Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,78
Frenchies bring down the chopper.’
Tasker smiled. It was the best bit of news he’d heard all day. ‘Pity it doesn’t work that quick with our own lot,’ he muttered. He was surprised by the speed of events; he’d expected a couple of days at least before anything happened.
‘If only. It seems someone dropped off some very tasty pictures showing him accepting a packet of readies. Good work, George. You done well. There’ll be a pressie for Bones, too. Nice snaps, they were. Classy.’
Tasker glowed. It was nice earning some praise after the last lash-up. It also made up for the nightmare of a flight that Ketch had put him through. The tiny plane had creaked and rattled all the way over and back, with the pilot acting like a Battle of Britain ace until Tasker had threatened to break a few of his fingers. ‘Yeah, well … he walked right into it, the mug.’
‘Thing is, will it stick? They’re not stupid; they’ll know it’s a bit iffy, done out in the open like that. Still, short notice, it was the best we could do.’
‘It might slow Rocco down and put a dent in his career prospects,’ Brayne ventured. ‘The smell lingers. Trust is very difficult to keep under those circumstances.’
Ketch nodded and settled back in his chair. ‘You’re right there, Brayne. Still, that’s done and dusted. On to other things, eh?’ He looked at Tasker. ‘Our French friends want us to run another “scenario” like the last one. Different place this time, but similar tactics.’
‘Again?’ Tasker couldn’t help it; he needed another trip to France like a dose of the clap. And what were the French playing at?
‘Yes. Again. And why?’ Ketch lifted his eyebrows, daring Tasker to argue. ‘Because we’re being paid to do it, that’s why. It’s a business contract, pure and simple. The only difference is, as well as this scenario,’ he lifted his hands and mimed speech marks, ‘you’ll be doubling up.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘We’ve been doing a bit of research on the side, George.’ He glanced at Brayne. ‘What was the term you used, Brayne?’
‘Expanding our area of operations,’ the accountant said softly.
‘That’s it. Expanding our area of operations. And one way of doing that is to look further afield, to somewhere where the bleedin’ Sweeney don’t have any influence.’ He checked the end of his cigar and explained, ‘There’s a little bank in a small town called Béthune, just across the water, about an hour from Calais. As close as that, it hardly counts as in France, does it? Anyway, word is, this bank is just waiting to be knocked over, and sits on the outskirts of the town. No traffic snarl-ups, good getaway routes to the Channel … and who’d ever think of a bunch of London boys knocking over a bank over there, eh?’
‘What’s the risk?’ said Tasker. It was something he was allowed to say. Risk was something they all shared. For risk, read cops.
‘Now that’s the beauty of it, see. The cops’ll all be looking the other way. Guaranteed.’ He grinned knowingly. ‘We’ll get a friendly local to drop a couple of rumours about jobs planned elsewhere.’ He threw his arms out. ‘The elegance of this job is bleedin’ amazing.’
‘What’s so special about this place?’ Tasker didn’t get it. A bank was a bank. Some offered more promise than others, some more risk. Elegance didn’t come into it. ‘And why now?’
‘I’m glad you asked, George. This particular branch is right next to a new industrial zone. They get regular drops of cash for the local factory workers, nicely packed in metal cases … and it’s ours for the taking. In, out and away, neat as ninepence. You won’t even need any gear. Just good timing, a show of strength and a fast car. A real old-style blagging. What d’you reckon?’
Tasker thought it sounded too good to be true. No bank in the world just sat there waiting to be knocked over. ‘Won’t the Frenchies object, us moving in on their turf?’
‘The Frenchies, as you insist on calling them, George, are helping us do it. They’ve scouted it out, they’re supplying plans of the inside – everything we need bar them doing it for us.’
‘Why don’t they do it themselves?’
‘Search me. Personally, I think it’s a thank you for our help with these scenarios. Never look a gift horse, George, that’s what me old mum used to say.’ He tapped ash off his cigar. ‘Now, are you up for it or not?’