Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,36
the second stepped in and rammed an elbow into his stomach, stifling the warning he was about to utter. Only a soft whoosh of expelled air escaped.
But it was enough.
‘Franco?’ The light inside the garage moved and a voice called out softly, ‘You all right?’
‘Yeah. Hurry up!’ One of the newcomers hissed, and clamped a large hand over the prisoner’s mouth, staring into his eyes with a gaze cold enough to freeze the blood.
Then two more men appeared out of the night, taking up positions on either side of the garage entrance. Both carried pistols. A brief exchange of signals, and the first two men hustled silently away back down the street, carrying their prisoner with them.
Seconds passed, then a shrill whistle pierced the night. Suddenly the abandoned Renault burst into life. It charged away from the kerb, shrugging off the bench seat from the door and the tyre on the bonnet, and roared towards the garages, the high-performance whine of the engine giving lie to the poor state of the bodywork. The headlights flared on with shocking intensity, illuminating the garage and the two men who were emerging from the interior.
They froze, their faces registering shock at this sudden eruption of activity and the sight of men with guns standing almost alongside them. With a scream of rubber, the van stopped facing the garage opening. Before they could gather themselves, they heard the rattle of weapons being cocked and a bellowed order from the Renault.
‘Stand still or we shoot!’
The men obeyed. Lit up like the fourteenth of July and facing automatic weapons, they were too stunned to do anything but stare dumbly around them at a scene which, moments earlier, had been theirs and theirs alone.
‘Alors. What have we got here, then?’ A slim figure in dark clothing stepped into view. Like the other men, his face was covered, but his eyes glittered with grim humour. ‘Doing a spot of tidying up, were we? Trying to make the place look nice?’ He peered into the garage, where a workbench against one wall held an array of weapons, the blued steel and wooden stocks clearly visible in the glow from the Renault’s lights. ‘Oh dear. Now that’s a prison sentence, all ready and waiting.’ He turned and looked at the lead man. ‘You three must have really upset someone, you know that? Shame. You can’t rely on anyone to keep a secret these days, can you?’ He signalled for his men to check them for weapons and cuff them. ‘We don’t want any nasty surprises, do we?’
‘What did you mean just then?’ The lead man seemed perfectly calm, as if accepting that being caught was part of the risk, and therefore to be expected. He spoke well, his voice carrying a natural tone of authority. He turned his back and clasped his hands behind him. ‘We upset someone.’
‘You were sold out, my friend,’ replied the slim figure, who seemed to enjoy turning the screw. ‘Like chickens at a Saturday market. Never mind; you’ll have plenty of time to figure out who by, I’m sure.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The battered DS looked forlorn in the yard behind the police station the following morning, its black finish whitened under a layer of morning frost. It had been brought in on a trailer and was now lying low on its wheels like a beached whale. One of the front tyres had deflated overnight and its brief stay in Bellin’s oily pit of a yard had not done the coachwork many favours, even without the damaged bodywork.
Dr Rizzotti had drawn a chalk line around it, and had forbidden anyone from approaching it, taking his cue from a bulletin from the National Police Science Centre about crime scene protection. He had asked Captain Canet to assign an officer to take notes and help with the inspection, and a young, fresh-faced gardien was standing by with a clipboard, huddled inside a heavy coat and puffing vapour into the cold air.
When Rocco arrived, he found Rizzotti sitting behind the wheel. He was motionless, absorbing the atmosphere. Rocco knew all about that; it was vitally important when studying a crime scene, and more could be gained by a few minutes of quiet reflection than charging in and spoiling whatever clues might be available.
Rizzotti checked the seat setting. ‘Whoever last drove this wasn’t very tall. A bit less than medium height.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Cigarette smoke – could be from the men at the scrapyard, of course. But something else, too.’