Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,6
like an old dog.
‘Say again?’ Rocco was trying not to imagine what was going on down there. The man looked as if he and hot water and soap were distant acquaintances.
‘Guns. I know guns, too. They weren’t firing live rounds. The sound wasn’t right. Too flat and dull, like damp fireworks.’
Make that pretend petrol bombs and blank rounds, thought Rocco. He said, ‘Did you see where they went afterwards?’
‘No. Like I told you, I was on my way back home with the horse. But I could hear them. Sound travels out here, you see; nothing to stop it. Wherever it was they went, they had a sick Renault to take with them. It sounded more like a tractor and kept banging, like there was something broken—’
‘Hey!’ Claude jumped in. ‘You didn’t say anything about it being a Renault before.’
‘Well, I only just realised, didn’t I? There’s a builder over towards Fonzet uses one just like it. Got it cheap off the military, he said.’ He nodded. ‘Renault. Bet you anything.’
Rocco shook his head. No bet. Camera, men, vehicles, fake petrol bombs and blank bullets, lots of blood and a tooth. On the surface it added up to nothing more improbable than a makeshift film set. He wasn’t sure but he had a feeling film-makers were supposed to get a licence for shooting scenes on public roads, even out here. It could soon be checked. And the blood might well turn out to be a simple accident; a stuntman who’d miscalculated and performed his final cascade.
Except, where were the film crew and equipment?
CHAPTER FOUR
George Tasker sat back and eyed the long mirror above the café bar. It glittered under the lights, and had gold-coloured patterns at each corner, like scrolls. That had to go, he decided; something that big was just asking for it. A well-placed chair would do it – maybe a table if things really got going.
He sipped at a glass of cognac and watched the others getting tanked. He didn’t much care for spirits, and would rather have had a pint of Guinness. But the excuse for a bar they had chosen didn’t stock decent beer and the bartender didn’t seem to care one way or another. The food on offer was pretty much limited to bread, boiled eggs and cold meat, which didn’t hold a candle to free booze as far as Fletcher and the others were concerned. They’d piled in with venom, eager to try drinks they never would have normally, encouraged by the wad of francs Tasker had slapped on the bar.
He sighed and rubbed the calloused knuckles of his right hand, waiting for the fun to kick off. Instructions were to take root here and let the rest take care of itself … with a little help from him and the readies supplied for the trip. He didn’t know and didn’t much care what else was going on, only that he had his part to play. The truck and the dented Citroën had been dumped as instructed, the truck torched along with the body of whoever it was had fallen underneath it, and the car left at a breaker’s yard to be ‘disappeared’. It seemed a waste to him, chopping a decent set of wheels like that, but arguing tactics wasn’t his call. They’d be getting a train out of here, anyway.
He felt something sharp and metallic in his pocket. It was the spare key to the truck; he’d trousered it when they’d first picked up the vehicle, in case Fletcher lost his. The big man was useful in tight corners and for jobs that didn’t require much thinking, but there were times when his age began to show and he got careless. Like the way he’d hit the Citroën full pelt, nearly taking Tasker and Calloway out of the game for good. No judgement, that was his problem. Brains scrambled by too many lost fights and too much booze. If he had his way, this would be Fletcher’s last job for the Firm before he got relegated to something where he couldn’t harm anyone.
He watched as the man chugged back a tall glass of thin, gassy beer, egged on by roars of approval from the others, before slamming the empty down on the bar and laughing like he’d won the Olympics. The bartender said something Fletcher clearly heard but didn’t understand. His response was to stick a thick middle finger in the air right in front of the man’s face and belch, then