Death on the Pont Noir

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Jack Fletcher stared hard at a point in the front left corner of the shed, his foot poised on the accelerator, keeping the engine of the Renault at a smooth pitch. He’d judged the distances carefully with the help of the man who’d brought him here. He had spoken passable English, and between them they had worked out at what point Fletcher had to hit the gas in order to hit the car broadside on. From the three test runs he’d made, he knew precisely what the timing was and how fast the truck had to be going. And that was Fletcher’s speciality. There would be no messing this time, no holding back, even just a little. He’d had his orders. This one was for real.

He felt his heart tripping fast, reverberating through his chest even above the roar of the truck engine in the confined space of the shed. For the first time in years, he felt proud of what he was about to do. ‘Ruby’ Ketch, passing on orders from a higher authority, had selected him for this job, and him alone. No George bloody Tasker sticking his oar in this time, telling him how he’d screwed up and gone in too heavy. This time, Tasker was going to see and feel what heavy was all about. And Calloway. They wouldn’t know what had hit them.

He laughed out loud at the absurd beauty of it. Because they bloody would know, of course they would; in the few seconds it would take them to suss it out, by which time it would be too late, they’d go mental as the realisation of what Ketch had planned for them actually sank in.

‘We got a big job for you, Jack.’ Ketch had said two days ago. He’d treated Fletcher to a few drinks before telling him what he’d wanted. ‘Seems we’ve got a couple of bleedin’ twicers in the camp.’

‘What?’ Fletcher wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Twicers. Cheats. Traitors. ‘Who?’

Ketch had told him, lighting up a big cigar while Fletcher absorbed the information.

Tasker and Calloway? He could hardly believe it. On the other hand, he’d never liked Tasker, and Calloway was too smooth for his own bleedin’ good. Smarmy young git. He found he’d been ready to believe anything of them.

‘We need someone we can rely on, Jack, to sort this out,’ Ketch had continued, flicking away the match. ‘Someone with the balls to do it right.’ He’d looked Fletcher in the eye from close up, the smell of the cigar mixing with cologne and filling Fletcher’s nose. ‘We need ’em to go away, Jack. Gone for good — know what I mean?’

He’d accompanied the words by taking out his trademark pen and writing a number on a paper napkin. It was a big number, so big it had almost made Fletcher’s eyes water. And preceded by a pound sign. It was more than Fletcher had earned in years, and he swore the number sat there looking up at him with a devilish grin on its face, calling out to him to pick it up.

Ketch had leant closer, a reassuring hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. ‘Money like this, you could retire, Jack.’

‘Eh?’ That had come as a surprise. But not an unwelcome one.

‘Call it your signing-off fee, eh? Bloody good sign-off, too. You’d be in clover. And the job you’d be doing, you’d be a legend.’ The final four words were said in a hushed whisper, and Jack Fletcher felt his chest would explode.

He’d picked up the napkin and thought, a job like this, I’d do it for bloody nothing.

Now, watching through the gap he’d made between the planks in the wall, he waited for the black Citroen to appear. They’d be driving at a steady pace, he’d been assured, unsuspecting because Tasker and Calloway had been told the crash would take place a good mile further down the road, on a bend. They’d probably be gassing, telling themselves how clever they were to be cheating on Ketch and the rest, and wouldn’t even give the shed a passing glance. To them, it would be a shitty structure in the middle of a vast brown rolling sea of muddy fields.

He looked at his wing mirrors out of habit, before remembering that he’d ripped them off before driving into the shed. They’d have only got in the way, and he wasn’t going to use them in any case. And he sure as buggery wasn’t going to hand the truck back to anyone, not once he’d finished with it. The drum of petrol in the back would see to that. One match and woof — all gone, just like the last one.

He checked his watch. Another five minutes. He was ahead of himself. And nervy. He needed to calm down. He left the motor running and jumped out, squeezing through the narrow gap between the truck and the side of the shed. He shuffled to the back of the truck where he’d made a hole in the rear doors to let out the exhaust smoke. He sparked up a last cigarette, feeling the cold bite of a draught fanning the air around him. That was better. He could do this, no sweat.

He checked the time again. He wasn’t sure why it was so critical; Tasker had never been punctual for anything. Still, best follow orders. He tossed the cigarette aside and made his way back to the cab.

A flash of movement showed in the spyhole between the boards, and he revved the engine, his heart going with it. Christ, they were early. No, wait. It was a dark-blue saloon with a cupboard strapped on the top, bobbing about like a jelly. Christ, he’d be pulled over for that back in England, daft bugger. He breathed out in short sharp bursts, willing his heart rate to return to normal.

He coughed, eyes fixed on the road through the gap. His throat was hurting and a veil of smoke drifted in through the open side window. Exhaust fumes were building up inside the shed. He swore but didn’t dare take his eyes off the road. He’d been revving the engine too much and it wasn’t being carried away sufficiently at the back. He should have thrown out all the wooden crates instead of cramming them alongside the truck. Trouble was, a local might have noticed and come to investigate.

Two minutes seemed to drag by achingly slowly. Then another car appeared. Black, shiny, a pale flash of blinds at the windows.

A Citroen DS.

Fletcher hit the accelerator hard, relieved he’d kept the engine warmed and ready to fly. He coughed again, his throat raw now, as the stubby little truck leapt forward like a terrier going after a rabbit. It hit the front doors with a mighty crash, the railway sleeper strapped to the front ripping through the rotten wood like paper and showering the cab and bonnet with years of accumulated dust and debris, cobwebs and bird shit. The rush of daylight flooding the cab made him blink after the gloom. The truck bounced as it hit the track, and shook off a cascade of planks tumbling around the roof. As it hit clear air, it seemed to gather speed as if revelling in the cold, clear atmosphere like a bull let out to grass.

And Jack Fletcher, fired by the excitement of it all, screamed unintelligible words at the top of his lungs, pounding the steering wheel with his fist, eyes streaming with tears but fixed on the target vehicle, now about two hundred yards away and approaching the end of the track and the bridge without a care in the world.

The instructions had been clear as day. No messing. No hesitation. Do it.

So intense was he on the target, so high with excitement, that Fletcher failed to notice the billowing rage of smoke trailing behind him; failed to see the flames started by the cigarette landing in the old dried grass beginning to consume the rear of the truck… and creeping towards the drum of petrol lashed in the back.

‘Broadside on, Jack, as hard as you can. Push the bastard twicers right over the edge.’

He was going to be a legend.

Adrian Magson

Death on the Pont Noir