Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,8

it, Claude was currently dressed in a pair of shabby brown corduroys, lace-up boots and a green hunting jacket. With his heavy build and round face, he looked more like a bandit than an officer of the law.

‘I have to blend in, don’t I? People won’t talk if I look like a cop all the time. Where was I? Oh, yes. There was this regular ride; he used to get me to take him to the Bois de Boulogne, where he made short films that never sold. They call it cinéma vérité now. Real life, it’s supposed to be, without all the glitzy crap they have in Hollywood. Myself, I quite like the glitzy crap. But he was eccentric, like lots of people in that business. Before his time, but okay – and he always paid his bills, so …’ He shrugged. ‘He liked to talk about his work while I drove and listened. That’s how I know about shooting against the sun.’

‘Don’t they have filters and lenses for that?’

‘Of course.’ Claude held out his hand and rubbed his fingers and thumb together. ‘But they’re expensive. Also, why have the camera there, so close to the track? Once the truck goes by, the shot’s ruined. Vibration, see – that’s something else he told me about. Kills a good scene like a dead dog.’

‘Maybe it’s all part of the vérité,’ Rocco murmured with a wry smile. He changed the subject. ‘How’s Alix?’

Claude scowled. ‘Always busy. She’s trying to make commissaire before I retire, I reckon.’ One of Claude’s two daughters, Alix had returned to Poissons following a failed marriage, but having joined the police force. Claude had been both shocked and proud at once, and Rocco guessed he was still trying to come to terms with having a daughter in uniform and a looming divorce in the family.

‘She has a lot to prove, that’s all. It was a tough move, joining the uniforms.’

Claude huffed his cheeks. ‘You don’t need to tell me that. I still can’t believe she did it. Still, I bet you see her more often than I do.’ He peered speculatively at Rocco. ‘How’s she shaping up?’

Rocco squinted back at him. The comment had contained a certain tone, and he thought he knew why. ‘Actually, I don’t see her that much. Canet assigns her work, not me. But I think she’ll be fine. She’s got good instincts, like someone else I know.’

Claude looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, Lucas. I’m an idiot. It’s not my place to worry about her. She’s a grown woman. I just…’

‘Worry about her?’

‘Yes. Pathetic, isn’t it, because she’d flay the skin off me if she knew. But what’s a man to do in my position?’

‘Don’t ask me, for a start,’ Rocco murmured. ‘I’m no expert.’

A police van arrived and the driver hopped out and saluted. ‘We’ve come to mark out the scene, Inspector. Dr Rizzotti is on his way, and there’s a message for you from Captain Canet.’

‘What about?’

‘There’s been a big fight in town. A bar’s been wrecked and he thinks you might be able to help.’

The Canard Doré was more than wrecked. It looked like a tornado had gone through the place after a carpet-bombing. What wasn’t broken seemed scarred and ripped beyond repair; half the furniture was on the pavement outside, having taken the plate glass windows and net curtains with it, and the front door was hanging from the hinges. Inside, the drinks-bottle shelves had been swept clean, a coffee machine flattened and the full-length wall mirrors had been hammered into fragments. The cash till was lying upside down in the sink, a scattering of coins and notes on the floor and drainer, and the pinball machine was lying flat on its belly like a beached whale, the glass splintered and the light display gutted. Only the counter, built of solid hardwood, seemed to have survived intact, although the surface was awash with spilt alcohol and embedded with fragments of broken glass. The aroma of beer and spirits was heavy in the air, mixing with a tang of stale sweat and cheap tobacco.

The bar owner, André Mote, was sporting a large bruise over one eye and a bloodied shirt, and sitting in a corner looking murderous. The object of his anger was a group of five men who had been corralled in a corner of the bar by a number of tough Gardes Mobiles and a muscular Detective René Desmoulins. With batons drawn, they looked as if they were itching for an