Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,81

but we haven’t been able to catch him at it yet.’

Rocco thanked him and put down the phone. So, another driver.

A truck driver.

A truck ramming a car. He pictured the scene, and thought about the two men involved. Fletcher the giant fist, the battering ram; Calloway the expert, the artist. Which one would be more useful for an attack on the president? A getaway driver with the skill to out-distance any police pursuit must be high up there. In most of the previous attacks, putting distance between themselves and the vengeful authorities had proved the most difficult thing for the gunmen to accomplish. In most cases, anyone who had escaped had done so through a knowledge of the area, of being able to slip away through narrow backstreets and hide among the local population. Or by sheer unadulterated good fortune. Because sometimes luck favoured the ungodly, too.

But if Rocco’s suspicions were correct, what use would a racing driver be on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere? With none of the usual security, public or press on hand, why would they need speed to escape afterwards? If the planned visit to the Pont Noir was going to be private, even the normal publicity machine would be unaware of the president’s presence. Any ensuing getaway would therefore be almost surreally casual in its execution.

Which meant Calloway wouldn’t be required. Not there, at any rate.

Because Fletcher would be the instrument of assault. Fletcher would be the giant fist driving a very blunt instrument. Everything hinged on him.

He’d been looking at the wrong man.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The Lilas Garage in St Gervais was a hive of activity when Caspar arrived and parked across the street. It was just after seven in the evening. Set amid a row of small houses down a cul-de-sac, the place had an air of neat respectability, with a freshly painted frontage and a large roller door keeping the noise in and, he suspected, unwanted visitors out.

He’d driven out from the city as soon as he’d got the call from Santer, keen to help in any way that he could with Rocco’s dilemma, the need to go trawling for OAS leads forgotten. If the DS wrecked near Amiens had come from this garage, and it was tied in with an assassination plot against the president, then he was ready to do whatever it took to prove the link. Not that he felt overly bothered by a threat to de Gaulle. But helping out Rocco, who had given him a chance when nobody else had, was very high on his list of priorities. If that also helped preserve Le Grand Charles for another day … well, you couldn’t have everything.

A tour of local bars, playing the part of a cautious motorist seeking a reputable garage to supply and service a decent car, had thrown up the names of one or two local businesses. Oddly, few had mentioned Ets. Lilas Moteurs, and those who had had been reluctant to give glowing endorsements, with one or two clamming up when he’d pressed them for details. Caspar’s nose for the faintly dubious, along with a friendly call to a one-time colleague in the area, had soon verified that the garage was not quite what it seemed. They did not encourage walk-in customers, and had no visible used-car lot. They appeared, however, to process a good number of vehicles, although few, if any, buyers were ever seen on the premises.

Caspar watched the place and waited. He’d picked up a hint from his one-time colleague that the owner was actually only a manager, but it was going to be difficult to prove who owned the place without going through a lengthy process of accessing business records with the local town hall. That was something Santer would be able to do legitimately. In the meantime, Caspar preferred to see if he could shake something up the old-fashioned way.

A heavyset man in blue overalls appeared from a Judas gate in the roller door, stepping to one side and lighting up a cigarette. Behind him as the door opened and closed came the bright flutter of a welding torch and the clatter of metal hitting a concrete floor.

Caspar climbed out of his car and wandered across the street, lighting up a cigarette and holding it with the glowing end cupped in his hand. He nodded at the mechanic, who grunted in return, but eyed Caspar warily.

‘A guy said this might be a good place to pick up a decent