Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,38

littering the floor of the boot. ‘But why dump an expensive piece of equipment like this?’

Rizzotti lifted one side of the casing. It moved with ease. ‘Because it’s not real,’ he explained. ‘At least, the casing is, but there’s nothing inside. It’s a dummy.’

Rocco tested the weight, then tapped the casing. Rizzotti was right: it was empty.

‘Damn. But why?’

Rizzotti shrugged. ‘Give me an hour or so and we’ll turn the car inside out. I’d rather do it alone with young Romeo here, to prevent any further contamination. I’ll call you if we find anything.’ He looked at the young officer, who was shivering. ‘Better put down your clipboard, young man, and be prepared to get dirty as well as cold.’

‘What about the truck and the body?’ Rocco asked him.

‘Ah, that. I’ve been on to the forensic laboratory in Lille. They’re sending a team to collect the remains and do an analysis. It could take some time, though. There’s not much to go on and they’ve got a backlog.’

‘Don’t worry. Any help they can give is better than none.’ There were half a dozen police scientific laboratories throughout the country, the nearest being Lille, but the advance in forensic skills being shared from Britain, the United States and other countries was making their workload increasingly tough; the more they became capable of doing, the more was asked of them.

Rocco left Rizzotti and his helper to their task and went in search of Saint-Cloud.

He found the colonel in one of the upstairs offices in conversation with one of the suited individuals who had been with him and Massin two days before. This man nodded without introduction and walked away.

‘Inspector. Did you receive the files?’ Saint-Cloud asked.

‘What files?’ So far Rocco had seen nothing of the information promised by the security chief. Without it he was virtually powerless to even begin investigating any anti-Gaullist groups. It would be like throwing stones into a lake and hoping to hit a fish.

Saint-Cloud, however, seemed surprisingly sanguine. ‘They’re on their way, I assure you. I just wanted to see where we stood.’ He went round behind the desk and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘This news has just reached me. Three men were picked up last night in Créteil, in south-east Paris, and a cache of armaments discovered in a garage lock-up they were using. One of the guns shows evidence of recent firing and is thought to have been used in the N19 attack near Guignes.’

Rocco knew the area, but not well. Créteil and Guignes were hardly close neighbours, but near enough. ‘Who are they?’

‘One is a French national, the other two are one Spanish, one Corsican. What makes this interesting is that all three are former members of the Foreign Legion. So far they are not talking, but one has turned up on our files before. He’s affiliated to a pro-OAS group.’ He sniffed with distaste. ‘None of this is surprising, I suppose, but it’s a clear indication that there is more than one group wishing ill of the president.’

‘And more than one nationality.’

‘Quite. What we have to find out is whether there are any such groups with resources active in the Picardie region or,’ he dropped the paper on the desk, ‘whether we’re in danger of overreacting. May I ask what you are doing at present?’

He seemed to have slipped very easily into using the ‘we’ all of a sudden, thought Rocco. But he gave him a summary of the ramming incident and the Englishmen destroying the café in Amiens. ‘The ramming looks like an illicit film project which may have gone badly wrong. The Englishmen, I’m not sure what that’s about. They could be what they claim: a group of men looking for some fun and it got out of hand. It wouldn’t be the first time. The English don’t react well to drink.’

Saint-Cloud nodded. ‘Neither of which seems to border on my concerns, I have to say, although …’ He paused and stared at the wall.

‘Yes?’

‘The use of a black DS seems a little … odd, though, don’t you think? The president uses such a vehicle. It could be what it seems – a film project. I wouldn’t like you to go wasting your time chasing shadows, Inspector.’

‘It’s hardly a shadow,’ Rocco pointed out mildly. ‘There’s a death involved.’

‘A tramp? Tramps die all the time. Considering their way of life, I imagine it’s an occupational hazard, isn’t it?’ Saint-Cloud’s face was bare of all emotion, but his voice betrayed indifference,