Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,75
causing chaos, a fire, a crash of some kind … anything to tie up the emergency services and divert the attention of the security cordon. Even,’ he stared pointedly at Rocco, ‘a fabricated possibility of a threat from alleged outsiders conceived to absorb a great deal of our time and resources. Is that not the possibility you discussed with Chief Inspector Nialls in London? Trying to implicate a harmless gang of drunks in some kind of malevolent plot?’
Rocco felt a chill slide across his back. Broissard. Or Portier. It had to be. There would have been no reason for Nialls to conceal the subject of his meeting with Rocco from senior men like them.
‘Well?’
‘We talked about the possibility, yes. And these men are far from harmless—’
‘See?’ Saint-Cloud made a guttural noise of disbelief. ‘He admits it.’ He shook his head. ‘It is fanciful rubbish and I have heard enough. I will be bringing in another man to help me instead. Someone we can all trust to focus on getting to these criminals before they can act. And I do not mean chasing bar-room brawlers from London.’
‘Bring in somebody who believes your version of horseshit, you mean?’ Rocco said softly. ‘I wish them well; they’ll need it.’
‘That’s enough!’ Massin stepped forward and held out his hand. This time there was none of the play-acting used when he had placed Rocco on ‘sick leave’. ‘I need your weapon and your card, Inspector. You are suspended pending further investigations of this matter. You will remain at home until needed.’ His eyes flickered momentarily past Rocco’s shoulder and Rocco turned his head at the sound of movement.
Sous-Brigadier Godard and two of his men were standing outside the open door. Godard looked deeply uncomfortable.
‘What the hell are they here for?’ Rocco demanded, and looked at Massin for support.
But the senior officer could not meet his eye. ‘Your weapon and card, please, Inspector,’ he said.
Rocco took out his gun. But instead of handing it to Massin, he ejected the magazine and placed it and the weapon side by side on the desk. Then he dropped his police card alongside them and walked out of the office.
The walk down the stairs and through the main office accompanied by Godard and his men was probably the most humiliating of Rocco’s life. All talk subsided from a feverish high, no doubt speculating on what was going on upstairs, and dwindled to nothing as he walked by. Telephones went unanswered and all movement ceased, save for faces turning towards him and following his progress.
The news had already spread, disseminated by that peculiar method experienced only in close office environments. Rocco wondered whether a sly whisper here and there from Saint-Cloud had helped it along the way.
Then Detective René Desmoulins stood up and stepped in front of him, his weightlifter’s bulk blocking the way. One of Godard’s men put out a hand to warn him off, but Desmoulins sneered at him and the man backed off. Alix hovered in the background, her face pale.
‘This is shit, Lucas,’ Desmoulins said quietly. ‘Tell them.’
‘I tried,’ said Rocco. ‘They prefer to believe photos.’ He patted Desmoulins on the arm and shook his outstretched hand. ‘This isn’t over, don’t worry.’
As he walked out to his car, he was holding a folded slip of paper Desmoulins had pressed unseen into his palm.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The phone hauled Rocco out of a fractious sleep. He felt cold and stiff, his head a jumble of confused thoughts.
It was Michel Santer. ‘Lucas? Can you talk?’
‘Sure. Go ahead.’ He rolled over to check the time. It was late afternoon. Or early, depending on one’s line of work. If one had a line of work. The scene at the office seemed like a ghastly dream from which he hadn’t yet awoken.
‘You okay?’ Santer didn’t have to say anything; he’d heard the news of Rocco’s suspension. It would be all over the police network by now, talked over and rehashed over coffee breaks and passed along as shifts changed. Most wouldn’t believe it; cops being accused of taking bribes was commonplace and usually a derailing exercise, at worst a clumsy form of revenge by a resentful con or his colleagues. But some would take delight in hearing that an investigator had been taken down, even if the accusation hadn’t yet been proven.
‘I’m catching up on sleep. Other than that, and wanting to shoot someone, which I can’t do because they took my gun, I’m fine.’