Death on the Pont Noir

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

‘Not far off now,’ said Calloway, who had been watching signposts. He had a flair for navigating which Tasker lacked, and had only needed to glance at the map once more to know where he was on the twisting and narrow country roads leading towards the village of Poissonsles-Marais.

Little had been said since they had changed course, although Biggs had kept up a regular muttering about going the wrong way and wasting valuable time. Tasker had said nothing in reply, too absorbed in staring out of the window at the unfolding panorama of brown fields rolling by.

They had met virtually no traffic save for the occasional van or tractor and one or two cyclists, the latter hunched over their handlebars, faces pinched and grey against the cold air. The route Calloway had chosen had kept them clear of villages, passing only one or two ramshackle farms, and a cafe with a giant Pernod advert painted on the side wall.

‘How far?’ The words seemed to stir Tasker from his thoughts. He lifted the sawn-off and took out the two spent cartridges, replacing them with the fresh ones. He snapped it shut.

From behind him came a click of metal as Biggs also checked his gun.

‘About two miles.’

‘This is a waste of time,’ the former soldier muttered, slapping a hand on the back of the seat for emphasis. ‘What the hell are we doing out here? We’d be in Calais by now if we’d kept going north.’

‘We’re here because I said so,’ Tasker growled. ‘It’s part of the job, that’s all.’

‘Yeah — and a proper bleedin’ lash-up that was. My mate’s dead, thanks for asking, and we’re stuck in the middle of bleedin’ nowhere. My mother could’ve organised things better than this. Friggin’ amateurs.’ He clicked the cylinder back into place and turned to watch the road behind them.

There was silence for a while as they rumbled gently along a stretch of uneven tarmac. Then a vehicle appeared coming the other way.

A police car.

Tasker said calmly, ‘Keep going. Don’t even eyeball them, you hear?’

The two cars passed each other, and the three Englishmen caught a glimpse of two men in uniform, eyeing the DS with interest.

Tasker turned and looked back. The police car was slowing with a flash of its brake lights. They were turning back. ‘Put your foot down,’ he said quietly. ‘Get us a good lead.’

Calloway nodded and the car leapt forward. They drove in silence for a mile, each alone in their thoughts. Then Tasker said, ‘Stop the car.’

Calloway glanced at him. ‘You what? They’ll be on us in a minute.’

‘I said, stop the bloody car. Now!’ To emphasise his point, Tasker dropped the stock of the sawn-off into the crook of his elbow so that the barrels were nudging Calloway’s ribcage.

Calloway did as he was told, applying the brakes firmly but smoothly. Any sudden movement right now would cost him his life. He coasted to a halt. They were near an expanse of woodland, the trees spiky and rimed with frost. A gathering of crows circled around the uppermost branches, disturbed by the car’s arrival, while below them, some cows in a field looked up, breathing out clouds of vapour at this sudden intrusion.

Tasker said without looking round, ‘Biggs. Get round to the back and rip off the number plate. Somebody will have reported it and we need to keep ’em guessing.’

Biggs eyed the gun in Tasker’s hands, then shrugged and climbed out.

‘Right, go,’ said Tasker quietly, and lifted the barrels of the sawn-off. ‘Nice and quick, now.’

Calloway had no choice. He nodded and stamped on the accelerator. The car fishtailed slightly on the greasy surface, then they were away, leaving Biggs standing at the side of the road, his mouth open in shock.

‘What was that for?’ said Calloway.

‘Because he annoyed me. And he called us amateurs.’ He sniffed and lowered the gun to the floor between his knees. ‘And he’ll slow down that cop car. Now get me close to this bloody village before they catch up with us.’