Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,54

metal piles to throw out a sound all of its own, deadening any other noises and creating a background hum which served to confuse the ears.

Then he heard a clink of metal. It had come from the area where he’d last seen Bellin, sitting morosely at the back of the yard, smoking endless cigarettes. He hoped the scrap dealer was resisting the urge this time; if anyone was here looking for him, all he had to do was follow the smoke.

Rocco loosened his coat buttons and shrugged his shoulders, eyeing the ground in front of him. This was best done at speed, staying on the move. Anyone tracking movements around the yard would be as hampered as he was by the poor light and the shadows, and if they meant business, they would have little chance to pin him down.

He jogged down the row and turned right, holding the gun two-handed, the safety off. The light here was even worse, with giant shapes looming up on either side to create confusion. A truck body lay on its axles, the windows and engine gone and the rear end missing. A battered Simca stood on its nose against a pile of other car bodies, like a child’s parking lot at bedtime. Other vehicles were unrecognisable, merging one with another in the gloom.

He rounded the corner where he had last seen Bellin. He was sitting exactly where he had been before.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ the man hissed. He jumped up and threw a glance past Rocco’s shoulder. He looked terrified and was shaking visibly, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his filthy overalls to hide his nerves.

Rocco urged him back into the recess and made him sit down by the simple process of pushing him by his shoulders until his legs gave way. In Bellin’s present state, anyone out there would hear him and be able to pinpoint his location in seconds.

‘Tell me what happened,’ he said softly. ‘Keep your voice down and breathe, and we might get you out of here in one piece.’ He turned so that he could keep an eye on the open area towards the back fence. If anyone came looking for Bellin, he wouldn’t get much warning, but at least his own presence here might put them off long enough to take evasive action. To emphasise his intentions, he made a play of checking his weapon, which caused Bellin’s eyes to widen.

‘I got a call,’ Bellin muttered, rubbing his face with podgy hands. ‘A mate in Paris said I was in deep shit.’ His breathing came fast and shallow and his eyes were darting everywhere. ‘Told me to run or I’d regret it.’

‘Do you trust him?’

‘Yes. Well, pretty much. What’s that got—’

Rocco clamped a hand over Bellin’s mouth as his voice began to rise, cutting him off. ‘I’ve known some people all my life,’ he explained. ‘But I wouldn’t trust them further than I could throw one of these cars.’

Bellin struggled free of Rocco’s grip and said softly, ‘All right. Maybe he’s got an angle – I don’t know. But it makes no difference now, does it? Where the hell would I go?’

As he spoke, he heard a dull metallic clank. It had come from beyond the piles of junk at the front of the yard. Someone had pushed against one of the gates, disturbing the corrugated sheeting.

Bellin reacted as if he’d been scalded. He jumped up and stared around as if demons were about to emerge from the scrap metal.

Rocco grabbed his shoulder. ‘Are you expecting company?’

‘It’s them.’ Bellin’s voice was soft but high-pitched, childlike in fear. His face crumpled and he looked at Rocco as if he were about to burst into tears. ‘You’ve got to stop them.’

‘I can’t,’ said Rocco, ‘if you don’t tell me who they are.’ He checked the gun again, a last-second-before-action subconscious habit. Full magazine. Then he looked around at their position. He’d been in worse spots when attacked before, but he couldn’t recall when. Indochina without a doubt. Only the ones coming here were unlikely to be communist Viet Minh. But neither was he accompanied by trained and battle-hardened troops. He looked at the fence in front of them. It was nearly three metres high and clad in bashed metal. No handholds and no pile of scrap close enough to get a leg-up. ‘How strong is that?’

‘Forget it.’ Bellin bit the words off, resentful and angry. ‘I built it so the locals wouldn’t steal everything I