know you had company. I won’t stop-’
‘Ah, non!’ Claude grabbed his arm. ‘You don’t come bearing gifts and depart like a thief into the night, my friend. You must stay for dinner, at least. We have enough, don’t we, Alix?’
‘Luckily, yes.’ Alix gave Rocco a wry smile. ‘How did you know I liked whisky?’
‘Umm… I didn’t.’ It was a moment before Rocco realised she was teasing. He allowed himself to be dragged inside, deciding that sleep would have to wait.
‘So,’ said Claude, pouring generous measures, his voice dropping conspiratorially as Alix moved away to the kitchen, ‘how is Madame Drolet?’ He grinned and raised his glass, winking meaningfully. ‘Sante, mon vieux.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rocco drank, pretending ignorance. No doubt the village rumour mill had been grinding away, making, as his mother used to say, a cake out of a brioche.
‘Well, word is she’s been circling you like an elegant black widow spider, waiting to strike.’ He fluttered his eyebrows. ‘Are you feeling frightened?’
‘She’s harmless.’
‘No, she’s not. Take my word, if you’re not careful, she’ll drag you behind the counter one dark evening, roll you up in her web and paff! — Mme Denis will be needing a new neighbour.’
‘Who needs a new neighbour?’ Alix came to join them and relieved her father of his glass and took a small sip. ‘Are you two ready to eat?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The station the following day was unusually quiet, with a seemingly lower number than usual of miscreants with ill-gotten goods and drunks with sore heads. There was no sign of Saint-Cloud and Massin was in a meeting. Rocco was relieved; it had been a late night and he’d drunk more than he’d intended. But it had been pleasant, too, spending time with Claude and Alix, a welcome diversion from work.
He got to his desk and found a note waiting for him. Inspector David Nialls had called with urgent information. He picked up the phone and dialled the number in London.
‘Ah, Lucas,’ Nialls greeted him. The British policeman sounded sombre. ‘I’ve got some news. George Tasker was seen getting on a plane yesterday morning at a small airfield outside London. One of our officers was there helping a local customs and excise officer and recognised him. Sorry it’s late, but the news only just reached me. I’m not sure if it means anything, but I thought I should mention it.’
‘Was Calloway with him?’
‘No. He’s currently on set at Pinewood Studios, strapped into a car. There was another passenger with Tasker, but our man didn’t get a clear sighting of him. As for your chap Delarue, he’s already checked out of his hotel. Seems he got a phone call late last night and decided to leave earlier than intended. Your doing, I suspect.’
‘I doubt it; I’m pretty certain he didn’t see me. But someone might have warned him. Do you know where Tasker was heading?’
‘Not for certain. The pilot logged it as a training flight, but since Tasker wouldn’t know a joystick from a jelly bean, I would guess he was certainly a passenger and heading your way. Just watch your back — he’s a dangerous man.’
Rocco put the phone down. Tasker wasn’t the only dangerous man around. Men like Delarue were a threat on a far bigger scale. And if he and some known British gangsters were cosying up, as Nialls had called it, it was going to be bad news for somebody.
He spent the remainder of the day passing on the information about Delarue to Santer and other colleagues with a keen interest in the city’s gang activities. Massin might tell his bosses in the Interior Ministry, but on-the- ground information of the kind he’d seen was infinitely fresher and more useful than days-old bulletins. Next he tried Caspar’s number, but there was no answer. He then drove out to the site of the ramming, then on to the Pont Noir, clarifying in his own mind the similarities between the two locations. He was off the assignment with Saint-Cloud, but that didn’t mean he was off the job. More than ever he was convinced that he was right about the connection between the two. Proving it, however, was a different matter. Beyond a vague theory and a hand-drawn sketch linking them, he hadn’t got any firm evidence to back it up. Somehow he had to come up with something tangible — and soon.
It was late in the afternoon and just beginning to get dark when Rocco arrived back in Poissons. He called in at the co-op for some supplies, carefully not responding to Mme Drolet’s fluttering eyelashes and coy smiles in light of Claude’s gleeful warning, then headed home.
A Peugeot with a rental sticker in the rear window was parked outside his house. Its headlights were on, throwing a theatrical glow along the road, and two men were standing by the driver’s door.
One was pencil-thin and dark-haired, dressed in a crumpled coat. He was watching the lane, and turned as Rocco drove by. It wasn’t a face Rocco recognised. A news reporter, possibly, looking for some inside information. His presence in Poissons was no longer a secret, if it ever had been, and the search for up-to-the-minute news meant that reporters were no longer prepared to address all their questions through official channels in Amiens.
The second man was in shadow, and more difficult to see. Then he moved and straightened.
It was the bullish figure of George Tasker.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Rocco stopped a car’s length further on and got out. His MAB 38 was in his coat pocket but he left it there. If these men had wished him harm, they would have waited to catch him unawares, preferably somewhere more remote. And they wouldn’t have wanted the area stage-lit like this.
Tasker smirked as he recognised Rocco, and stepped away from the vehicle, placing himself half in shadow. But his hands were in plain sight. He was dressed in a sharp suit with a loud tie, and looked heavy and solid and unstoppable.
‘Well, look who’s come home at last,’ he said, cocking his head to one side. ‘You know, you’re a hard man to find, Rocco. The locals clammed up when I asked where you lived. Well, I say I asked them… it was actually Bones here who did the talking on account of he’s clever like that and I don’t like even thinking about your shitty language. What’s all the secrecy about, then? You a bit shy?’
‘What do you want, Mr Tasker?’ said Rocco. ‘I am busy.’
‘Hey — is that any way to welcome a man to your manor?’ Tasker threw his hands wide, the picture of innocence. ‘I mean, you come to mine and I’ll make you welcome.’ He grinned nastily. ‘Very welcome indeed — eh, Bones?’
The man known as Bones shrugged but said nothing. He climbed back in the car and started the engine. Speaking was clearly not his job. Rocco kept his eyes flicking between the two men. He didn’t see Bones as a threat; he was probably a driver and interpreter. If Tasker was here to do something physical, he’d want to take care of it himself. But there were still two of them and one of him. What concerned him was that they had gone to the trouble of finding out where he lived. There had to be a reason for that.
‘Get to the point.’
Tasker sneered. ‘Fair enough. I’ve got something for you. It’s in my jacket, so don’t you go shooting me, will you?’ He reached very carefully into his inside pocket and took out a white envelope. He stepped forward into the glare of the headlights, turning to glance at the house and gesturing with the envelope. ‘Nice place, by the way. Yours, is it?’
Rocco ignored him.
‘Never mind. See, thing is, little birdies have been telling us that you’ve been looking into things which don’t
