Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,107
Claude from the back seat. He was holding his shotgun across his knees, broken, the cartridges in his hand. He sounded distracted, as if talking to himself. ‘She had a day’s leave to take in lieu of a late shift. She’s been working too hard. I told her to stay at home and relax. She won’t, of course. She’ll be out and about in the village doing stuff to keep herself occupied.’ He stopped talking and stared out of the window, his words hanging in the air between them.
Rocco took out the revolver he’d taken from Biggs. It held two shells. ‘Do they know what weapons Tasker was using?’
‘A shotgun with sawn-off barrels,’ said Desmoulins. ‘Nasty brute of a weapon – like the man himself. He’s probably got a handgun, too.’
‘What do we do if he’s in the village, Lucas?’ said Claude. He didn’t have to explain himself; Tasker was a city gangster, accustomed to the proximity of streets and houses and people. He’d be in his element among buildings, even in a small village like Poissons, with ample protection and hiding places. And he’d be ruthless and desperate enough to use whatever and whomever he could, and to hell with the consequences.
‘If he’s in there,’ said Rocco evenly, ‘we’ll get him out. Don’t worry about it.’ He closed the cylinder of the revolver with a soft click, and hoped the other two couldn’t hear the uncertainty in his voice.
Because with men like Tasker, at the end of his rope and with nothing to lose, there were no certainties.
They drove into Poissons slowly, watching the buildings for movement, for signs of an impending ambush. If Tasker was a strategist, he’d wait for them to get in among the houses, then take them out one by one. But all the while he’d be waiting for Rocco to show.
A police car was parked across the street, empty, and a group of men was gathered at the door of the village café. Among them Rocco saw M. Thierry, who cared for the graveyard, and Delsaire, the local plumber, and Arnaud, the village handyman.
They liked a good gathering, Rocco remembered. Anything for a bit of excitement.
The men turned when they heard the vehicles and stepped away from the door. Rocco told Desmoulins to stop and jumped out. Leaving Godard and his men to take a look round, he walked into the café, nodding at the men, and found two uniformed officers with a dejected-looking Calloway slumped in a chair, his wrists handcuffed.
‘Where is he?’ Rocco felt dirty and tired and damp and didn’t want to waste his time talking to this man, but to get on with tracking down Tasker. But he needed to get something from Calloway while he still could. His attitude clearly conveyed itself to the Englishman, because he drew his feet together and sat up straight, eyes wary.
‘I dropped him off near the church,’ he said quickly, without being asked. ‘He said he was going to kill you.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘I mean, does he intend hurting anyone else?’
‘I doubt it. He doesn’t know anyone else. He’s pretty much a mental mess right now; too much to think about and he’d explode.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s over the edge. It’s as if he’s lost all reason. Rambling, playing with his guns and threatening anyone who disagrees. He kicked Biggs out of the car because he said something he didn’t like and he needed a decoy, and he only got me to bring him here by sticking his gun in my ribs. I think he’s nuts – and he wasn’t exactly the most stable of men, anyway. Then he met you.’ When Rocco didn’t say anything, he continued, ‘Tasker’s been pretty much top dog in his own world for years now. There are men above him on the human ladder of pond life, but far more below. He enjoys throwing his weight around but hasn’t got the brains to run his own show, so he’s been playing second fiddle to someone who does.’
‘Ketch, you mean.’
‘Yes. And I think Ketch knew how he felt. Which is probably why he sent him on this suicide mission. Tasker’s problem was, he was too thick to turn it down.’
‘You came, too,’ Rocco pointed out.
Calloway smiled grimly. ‘Yes. What does that say about me? Thing is, none of us knew what we were signing up to, not really. I suspect that in the long run, neither did Tasker.’