Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,59
of paranoid insanity about foreign involvement in an attack on the president pretty much had the edge on anything else he could think of.
Finally Massin said gravely, ‘I’m not convinced by your arguments, Inspector Rocco.’
‘Why not?’
‘With immediate effect, I’m placing you on sick leave. I believe you are suffering from stress after your recent immersion in the canal, and you need some time off.’
Rocco was stunned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ The incident Massin was referring to had happened just a few weeks before. Rocco had been locked in a canal barge which had been sunk deliberately in the hopes that it would cover up the murder of an illegal immigrant and the illicit employment of others by a local factory with government contracts. It was as close as Rocco had ever come to a watery grave, and he still didn’t like to think about it.
Massin stood up and held up a hand to stop Rocco speaking. ‘In fact, I suggest you take yourself away for a couple of days to recuperate.’ He sniffed and gave a hint of a smile. ‘London might be a useful destination.’
Rocco almost didn’t hear that; he was about to tell Massin what he could do with his sick leave. But he stopped. ‘London?’
‘Yes. I hear the air there is quite bracing at this time of year. Especially along the Embankment.’ Massin picked up the envelope and held it out to Rocco. ‘Here is your letter of authority. It will permit you to talk with a man I met on a seminar in Paris last year. His name is Detective Chief Inspector David Nialls of their Flying Squad. He is expecting you at New Scotland Yard.’ His mouth gave a twitch, almost suggesting that he possessed a sense of humour. ‘Get well soon, Inspector. I hope when you return, you have a much clearer understanding of your duties. I suggest you leave immediately and without broadcasting your plans.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Rocco came out of a bustling Victoria station and threaded his way through the streets to the River Thames. It was late afternoon and already dark, the air cold and dry. There had been delays on the line from Dover, but he’d relished the chance to sit and contemplate the emptiness of the opposite seat, or the faux cheerfulness of a poster advertising the delights of a coastal resort called Margate. Such moments were rare enough.
Exchanging the gritty tang of locomotive smoke for the sour odour of street traffic was not much of a trade, no more than the metallic taste of river water in the air; but it was London, and he relished the sights and sounds so different from Paris – or, more dramatically, Poissons-les-Marais. He’d been here once before, with Emilie, shortly after his promotion to inspector in Clichy. It had been a rare break from the pressures of work and ambition and a desire to do something positive. On one level it had been a success: Emilie had loved it, sensing perhaps that her husband’s life wasn’t entirely dominated by the call of his job. But the time had gone by all too quickly and their relationship had not survived much beyond his return to the office – the late nights, early mornings and especially the days away, working undercover, when she didn’t know if he would come back in one piece or in a box, victim of taking a step too far into the dark.
The sight of the Thames brought a tug of regret like a pain in his chest, and he stood for a moment taking in the scenery: the occasional flash of white from the cross-currents, the passing river craft with their dim pilot lights and unnamed cargoes, and the rush of water in the gloom below. They had done this together many times, he recalled, enjoying the ebb and flow of the water when pavements became too crowded, traffic too noisy or the pull of museums and art galleries faded. Too late now for regrets; Emilie was gone and living another life. He wasn’t even sure where. He’d allowed too much outside their married life to dictate the pattern of living successfully in it, and had paid the price.
He followed the embankment to the north, passing the elegant seat of the British Government on the way and turning onto the approach to Westminster Bridge, then taking a sharp left to the imposing Gothic brick-and-concrete structure that was New Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police.