‘No, boss. I just don’t think he’d be up for it, that’s all.’ He had no reason for thinking that, other than instinct born of experience. He’d been around policemen long enough and close enough to be able to judge whether they could be bought or not. Some could, some couldn’t. And something told him Rocco wasn’t for sale.
‘Everyone’s up for it,’ Brayne muttered sourly, jealous of having his ideas countered by a man like Tasker. ‘There’s not a cop going who doesn’t have a price. All we have to do is find the number that turns them on. And the French are no different. Anyway, we’ve got the budget, we might as well give it a try.’
‘Budget?’ Ketch echoed. ‘What’s that mean?’
Brayne leant forward at his most earnest, ignoring Tasker’s scowl of disapproval and dropping smoothly into business mode. ‘We’ve got a new bank account in Paris, to cater for any… contingencies such as this. I set it up a couple of months ago after you expressed an interest in operating on the Continent. It was just in case we needed access to French francs.’ He sat back. ‘It’s in the name of a shell company, so we could pay him off using cash from that account, no comeback guaranteed.’
Ketch looked impressed. ‘Bloody Nora, Brayne, you never cease to amaze me.’ His eyes switched to Tasker. ‘Hear that, George? Now that’s what I call initiative. A bank account in Paris. Not bad for a bunch of East End boys, eh?’ He smoothed his hair back and nodded slowly, almost purring. ‘I like it. We’ll pay this Rocco twerp in his own currency to go away. Think you can handle that?’
Tasker shifted uneasily. Paying ‘bungs’ to people to look the other way was part of the business, and he was often the bagman. They did it all the time, paying off local officials, businesses, individuals — even cops. Especially the cops they needed to ‘dissuade’ from taking too close an interest in Ketch’s business arrangements. But that was here in London. He knew the ground and the people, the dangers and the risks he could take. France was a whole different game of skittles.
‘There’s a quicker way, boss,’ he breathed, throwing a sly glance at the accountant. ‘Cheaper, too — and permanent.’
‘Really? What’s that, then?’ Ketch caught the look and smiled, as if he couldn’t guess what was on Tasker’s mind. He enjoyed a little conflict between his employees; it kept them all on their toes, stopped them becoming complacent.
‘A bullet.’ Tasker mimed a two-fingered gun and pointed it at his temple, making a soft poof sound with his lips. ‘Quick, neat and no need to mess with no Frog money.’
Ketch appeared to consider the idea, tilting his head from side to side with a touch of drama. Then he said, ‘No, I don’t think so. It has… what’s the word, Brayne?’
‘Merit,’ Brayne muttered, and somehow made the word sound banal.
‘Merit — that’s right. It has merit. But not this time. Not with him having seen our French guest chatting with Harding and Turkish John. There’d be too many repercussions if he suffered an accident right after coming to London, especially as Nialls was with him. I reckon there’s a certain… elegance in paying off this nosey French cop through one of their own banks.’ He smiled. ‘After all, it’s what the Common Market’s supposed to be all about, isn’t it, making trade easier?’
‘Even though we’re not in it,’ Brayne put in dryly.
‘As you say, Brayne, as you say; even though Charlie de Gaulle’s playing silly buggers and keeping us out. After all we’ve done for him, too. But let’s not be bitter. We’ll pay the man, this Rocco fella. Buy him off. Get yourself over there toot sweet, George. Brayne will arrange access to the readies as soon as you hit Amiens. Isn’t that right?’
The accountant nodded. ‘No problem.’
‘Good. We’ll call it Plan A. Oh, and I hope you like flying.’
‘Eh?’
Ketch grinned with a touch of malice. ‘Little treat for you, George. There’s a small airfield at Thurrock, and a pilot who owes the boys a few favours. He’ll drop you near Amiens and bring you back.’
‘Thurrock?’ The idea of flying had caught Tasker unprepared. As hard as he was, he preferred to keep his feet on the ground and wheels in contact with the earth. But trying to get out of it would make him appear weak.
‘That’s right. Head out towards Tilbury and turn right; you can’t miss it. You’ll be over and back before you know it.’
‘Do I have to?’ Tasker couldn’t believe he’d had the balls to say it. He recovered quickly and said, ‘I mean, he might not go for it.’ More than anything, the idea of trying to pay off a man like Rocco filled him with alarm. Paying off people he didn’t like or trust, knowing what their weak points were and how to exploit their greed, was part of the game. Most times he actually enjoyed seeing them squirm before they grabbed the bait like greedy carp. But this idea was a bad one. He could feel it in his gut.
Ketch looked at him in surprise and the office went quiet. Switching the pen in his hand, he held it like a gun and pointed the barrel at Tasker’s face.
‘Then, George, mon ami,’ he said softly, eyes glittering, ‘you switch to Plan B. You fly back over there and you shoot the interfering French copper dead!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
By noon the following day, Rocco was on the Dover train with a firm promise from David Nialls to keep him informed of the movements of Simon Calloway and George Tasker. He was studying the summary file on Calloway provided by Nialls’ colleagues. It didn’t tell him much of any great relevance: aged thirty-four, the son of a chemist, he was educated at a minor public school — which Rocco knew meant a private establishment — and had gone off the rails at an early age by ‘borrowing’ cars and running with a group of undesirables. Avoiding a prison sentence by the narrowest of margins and his father’s influence, he had found himself using his driving skills with an upand- coming racing team based in Surrey, to the south of London. He had won a place as a standby driver, until a first- team driver had fallen ill a few days before an appearance at Le Mans. Calloway had stepped in and finished fifth — a more than respectable result for a newcomer, and one that had ensured him a regular place on the team. But whatever was bad in Calloway’s make-up had soon made its way to the fore, and after an ‘incident’ at 150 mph, which had resulted in another driver being seriously burnt, he had been dropped.
The rest of the file gave little information that was current, and Rocco felt a sense of disappointment. No mention of running with Tasker or Ketch, no involvement in politics or anti-Gaullist movements, no recorded views on social injustice abroad which might have been a clincher to this latest business. Then he sat up, his heart thudding. He was looking at a brief sentence describing Calloway’s current listed occupation: he worked as a film stunt driver and as a member of a travelling stunt display team.
He put the document away, trying not to jump too quickly to the logical conclusion. Better to let the idea ferment for a while in his mind. But once there, it wouldn’t go away. Who was better to use in a crash scene than a trained stunt driver? Even so, was that enough to assume that Calloway would be involved in a potential ‘hit’ on the president? And was there a connection between Calloway’s occupation and the presence in London of Patrice Delarue? He couldn’t see it, but neither could he ignore it.
He flicked at the lapel of his new coat. It was dark, as were the trousers, jacket and new brogues. He had taken the opportunity, reminded by Nialls’ mention of Savile Row, the location of West End Central Police Station and a number of upmarket tailors, to replenish the parts of his wardrobe that had been spoilt by his immersion in the canal. He’d always had a preference for English clothes, and this had been an opportunity to indulge himself.
It was late by the time he got back to Amiens, but lights were still burning in the upstairs offices used by Saint-Cloud and Massin. He decided to brief Massin first, and told him what he had found out about Calloway’s current occupation as a stunt driver.
Massin listened carefully, then said, ‘So you think this Calloway will drive the truck which will be used to force the president’s car off the road?’
‘Well, he’s certainly an expert at setting up these things. It would require timing and accuracy — something stuntmen live by.’
‘Have you informed Saint-Cloud?’
‘Not yet.’ He considered his words carefully. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure there’s much to tell that he would
