Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,37

He sniffed again, then looked at the young policeman, who was making notes. ‘Do you have a good wine nose, boy?’ When the man shrugged, he glanced at Rocco. ‘Lucas?’

‘Not in this weather and not this early. Why?’

Rizzotti climbed out of the car and shut the door. ‘Pity. I can smell something other than the normal car smells. It could be perfume, but I need to be sure before the aroma fades altogether.’

‘You think it’s important?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ He chewed his lip. ‘Women are more sensitive to that kind of thing, in my experience.’ He looked to Rocco for help. ‘They like nice smells – especially in a man. To a woman, smell is important. Ask any of them.’ He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘My wife would know but only if it was on my shirt collar.’

‘There’s the new gardienne,’ the young uniformed officer volunteered tentatively. ‘Alix – I mean, Officer Poulon.’ He blushed. ‘Shall I get her?’

Rizzotti nodded. ‘Please do.’ He waited for the young man to leave, then said softly, ‘Sweet. I think he’s in love.’

When the officer returned, he had Alix with him. She looked at Rocco and Rizzotti with a frown as if sensing a practical joke. ‘Is he serious?’ she murmured, nodding at her colleague. ‘You actually want me to smell this car?’

‘If you would, please,’ said Rizzotti. ‘I’d like you to get in and tell me what immediately comes to mind. Don’t think about it too much, simply use your instincts.’

She did as he requested and sat in the driver’s seat, closing the door behind her with a soft thump. She inhaled at length, then opened the door and climbed out again.

‘Aftershave,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I assume you know cigarette smoke, plastic and leather, so it must be the other smell you’re interested in.’

‘Excellent,’ said Rizzotti. He sounded impressed. ‘Good diagnosis. I don’t suppose you could tell us what brand and how expensive it is?’ His expression suggested that he was only half joking.

Alix shook her head. ‘Not unpleasant – but a bit heavy for my tastes. I don’t recognise it, but …’

‘But what?’

‘The man wearing this is trying to impress.’ She looked at Rocco with a faint lift of one eyebrow. ‘If you want my opinion, more men should try it. Oh, by the way, that man Saint-Cloud is looking for you.’ She turned and walked away, leaving them staring after her.

‘See what I mean?’ said Rizzotti, grinning as though he’d just solved the origins of the universe. ‘I told you. Women.’

‘I’ll put you in for a medal,’ Rocco growled. He wondered what the security chief wanted. If it was to demand what he’d found out about threats to the president, he was going to be unlucky. He ducked his head inside the car and sniffed for himself. It smelt like a railway carriage. Alix was right, though: plastic, leather and smoke and … He sniffed again, drawing in a gentle lungful of air. There was something else; something familiar lurking at the edge of his consciousness, soft and fragrant. But where the hell had he come across it before? Was it soap? Damn, that was irritating—

Then it came to him.

Calloway. When he’d grabbed the man during the interrogation, he’d picked up the smell of aftershave. He’d likened it to the aroma of leather at the time. Whatever it was, it had been distinctive and heavy. The kind of smell to hang in the air for a long time afterwards. Then he thought about Calloway the man: thirty-ish, tanned, dark hair, slim build. English. And as a former racing driver, he’d probably spent time on the French circuits. Most likely picked up a working knowledge of French, too – certainly enough to convey a message to someone like Olivier Bellin.

He got out of the car. ‘Did you find anything in here?’

‘I’ve only made a cursory check so far. But we’ve already found something interesting.’ Rizzotti indicated to his assistant to pop the boot and they gathered around. Nestling inside was a large cine-camera with a matt-black case. Folded around it were three lengths of metal joined by a small platform with a complicated screw assembly and rubber-lined handle grip.

‘I don’t know about you,’ said Rizzotti, ‘but I didn’t expect this. A body, maybe, or some weapons … but not a camera.’

‘It’s the car we’re looking for,’ Rocco confirmed. He was studying the ends of the camera tripod legs, which were coated in dried soil, and a scattering of pine needles