‘And they believed that load of old cobblers? Sorry, that means-’
‘I know what it means. And the answer is yes, they believed it.’
‘Christ Almighty, Tasker being involved would be enough for most coppers this side of the water to smell a rat, he’s done it so often. It rather explains where he was flying off to, though, doesn’t it? I suppose there are similar small airfields near you where he could have landed?’
‘A few,’ Rocco agreed. There were often small planes buzzing around the skies in the area, and he had a good idea where the most active club airfield was situated. He made a note to get Desmoulins onto it.
‘The other man was Bones, you say?’ Nialls continued. ‘That sounds disturbingly familiar. Did you get a first name?’
‘No. We were not introduced. But he takes a good photograph.’ Rocco described the man and heard the sound of a low whistle at the other end.
‘I thought so. There’s only one man I know who fits that description. Let me double-check, will you? I’ve a colleague here who knows Tasker’s circle of festering little mates better than I do. Won’t be a second.’ The phone went down with a clunk and Rocco heard a mumble of voices in the background, followed by laughter. Seconds later Nialls was back.
‘Well, that was easy. Fortunately, Tasker’s no Einstein; he used one of his own friends. My colleague confirms that it was a photographer named Patrick Daniel Skelton, known as “Bones”. That’s a play on words, although I suspect you know that.’
‘I do.’
‘Right. Skelton lurks at the lower edges of his profession, providing so-called evidence for divorce scams set up by a couple of private detectives. When he’s not doing that, he freelances for one of the nastier news rags and does photographic work for magazines in Soho. He has several minor convictions for handling pornography. I’ve had the dubious task of talking to him myself on a couple of occasions. I felt like having a bath after each one.’
‘And he is a friend of Tasker?’
‘Yes, although probably more supplier than friend.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I gather George Tasker has a rather brutal approach to getting women. Skelton gets them coming to him all the time, hoping for “film” work. One feeds the other.’
Rocco recalled Tasker’s expression when he’d seen Alix at the station. The air of sexual menace in his eyes had been blatant, and what Nialls had said came as no surprise.
‘Can you find out if this Skelton was out of the country at the same time as Tasker?’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?’
‘What exactly does Fletcher do?’
‘You mean when he’s not throwing his weight around for Ketch or Tasker? He’s a doorman — a bouncer. But when he’s not bullying drunks, he drives haulage trucks. Most of it’s involved with shifting illegal goods, but we haven’t been able to catch him at it yet.’
Rocco thanked him and put down the phone. So, another driver.
A truck driver.
A truck ramming a car. He pictured the scene, and thought about the two men involved. Fletcher the giant fist, the battering ram; Calloway the expert, the artist. Which one would be more useful for an attack on the president? A getaway driver with the skill to out-distance any police pursuit must be high up there. In most of the previous attacks, putting distance between themselves and the vengeful authorities had proved the most difficult thing for the gunmen to accomplish. In most cases, anyone who had escaped had done so through a knowledge of the area, of being able to slip away through narrow backstreets and hide among the local population. Or by sheer unadulterated good fortune. Because sometimes luck favoured the ungodly, too.
But if Rocco’s suspicions were correct, what use would a racing driver be on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere? With none of the usual security, public or press on hand, why would they need speed to escape afterwards? If the planned visit to the Pont Noir was going to be private, even the normal publicity machine would be unaware of the president’s presence. Any ensuing getaway would therefore be almost surreally casual in its execution.
Which meant Calloway wouldn’t be required. Not there, at any rate.
Because Fletcher would be the instrument of assault. Fletcher would be the giant fist driving a very blunt instrument. Everything hinged on him.
He’d been looking at the wrong man.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Lilas Garage in St Gervais was a hive of activity when Caspar arrived and parked across the street. It was just after seven in the evening. Set amid a row of small houses down a cul-de-sac, the place had an air of neat respectability, with a freshly painted frontage and a large roller door keeping the noise in and, he suspected, unwanted visitors out.
He’d driven out from the city as soon as he’d got the call from Santer, keen to help in any way that he could with Rocco’s dilemma, the need to go trawling for OAS leads forgotten. If the DS wrecked near Amiens had come from this garage, and it was tied in with an assassination plot against the president, then he was ready to do whatever it took to prove the link. Not that he felt overly bothered by a threat to de Gaulle. But helping out Rocco, who had given him a chance when nobody else had, was very high on his list of priorities. If that also helped preserve Le Grand Charles for another day… well, you couldn’t have everything.
A tour of local bars, playing the part of a cautious motorist seeking a reputable garage to supply and service a decent car, had thrown up the names of one or two local businesses. Oddly, few had mentioned Ets. Lilas Moteurs, and those who had had been reluctant to give glowing endorsements, with one or two clamming up when he’d pressed them for details. Caspar’s nose for the faintly dubious, along with a friendly call to a one-time colleague in the area, had soon verified that the garage was not quite what it seemed. They did not encourage walk-in customers, and had no visible used-car lot. They appeared, however, to process a good number of vehicles, although few, if any, buyers were ever seen on the premises.
Caspar watched the place and waited. He’d picked up a hint from his one-time colleague that the owner was actually only a manager, but it was going to be difficult to prove who owned the place without going through a lengthy process of accessing business records with the local town hall. That was something Santer would be able to do legitimately. In the meantime, Caspar preferred to see if he could shake something up the old-fashioned way.
A heavyset man in blue overalls appeared from a Judas gate in the roller door, stepping to one side and lighting up a cigarette. Behind him as the door opened and closed came the bright flutter of a welding torch and the clatter of metal hitting a concrete floor.
Caspar climbed out of his car and wandered across the street, lighting up a cigarette and holding it with the glowing end cupped in his hand. He nodded at the mechanic, who grunted in return, but eyed Caspar warily.
‘A guy said this might be a good place to pick up a decent car,’ he said casually, and named one of the bars where the garage had been mentioned. ‘I think his name was Marco.’
‘Is that right?’ The man studied him carefully. ‘I don’t know any Marco.’
‘Well, maybe I got it wrong. But you do sell cars, right? For cash?’
‘Now and then.’ The man indicated with his chin Caspar’s car, a dark-blue Peugeot. ‘But it looks like you’ve already got one.’
‘It belongs to my brother. He lent it to me but he needs it back.’ He dropped the cigarette and stamped on it. ‘Still, if you’re not interested.’
‘Depends how much you want to spend,’ said the man. ‘We do good work — we’re not cheap. And it would have to be cash.’
‘Sure. Are you the owner? Only I like to deal with the boss.’
‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’ The man looked prickly, his eyes narrowing. His voice had dropped to a low growl.
