Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,34

you’re lying. But there’s no need for your men to hear. Tell me where the car came from … or who wants it to disappear. Phone number, name, location – any or all will do. Otherwise I’ll put a squad in here this afternoon and they’ll go through this rat hole centimetre by centimetre.’ He took his diary from his coat pocket. It was leather-bound and slim. ‘See this?’

Bellin nodded. ‘Yes. So?’

‘It’s the official log of every car stolen in northern France over the last eight months. Now, what are the odds of me finding one of the plates listed here among all that shit out there?’ He nodded at the piles of junk. ‘Or do you trust your men implicitly?’

Bellin stared at the diary, then his eyes flicked away. He nodded. ‘Okay. But I’m not admitting anything. This guy called me last week, said a car would be dropped off. It would probably be badly damaged, he said, and he’d pay good money for it to be scrapped. I didn’t argue, and why would I? The demand for scrap metal isn’t that good at the moment. I can barely keep those two men on as it is.’

‘My heart bleeds for you. Who was this benevolent person?’

‘No idea. On my mother’s life!’ He was looking intense and Rocco detected a note of desperation in his voice. Maybe he was telling the truth … or maybe he was more scared of the man who’d called him than he was of the police.

‘All right. Who dropped it off?’

‘I told you, it was—’

‘Suit yourself.’ Rocco began to turn away. ‘This yard is closed as of now. Nothing leaves here. Send your men home and give me the keys to your office.’

‘Wait!’ Bellin looked shocked and grabbed Rocco by the elbow, then let go with a cry of dismay when Rocco instinctively bunched his arm. ‘Sorry … I didn’t mean anything.’ His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘But you’ve got to listen to me … being seen talking to you could get me in the middle of one of those piles.’ He nodded at the heaps of chopped-up car parts lying around the yard. Few of them were much bigger than a man’s torso.

Rocco waited, his interest kicking into overdrive. If Bellin was this scared, he’d like to meet the person who could inspire this level of dread.

‘You’d better hurry, then, hadn’t you? Then I can be out of your hair.’

Bellin hesitated, then caved. He said quietly, ‘All right. This mec – I didn’t ask his name – just turned up outside the gate. He said this was the car for cutting, as arranged. That’s all. Then he jumped into another car that was waiting and that was the last I saw of him. And before you ask, I didn’t take a note of the registration or see the other driver. It wasn’t worth my face to look.’

‘When was this?’

‘Two days ago.’

Rocco considered it for a moment. The time frame was right, at least. But was he telling the whole truth? So, a guy turns up at the yard and dumps a car. Where hadn’t he heard that story before? It was probably going on right now in every other city across France, no questions asked, in exchange for hard cash or favours. Some of those favours might include leaving the yard owner’s face in one piece, as Bellin was suggesting. He guessed he wasn’t going to get much more from this man. Even crooks had their limits when self-preservation was at stake.

‘Can you describe him? Young, old, dark, fair, bad breath … what?’

Bellin gave an elaborate shrug, undoubtedly more for the benefit of his two men than anything, a display of obduracy should anyone have cause to ask later. ‘Youngish, early thirties, medium height, dark hair, a bit of a tan. Didn’t notice anything else.’

‘Like a million other Frenchmen. That’s a big help.’

Bellin’s eyes narrowed, as if he’d suddenly seen a way out. He dropped his cigarette in the mud and stamped on it. ‘Actually, that’s the thing. Not like any Frenchman – not in that way, anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He spoke French okay … but not good. And he wasn’t dressed like anyone around here.’

‘Go on.’

‘I think he was a Rosbif. An Englishman.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

If there had ever been a street name to the narrow run of ruined buildings on the outskirts of Créteil, in south-east Paris, it no longer existed save on old maps of the commune or in the memories