Death on the Pont Noir

Chapter SIX



‘Remember, nobody says nothing unless I give the nod.’ Tasker glared at each of his companions in turn: Fletcher, the grey-haired and heavily jowled bruiser; the two bottle throwers, Jarvis and Biggs, ex-soldiers in their thirties; and Calloway, tanned, slim and looking out of place in their company. They were gathered around a table bolted to the floor, in a holding cell big enough to take all five men. Most looked hung-over and jittery to varying degrees. ‘If any of these monkeys manages to find someone who speaks English,’ Tasker continued, ‘– which I doubt – we came over for some fun, got pissed and it got out of hand. End of story. We all clear?’

They nodded, either too cowed or too tired to argue.

Tasker sat back, satisfied they’d follow instructions. Biggs and Jarvis were green but would go with the flow. Fletcher had done some jail time, so he knew what the score was when it came to being patient. And Tasker had served a couple of terms himself, several years ago, one for involvement in a bank robbery. He’d put it down to experience; it was one of many bank jobs he’d done, but the only one he’d been hauled in for and convicted.

‘How long is this going to take?’ breathed Calloway, studying his nails. Of them all, he seemed the most calm and untroubled. ‘Only I have a date lined up for tomorrow that I’d rather not miss.’

‘Tough shit, pretty boy,’ Tasker replied nastily. ‘You’ll have to give it a miss, won’t you? Just sit tight until I say so or there might be an accident happening in this cell any moment soon.’

Calloway looked unaffected by the man’s air of menace, but shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do. Anyone else got anything to say?’ Nobody replied. ‘Good. Now, they got to let us go soon, so we ain’t got long.’

Calloway looked doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You don’t know French cops. They don’t play nice when it suits them, and those boys in blue weren’t being too gentle, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

Tasker shrugged. ‘So what? We’re still in one piece, aren’t we? It’s no worse than a dust-up down Brick Lane. You take the bruises and you get the money. They might not let us go today … but they have to sometime. We sit here until they do, then we go home.’ He grinned without humour. ‘It’s all part of the plan – and you’re being paid well for it, so don’t screw it up.’

The threat in his voice was a chilling reminder of his authority, and the men said nothing. Out in the corridor, they heard footsteps approaching. The door was unlocked.

A uniformed officer stepped in and stood in the doorway. Big and ready, he was holding a short baton in both hands. Two others stood just behind him, similarly armed. The lead man pointed at Tasker with the business end of the baton and beckoned.

Tasker folded his arms and sat back. ‘You want me, Pierre, you’ll have to come in and get me. Only you might have to get used to wearing your little stick through your nose.’

The officer hesitated, unsure of what the Englishman had said. But the body language was clear enough. The three officers made a move to step forward, then a voice murmured behind them and they stepped aside.

Another man entered the room.



Rocco stopped just inside the door and looked around at the five prisoners. They stared back, clearly surprised by his appearance. What they had no doubt expected was a group of heavies coming in in force; what they were seeing was a taller-than-average man, dark-haired and tanned, with broad shoulders, dressed in a good-quality, long, dark coat and trousers and expensive shoes. And seemingly unconcerned by their number in the confined space.

‘Well, well. Look what the cat’s brought in.’ Tasker was the first to speak. ‘Fe fi fo fum … I smell a senior frogeater.’ He kept his eyes on Rocco but his next words were clear enough. ‘Shtumm, boys, remember.’

Rocco moved further inside the room. He was holding a handful of British passports. Flicking them open, he studied the contents at length, allowing the silence to build. Then he compared faces with photos, going from one man to the next, staring them in the eye and noting their reactions. When he was finished, he slapped the passports shut and put them away, then studied the state of the men’s hands.

The big man, Tasker, was clearly the leader. Every group of individuals had one – even a group of violent drunks. And authority radiated off this man like an electric current. He was forty-five years old, married and listed as a businessman. He had the brutal appearance of a barroom brawler, although his suit looked expensive, if flash, as did the large gold rings on his fingers. Somewhere along the road of his life, someone had flattened his nose, and he had developed layers of old scar tissue over his eyes and was missing half of one eyebrow. He’d probably been a good puncher in his time, thought Rocco, eyeing his big shoulders and bunched knuckles, but with a poor defence. And judging by the fresh cuts and abrasions on his hands, he had been using those knuckles only a short while ago.

The second big man, Fletcher, was older at fifty-one. He had the dull eyes of a follower and a hard-man body going to seed around the edges. His clothes were also flashy, but cheap. He, too, was nursing cuts to his hands. Two younger men named Biggs and Jarvis were working hard at ignoring Rocco, but failing. They looked fit, like former soldiers or athletes, but beginning to go soft, their fingers yellowed by nicotine and reddened with scratches and cuts. Both were listed as customer managers. And then there was a man named Calloway, occupation professional driver, more French than English by appearance and somehow aloof from his companions. And smarter.

Rocco couldn’t think when he’d last seen such a mixed bunch, and decided it would have been back in Paris. They would have been criminals, too, just like this lot, of that he was certain.

‘For your information, Mr Tasker,’ he said in English, looking at the big man, ‘my name is Rocco. Inspector Rocco. That’s a strange word, “shtumm”. Is it London slang?’ He held Tasker’s gaze but the man looked too surprised to say anything. ‘Is there a particular reason why your friends should remain quiet?’

‘Terrific.’ The soft murmur came from Calloway, on hearing Rocco’s easy grasp of the language.

Tasker glared at him, but said to Rocco, ‘Go screw yourself, copper.’

‘See, that is what I do not understand,’ Rocco replied, and looked at each of the men in turn. He walked up and down, forcing them to follow him with their eyes, each turn taking him closer and closer until he was right in front of them, and they were having to crane their necks to see his face. ‘Five … friends, come to France and have a little fun. They drink too much of our wine and beer – even a bottle or two of cognac, according to the bar owner – and end up drunk. So drunk they completely ruin a bar.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens, of course. Even here we are not immune to the odd fracas. But then the men prove … difficult when taken in for questioning.’

‘So?’ Tasker stuck his chin out. ‘What’s your point?’

‘My point, Mr Tasker, is why? Most people in your situation would be eager – is that the word, eager? – to get out of here. After all, our jails are not famous for being comfortable.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a constant source of national shame, but budgets are very limited. However, you men are different. No, for some reason, you make more of this … episode than it needs. Almost as if you want to stay here. Is it the British military cemeteries which have attracted you to our region? I think not. It can hardly be the local fishing because you do not look like any fishermen I have ever seen. I’m just a little puzzled, that’s all. Perhaps we should talk about it.’ He studied Tasker’s eyes very carefully, looking for something, but failing to find it. It only added to his bafflement. He decided to unsettle him and turned to the three officers, pointing at Calloway. ‘Bring that man.’ Then he turned and left the cell.

‘Hey!’ Tasker was on his feet in an instant. ‘Come back here, copper! Why aren’t you questioning me? Hey – frog!’

But Rocco’s footsteps were already fading along the corridor.

Tasker could only watch as the officers lifted Calloway from his seat and took him away.