Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,90
a restaurant frequented by members of several street gangs, where he picked up most of his leads. ‘We’d better move; there’s trouble coming.’
‘I know, I heard,’ said Susman. He pointed off down the street. ‘This way – I don’t fancy getting my face rearranged if they see us together.’
When they were three streets away, Susman stopped in a building site between two apartment blocks and stood with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. ‘This is far enough; I’d better get back there or they’ll know something’s up. I go there most nights, so …’
‘Who are those men?’
‘Nothing. A couple of bully boys.’
‘They didn’t look like nothing.’
‘I know them from way back. I was talking to them earlier and touching them up about a group they run with. They suddenly got really touchy – and I mean paranoid. Something’s in the wind.’
‘Yeah, but what?’ Caspar felt a shiver of excitement. This was what all those wasted hours had been about: the kick of getting some information before anyone else did and building it into something he could feed back down the line.
‘I’m not sure. It’s heavy, that’s all I can tell you.’
‘Heavy. That doesn’t help. Heavy as in … a hit?’
Susman ducked his head, then scrambled for a cigarette, eyeing the street behind them. He lit it and blew out a plume of smoke. ‘I think so.’
‘Think so? Think or know? Come on, there’s money on this.’
‘Yes. It’s a hit.’
‘On the big man?’ He didn’t want to mention the president by name, even out here.
‘Who else? He’s the nation’s favourite bullseye at the moment, isn’t he?’
‘Tell me something I don’t know. Come on, man. I need names.’
‘I don’t have any, honest. Things are getting difficult … people have shut down since the last failures. It’s like … there’s been a run of bad luck and they’re scared it’s contagious.’
Caspar swore quietly. ‘Bad luck. Christ, anyone would think it was a game of boules. You must have a feeling, though, right? Which groups are likely to be up for a try right now?’
‘That’s just it – I don’t know. Not even a hint. Not with the groups. All I can tell you is, it’s not political.’
‘Right. There’s going to be a hit on the big man and it’s not political. It’s all political, for God’s sake!’
Susman took a deep breath and flicked his cigarette into the gutter, clapped his hands together and stuffed them under his arms. ‘No. Not this time.’
‘What?’ The statement had been too definite to ignore. Caspar grabbed Susman’s shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The sort of people I’ve been hearing about … the ones behind the hit: they’re gangsters.’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
A new day brought a flurry of snow to Poissons, powered by a cutting wind which rattled the trees and curled around the house with a soft whining sound. Rocco went for a short run anyway to get his blood moving and his brain in gear.
He kept going over what Nialls had said on the phone. The idea of an English gang’s involvement in hitting a French bank as a distraction exercise hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. But that had now taken on a greater significance. Tasker was known by the London police to have experience at robbing banks; he had two drivers with him, one of them expert in high-speed cars; and with the possible inclusion of Patrice Delarue into the mix – also with a history of high-profile bank robberies – it seemed to point inexorably in one direction. And what other possibilities were there? In a largely rural and unpopulated area, anything less simply wouldn’t pull in the police attention that Tasker and his men would be aiming for.
Robbing a bank, however, couldn’t fail to attract maximum attention.
He returned home after fifteen minutes of increasing cold and worked through the mundane routine of cleaning the house, setting a fire round the pump to draw water – even checking the car’s oil level, all activities designed to help pass time. As soon as it hit eight o’clock, he picked up the phone and dialled the number for the War Graves Commission office in Arras. It was early but he had a feeling the superintendent wouldn’t be far away.
A woman answered and identified herself as Jean Blake. The superintendent’s wife.
‘Mrs Blake,’ said Rocco, and introduced himself. ‘My apologies for ringing so early, but I was wondering if your husband was in?’