Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,4

as quick as I could at that point. It was like a war zone … apart from the camera.’

‘Camera?’ There had been no mention of a camera in his call to Claude Lamotte. A car being rammed by a truck and guns firing had been the sum total of the story.

Rocco glanced at Claude who looked blank. ‘He didn’t mention it before.’

‘Didn’t I? I thought I did. By the trees over there.’ Simeon pointed at the only clump of trees around, two hundred metres away. Pines, Rocco noted, sharp and spiky and rigid with cold against the horizon, like a scene from the Eastern Front. ‘The truck came down the track from behind the trees, and that’s when I noticed the camera, sitting on a tripod thing. But there was nobody with it. Don’t they usually have a man sitting behind it with a megaphone shouting at everyone and wearing riding britches?’ He looked at Rocco. ‘Don’t they?’

Rocco decided to change tack before he lost the will to live. ‘Can you describe the men?’

Simeon considered the question, then said, ‘No. Not really. At least four, I’d say. Two drivers, two gunmen … and maybe one other.’ He mimed drawing a gun and firing, making a soft paff-paff noise, and smiled. ‘But from here …? I didn’t get any detail.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Earlier today – about eight. Roughly. I don’t have a watch. No need, see. Seasons are more important in my line of work.’ He pursed his lips and frowned, as if he’d just surprised himself by saying something profound.

Rocco shook his head and walked away towards the copse. It was shaping up to be another tale of unlikely events unsubstantiated by reality or facts, and likely due to the after-effects of too much vin de pays and a bad night’s sleep.

Simeon watched him go, then nudged Claude. ‘Is he for real? I heard we had a new flic in the neighbourhood, but not one like him.’

‘Where’ve you been hiding?’ Claude muttered. ‘He’s been here a while now. And he’s good, so you’d better watch yourself.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve been off sick, haven’t I? It’s why I’m trying to catch up, pulling out tree roots in this shitty weather instead of leaving it until spring.’ He sniffed and lifted his chin towards Rocco. ‘Does he always dress like he’s going to a funeral?’

‘Always. He goes hunting in the marais like that, too, when he has to. Just mind you don’t tick him off because when he goes after someone, he doesn’t stop. He’s … what do they call it – relentless.’

‘That was him?’ Simeon’s eyes widened. ‘I heard about that. A gun battle, so they say. Grenades, too.’ He pulled a face then spat on the ground. ‘And to think it used to be so peaceful around here.’

CHAPTER THREE

Rocco reached the trees and did a careful examination, quartering the ground in a grid fashion. If anyone had been here, especially with a camera, there would be signs. It was a godforsaken spot, made worse by the bitter breeze cutting through the branches and whining like a soul in torment. The ground surrounding the trees was mostly covered with clumps of coarse grass, with a carpet of pine needles closer in. He noted other details and dismissed them: scraps of fertiliser bags rotting away beneath a bush; old bottles without labels glinted dully in the shadows; a rusting bucket without a handle; and further back, where the ground was clear, a set of footprints side by side where someone had stood and taken a leak, the story etched in the frosty ground. Size 42 or 43, he guessed, which told him nothing he could use. He finally found a spot by the side of the road where three holes had been pierced in the earth in a triangular spread about a metre across. A tripod, just as Simeon had said. So he hadn’t imagined that bit. But was it a camera or something else? The grass around it was trampled flat, but not as much as he would have expected if a cameraman had been working it. So what had been the point?

He flicked some pine needles from the cuffs of his trousers and walked back to join Claude and Simeon, scanning the ground as he went. Then he saw something in the grass verge. He stopped. The stems here had been either crushed or churned up, as if something heavy had rolled across here recently. But it wasn’t the grass or