Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,33
involved.’
‘So?’ Bellin spat the cigarette out. The soggy mess landed very close to one of Rocco’s English brogues. ‘Nothing to do with me. I don’t know anything about any murder.’
‘Well, the car is now in your hands. That lands it on your doorstep – literally. Do you know what conspiracy is?’
Bellin feigned a look of boredom. ‘No. Should I?’
‘It means an agreement between people to commit a criminal act. One of the most serious is in the murder of a third party. Even after the event.’ He waited while Bellin processed what he was hearing. It was a slow grind, rather like watching one of those tumbling-man toys in action. But understanding dawned slowly on the scrap dealer’s face.
‘So – how does that affect me?’
‘It means anyone involved,’ Rocco explained carefully, ‘anyone – no matter what their role – gets the same sentence as the person who drove the car.’ It wasn’t entirely correct because of the likelihood of extenuating circumstances, but he wasn’t about to tell Bellin. Let the grubby little toad sweat a bit.
‘Hey – no! Wait!’ Bellin appeared to wake up as the words finally dropped into place like coins in a slot machine. ‘That’s not right. I told your man, the car was outside when I got here. I don’t know who left it there. I can’t be held responsible for what happened before it came here, can I?’
‘You can,’ Desmoulins put in, ‘if you don’t explain why you’re about to cut up an expensive car like that. You’d make a nice sum even if you sold it to one of your grubby criminal potes to do up. Give it new paperwork and a bit of paint, and sooner or later some mug will buy it.’ He leant closer. ‘And don’t tell me that hasn’t crossed your devious little mind, because I know you better than that.’
Bellin said nothing, but his beady eyes were going runabout, Rocco noticed. Not that he would crumble too easily; men like him would only cave in if they were on the brink of arrest and saw no other way out.
‘I think Mr Bellin gets the message,’ he said. ‘We’ll let him think it over.’ He walked away and stopped alongside the Citroën.
The uniformed officer gave a nod of recognition. ‘I hope this is the one you’re looking for.’
Rocco studied the damage to the side of the car. It looked as if a giant fist had hit the car amidships, pushing in both front and rear passenger doors. Had it not been for a network of sturdy metal poles welded together and covered in foam padding to form a protective cage, he guessed the damage would have been more extensive. He tugged a splinter of oily wood from the gap between the doors and sniffed at it. It smelt faintly of tar.
A connection.
‘I think it just might be. But we’ll soon find out. Well spotted.’ He looked around at the oil-sodden ground they were standing on and nodded at Desmoulins, who was peering in the driver’s side. ‘We need to get this out of here. Can you get it picked up and taken to the station? We can get Rizzotti to have a proper look there.’
‘Sure.’ Desmoulins looked at the patrol officer. ‘Can I use your car radio?’
The two men walked away, leaving Rocco to consider the car and what secrets it might eventually give up. That the vehicle had been left here to quietly disappear, he had no doubt. The same happened in Paris and other cities on a regular basis. Cars used in criminal enterprises were routinely repainted, re-registered or underwent some other transformation, often permanent. And yards like this were nearly always involved. They had the equipment and willingness to do such work … and their unwelcoming appearance, aided by guard dogs, was usually enough to put off casual snoopers from paying too much attention to what they were doing.
He peered through the splintered glass remaining in the side windows. He could see nothing inside, neither normal travel rubbish nor personal effects, and if there was any kind of crime involved, such as the death of a vagrant, even accidentally, it was probable that it had already been cleaned out. But as he knew well, even the most careful cleaning sometimes failed to remove everything.
He rejoined Bellin, who was busy lighting another foullooking cigarette. The man had to take three tries before it caught, and he avoided looking Rocco in the eye.