the scenery: the occasional flash of white from the cross-currents, the passing river craft with their dim pilot lights and unnamed cargoes, and the rush of water in the gloom below. They had done this together many times, he recalled, enjoying the ebb and flow of the water when pavements became too crowded, traffic too noisy or the pull of museums and art galleries faded. Too late now for regrets; Emilie was gone and living another life. He wasn’t even sure where. He’d allowed too much outside their married life to dictate the pattern of living successfully in it, and had paid the price.
He followed the embankment to the north, passing the elegant seat of the British Government on the way and turning onto the approach to Westminster Bridge, then taking a sharp left to the imposing Gothic brick-and — concrete structure that was New Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police.
‘Inspector Rocco?’ The sergeant on the desk swivelled the signing-in book and studied his name, then asked him to wait. ‘Very good, sir. If you would hang on a bit, I’ll ask Chief Inspector Nialls to come down.’
Five minutes later, a tall, slim man in an immaculate grey suit appeared and shook his hand. He had greying hair and a slim moustache, and looked tired; the kind of tired that seeps into the bones. Rocco had seen it before in senior cops on his side of the water. ‘Inspector Rocco. David Nialls. I act as liaison with your DGPN. I’ve been expecting you.’
Rocco showed him the signed letter of authority and waited while the policeman read it. The fact that DCI Nialls had contact with the Direction Generale de la Police Nationale, which came second only to the Interior Ministry, was in itself no guarantee of cooperation. The correct protocol would have been to go through channels; but channels were something Rocco had little time for. Massin’s last-minute letter was a bonus he hadn’t counted on, however. All he had to do now was hope it carried some weight.
It took a moment to realise that Nialls had been reading the letter without great difficulty. The detective looked up and gave a sheepish smile. ‘I speak some French, but it’s not that brilliant. Do you mind if we speak English?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good. Francois Massin said you could do with some information. I’m not sure how much I can help you, Inspector Rocco, but if you come with me, I’ll force you to drink some of our appalling tea and see what we can accomplish.’ He led Rocco through a side door and up a flight of narrow stairs, stopping to speak to a young woman in an apron on the way. Then he turned into a small office and shut the door. ‘The tea will be along in a moment. Sit down and fire away.’
They sat and Rocco explained about the ramming incident, and the wrecking of the bar by the drunken gang. Nialls seemed little more than politely interested at first, and only reacted at the point where Rocco mentioned George Tasker. Then he sat forward with a frown.
‘Tasker? Can you describe him?’
Rocco did so.
They were interrupted by the appearance of the young woman bearing a tray of tea and some biscuits, but Nialls barely allowed her out of the door before continuing. ‘I wondered where the bloody man had disappeared to. He dropped off the scene for a few days, and we wondered whether he’d become a building block.’ At Rocco’s blank look, he explained, ‘Got buried under an office block somewhere, victim of revenge for past misdeeds. Obviously he didn’t. Still, there’s always hope.’
‘You know him, then?’
Nialls nodded and sipped his tea. ‘Sadly, I do. He’s a nasty bit of work suspected of involvement in at least two gangland killings and numerous bank jobs. He’s employed by a man named Gerald ‘Ruby’ Ketch, who’s the frontman for an extensive East London gang. They’ve been around for a few years now, gradually building up their power base. Just recently, Ketch’s bosses have been staying in the background pulling strings, but we know they’re responsible for pretty much every nasty crime in the book.’
‘You do not have enough to convict them?’
‘Sadly, no.’ He rubbed his face. ‘We’ve been trying, but they have some very competent lawyers and rule by fear. Witnesses have a habit of developing amnesia… or disappearing altogether. My building block reference was not entirely in jest.’ He stared out of the window. ‘But what the hell were they doing in France?’
‘If my suspicions are correct,’ said Rocco, ‘pretending to make a film.’ He gave him the men’s names and described the crash scene witnessed by Simeon, and the state of the Citroen with its interior reinforcements. ‘But along the way they appear to have killed a man. It could be an accident, but we will probably never know for sure.’
‘What does your instinct tell you?’
‘That they were doing something else — but not making films.’
‘Like what? They’re not exactly known for working outside London and the South East. Our criminal gangs tend to have territories like everyone else.’
Rocco debated how much to tell this man. He didn’t know Nialls from a stick of celery, but he couldn’t walk away without gaining something from this visit. If his instincts were correct, there was too much riding on getting it wrong. Yet if he suggested that Tasker and his men were somehow involved with an attempted assassination of the French head of state, Nialls might feel compelled to take the matter higher, running the risk of word getting out and driving the plotters underground.
‘I think there is a chance that these men, Tasker and his colleagues,’ he said carefully, ‘may be involved in something much bigger than their usual operations.’
‘Like what?’ Then Nialls’ eyes widened. ‘Good God, you don’t mean an attempt on-’
‘Perhaps. But not directly.’ There. It was out now and too late to take back. Nialls was clearly no fool. He’d instantly run his mind over all the various possibilities that he could think of, and had settled unerringly on the correct one.
‘Have you discussed this with your superiors?’
‘Some of it. But they are sceptical.’
‘Why? I mean, don’t misunderstand me, but there have been plenty of attempts on your man already, so it’ll hardly come as much of a shock to anyone if someone has another go… especially on the heels of the Kennedy assassination.’ The recent death of the American president was still headline news everywhere, and had caused many world leaders to review their security precautions.
‘They have already tried.’ Rocco told him about the latest attack on the N19 to the south-east of Paris, and how it had failed, allegedly because of bad information supplied to the gang. Even had de Gaulle been in the car, it might not have carried the same magnitude outside France as the killing of the US president John Kennedy in Dallas, Texas.
Nialls picked up on the failure of information. ‘You don’t think it was simply a mistake on the attackers’ part?’
‘I am not sure. So far, the information these groups have worked on has always been correct. The failures have come because of poor organisation, good defensive tactics by the bodyguards… or simply bad luck. Whichever group is involved, they do not seem to have much difficulty finding out what the president’s movements are.’
Nialls lifted an eyebrow. ‘Someone on the inside?’
‘Possibly. But I never said that.’ Roco knew all too well that it was next to impossible to keep everything secret. Word leaked out and there was always someone ready to trade on it.
‘Maybe this lot were more amateurish than the others.’
‘Maybe.’
‘But you don’t think so.’
He was sharp, Rocco decided. His policeman’s nose had picked up on Rocco’s hesitation and he had drawn his own conclusions.
‘I have been working with a representative of the presidential security team, but I want to be sure of my facts before I go any further.’
‘Very wise, although waiting might be risky, don’t you think, if there’s a plot afoot?’
‘Possibly. But we have time. That is all I can say.’
Nialls shrugged. ‘Fair enough. What do you want from me?’
Rocco was surprised. ‘You will help?’
‘As much as I can, yes. It depends what you need, though.’ Nialls smiled and explained, ‘I’m on my way out of here, due for retirement in a few weeks. It means I have a certain amount of leeway; nobody expects me to
