‘If you say so.’ There was hesitation in Santer’s voice. ‘Lucas, have you told anyone else about all this?’
‘I’ve tried. They don’t believe in the criminal connection.’
‘Jesus, you have to push harder; you’re leaving yourself open, otherwise.’
‘I will, I promise. But right now what I need is something concrete.’
‘Good. You haven’t said why I shouldn’t tell Broissard.’
‘I think he’s too close to this, and we’re hardly friends. I can’t prove it, but I don’t want to take any chances that he’ll just sit on the information until it’s too late.’
‘Good enough for me. I’ll find a way round him.’
Rocco put down the phone and found Claude looking at him with a serious expression.
‘Sounds like this is getting heavy, Lucas.’
‘It is. I just don’t know how heavy.’
The phone rang again and he scooped it up. Probably Massin or the Ministry, summoning him to a disciplinary interview. The Foreign Legion was suddenly looking like an attractive proposition… if they took mature recruits with police experience.
But it wasn’t Massin or the Ministry. It was David Nialls.
‘Something’s going on, Lucas,’ the CID man said crisply. ‘Just had word that Tasker, Fletcher and Calloway have just got on a late boat for Calais.’
Like a snowball, Rocco thought. This business was rolling downhill, gathering speed and volume.
‘There’s not much I can do without some hard facts to pass on,’ he said.
Nialls sighed sympathetically. ‘Yes, I know. All I can tell you is, two other men have gone to ground, possibly on the same trip. They’re known associates, used mainly as heavies. Their names are Biggs and Jarvis. Ring any bells?’
The two others involved in the wrecking of the Canard Dore. Rocco felt a trickle of excitement running through his veins. There was no way these five men would be coming back for another bout of fun and drinking; it just wasn’t feasible. It had to be something else.
Nialls confirmed it.
‘Look for the distraction, Lucas. It’s how they operate.’
‘I would if I could figure out what it might be.’
‘Well, I’m not sure if this will help, but there’s one thing to bear in mind about Tasker: putting aside everything else he does now, he’s a born-and-raised bank robber. And he’s got two drivers with him. Would that be distraction enough?’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
DCI David Nialls sat deep in thought for some time after putting the phone down. The conversation with Rocco had been a disturbing one with some personal echoes; he himself had been accused of taking bribes once, a long time ago. As a young detective trying to make his way up the career ladder, he had run foul of a bookie he’d hauled in for demanding money with menaces. The man had retaliated by claiming Nialls had only arrested him because the cash offer he’d made hadn’t been big enough. The accusation had been flawed, and Nialls had assumed that nobody had taken it seriously. But he’d soon discovered that even a light brush with mud has a habit of sticking. It had taken him a couple of years to shake off the allegations completely.
Now Rocco would be going through the same thing and he knew what that felt like. He checked his watch and picked up the phone. There was only one thing for it.
Direct action.
He made a call to an acquaintance in the French embassy, followed by an internal call. Then he walked north to Dean Street, in Soho. He stopped outside a plain wooden door sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and a strip club. A speaker pad with three buttons was fixed to the side. In the background was the usual volley of touts tasked to entice punters into the various establishments in the area, overlaid by arguments and bursts of laughter from passers-by and residents.
A squat man with the shoulders of a wrestler was standing outside the plain door. He nodded as Nialls approached.
‘Hello, Mr Nialls. He’s upstairs.’
Nialls smiled. ‘You can drop the title, Tom,’ he said. ‘I’m almost a civilian now. And this job is off the books.’
‘Suits me, boss. Just point the way.’
Sergeant Tom McLean had worked the Soho area for many years, and knew his way around its streets, clubs and watering holes like few others. He had an instinct for trouble and had worked with Nialls several times before. The two held each other in mutual respect. Nialls had caught him just as he was on his way home, and had asked for a small favour. The sergeant had agreed without question.
‘Skelton has helped drop a friend of mine in hot water with some sneaky photos — a false bribery allegation. I’d like to lean on him and make him squeak. There might be some opposition.’
‘Sounds like his usual style. He doesn’t normally have any minders, but it depends who he’s working for. We going straight in?’
‘I think so. Hard and fast and don’t give him time to think.’
The sergeant stepped up to the door and put the flat of his hand against all three speaker buttons. ‘Stay behind me until we get in.’ He leant on the buttons until the door clicked, then pushed it back and ran lightly up a flight of grubby stairs littered with cardboard boxes. Nialls was right behind him. They came to a landing with two doors. A Chinese woman in a patterned overall and slippers stood outside one door, scowling at the two men. The other door was open, the flat inside empty. McLean continued on past and up another flight of stairs to a smaller landing with a single door. He waited for Nialls to reach the top step and catch his breath.
Nialls leant against the wall and signalled for McLean to continue. He would have liked to kick it in himself, but it would be a waste of talent.
‘Go ahead,’ he told him.
The door was flimsy and gave in without a struggle, crashing back against the inside wall and showering the floor with flakes of paint. Both men stepped inside and found themselves in a single room furnished with a couch, a small desk overflowing with camera equipment and spools of film, a wardrobe, a plain screen and an enormous bowl of flowers. Behind the flowers was a buxom, naked woman in her forties, scrambling to hide herself. Sets of angled lights with coloured lenses gave her body a curiously marbled effect.
There was no sign of ‘Bones’ Skelton, but he was clearly not far away.
‘Where is he?’ breathed Nialls.
The woman pointed at the backdrop screen. Behind it was a door with a red light overhead. ‘It’s a developing room.’ She remembered that her hand was supposed to be covering her modesty and snatched it back, blushing crimson.
‘Get him out, Tom,’ Nialls told McLean, and waited while the sergeant stepped behind the screen and opened the door. There was a strangled shout, then he dragged out the skinny frame of Patrick Daniel Skelton. He was dressed in a shirt and trousers, and his feet were bare.
‘Sorry, Bones,’ Nialls greeted him blandly. He sniffed at the sudden smell of chemicals in the air and studied the photographer’s feet. ‘Did we interrupt something seedy?’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ Skelton protested. ‘I always work barefoot. It helps my artistic creativeness.’
‘God help us: a porno snapper with pretensions. And the lady — she’s your muse, I suppose.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard.’
‘She’s a client. Straight up. She wants some photos for her husband.’ He stared imploringly at the woman who was struggling to conceal her ampleness inside a silk robe. ‘Go on, tell him.’
The woman nodded. ‘That’s right. It’s our wedding anniversary and I wanted to surprise him with some nice… photos.’
You’ll certainly do that, thought Nialls. But who was he to criticise?
