begin any new investigations or to be running around like a spring chicken. But you’ll have to be quick.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s talk of the complete file on Ketch and his people being handed over to another team.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I can’t say I’m too sorry, but I’d like to think I can do something useful before I go.’
‘Such as solving your train robbery?’ Britain’s biggest ever cash robbery had been carried out three months previously on a train transporting used banknotes due for incineration. So far they had come nowhere near finding out who had organised it.
Nialls grinned. ‘It would be a good one to go out on, wouldn’t it? But no, I don’t think I’ll get that one.’
‘Can you tell me anything about Tasker and his people? Calloway in particular — I am sure he has an important role in this. Who they know, who their contacts are in France.’
‘That last bit’s easy enough, especially with Tasker. He doesn’t have any contacts outside London. George Tasker’s a thug — a muscleman with enough brains to make him dangerous but with limited horizons. He’s like a sergeant in the military; he does what he’s told, passes on instructions, and chivvies the troops to do their bit.’ He lifted a hand in apology. ‘Sorry — “chivvies” means to encourage. Keep forgetting myself.’
‘I understood. But thank you for the explanation.’
‘Your English is impressive. How come?’
‘Thank you,’ said Rocco. ‘My mother insisted. She felt the world was becoming smaller and it would be an advantage. I was also with United Nations forces in Korea in 1952 for a while, attached to a British unit. I had to learn quickly.’
‘That would account for it. Wish I could claim the same with my French.’ He got back to the subject under discussion. ‘Anyway, Ketch is the man you should be looking at. He’s the operational head of the gang. If anyone’s in the know about what they were up to over in your neck of the woods, it’ll be him. He’s a very clever man.’
‘You admire him?’
‘No. I don’t. But I don’t underestimate him. Ketch is a broad thinker. He’s suspected of having put together a number of clever jobs over the years, every one of them successful and with a big return on their investment.’ A dry smile. ‘Makes him sound like the boss of ICI, doesn’t it? But it’s what he’s good at: the planning… and what we’ve come to recognise recently as smoke and mirrors.’
‘I’m sorry…?’
‘He takes the widest possible view of staging a job. He doesn’t simply look at the direct details, like most of his kind, focusing on the place to hit, how to get in, the men to use, that kind of thing. He uses distraction techniques. The first we’ll hear is a welter of rumours, usually spreading from drinking haunts around his manor, some conflicting with others until we don’t know what’s going on. Then the rumour becomes solid, and a mail van gets jumped. Then another, somewhere else. While we’re involved with those two, his men are busy running another — usually bigger job somewhere else. It’s a strategy we believe he borrowed from reading about the desert campaigns in North Africa.’
‘Hit and run, you mean?’ Rocco was familiar with the term; French forces had also used the tactics, relying on feeding out false information about possible attacks, then staging a surprise assault elsewhere.
‘Exactly. It’s only recently become recognisable, and we’re still playing catch-up. If you can get there first, I’d take my hat off to you.’
‘But?’ Rocco sensed a problem.
‘You’ll never get close to him. Ketch is paranoid about cops and snitches — informers. He uses Tasker to organise jobs and be the blunt instrument, and has a financial planner and crooked accountant named Brayne to help with his deep thinking. Between them they’re a very clever team. He compartmentalises, in other words.’
Rocco shook his head at the term. He thought he could guess, but guesses were no good at this point.
‘He keeps everything separate. You know in intelligence structures, they keep cells and cut-outs? If one goes down, they don’t compromise the others? Well, it’s similar to that. Most of the men he uses never even meet him. Tasker’s the recruitment sergeant.’
Rocco understood. It was a tried-and-tested system, also used by some Corsican gangs to reduce risks in case of penetration by undercover police.
Nialls glanced at his watch. ‘I won’t be able to get you an introduction to Ketch, but I know where he can be found most evenings. At least you’ll get a sighting of the man.’
‘That would help. And Simon Calloway? A former racing driver, according to a colleague of mine.’
‘Really? The name’s certainly familiar, but I’ll have to check. Some gang members work on a shifting pattern — brought in for special tasks, then let go. He could be one of those.’ He picked up the phone and dialled an internal number, then spoke briefly, giving Calloway’s name. He put the phone down and said, ‘Our intelligence unit. They keep a log of all known names. If he’s done time, or been picked up on suspicion of involvement in anything, they’ll know. It’ll keep until tomorrow. Shall we go look at some of our criminal brethren at play?’
As they walked back downstairs, they stepped aside to allow two men coming up to pass on the narrow stairway. It took Rocco a moment to realise that he recognised the man leading the way. By the time they were face to face, there was no way of feigning ignorance.
‘Rocco?’ The lead man was short and stocky, clean-shaven and smartly dressed. His tone was imperious and questioning, the singular word tinged with dislike. The last time Rocco had seen Jules Broissard, he was attached to the DST — the Directorate of Territorial Surveillance — the French internal security agency. They had clashed over a territorial dispute in Clichy. Rocco had arrested a known explosives specialist whom Broissard had wanted to remain free pending investigations into the man’s involvement in anti-government threats and arms supplies. The clear intimation had been that it would be in Rocco’s career interests to give way. Broissard had lost the argument, and had clearly not forgiven or forgotten him.
‘Broissard.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Broissard stared hard at Rocco, then at Nialls, as if they were at the centre of some kind of conspiracy. ‘And on whose authority?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Rocco wondered if he would get away with tossing this little Napoleon down the stairs. Broissard was strutting and ambitious, dismissive of anyone outside his own department, especially of policemen. Fond of hinting at friends with influence, in reality, his authority was limited.
‘I really can’t discuss that,’ he said, and introduced David Nialls. ‘What about you?’ he added, twisting the knife to show how much he cared for the man’s position.
Broissard almost shook with indignation. ‘We are here on matters of state security,’ he muttered. In other words, nothing to do with you. He belatedly remembered the man with him and introduced him with a casual flick of the hand. ‘Henri Portier, a colleague.’ Then he ducked away and moved on up the stairs before they could ask any further questions.
‘Not a friend, I take it?’ said Nialls with a grin.
‘No. Not a friend,’ said Rocco. He was trying to remember something, a fleeting image prodding at his memory. They were halfway along Whitehall before it finally came to him.
Henri Portier, Broissard’s silent colleague. He’d seen him before, too — and recently. He was one of the two suited visitors who had accompanied Colonel Saint-Cloud to the Amiens police station just a few days ago.
The Allendale Club in Mayfair was sleek, smart and busy, with a scattering of expensive suits and early- evening cocktail dresses among the clientele. David Nialls nodded at the doorman, a pug-faced man in a dinner jacket and bow tie, who stood aside to allow them in.
The interior was glossy and richly decorated, with a long curved bar at one side of the main room and tables set for dinner beyond a gold-coloured balustrade at the rear. A three-piece band was playing soft jazz in one corner. Opposite the bar was a row of small booths with bench seats for four and a small table.
Nialls bellied up to the bar and ordered two glasses of whisky, and they carried their drinks over to one of the booths and sat down. Nialls took off his coat and sipped his drink.
‘You might as well make yourself comfortable, Lucas,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a while before anyone interesting gets
