Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,7

watch the Frenchie go red.

Big bloke to upset, that bartender, Tasker noted. Probably handy in a ruckus, too; like any barman worth his job, accustomed to chucking out troublesome drunks. But he wasn’t big enough or handy enough for these lads once they got going. He sipped the cognac and waited. Checked his watch. Nearly lunchtime already.

Time for some fun.

Less than three miles away, Olivier Bellin, the owner of the breaker’s yard where the Citroën DS had been left, walked round the car studying the damage. It was pretty serious, he noted. Whatever this had skidded into had been solid enough not to give. Still, he’d seen worse over the years; driven some, too, when he’d had to. As bad as it seemed, though, given the right treatment it could be made to look right. As long as nobody looked too close.

He scratched his head. He was in a not uncommon dilemma. He’d been paid to take in this car, no questions asked, and get rid of it. He’d done it plenty of times before when a vehicle had to cease to exist. That was ‘get rid’ as in destroy, chop up, crush, cut and reduce down to the last nut and washer. But Bellin was greedy, always on the lookout to make an easy killing. His view was that since the man paying for the job to be done was a long way from here, and unlikely ever to show his face anywhere near Amiens – and certainly not down this end of town – what was the problem? And this car was just so tasty … if viewed from the right angle. Suffering the indignity of being reduced to scrap this early in its life would be a sacrilege.

He checked the odometer. The numbers were fairly high but not a killer. The condition of the seats and carpet wasn’t bad, either. A wash and brush-up and they’d look like new. The rest of the bodywork was sound, as were the tyres. The way the side had been caved in was a bit serious, there was no denying, and there might be some underlying problems with the structure. But he knew a couple of guys who could take care of that.

He stared up at the sky, juggling the need for some quick cash from a punter wanting a cheap DS to show off to his neighbours, and the likelihood of The Man in Paris ever finding out that his instructions had not been carried out to the letter.

The Man in Paris. Bellin licked his lips nervously. Now there was someone he didn’t like to think about. Several guys who’d disobeyed him were rumoured to have disappeared over the years, probably in yards pretty much like this one, come to think of it. And he had no wish to end up the same way.

He turned and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window of the cabin, which served as his office. He saw himself with one hand on the Citroën’s roof like he owned it. It caught him by surprise, standing alongside a picture-perfect DS as if born to it. He smiled.

No doubt about it, it was too good to pass up. He made a decision.

Unfortunately for Olivier Bellin, it was the worst mistake of his life.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Any thoughts?’ Rocco rejoined Claude Lamotte and they watched Simeon throw his leg over an ancient moped and wobble away down the road in a cloud of blue smoke.

‘Only one: if he makes it home without falling off, it’ll be a miracle.’ He turned to stare at the clump of pine trees, then the road. ‘But this … it all sounds a bit bizarre to me.’

‘Bizarre why?’ Rocco valued Claude’s opinion; although a countryside policeman based in Poissons, and looked on with faint derision by some on the force, he was a better cop than they knew and had the instincts of a born hunter. He also knew the people around here, which was a big advantage.

‘The camera. If it was back there by the trees, it would have been pointing east to catch the action, right?’

‘Agreed. So?’

‘Right into the morning sun? I doubt it.’ When Rocco didn’t respond, he puffed out his cheeks and said, ‘What – you think I don’t know about these things?’

‘Not at all. I just wondered how.’

‘Because back when I was driving a taxi in Paris, before I put on the uniform—’

‘Which, lets be honest,’ Rocco pointed out, ‘you don’t very often.’ As if to prove