Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,40

to insult Santer by being coy. And he trusted the captain more than anyone he could think of, with the exception, perhaps, of Claude Lamotte.

‘Saint-Cloud. You know him?’

‘Saint-Cloud?’ Santer’s voice went even lower. ‘Would that be the Colonel Saint-Cloud who runs the—’

‘That’s him.’

‘Christ. Of course, I know of him. How the hell do you?’

Rocco explained in brief what Saint-Cloud had asked him to do. ‘He has others doing the same thing – a sort of territorial eyes and ears on the lookout for groups likely to consider an attack.’

‘You mean other investigators?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Pfff.’ A noise indicating disbelief came down the line. ‘Why would he need to do that? They’ve got the entire security directorate to do that stuff – why get ordinary cops involved? No offence, mind.’

Santer had a point, but it wouldn’t be the first time a security agency had stepped outside its normal parameters of operation to get what it wanted. In any case, the Directorate of Territorial Surveillance (DST) was part of the National Police, and responsible for domestic intelligence. As such, it could demand whatever assistance it liked. Quite where Saint-Cloud came in the scheme of things Rocco wasn’t sure, but as he had demonstrated in Amiens, he clearly had the power to walk in anywhere he pleased.

‘Oh – hang on.’ Santer wasn’t finished. ‘There was something else. I made a note. Yes, they found the car, as the briefing said.’

‘A Simca Ariane. I know.’

‘What they didn’t say was that it wasn’t as clean as the bad guys thought it was. They found a packet of cigarettes beneath one of the seats. An English make, with filters. Could be nothing, of course, but pretty unusual all the same.’

Rocco knew what he was getting at. People were moving around much more than they ever did, in the search for jobs, a better life, more opportunity. And criminals were no different. The world was smaller than it used to be, and those with money had access to things such as cigarettes that wouldn’t have been quite so easy just a few years ago. But still. English cigarettes in a car used for an attack on the Establishment? It was a little odd. French criminals, if anything, were inclined towards the more popular American brands, especially those seen in the latest Hollywood films. It carried a special cachet, being seen to smoke an imported brand; made the user somehow more appealing, even if only in his own imagination.

‘Do they know who might have been using them?’ Find the smoker and check his movements; it was the logical step towards tracing the person’s history and contacts.

‘He didn’t say. If they know, they’re not including us in the briefing notes. Maybe one of them had been hiding out in England. It happens.’ He hesitated, then added carefully, ‘You know you should watch your back, Lucas. These people … they’re not to be trusted, you know what I’m saying?’

‘I know.’ Santer was warning him about Saint-Cloud. The security establishment as a group had their own agendas, and Saint-Cloud was no different. He had enormous responsibilities for the French head of state’s safety, and that meant that he would use any means he could to do his job. And if that included using a cop like Rocco in the line of duty, and not looking back if things went sour, he wouldn’t hesitate. ‘Did you hear anything over the wires from last night, about the South East?’ It might be too early for word of the police raid on the garage to have reached Santer’s ears, but it was worth a try.

‘Like what? This is a big city, you know, with lights and the Métro and everything.’ His voice was a sarcastic drawl. ‘We even have cars and trucks and trains and buildings which almost reach the sky.’

‘Créteil, you cretin. A raid on a garage. Three men taken in.’

‘No. I haven’t heard that. But I’ll ask around.’

‘Thanks. There’s one more thing. Is Caspar still around?’

A heavy silence. For a brief moment Rocco thought Santer had gone. Then the captain said, ‘He’s around. Why?’ He sounded cagey, and Rocco knew why.

‘I might have some light work for him, if he’s up to it.’ Marc Casparon, better known as Caspar, was a burnt-out cop who’d worked too long undercover and had had to be quietly retired. Rocco had recently used him to penetrate an Algerian gang, and it had nearly got him killed. But he knew Caspar was desperate to get back into