Death on the Pont Noir (9 page)

Back downstairs, Rocco rang Michel Santer, his former boss in Clichy. Although a long way from where the attack on the official car had taken place, he was aware of how tight the police community was. Details of the incident would have spread very quickly throughout the force, gathering speed because of the unusual nature of the offence. Among all gossips, cops were high on the list of overachievers, and Santer, like many long-time cops, seemed to act as a filter for much of it.

‘Who?’ Santer’s voice echoed down the line as Rocco’s call was transferred. ‘Did you say Rocco? Never heard of him. Is he the new community dog catcher?’

‘Very droll,’ said Rocco. ‘You were a sad loss to the music hall.’

‘Oh,
that
Rocco! The one who only ever calls me when he’s in trouble and owes me at least several long lunches.’ A dry chuckle followed. ‘How are you, you bloody
paysan
?’

Rocco ignored the friendly insult. ‘Not in any trouble. At least, I don’t think so.’

‘Really? That doesn’t sound right. What’s up?’

‘The attack on the N19 a few days ago.’

‘What about it?’ Santer sounded immediately cautious, and Rocco heard a grunt as the captain stood up and closed his office door with a bang. The signal would be clear to everyone outside: don’t disturb.

‘That’s what I’d like to know. I’ve had the official line but that’s all. Anything you can tell me?’

‘Like what? You think I have the security departments in my back pocket? They don’t tell us anything, you know that. Anyone would think we were the enemy, the way they behave.’

‘But you hear stuff.’ The attack had taken place on the opposite side of the city, well beyond the Clichy boundaries. Due to the target, it would have received an immediate security clampdown to avoid any details getting out other than those officially sanctioned for broadcast via news channels. But for the police fraternity, Paris was a small world and Rocco knew how bad news travelled faster than good. It was the unofficial grapevine of which even official orders couldn’t dam the flow completely.

‘You haven’t got one of those recorder things going, have you?’

‘Spare me. What do you know?’

‘A little. We had a security guy through here a few days ago, dropping the odd bit of news. His cousin works here in the back office, so he was strutting his stuff and trying to impress the new kids. I was surprised he didn’t insist on taking out his gun and letting off a few rounds. Anyway,
beyond juicing it up slightly, he pretty much stuck to the official bulletin.’

‘That’s it?’ Rocco felt a sense of disappointment. He had hoped for something more, although he wasn’t sure what.

‘That’s it.’ Santer’s voice dropped suddenly. ‘Unless you count a second gunman being spirited away.’

‘Say again?’ The report had mentioned one body, a former NCO who must have joined the OAS for reasons best known to himself, no doubt hatred of de Gaulle being one of them.

‘There were two left behind, not one. The security guy reckons the other was taken away on orders from on high before the press got to him.’

Something Saint-Cloud hadn’t known or had kept to himself? ‘Did he say why?’

‘No. Possibly because the second man had a face they didn’t want identified.’

He was probably right, Rocco thought. After the Bastien-Thiry incident, there was a genuine fear among the authorities of another highly placed or high-born individual being revealed to be a member of a terrorist organisation. Too many examples like that and people might begin to wonder about their own stance. Even in a republic, where the old ways of deference were supposed to be long gone, it was a subtle method of influencing popular thought in favour of the Government line.

‘Any idea what happened to him?’

‘None. A quiet family funeral in the country, I imagine. Why?’

‘No reason. Just curious.’

‘Yeah, right. Now that makes me curious, too. What’s
going on, Lucas? You got your nose into something you shouldn’t?’

Rocco debated how far to go with Santer. They were friends and former colleagues, and for that reason he didn’t want to involve him in any way that would compromise him. But neither did he want to insult Santer by being coy. And he trusted the captain more than anyone he could think of, with the exception, perhaps, of Claude Lamotte.

‘Saint-Cloud. You know him?’

‘Saint-Cloud?’ Santer’s voice went even lower. ‘Would that be the
Colonel
Saint-Cloud who runs the—’

‘That’s him.’

‘Christ. Of course, I know
of
him. How the hell do you?’

Rocco explained in brief what Saint-Cloud had asked him to do. ‘He has others doing the same thing – a sort of territorial eyes and ears on the lookout for groups likely to consider an attack.’

‘You mean other investigators?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘
Pfff
.’ A noise indicating disbelief came down the line. ‘Why would he need to do that? They’ve got the entire security directorate to do that stuff – why get ordinary cops involved? No offence, mind.’

Santer had a point, but it wouldn’t be the first time a security agency had stepped outside its normal parameters of operation to get what it wanted. In any case, the Directorate of Territorial Surveillance (DST) was part of the National Police, and responsible for domestic intelligence. As such, it could demand whatever assistance it liked. Quite where Saint-Cloud came in the scheme of things Rocco wasn’t sure, but as he had demonstrated in Amiens, he clearly had
the power to walk in anywhere he pleased.

‘Oh – hang on.’ Santer wasn’t finished. ‘There was something else. I made a note. Yes, they found the car, as the briefing said.’

‘A Simca Ariane. I know.’

‘What they didn’t say was that it wasn’t as clean as the bad guys thought it was. They found a packet of cigarettes beneath one of the seats. An English make, with filters. Could be nothing, of course, but pretty unusual all the same.’

Rocco knew what he was getting at. People were moving around much more than they ever did, in the search for jobs, a better life, more opportunity. And criminals were no different. The world was smaller than it used to be, and those with money had access to things such as cigarettes that wouldn’t have been quite so easy just a few years ago. But still. English cigarettes in a car used for an attack on the Establishment? It was a little odd. French criminals, if anything, were inclined towards the more popular American brands, especially those seen in the latest Hollywood films. It carried a special cachet, being seen to smoke an imported brand; made the user somehow more appealing, even if only in his own imagination.

‘Do they know who might have been using them?’ Find the smoker and check his movements; it was the logical step towards tracing the person’s history and contacts.

‘He didn’t say. If they know, they’re not including us in the briefing notes. Maybe one of them had been hiding out in England. It happens.’ He hesitated, then added carefully, ‘You know you should watch your back, Lucas. These people … they’re not to be trusted, you know what I’m saying?’

‘I know.’ Santer was warning him about
Saint-Cloud
. The security establishment as a group had their own agendas, and Saint-Cloud was no different. He had enormous responsibilities for the French head of state’s safety, and that meant that he would use any means he could to do his job. And if that included using a cop like Rocco in the line of duty, and not looking back if things went sour, he wouldn’t hesitate. ‘Did you hear anything over the wires from last night, about the South East?’ It might be too early for word of the police raid on the garage to have reached Santer’s ears, but it was worth a try.

‘Like what? This is a big city, you know, with lights and the
Métro
and everything.’ His voice was a sarcastic drawl. ‘We even have cars and trucks and trains and buildings which almost reach the sky.’

‘Créteil, you cretin. A raid on a garage. Three men taken in.’

‘No. I haven’t heard that. But I’ll ask around.’

‘Thanks. There’s one more thing. Is Caspar still around?’

A heavy silence. For a brief moment Rocco thought Santer had gone. Then the captain said, ‘He’s around. Why?’ He sounded cagey, and Rocco knew why.

‘I might have some light work for him, if he’s up to it.’ Marc Casparon, better known as Caspar, was a burnt-out cop who’d worked too long undercover and had had to be quietly retired. Rocco had recently used him to penetrate an Algerian gang, and it had nearly got him killed. But he knew Caspar was desperate to get back into the job; it was all he knew how to do. Rocco’s problem might be getting past Santer, who was fiercely protective of the man.

‘What sort of work?’

‘Some legwork among the OAS groups and their affiliates. Who their contacts might be out this way. Is he well?’

‘Actually, he’s fine.’ Santer surprised him. ‘He’s been doing jobs for a security company in St Denis. It seems to be working for him. You know he has limits, though, right? He pushes himself too far.’

In other words, don’t put Caspar in direct danger.

‘I understand.’

‘Fine. You got his number?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right.’ An urgent voice sounded in the background and Santer said, ‘Listen I’ve got to go. I’ll call if I hear anything else about … you know. Remember what I said, Lucas: watch yourself. And start saving for that big lunch you owe me.’

The phone went dead.

Rocco dialled Caspar’s number. It rang six times before the familiar voice answered. Caspar sounded alert, much more so than when Rocco had last seen him a few weeks ago. Then, he had been through a grinder and very nearly lost his life. Fortunately, he was made of tough stuff and had escaped with a slight flesh wound and a beating from a group of Algerian gangsters.

‘It’s Rocco,’ he said. ‘I need some help. It’s police work but private billing. Are you available?’

He could almost hear the smile as Caspar’s voice came down the line. ‘You bet. Where and when?’

Rocco drove back out to the scrapyard. Caspar was on his way and would be here in the morning. He’d offered to go to Paris to brief him on his own ground, but Caspar had suggested the trip out and the change of scenery would help get the kinks of the city out of his system.

For now Rocco needed to lean on Bellin. It was too bad if the fat man was scared of being seen talking to the police; he should learn to mix with a nicer brand of people.

But he was out of luck. The yard was locked tight, two heavy chains holding the gates together. He banged on the corrugated sheets and immediately heard a dog barking followed by the skitter of paws as the animal raced up and down along the inside of the fence. It sounded big and mean and desperate to bite someone. Had Bellin panicked and decided to go home and keep his head down, or was his departure more long-term? He’d have to try again later.

He drove back to the station and sought out Dr Rizzotti
in his office across the yard. He had completed his inspection of the car and was writing a full report with the help of the notes dictated to the young officer.

‘Interesting vehicle,’ said Rizzotti, putting down his pen and stretching. ‘If you like puzzles. Long or short version?’

‘Short. I can read your report later.’

‘All right. Very short, then. A Citroën DS, less than one year old, done a high number of kilometres for its age but with a registration not its own. The plates are home-made. Ten to one there’s another car driving around somewhere with the same plates, only genuine. God knows where this one came from.’

Rocco nodded. ‘So, a criminal enterprise. Anything else?’

‘Not really. The addition of the framework inside is unusual, as are the seat harnesses. I’ve only ever seen those on rally cars before … oh, and a stunt team who did a display here in Amiens last year. They wore them. Other than that, the car was clean save for the camera in the back, which I still can’t explain. It’s an old model, twenty years at least, as far as I can determine, probably lifted from an old studio junk heap. But who would drive around with an empty camera casing in the boot of their car?’

‘Someone who wanted people to think he was making a film?’

‘To impress the ladies?’ He pursed his lips. ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

‘Was that all?’

Rizzotti smiled, the expression of a man who had a surprise in store. ‘Actually, no. We found this under the carpet.’ He pushed an envelope across his desk.

Rocco opened it. Inside was a butt end, smoked halfway
down and flattened. A filter tip, with some printing on the white paper.
Wills
.

‘English make,’ said Rizzotti. ‘I’m not sure which specific brand – the company of Wills make several. We could always send it to them for verifying if you wish. As you can see, it looks reasonably fresh – the paper hasn’t been stained by damp or dirt.’

Yet another reference to England. First the English drunks in the
Canard Doré
, then the cigarette packet in the car used for the attack on the N19, followed by the English penny in the burnt-out truck. Now this. Add the smell of an Englishman’s aftershave in the Citroën as well, which, although a flimsy link and all but impossible to prove, seemed very conclusive. Or was he jumping to too many conclusions in the hopes of a rapid resolution?

‘Thanks, Doc.’ He was turning to leave when he noticed a small key lying on Rizzotti’s desk. It was discoloured along the toothed edge and blackened on the inside of the hole where it would be held on a ring. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s the key to the burnt truck. I was hoping to have it traced but there’s no serial number. It looks like a cheap copy. You can get them made up almost anywhere for a few francs. Why?’

Rocco felt in his pocket and took out the key Tasker had been staring at, but had denied knowing anything about. He dropped it alongside the one on Rizzotti’s desk.

They were an exact match.

He walked round to a nearby bar frequented by cops, his mind on what he could do with this latest information. The key tied Tasker to the Renault truck, he was convinced. But
even if they got him back, he would simply deny knowing anything about the key and claim it had been left lying around in the station by someone else and became mixed with his personal possessions. A clever lawyer would have it thrown out in an instant.

He took a table in the corner, nodding at a few familiar faces at the bar. Cops going off duty taking a drink, cops going on duty hitting the coffee to stay awake throughout their shift. The same scene would be replicated in every town across the country. He saw Alix at a table on the far side of the room. She was sitting with the young officer who’d been helping Rizzotti with his examination of the DS. She smiled faintly and nodded, then excused herself and stood up. She crossed the room and stopped at his table.

‘So, Inspector,’ she said, ‘have you solved the puzzle of the fragrance yet?’

‘Not yet. But I will. Thank you for your help, by the way. You were correct – it was aftershave.’

‘But you don’t know whose?’

‘Actually, I do.’

Her eyebrows lifted. ‘So it’s true what they say about you. You are some kind of wizard when it comes to finding clues. I must remember never to do anything wrong with you around.’ Her eyes remained innocent, and Rocco felt he’d missed something. Or maybe not.

‘I’m not a Canadian Mountie,’ he said. ‘I don’t always get my man.’ He looked past her to where the young officer whom Rizzotti had referred to as Romeo was throwing dark looks his way. ‘Is he trying to convey some sort of message?’

Alix clearly didn’t need to turn and see who he was
talking about. ‘He’s young,’ she said, which, coming from her made it sound like a capital offence. ‘He thinks because I said yes to coffee, it means something else. I’m not sure how to break the bad news to him that I’m not interested.’

‘I do. Introduce him to your father.’

She laughed aloud, a burst of spontaneity that seemed to go well with the freckles on her nose. ‘That’s a low blow. A good idea, though.’ She turned and went back to the table, leaving Rocco to conclude that if Romeo persisted in his pursuit of Alix, Claude Lamotte was probably going to get a phone call soon asking him to bring his shotgun.

His coffee arrived and he went back to thinking about his immediate problems. He still couldn’t make out what the crash was all about. It patently wasn’t a real film set, as evidenced by the fake camera. So what was it? A stunt of some kind? The presence of seat harnesses clearly indicated that the driver and passenger had expected to be involved in some kind of dangerous manoeuvre, but how and why was open to speculation.

Then there was the increasing likelihood that the group of English drunks were involved. Certainly Calloway was. If he had driven the DS, what about the other men? Had one of them – Tasker, perhaps – been driving the Renault truck, with the others playing the gunmen who had attacked the car after the ramming?

It was the DS which puzzled him most. Nobody trashes a car like that without good cause. A rehearsal for a film, maybe, but with a fake camera, this was clearly no film.

Which left one thing.

It had been a rehearsal for something else.