Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,79
jobs on the same day.’ Tasker thought about the men available, men he could trust. ‘That’s pushing it.’
Ketch showed his teeth. ‘Not only on the same day, George. Simultaneously.’
‘Eh? How?’
‘Division of labour, that’s how.’ He waved a hand, clearly enjoying the situation. ‘It doesn’t need more than Fletcher to drive the truck. He’s more than capable of buggering up a car with a truck all by himself, as we know.’ He gave a malevolent smile. ‘And this time, it’s for real, not play-acting.’
Tasker suddenly saw where this was going. He felt a shiver of excitement. Christ, this wasn’t just messing about; it had all been for a reason. He felt annoyed that he hadn’t been told before, but said nothing. ‘Who’s the target – anyone I know?’
It was a question too far; he saw that instantly. Ketch’s face shut down like a fridge door slamming. ‘Not your worry, George. While Fletch’s doing his bit, you and the boys, with Calloway as wheelman doing what he does best, will be relieving the Crédit Agricole – that’s the name of this bank – of a nice amount of folding francs.’ He pulled on his cigar, watching the grey smoke curling into the air. ‘Think you can do that?’
Tasker looked offended. He’d earned his stripes doing bank jobs. His first was aged twenty, with a team in Chelmsford, using a sawn-off and lots of attitude to hide his gut-churning fear from the more experienced men with him. Since then, there had been plenty more, often with him holding the reins. In fact, he prided himself on having become something of an expert over the years, even though he’d copped a couple of prison terms here and there, although never for anything serious like carrying firearms. As soon as he’d been able to, he’d left that to others.
He’d never robbed a French bank before. How hard could it be?
He said, ‘No problem, boss. Be nice to get back to the old game.’ He hadn’t done one for at least a year. He wouldn’t want to get out of practice.
‘That’s the spirit, George. Good man.’ Ketch smiled and blew out a perfect smoke ring. ‘And you don’t even have to worry about sourcing replacement vehicles. It’s all being laid on by our friends over there. Any questions?’
Tasker thought about how the last job had gone down. ‘Only about the truck. If this is for real, wouldn’t it be better to use a bigger model? More punch that way.’ And Fletcher, the mad fucker, would love it, he thought nastily. Like a giant kid in a toyshop, looking for something to break.
Ketch shook his head. ‘No. It has to be the same model as last time. Personally, I agree with you, bigger would be better. But it’s their money, so their call. They said the driver would see why when he gets there. The Renault was reliable enough, wasn’t it? Tough little motor, as I hear it.’
‘I suppose.’ Tasker thought about how hard the small truck had hit them. Anything bigger would have run right over the top.
Ketch’s eyes glittered. ‘That’s that, then. You’d better get going. By train and boat this time, I’m afraid. We need to keep the flights for special occasions.’
Tasker stood up, an electric feeling building in his veins. It was always like this before a job. Now he knew what it was, and what was required, he was itching to go. And by train and boat suited him fine.
‘Before you do …’ Ketch stood up and came round his desk. ‘You asked why now. Our French pals tell me the weather’s closing in and there could be a lot of snow on the way. It’s changed the agenda over there, that’s all. Still, no worries, eh? A job’s a job. Tell Fletcher all he needs to do is what he did last time: wind up the spring, wait for the target and hit it square on. As for you, you do your bit and don’t you worry about him. He’ll be busy.’
Tasker felt uneasy. No matter what Ketch was saying, this was nothing like last time. Last time hadn’t been for real.
‘He’ll be on his own, then.’ Jesus, that was cold. Fletcher out in the middle of nowhere … he’d never make it back. Other than his usual delivery routes, the big idiot barely knew his way around the south-east of England, let alone some foreign patch of mud.
Ketch’s next words put a cap on the subject with chilling finality.