Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,12

his next words were clear enough. ‘Shtumm, boys, remember.’

Rocco moved further inside the room. He was holding a handful of British passports. Flicking them open, he studied the contents at length, allowing the silence to build. Then he compared faces with photos, going from one man to the next, staring them in the eye and noting their reactions. When he was finished, he slapped the passports shut and put them away, then studied the state of the men’s hands.

The big man, Tasker, was clearly the leader. Every group of individuals had one – even a group of violent drunks. And authority radiated off this man like an electric current. He was forty-five years old, married and listed as a businessman. He had the brutal appearance of a barroom brawler, although his suit looked expensive, if flash, as did the large gold rings on his fingers. Somewhere along the road of his life, someone had flattened his nose, and he had developed layers of old scar tissue over his eyes and was missing half of one eyebrow. He’d probably been a good puncher in his time, thought Rocco, eyeing his big shoulders and bunched knuckles, but with a poor defence. And judging by the fresh cuts and abrasions on his hands, he had been using those knuckles only a short while ago.

The second big man, Fletcher, was older at fifty-one. He had the dull eyes of a follower and a hard-man body going to seed around the edges. His clothes were also flashy, but cheap. He, too, was nursing cuts to his hands. Two younger men named Biggs and Jarvis were working hard at ignoring Rocco, but failing. They looked fit, like former soldiers or athletes, but beginning to go soft, their fingers yellowed by nicotine and reddened with scratches and cuts. Both were listed as customer managers. And then there was a man named Calloway, occupation professional driver, more French than English by appearance and somehow aloof from his companions. And smarter.

Rocco couldn’t think when he’d last seen such a mixed bunch, and decided it would have been back in Paris. They would have been criminals, too, just like this lot, of that he was certain.

‘For your information, Mr Tasker,’ he said in English, looking at the big man, ‘my name is Rocco. Inspector Rocco. That’s a strange word, “shtumm”. Is it London slang?’ He held Tasker’s gaze but the man looked too surprised to say anything. ‘Is there a particular reason why your friends should remain quiet?’

‘Terrific.’ The soft murmur came from Calloway, on hearing Rocco’s easy grasp of the language.

Tasker glared at him, but said to Rocco, ‘Go screw yourself, copper.’

‘See, that is what I do not understand,’ Rocco replied, and looked at each of the men in turn. He walked up and down, forcing them to follow him with their eyes, each turn taking him closer and closer until he was right in front of them, and they were having to crane their necks to see his face. ‘Five … friends, come to France and have a little fun. They drink too much of our wine and beer – even a bottle or two of cognac, according to the bar owner – and end up drunk. So drunk they completely ruin a bar.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens, of course. Even here we are not immune to the odd fracas. But then the men prove … difficult when taken in for questioning.’

‘So?’ Tasker stuck his chin out. ‘What’s your point?’

‘My point, Mr Tasker, is why? Most people in your situation would be eager – is that the word, eager? – to get out of here. After all, our jails are not famous for being comfortable.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a constant source of national shame, but budgets are very limited. However, you men are different. No, for some reason, you make more of this … episode than it needs. Almost as if you want to stay here. Is it the British military cemeteries which have attracted you to our region? I think not. It can hardly be the local fishing because you do not look like any fishermen I have ever seen. I’m just a little puzzled, that’s all. Perhaps we should talk about it.’ He studied Tasker’s eyes very carefully, looking for something, but failing to find it. It only added to his bafflement. He decided to unsettle him and turned to the three officers, pointing at Calloway. ‘Bring that man.’ Then he turned and left