Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,74
from inside the car while Tasker had manoeuvred Rocco into position. With Rocco’s full attention on Tasker as the ‘handover’ was made, the engine noise had effectively drowned out any sound of a camera shutter operating.
Saint-Cloud made a noise and looked away in an open display of contempt. Perronnet looked embarrassed, staring down at his shoes. Only Massin showed no expression.
‘Who is the man?’
‘His name is George Tasker. He’s a criminal from London. He and a man he called Bones were waiting outside my house last night.’
‘Tasker?’ Perronnet looked up. ‘Wasn’t he one of the Englishmen who smashed up the Canard Doré?’
‘The same. He works for a London gang boss named Ketch.’
‘How do you know this?’ Saint-Cloud was enjoying this. Rocco could see it in his eyes and the set of his chin.
‘Because I’ve just been to London, as you know. The Metropolitan Police confirmed the connection between Tasker and Ketch. I also believe Ketch has close links with Patrice Delarue.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Saint-Cloud softly, cocking his head to one side, ‘you could explain who he is?’
‘I told you already: he’s a known bank robber and gang boss in Paris.’
The security chief looked blank. It was a convincing performance of someone being presented with information for the very first time. ‘Huh. Never mind … You have seen this Ketch and Delarue together? Was Tasker there, too?’
You know he wasn’t because I told you, you devious bastard, Rocco wanted to say. But he held it in. Losing his temper with a man like Saint-Cloud would get him nowhere. He felt suddenly powerless to stop this interview going downhill; whatever he said now was going to sound lame and unconvincing.
‘Do you still have the envelope?’ said Massin. His voice was bleak and he looked shaken, as if his feet had been kicked out from under him.
‘No. I threw it straight back.’
The silence from all three men was brutal. They didn’t believe him. He cursed under his breath; what a dumb move that had been. He should have kept it and handed it in immediately.
‘I gave it back because they were trying to bribe me,’ he insisted. ‘I should have seen it coming but I didn’t.’
‘Bribe you to do what?’ asked Perronnet.
‘To drop my investigation into the activities of George Tasker and his colleagues.’ He stared hard at Saint-Cloud. ‘I believe they are complicit in a potential assassination attempt on the president when he comes to the region to visit the burial site at a place called Pont Noir. I’ve already made my suspicions clear. I even showed Colonel Saint-Cloud the location.’
‘He showed me some godforsaken spot, that’s true,’ replied Saint-Cloud, biting off the words with contempt, ‘in the middle of nowhere. There is no planned visit there and Rocco has fabricated this entire “plan” out of nothing. I must confess I was partly convinced by the outside possibility at first because that is my job: investigating and nullifying any threat to the president. But the more Inspector Rocco talked, the less convinced I became. In the end, I was forced to end his assignment to the local security review.’
‘What?’ Massin looked surprised.
Saint-Cloud turned to him with an apologetic lift of his hands. ‘I’m sorry, François – truly I am. I was reluctant to tell you of this development, especially in view of your confidence in your man’s abilities. But having such wild speculation attached to the assignment was, frankly, damaging. And now,’ he added silkily, sliding in another thrust of the dagger, ‘there is this matter of corruption …’
‘There is no proof of that,’ said Massin sharply. But he didn’t sound convinced, and stared down at the photos with a sickened expression. He also could not have failed to pick up the deliberate hint of accusation in the words ‘your man’, uttered by Saint-Cloud – a damaging piece of word association that would no doubt be repeated higher up the chain of command, adding question marks against his own name.
‘If you say so.’ Saint-Cloud’s voice was silkily soft, insinuating. ‘Although one wonders whether there is, perhaps, a connection here.’
‘What do you mean?’ Even Perronnet, usually self-effacing, was startled enough to make a comment.
‘I mean, gentlemen, that experience shows that whenever there is an assassination attempt on a head of state, there is often a … distraction event not far away.’ He flapped a vague hand, the expert bestowing on lesser mortals the benefit of his knowledge. ‘It is nothing new, but highly effective.’
‘What kind of distraction?’ Massin looked puzzled.