Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,73

Guignes, on the N19.’ He’d left a message for Tatar giving the nature of his query. It was the way the Berber did business. ‘Anything you can tell me?’

Tatar winced in disgust. ‘Quelle horreur! Like Oran and Tunis in the old days. Bullets flying like mosquitoes. What did you want to know?’

‘Who was involved?’

Tatar shook his head. ‘Bunch of amateurs, from what I hear. Didn’t even get their facts right.’ He sniffed. ‘They won’t be doing it again for a long while, that’s for sure.’

Caspar bit his lip. He’d been counting on Tatar to come up with the goods. ‘Pity. Never mind.’

‘I didn’t say I knew nothing.’ Tatar gave a slow smile, the look of a man proud to be the bearer of news. ‘I’ve got a brother who works in the Medici Hospital near Versailles.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘You wouldn’t. It’s a small place for the rehabilitation and treatment of special patients. It’s not the sort of place to get much publicity.’

Caspar forgot his drink. ‘What sort of special patients?’

‘Military. The kind they can’t put in open wards.’

‘Go on.’

‘They had two wounded brought in the night of the attack and one dead. One of the wounded was a motorcycle cop, the other a civilian. No papers on him, so probably just a gun hand. He was taken away the same night, only lightly wounded, apparently. But I had my brother get hold of the file on the cop, just out of interest.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘And guess what? Turns out he’s no ordinary traffic cop.’ He slid a folded sheet of paper across the table. ‘It’s all in there. You didn’t get that from me, okay?’

‘Of course. It’s hot?’

‘It’s very hot. So hot I don’t want to carry it with me any longer than I have to.’

‘Tell your brother I owe him.’

‘Forget it. He owes me far more. It’s about time he paid something back.’ He drained his drink and slapped Caspar on the shoulder, his expression suddenly serious. ‘You want my opinion, that whole business was a set-up.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Simple. The idiots thought they were staging an ambush; but it was them who ended up being whacked. Now, ask yourself who could have arranged such a thing – and why?’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

‘Inspector Rocco?’ Massin appeared in the door to the main office. Behind him was Commissaire Perronnet and further along the corridor, Colonel Saint-Cloud, watching closely. ‘My office, please.’

He turned and walked away, followed by the other two officers, leaving Rocco with a feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. The mood wasn’t helped by the knowledge that this little scene had been played out in front of several colleagues, including Alix and Desmoulins.

He walked up to Massin’s office and stepped inside. The three men were waiting for him. Massin pointed to a large brown envelope lying on the edge of his desk. It was addressed to Massin in large black letters, but with no stamps. Hand delivered.

He knew it wasn’t going to be good news, and he was right.

‘Perhaps, Inspector,’ Massin began coolly, ‘you would like to comment on the contents of this envelope? It was delivered less than thirty minutes ago.’ He remained standing and stared at Rocco with a fixed expression. Saint-Cloud and Perronnet said nothing, but their presence was ominous.

Rocco tipped up the envelope, and out slid a number of photographs, cascading across the polished surface of the desk. They were black and white, fairly grainy but large enough to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind what the subject matter was. They had been shot, he noted, at dusk, and in the glare of a car’s headlights.

They showed Rocco facing the hulking figure of George Tasker. In the background was Rocco’s Citroën Traction, the number plate clear to see. The shots were progressive, a series of images which were as condemning a display of wrongdoing as any Rocco had ever seen. The first showed Tasker taking a white envelope from his pocket; the second showed him holding it out to Rocco; the third showed Rocco holding it against his chest. To the uninitiated, he appeared to be putting it inside his coat.

There was no shot of Rocco throwing the envelope back at Tasker. Nor of the English gangster putting it back in his pocket.

‘It’s a set-up,’ said Rocco, the words sounding uncomfortably lame, even to him. How often had he heard those same words from others? But he knew what had happened. The man Bones had taken the shots