move. The less Massin had to complain about, the better all round. ‘Right. I’ll see them in a minute. But don’t let on that I speak English.’

He turned as Desmoulins wandered up, sporting a livid bruise on one cheek.

‘What happened to you?’

The detective sniffed in disgust. ‘I must be getting slow. The big bastard caught me with a backward head butt as we were getting him in the van.’ He waited until Canet was out of earshot, then added, ‘But he tripped on the way back out, so we’re even. Clumsy fella.’

‘Clearly. Also not aware of when he’s caused enough trouble.’ He had a random thought about the ramming incident involving the truck and the Citroën. ‘Three things I need you to check on: put someone on ringing the hospitals here and in a thirty-kilometre radius. Ask if they’ve taken in any road accident victims, dead or injured.’

‘Sure. Anything specific?’

‘We’re looking for anyone with facial damage, loss of teeth – that kind of thing.’

‘Is this from the call earlier this morning?’

‘Yes. Something odd is going on, but it could be nothing. Second, get someone to check the garages in the area for a military-style Renault truck and a black Citroën DS brought in showing crash damage. Check the barracks, too, see if they’re missing a truck. And third, find out if anyone has applied for a permit to film on public roads in the region.’

‘Got it. You going to talk to the English?’

‘In a while. Let them stew a bit longer.’

‘You want me there?’

Rocco smiled at Desmoulins’ readiness to pitch in where trouble loomed. ‘Thanks, but Godard and his men are a lot uglier.’