Death on the Pont Noir

CHAPTER TWENTY

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 Citroen 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 Dore, 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 Citroen 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.