Death on the Pont Noir

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Waiting for Santer to call back was going to be agony, and Rocco knew he’d be climbing the walls before that happened. He decided to fight fire with fire. He picked up the telephone and called Inspector Nialls in London.

‘Hello, Lucas.’ Nialls sounded wary. ‘Sounds as if you’re having problems.’

The British art of understatement, Rocco figured. He wondered how Nialls had heard.

‘I hope,’ he said, ‘you do not believe everything you hear.’

‘I don’t. Especially when I heard so quickly. Your friend Broissard called me about an hour ago. He suggested in a roundabout manner that it might be better if I ignored any further approaches from you.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, Lucas, I shouldn’t have told them about our chat, but I figured you were all working in the same neighbourhood.’

‘Forget it,’ said Rocco. ‘I thought the same. Can I still ask for your help?’

‘Of course. I’m retiring, so I don’t care.’ He chuckled lightly down the phone. ‘It’s a refreshing change after all these years of jumping through hoops and doing the right thing; a bit like being out of school, if I can recall that far back. How did it happen? Broissard wouldn’t say; merely suggested you’d been compromised by contacts with a criminal organisation.’

Compromised, not accused. Broissard had been clever, he thought, no doubt acting on instructions from Saint-Cloud. The very mention of being compromised would make many police colleagues back away fast from the officer concerned, and would be enough to sink most careers without further question. ‘It was George Tasker and a man called Bones.’ He described what had happened and heard Nialls making explosive noises at the other end.

‘And they believed that load of old cobblers? Sorry, that means-’

‘I know what it means. And the answer is yes, they believed it.’

‘Christ Almighty, Tasker being involved would be enough for most coppers this side of the water to smell a rat, he’s done it so often. It rather explains where he was flying off to, though, doesn’t it? I suppose there are similar small airfields near you where he could have landed?’

‘A few,’ Rocco agreed. There were often small planes buzzing around the skies in the area, and he had a good idea where the most active club airfield was situated. He made a note to get Desmoulins onto it.

‘The other man was Bones, you say?’ Nialls continued. ‘That sounds disturbingly familiar. Did you get a first name?’

‘No. We were not introduced. But he takes a good photograph.’ Rocco described the man and heard the sound of a low whistle at the other end.

‘I thought so. There’s only one man I know who fits that description. Let me double-check, will you? I’ve a colleague here who knows Tasker’s circle of festering little mates better than I do. Won’t be a second.’ The phone went down with a clunk and Rocco heard a mumble of voices in the background, followed by laughter. Seconds later Nialls was back.

‘Well, that was easy. Fortunately, Tasker’s no Einstein; he used one of his own friends. My colleague confirms that it was a photographer named Patrick Daniel Skelton, known as “Bones”. That’s a play on words, although I suspect you know that.’

‘I do.’

‘Right. Skelton lurks at the lower edges of his profession, providing so-called evidence for divorce scams set up by a couple of private detectives. When he’s not doing that, he freelances for one of the nastier news rags and does photographic work for magazines in Soho. He has several minor convictions for handling pornography. I’ve had the dubious task of talking to him myself on a couple of occasions. I felt like having a bath after each one.’

‘And he is a friend of Tasker?’

‘Yes, although probably more supplier than friend.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I gather George Tasker has a rather brutal approach to getting women. Skelton gets them coming to him all the time, hoping for “film” work. One feeds the other.’

Rocco recalled Tasker’s expression when he’d seen Alix at the station. The air of sexual menace in his eyes had been blatant, and what Nialls had said came as no surprise.

‘Can you find out if this Skelton was out of the country at the same time as Tasker?’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?’

‘What exactly does Fletcher do?’

‘You mean when he’s not throwing his weight around for Ketch or Tasker? He’s a doorman — a bouncer. But when he’s not bullying drunks, he drives haulage trucks. Most of it’s involved with shifting illegal goods, but we haven’t been able to catch him at it yet.’

Rocco thanked him and put down the phone. So, another driver.

A truck driver.

A truck ramming a car. He pictured the scene, and thought about the two men involved. Fletcher the giant fist, the battering ram; Calloway the expert, the artist. Which one would be more useful for an attack on the president? A getaway driver with the skill to out-distance any police pursuit must be high up there. In most of the previous attacks, putting distance between themselves and the vengeful authorities had proved the most difficult thing for the gunmen to accomplish. In most cases, anyone who had escaped had done so through a knowledge of the area, of being able to slip away through narrow backstreets and hide among the local population. Or by sheer unadulterated good fortune. Because sometimes luck favoured the ungodly, too.

But if Rocco’s suspicions were correct, what use would a racing driver be on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere? With none of the usual security, public or press on hand, why would they need speed to escape afterwards? If the planned visit to the Pont Noir was going to be private, even the normal publicity machine would be unaware of the president’s presence. Any ensuing getaway would therefore be almost surreally casual in its execution.

Which meant Calloway wouldn’t be required. Not there, at any rate.

Because Fletcher would be the instrument of assault. Fletcher would be the giant fist driving a very blunt instrument. Everything hinged on him.

He’d been looking at the wrong man.