Death on the Pont Noir (2 page)

Rocco reached the trees and did a careful examination, quartering the ground in a grid fashion. If anyone had been here, especially with a camera, there would be signs. It was a godforsaken spot, made worse by the bitter breeze cutting through the branches and whining like a soul in torment. The ground surrounding the trees was mostly covered with clumps of coarse grass, with a carpet of pine needles closer in. He noted other details and dismissed them: scraps of fertiliser bags rotting away beneath a bush; old bottles without labels glinted dully in the shadows; a rusting bucket without a handle; and further back, where the ground was clear, a set of footprints side by side where someone had stood and taken a leak, the story etched in the frosty ground. Size 42 or 43, he guessed, which told him nothing he could use. He finally found a spot by the side of the road where three holes had been pierced in the earth in a triangular spread about a metre across. A tripod,
just as Simeon had said. So he hadn’t imagined that bit. But was it a camera or something else? The grass around it was trampled flat, but not as much as he would have expected if a cameraman had been working it. So what had been the point?

He flicked some pine needles from the cuffs of his trousers and walked back to join Claude and Simeon, scanning the ground as he went. Then he saw something in the grass verge. He stopped. The stems here had been either crushed or churned up, as if something heavy had rolled across here recently. But it wasn’t the grass or the earth that caught his attention.

It was the blood. Lots of it.

He took a rubber glove from his coat pocket and slipped it on, then carefully lifted some of the grass clumps to one side. The earth beneath was dark brown, and in parts, where it had been covered, more of a dark red. He wondered if a wild boar had been shot by a farmer and carted off as a trophy. Or maybe hit by a car. Both were possibilities. But the spread of blood seemed too extensive. And tied in with what Simeon had witnessed, there seemed to be another, less mundane possibility. He stepped back along the verge, his unease growing. More blood, flecks of it scattered across the grass, some on the edge of the tarmac, the bigger flecks with a covering of insects feeding on this rare bounty.

And a human tooth.

Forget the boar, then.

The tooth was worn down, and chipped around the top edges. A molar, by the look of it, stained with blood. Not a young one, either.

There was something else in among the bloody earth. Too uniform to be a stone and too rounded to be a piece of dirt. Rocco plucked the object out of the blood and turned it over.

It was a metal button embossed with a number five. A child’s button? His blood ran cold at the implication. But the tooth went against that – it was definitely an adult’s.

He scanned the fields, feeling a familiar buzz building in his head: the signal which told him something was beginning; that something bad had happened here. If anyone had been killed or injured in the crash seen by Simeon, then Amiens hospital, less than twenty kilometres away, would soon provide the answer.

Failing that, he would need Rizzotti’s help. In the absence of a bigger budget, the on-loan doctor was the only person approaching a scientific presence the local police force had. Although he might not be able to make sense of this with his limited equipment and experience, he would be able to gather evidence to prove whether the blood was animal or human, although the teeth pretty much made that a given.

‘Lucas,’ Claude Lamotte called. His voice sounded odd. He was standing a couple of metres away, holding in his hand a fragment of curved glass that glinted in the weak sunlight. Then he picked up another fragment and walked over to join Rocco. He was holding the top of a bottle, with a piece of rag stuffed through it. Both pieces of glass were dark green, clearly from the same vessel. ‘There’s more fragments back there, in the grass,’ Claude said. ‘Could be what Simeon saw being thrown.’

Rocco wrapped the button in a scrap of paper and put it in his pocket, then took the bottle top with the piece of rag and sniffed. No smell. Yet the rag was wet. He touched it with his finger. Not oily. ‘It’s water.’

‘That’s a Molotov cocktail, that is,’ said Simeon knowingly, shuffling over to join them and lifting one leg to scratch at his groin. ‘Light the rag and chuck the bottle, the car goes up in flames.
Pouf
!’ He grinned, revealing a mouthful of discoloured teeth.

Rocco didn’t doubt him. The farmer was of an age where he would know; where men and women just like him would have learnt the art of sabotage against an invading foe; where a wine bottle filled with petrol was an easily sourced weapon and all it took to be useful was someone willing to get in close, light the rag and throw it.

‘Can you describe the car?’ he asked.

Simeon shrugged. ‘Fancy. Black. Shiny – like the ones they use in official processions. Citroën, I think. I’m better with horses, of course … I know about them.’

‘A DS?’ Claude suggested. ‘They’re used in processions – especially black ones. And funerals. There are none round here, though. Too expensive, and who wants to drive round looking like a funeral director – or a politician?’

Rocco shook his head as the buzz increased. So what they had was a truck ramming an official-looking car, and two men jumping out of the ditch and throwing pretend petrol bombs and firing guns. It prompted a thought. He turned to where Claude had picked up the glass.

‘Any shell cases?’

‘No. I thought about that. They must have picked them up … unless they used revolvers.’

‘They weren’t real, anyway.’

Rocco and Claude turned and looked at Simeon, who was scrubbing at his groin again like an old dog.

‘Say again?’ Rocco was trying not to imagine what was going on down there. The man looked as if he and hot water and soap were distant acquaintances.

‘Guns. I know guns, too. They weren’t firing live rounds. The sound wasn’t right. Too flat and dull, like damp fireworks.’

Make that pretend petrol bombs and blank rounds
, thought Rocco. He said, ‘Did you see where they went afterwards?’

‘No. Like I told you, I was on my way back home with the horse. But I could hear them. Sound travels out here, you see; nothing to stop it. Wherever it was they went, they had a sick Renault to take with them. It sounded more like a tractor and kept banging, like there was something broken—’

‘Hey!’ Claude jumped in. ‘You didn’t say anything about it being a Renault before.’

‘Well, I only just realised, didn’t I? There’s a builder over towards Fonzet uses one just like it. Got it cheap off the military, he said.’ He nodded. ‘Renault. Bet you anything.’

Rocco shook his head. No bet. Camera, men, vehicles, fake petrol bombs and blank bullets, lots of blood and a tooth. On the surface it added up to nothing more improbable than a makeshift film set. He wasn’t sure but he had a feeling film-makers were supposed to get a licence
for shooting scenes on public roads, even out here. It could soon be checked. And the blood might well turn out to be a simple accident; a stuntman who’d miscalculated and performed his final
cascade
.

Except, where were the film crew and equipment?

George Tasker sat back and eyed the long mirror above the café bar. It glittered under the lights, and had
gold-coloured
patterns at each corner, like scrolls. That had to go, he decided; something that big was just asking for it. A well-placed chair would do it – maybe a table if things really got going.

He sipped at a glass of cognac and watched the others getting tanked. He didn’t much care for spirits, and would rather have had a pint of Guinness. But the excuse for a bar they had chosen didn’t stock decent beer and the bartender didn’t seem to care one way or another. The food on offer was pretty much limited to bread, boiled eggs and cold meat, which didn’t hold a candle to free booze as far as Fletcher and the others were concerned. They’d piled in with venom, eager to try drinks they never would have normally, encouraged by the wad of francs Tasker had slapped on the bar.

He sighed and rubbed the calloused knuckles of his right hand, waiting for the fun to kick off. Instructions were to take root here and let the rest take care of itself … with a little help from him and the readies supplied for the trip. He didn’t know and didn’t much care what else was going on, only that he had his part to play. The truck and the dented Citroën had been dumped as instructed, the truck torched along with the body of whoever it was had fallen underneath it, and the car left at a breaker’s yard to be ‘disappeared’. It seemed a waste to him, chopping a decent set of wheels like that, but arguing tactics wasn’t his call. They’d be getting a train out of here, anyway.

He felt something sharp and metallic in his pocket. It was the spare key to the truck; he’d trousered it when they’d first picked up the vehicle, in case Fletcher lost his. The big man was useful in tight corners and for jobs that didn’t require much thinking, but there were times when his age began to show and he got careless. Like the way he’d hit the Citroën full pelt, nearly taking Tasker and Calloway out of the game for good. No judgement, that was his problem. Brains scrambled by too many lost fights and too much booze. If he had his way, this would be Fletcher’s last job for the Firm before he got relegated to something where he couldn’t harm anyone.

He watched as the man chugged back a tall glass of thin, gassy beer, egged on by roars of approval from the others, before slamming the empty down on the bar and laughing like he’d won the Olympics. The bartender said something Fletcher clearly heard but didn’t understand. His response was to stick a thick middle finger in the air right in front of the man’s face and belch, then watch the Frenchie go red.

Big bloke to upset, that bartender, Tasker noted. Probably handy in a ruckus, too; like any barman worth his job, accustomed to chucking out troublesome drunks. But he wasn’t big enough or handy enough for these lads once they got going. He sipped the cognac and waited. Checked his watch. Nearly lunchtime already.

Time for some fun.

Less than three miles away, Olivier Bellin, the owner of the breaker’s yard where the Citroën DS had been left, walked round the car studying the damage. It was pretty serious, he noted. Whatever this had skidded into had been solid enough not to give. Still, he’d seen worse over the years; driven some, too, when he’d had to. As bad as it seemed, though, given the right treatment it could be made to look right. As long as nobody looked too close.

He scratched his head. He was in a not uncommon dilemma. He’d been paid to take in this car, no questions asked, and get rid of it. He’d done it plenty of times before when a vehicle had to cease to exist. That was ‘get rid’ as in destroy, chop up, crush, cut and reduce down to the last nut and washer. But Bellin was greedy, always on the lookout to make an easy killing. His view was that since the man paying for the job to be done was a long way from here, and unlikely ever to show his face anywhere near Amiens – and certainly not down this end of town – what was the problem? And this car was just so tasty … if viewed from the right angle. Suffering the indignity of being reduced to scrap this early in its life would be a sacrilege.

He checked the odometer. The numbers were fairly high but not a killer. The condition of the seats and carpet
wasn’t bad, either. A wash and brush-up and they’d look like new. The rest of the bodywork was sound, as were the tyres. The way the side had been caved in was a bit serious, there was no denying, and there might be some underlying problems with the structure. But he knew a couple of guys who could take care of that.

He stared up at the sky, juggling the need for some quick cash from a punter wanting a cheap DS to show off to his neighbours, and the likelihood of The Man in Paris ever finding out that his instructions had not been carried out to the letter.

The Man in Paris. Bellin licked his lips nervously. Now there was someone he didn’t like to think about. Several guys who’d disobeyed him were rumoured to have disappeared over the years, probably in yards pretty much like this one, come to think of it. And he had no wish to end up the same way.

He turned and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window of the cabin, which served as his office. He saw himself with one hand on the Citroën’s roof like he owned it. It caught him by surprise, standing alongside a
picture-perfect
DS as if born to it. He smiled.

No doubt about it, it was too good to pass up. He made a decision.

Unfortunately for Olivier Bellin, it was the worst mistake of his life.

‘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?’