Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter FIFTY-ONE



It was like stepping into a different world, immediately more sombre in spite of the lack of leaves on the trees. The outside sounds faded as the branches overhead seemed to close in on the two men, shutting out the snow-heavy sky and leaving only the chatter of the police radio to remind them of the outside world. The trunks here were jammed close together, never thinned by man, each new growth pushing against the next, reaching skywards and searching for every bit of space. Dead trees lay withered and rotting or, where there hadn’t been space to fall, hung limply like drunks off their neighbours.

Claude stopped and sniffed the air, eyes flicking over what he could see, then hunkered down, gesturing to Rocco to do the same.

The minutes slipped by, neither man speaking. Rocco was breathing easily enough, but he’d felt his heart rate increase the moment they had stopped moving. Movement was good, to a city-bred cop. It kept you awake, showed you and everyone else that you were busy and active, allowed you to check you didn’t have someone coming up behind you. But as he’d learnt long ago, movement could be a killer in the wrong place. The kill could come from under your feet, rigged to pierce your flesh with needles of bamboo; it could come from overhead, a swish of noise triggered by a careless kick against a carefully laid peg; it could come out of the undergrowth, so thick you couldn’t see through it to the danger lurking just a couple of metres away.

He said, ‘What are we doing?’ Claude was the expert here, the woodsman, and he was content to let him lead the way. But Rocco liked to know what was going on.

‘We’re waiting.’ The reply was low, just above a whisper.

‘For what?’

Claude pointed at some trees deeper into the wood, where a few small birds were twittering softly and flitting from branch to branch. ‘When they stop, we’ll know.’

They waited some more.

‘You okay?’ Claude queried, and Rocco realised he was grinding his teeth together. He relaxed his jaw and nodded. He wasn’t, quite, but he was getting there. Another few years of creeping through the woods with this man and he’d be as good as new.

Claude seemed to know what he was thinking. He leant close and said softly, ‘I knew a man once who did what you did. Went through the same thing, but in another war. Couldn’t stand the trees. Reckoned they were whispering to him like we are now, calling him names. Actually, he was just scared shitless, but couldn’t admit it.’

Rocco said nothing.

‘Anyway, in the end, he got over it by facing his demons. Went native instead of hiding in a car in city streets all day.’

Claude was talking about himself.

‘I’m like that man, you mean?’

Claude shook his head. ‘You’re nothing like him. Even in here, if I had you on my tail, I’d be running as fast as I could and I wouldn’t stop. I know you don’t like it in here, and why should you? But you use it; you don’t let it beat you. You’re always looking, even when you can’t see anything.’ He stared at Rocco, holding his gaze. ‘But others … like this man we’re looking for, he’s a rat in a tunnel. He only reacts to what he can see. Sooner or later, you’d catch him before he caught you.’

‘Is this leading anywhere?’

Claude smiled. ‘Shit, don’t ask me. I’m just talking to calm my own nerves.’ He stopped and looked round.

The birds had gone silent. Everywhere.

Only the branches whispered overhead, like an army of crickets. Anyone watching right now, Rocco thought, would have the advantage over a newcomer stepping into the trees from the outside. He slowly turned his head behind them, to the light. It was clear.

He heard a grunting noise, followed by a snap of a twig somewhere not far away. The sound triggered an unwelcome memory flash from years ago: heavy vegetation underfoot, stifling humidity, no sky to speak of and a wall of green in every direction. Unlike here where there was only brown and black, apart from the top ends of the branches. Then, there had been danger all around and a sense of utter futility facing an enemy they couldn’t see until it was too late. He waited, feeling his shoulders stiffen involuntarily; told himself to ignore it and worked hard at not squeezing his eyes shut.

Alongside him, Claude was staring into the dense trees over the barrels of his shotgun, an over-under model, the stock shiny with use and lovingly cared for, darkly functional. A tool of his trade.

Rocco took in the scenery afresh, breathing to relax. All around them was light and shadow and fresh air, and bare, wintry branches and slim trunks clustered tightly together like passengers on the Métro. High above, through a latticework of branches, was a glimpse of darkening grey sky.

‘Nice weapon,’ he whispered. ‘You think we need that?’

‘Damn right.’ Claude puffed out his cheeks. ‘It’s a Darne. Best gun ever. I bought it from a farmer who’d given up killing stuff. But this isn’t for any man; there are wild boar in this area.’ He looked at Rocco’s blank expression and said, ‘You do know about boars, don’t you?’

‘Of course. You didn’t think to mention them before we came in here?’ He’d heard the stories; normally placid if left alone and keen to avoid humans, in protection of their young, wild boars were ferocious, especially the sows.

‘Would it have made a difference?’

‘I suppose not. Are they as bad as they say?’

‘If cornered, yes.’ Claude chewed on his lip. ‘If threatened, they’ll kill. Man, beast … they’ll even wreck a car if they feel like it. A herd over by Bapaume opened up a Panhard like a tin can once.’ He indicated the base of a nearby tree where the earth had been ripped and churned over, the surrounding area peppered with small hoof marks. ‘These tracks are fresh. The animals roam, but these don’t look old. I reckon they’re not far away.’

‘How big are they?’ Rocco couldn’t recall seeing a boar close up, but felt uneasy at Claude’s obvious concern.

‘It’s not size you need to worry about. It’s weight and speed. You get hit low by a hundred-plus kilos of pissed-off pig, and you’ll go down, I promise. Then they’ll gore you with their tusks.’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t be nice.’

Rocco took a firmer hold of his gun. Come on, piggy, he thought. As if I haven’t got enough problems to be going on with, I’m going face to face with an enraged pork sausage on legs.

‘If they do come,’ Claude continued, ‘go for the nearest tree. Don’t stop to shoot; they’re too fast for a pistol shot, and once they’re stirred up, they’re not easy to stop, even with this thing.’ He raised the shotgun. ‘Believe me.’

‘What will you be doing?’

‘Me? I’ll be up the tree ahead of you.’

He straightened slowly, then stepped past Rocco and led the way deeper into the wood, pausing regularly to peer beneath the thick tangles of branches and other fallen vegetation where the boars’ low height would provide good cover.

Rocco followed, watching his friend’s back.

They had covered maybe thirty metres when Claude stopped and held out a warning hand. Slowly, very slowly, he sank to the ground and signalled for Rocco to do the same.

As they did so, an eruption of screaming came from ahead of them not twenty metres away, and a dark shape shot out from under a thicket followed by several other smaller shapes.

‘A mother and young,’ Claude hissed in warning.

And he and Rocco were right in their path.

Rocco felt his gut contract. They had nowhere to go but up, but there was no time. He swore and fired twice into the ground in front of where he thought the boars were. Instead of coming on, the boar turned and went back on its tracks, the young following like little boats on a string.

Suddenly the thicket moved and two shots rang out. One of the young boars flipped over and lay still. Instantly the mother squealed and charged, barrelling through the undergrowth like a vengeful rocket.

This time the scream they heard came from a man.

Claude fired two shots into the air, quickly reloading while Rocco covered him, then fired twice more.

In the silence that followed, they heard the squeals of the boars diminishing towards the far side of the wood, then a groan close by. It was followed by a crackling noise as someone made their way through the trees across their front, but too far away to see clearly.

‘He’s heading towards the road,’ said Claude. ‘Come on – we can cut him off.’ He showed Rocco the way and both men ran towards the light.