Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,110

to deal with as it was. He finally decided on directness. ‘You were wrong about Rocco,’ he said, face to the glass. ‘We were all wrong. He was set up. We – I – should have taken more time to investigate the circumstances before suspending him.’

‘Really?’ Saint-Cloud sounded supremely unconcerned, intent on his packing. ‘Well, if you choose to believe that, it’s up to you. I think the man is incompetent and a loose canon. You should have had him on a tighter rein.’

Massin felt his temper rise at the rebuke, and turned to face Saint-Cloud. ‘But how could I? You had him assigned to you by orders of the Ministry. Now you are saying I wasn’t controlling him?’

Saint-Cloud stopped what he was doing. Dropping a sheaf of papers into a box, he fastened his eyes on Massin. ‘Yes. If you’d had more balls, you could have refused to let him go. But you didn’t.’

‘What?’

‘Unfortunately, you’ve always been something of a paper officer, haven’t you, Massin? Governed by rules and regulations like the St Cyr Academy swot that you always wanted to be.’ His mouth twisted with contempt. ‘You were a joke back then, did you know that? A little bootlicker who wanted to join the big boys. I hear you actually had the brass to apply midterm for a senior command post in Paris.’

Massin, as shocked by the insulting tone of Saint-Cloud’s voice as the poisonous words, said, ‘How do you know that?’ He’d been assured that all such applications for transfers were in the strictest confidence and never revealed until a decision was made. He’d applied during a rush of dislike for this job and this place, anxious to get somewhere – anywhere – else. Since then, he’d had cause to rethink his application.

‘How do you think I know? I have the ear of certain people in the Ministry, that’s how. It comes with position and influence – but that’s something I doubt you’ll ever realise. Or maybe it’s because I have no stains on my record … unlike some.’

‘What … what do you mean?’ Massin’s voice sounded strangled, even to him. Saint-Cloud was touching on something buried deep, something shameful that should have been beyond the reaches of men like him. For a horrible moment he wondered about Rocco. Had the former army sergeant said something, finally breaking his silence? The risk had always been there, ever since he’d first set eyes on him at the cemetery outside Poissons, on his first morning in the job. It had been an unwelcome jolt to the gut but one he’d had to face up to, hoping Rocco would never speak of what he knew.

‘That business in Indochina; at Mong Khoua, wasn’t it? It’s common knowledge, of course, in certain quarters.’ His eyes flashed with spite and he added, ‘Little François Massin, the Academy poltron, shitting his pants in the middle of a battle. Hardly officer behaviour, was it?’

‘That’s outrageous!’ Massin’s face was white with fury and shame, his stomach gripped by the realisation that the past was no longer the forgotten secret he’d imagined. ‘Retract that immediately!’

‘I will do no such thing.’ Saint-Cloud stabbed a finger in the air before Massin’s face. ‘That is why you will never rise higher than commissaire of a backwater region based in a mud puddle like this one, Massin.’ He managed somehow to imbue the title of commissaire with all the gravitas of a minor public fonctionnaire or town hall paper shuffler.

For one awful second, Massin contemplated walking back to his office and picking up his service weapon. A single shot should do it, wiping the sneering ugliness from Saint-Cloud’s face for ever.

Then a sense of calm overcame him. Saint-Cloud didn’t know everything after all. Massin had never been to the fortified base of Mong Khoua, another senseless loss of men and position in a brutal war of attrition. Saint-Cloud was simply feeding on rumour to mount a vile attack. And if Rocco had talked, he would at least have got the detail correct.

He reined himself in. Suddenly he saw the way forward. He’d made a mistake. He had been so distracted … no, not that … in awe of Saint-Cloud’s position and his mission here, so blinded by the opportunity of what the president’s visit might mean for himself, that he’d been ready to doubt one of his own officers at the first accusation.

He took a deep breath. An apology to Rocco could never be enough. He still resented being dragged off