Death on the Pont Noir

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Caspar nudged open the door of the Bar Relais and felt the welcoming brush of warmth against his face. After the cold of the streets outside, his skin began to tingle in response. He walked up to the bar, nodding at one or two faces around the room.

He was on familiar ground here in the 10th arrondissement, not far from the Gare de l’Est. But it didn’t mean he felt relaxed. Just a few streets away was the Arab quarter of Belleville, a place he wasn’t keen on seeing again anytime soon. Not so long ago he’d run foul of a man named Farek, an Algerian gangster who had been hell-bent on tracking down and killing his runaway wife… and, as it happened, Lucas Rocco. They had all three been lucky to escape with their lives, especially Caspar, and ever since he had made a point of keeping a careful eye out for hostile forces. The main man might have gone, shot dead on his own brother’s instructions it was rumoured, but memories here were long.

‘Caspar — you dog!’ A tall man with a hooked nose turned and grinned, seeing his reflection in the mirror, and said, ‘I thought you were dead. You want a drink?’

‘Yeah, thanks, Babon. Ricard, please.’ Maurice Babonneau was a former policeman turned co-owner of the cafe, and spent more time on the customers’ side of the bar than behind it, stoking up friendships, trading gossip and generally making sure he could jump on any trouble before it got too heavy. The regular clientele was a mixed brew of North Africans, Asians and Chinese, with a steady flow of cops and ex-soldiers trawling the street network for information or work, depending on their needs. Most were genial neighbours, but occasionally, old enemies ran into each other by chance.

‘You working?’ Babon’s voice dropped. He knew of Caspar’s suspension from the force, and was one of the few who were aware of Caspar’s former undercover role.

‘Here and there. This and that. You know how it is. Is Tatar in?’

‘Not yet. Soon will be, though. You need a booth?’ The bar had a few private booths in a back room, originally used years ago for assignations between men with money and women without. They were now a favoured meeting place for discreet business of a very different kind.

‘Please.’

Babon nodded. ‘Okay. Go through to number three. I’ll send him in.’

Caspar took his drink and went through a rear door and into a booth made of plywood and leather, with enough room for four people at a crush. The walls had been lined many times over the years, and short of someone standing right outside the curtained entrance with their ear bent round the frame, conversations were guaranteed private.

He sipped his drink and worked on settling his nerves. He hadn’t done this for a while, ducking into bars to tap contacts for information. Not people like Tatar, anyway. The sort of security work he did now was more corporate in nature, and free of the kind of threat he’d become used to… or was it addicted to? He still wasn’t sure.

Tatar was a man with a chequered history, most of it washed with the grim spray of illegality. Born and brought up in a Berber family in North Africa, he had joined the OAS almost out of boredom, but also as a way of escaping what he saw as the dying way of life of his forebears. He wanted to get to France, where he saw opportunity. Possessed of a sharp brain, he worked his way up, gathering a pot of money to trade with. It was the way things were done; you got a pot together as a sign of goodwill and intention. A deal here, a deal there, and soon you were in on the best deals and latest news where credit, if you were trusted, was readily available. From there, the sky was your limit. He had soon begun to set up deals smuggling gold and other valued items across the Med into France, and was now one of the top deal-makers in the city.

He also knew more people than anyone Caspar could think of, with a contacts list like the PTT directory.

The curtain swished back and a large man with a generous belly slipped onto the bench seat across from Caspar. Tatar was dressed in a smart suit and expensive silk shirt and tie. He was in his forties but looked older, a physical attribute he always claimed gave him gravitas and was the reason for his success. People didn’t trust Young Turks, he reckoned; they liked to deal with men of substance.

‘Christ, you’ve gone over to the dark side,’ said Caspar, eyeing the man’s clothes, and held out a hand. ‘They’ll soon have your name down for a private seat at the Bourse.’ The last time he’d seen Tatar, the man had been wearing the casual clothes of his part-Berber, part-French way of life, easily mixing with both sides. He’d clearly gone up in the world, a fact he confirmed.

‘Been there, done it,’ he grinned, and sipped his brandy. ‘I’ve been lucky. Don’t worry, Marc; I’m all respectable and glad of the change. As is my wife.’ He eyed Caspar with genuine friendship, although neither man could recall how it had formed, only that they had never been enemies. ‘What can I do for you?’

Caspar hunched over his drink. ‘The attack at Guignes, on the N19.’ He’d left a message for Tatar giving the nature of his query. It was the way the Berber did business. ‘Anything you can tell me?’

Tatar winced in disgust. ‘Quelle horreur! Like Oran and Tunis in the old days. Bullets flying like mosquitoes. What did you want to know?’

‘Who was involved?’

Tatar shook his head. ‘Bunch of amateurs, from what I hear. Didn’t even get their facts right.’ He sniffed. ‘They won’t be doing it again for a long while, that’s for sure.’

Caspar bit his lip. He’d been counting on Tatar to come up with the goods. ‘Pity. Never mind.’

‘I didn’t say I knew nothing.’ Tatar gave a slow smile, the look of a man proud to be the bearer of news. ‘I’ve got a brother who works in the Medici Hospital near Versailles.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘You wouldn’t. It’s a small place for the rehabilitation and treatment of special patients. It’s not the sort of place to get much publicity.’

Caspar forgot his drink. ‘What sort of special patients?’

‘Military. The kind they can’t put in open wards.’

‘Go on.’

‘They had two wounded brought in the night of the attack and one dead. One of the wounded was a motorcycle cop, the other a civilian. No papers on him, so probably just a gun hand. He was taken away the same night, only lightly wounded, apparently. But I had my brother get hold of the file on the cop, just out of interest.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘And guess what? Turns out he’s no ordinary traffic cop.’ He slid a folded sheet of paper across the table. ‘It’s all in there. You didn’t get that from me, okay?’

‘Of course. It’s hot?’

‘It’s very hot. So hot I don’t want to carry it with me any longer than I have to.’

‘Tell your brother I owe him.’

‘Forget it. He owes me far more. It’s about time he paid something back.’ He drained his drink and slapped Caspar on the shoulder, his expression suddenly serious. ‘You want my opinion, that whole business was a set-up.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Simple. The idiots thought they were staging an ambush; but it was them who ended up being whacked. Now, ask yourself who could have arranged such a thing — and why?’