Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,60

The sergeant on the desk swivelled the signing-in book and studied his name, then asked him to wait. ‘Very good, sir. If you would hang on a bit, I’ll ask Chief Inspector Nialls to come down.’

Five minutes later, a tall, slim man in an immaculate grey suit appeared and shook his hand. He had greying hair and a slim moustache, and looked tired; the kind of tired that seeps into the bones. Rocco had seen it before in senior cops on his side of the water. ‘Inspector Rocco. David Nialls. I act as liaison with your DGPN. I’ve been expecting you.’

Rocco showed him the signed letter of authority and waited while the policeman read it. The fact that DCI Nialls had contact with the Direction Générale de la Police Nationale, which came second only to the Interior Ministry, was in itself no guarantee of cooperation. The correct protocol would have been to go through channels; but channels were something Rocco had little time for. Massin’s last-minute letter was a bonus he hadn’t counted on, however. All he had to do now was hope it carried some weight.

It took a moment to realise that Nialls had been reading the letter without great difficulty. The detective looked up and gave a sheepish smile. ‘I speak some French, but it’s not that brilliant. Do you mind if we speak English?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good. François Massin said you could do with some information. I’m not sure how much I can help you, Inspector Rocco, but if you come with me, I’ll force you to drink some of our appalling tea and see what we can accomplish.’ He led Rocco through a side door and up a flight of narrow stairs, stopping to speak to a young woman in an apron on the way. Then he turned into a small office and shut the door. ‘The tea will be along in a moment. Sit down and fire away.’

They sat and Rocco explained about the ramming incident, and the wrecking of the bar by the drunken gang. Nialls seemed little more than politely interested at first, and only reacted at the point where Rocco mentioned George Tasker. Then he sat forward with a frown.

‘Tasker? Can you describe him?’

Rocco did so.

They were interrupted by the appearance of the young woman bearing a tray of tea and some biscuits, but Nialls barely allowed her out of the door before continuing. ‘I wondered where the bloody man had disappeared to. He dropped off the scene for a few days, and we wondered whether he’d become a building block.’ At Rocco’s blank look, he explained, ‘Got buried under an office block somewhere, victim of revenge for past misdeeds. Obviously he didn’t. Still, there’s always hope.’

‘You know him, then?’

Nialls nodded and sipped his tea. ‘Sadly, I do. He’s a nasty bit of work suspected of involvement in at least two gangland killings and numerous bank jobs. He’s employed by a man named Gerald ‘Ruby’ Ketch, who’s the frontman for an extensive East London gang. They’ve been around for a few years now, gradually building up their power base. Just recently, Ketch’s bosses have been staying in the background pulling strings, but we know they’re responsible for pretty much every nasty crime in the book.’

‘You do not have enough to convict them?’

‘Sadly, no.’ He rubbed his face. ‘We’ve been trying, but they have some very competent lawyers and rule by fear. Witnesses have a habit of developing amnesia … or disappearing altogether. My building block reference was not entirely in jest.’ He stared out of the window. ‘But what the hell were they doing in France?’

‘If my suspicions are correct,’ said Rocco, ‘pretending to make a film.’ He gave him the men’s names and described the crash scene witnessed by Simeon, and the state of the Citroën with its interior reinforcements. ‘But along the way they appear to have killed a man. It could be an accident, but we will probably never know for sure.’

‘What does your instinct tell you?’

‘That they were doing something else – but not making films.’

‘Like what? They’re not exactly known for working outside London and the South East. Our criminal gangs tend to have territories like everyone else.’

Rocco debated how much to tell this man. He didn’t know Nialls from a stick of celery, but he couldn’t walk away without gaining something from this visit. If his instincts were correct, there was too much riding on getting it wrong. Yet if he suggested that Tasker and his men

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