Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,76

He levered himself up and went through to the kitchen trailing the telephone cord after him. Clamping the receiver under one cheek, he put some water on to boil and scooped coffee grounds into a percolator.

‘I bet Delarue has something to do with this,’ Santer muttered, ‘directly or indirectly. He must be getting ambitious.’ Santer, like most officers in the capital, was well acquainted with Patrice Delarue’s activities over many years, and prayed for the day when the man could be brought down. ‘Is it true what they’re saying – there are photos?’

‘Yes. It was a set-up, but I should have known better – I walked right into it.’

‘It’s easy to do, everyone knows that. So how do we get you out of it?’

‘You don’t.’ The last thing Rocco wanted was any of his friends putting their careers on the line for him. This thing had to be played out, and until it was, he was effectively on his own. Anyone coming near would be tainted by the accusation against him, and he didn’t want that to happen. ‘Stay clear of me and don’t make waves. I’m not done yet, even if I have to go to London and ram Tasker’s teeth down his throat.’

Bones, he thought. He might be a weak link. Almost certainly English, by his clothes, since he doubted Tasker would find it easy working with a Frenchman on setting up incriminating photos of a cop being handed an envelope. He’d call Nialls later on. He might recognise the man’s name.

‘So what can we do?’

Rocco sat down at the table and rubbed his face. That was the question: what could they do? Faced with such clear and unequivocal evidence of an officer taking an envelope, and with Saint-Cloud working away in the background with his sly digs and vaguely worded throwaway lines, Rocco himself would have come to the same conclusions as Massin. Until proven otherwise.

There was only one thing to do.

‘We prove I’m right about the proposed attack,’ he said.

‘But you’re suspended. What can you do?’

‘I’m suspended, I’m not chained to the wall.’

Santer said, ‘Well, that sounds more like the old Rocco I used to know. Thank God for that. For a moment there I thought I was going to have to come down and kick your arse.’

‘Not yet, you won’t.’

‘Good. Actually, I’ve got some information that might cheer you up. It’s about the attack on the car in Guignes. You still want to hear it?’

‘More than ever.’ Rocco stood up and poured boiling water into the top of a percolator and snapped the lid shut. Even the smell was making him feel more awake.

‘The man I told you about, with the cousin in the office here?’

‘Yes?’

‘He came by a while ago, on his way to a raid on a suspected OAS cell. He said the body spirited away from the N19 scene wasn’t a body. The man was wounded but still breathing. Someone identified him and let the word out. His name’s Christophe Lamy. He’s a former captain in the 1st Foreign Parachute Regiment. He left the regiment along with several others before they got pushed and charged with anti-government agitation over Algeria.’

A military officer with strong opinions and possible sympathy for the OAS. It wasn’t news, but it was hardly the kind of information the authorities would want broadcast. Disaffected and potentially violent individuals with no ties to the establishment were easily dismissed as malcontents. But former soldiers – especially former officers from elite regiments – were bad press for a government trying to push a line of propaganda based on national unity.

He sat upright, the clutches of sleep falling away.

Colonel François Saint-Cloud. He’d also been a member of the 1st REP. Was there a connection, other than that they liked to throw themselves out of perfectly safe airplanes for a living? He wasn’t sure. But it was too close to be ignored, too much of a coincidence to disregard – especially with his limited number of choices.

Santer hadn’t finished. ‘There’s more. I had a call from Caspar. His contact couldn’t get the name of the motorcycle escort who fought off the attack, but he knew the hospital where he was taken. It’s a specialist military unit near Versailles. Caspar got close and did some digging. He’s still trawling for information at the moment, but he asked me to let you know what he’s found so far.’

‘Go on.’ Rocco sipped the coffee. Strong enough to float a horse; he probably wouldn’t asleep for a