‘No law against it, is there?’ the woman muttered.
Nialls relaxed. He wasn’t interested in her. Skelton was enough to be going on with. ‘No, madam, there isn’t.’ His face softened. ‘And your husband is a lucky man. But I’m afraid you’ll have to reschedule. I need to borrow Mr Skelton and it might take some time.’
They waited while the woman hustled behind the screen and got dressed. As soon as she had gone, Nialls turned on the photographer. ‘Get your socks on — we’re going out.’
‘Why? I haven’t done anything!’
‘You’ve done plenty, you unpleasant little oik. We’re going to the French embassy.’
Skelton looked alarmed. ‘Why would I want to go there?’
‘Because you’re going to make a verbal and written statement about your recent trip across the Channel.’ He held up a hand to silence the inevitable protest. ‘And don’t bother denying it — we’ve got witnesses who saw you take off from Thurrock airfield in Essex. The pilot’s already made a full statement.’ Neither detail was true, but Nialls said it with absolute conviction and a steady, cold gaze. He turned to the desk and extracted a British passport from beneath the edge of a pile of papers. ‘And look what I’ve found.’
Skelton swallowed. ‘What if I don’t want to go?’
‘Then I’ll have Sergeant McLean here tuck your rancid body under his arm and carry you. I’ll also arrange for a quiet word to be dropped in certain clubs around here that you’ve been most helpful with our investigations with names, dates and times. What’s it to be?’
‘You can’t do that!’ Skelton yelped. ‘Jesus — they’ll kill me!’
‘You don’t deny it, then?’
Skelton said nothing, but looked as if he were about to bolt for the door.
Nialls nodded at McLean. ‘Pick him up, Sergeant.’
‘Wait! No need for that… I’m coming.’ Skelton bent and picked up a pair of socks and began to struggle into them. ‘What have I got to do to get you lot off my back?’
Nialls felt a rush of relief. None of this was legal or proper, and if it ever got out, he’d find himself having to answer some awkward questions from his superiors. But right now he didn’t care. He’d had enough of stepping around people like Skelton all his working life just because they could rustle up a clever lawyer when it suited them. He was helping a fellow police officer in trouble, and the simple fact was, he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years.
‘Just tell the truth, Bones, for once in your scummy existence. I know that’s a difficult concept for you, but believe me, the alternative is not one you want to contemplate.’
‘Alternative?’ Skelton paused in tying his shoes’ laces.
‘Tasker and his bosses hearing on the grapevine that you’ve been helping our enquiries.’
‘How would they? I’m not going to say anything.’
‘You might not,’ McLean muttered tightly, ‘but I wouldn’t bet on me not letting it slip before the night’s out. I fancy a bit of a pub crawl.’
‘That’s blackmail!’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Nialls. ‘It’s a public service.’ He glanced at the cameras on the desk. It was an impressive collection and clearly top of the range. ‘Before I forget, bring one of those with you.’
‘Eh? Why?’
‘You’ll find out.’
Twenty minutes later, they were inside the French embassy and being ushered into a side room by a security guard. Moments later, an official appeared and greeted Nialls with a warm handshake.
‘David. How nice to see you again. Can I offer you some tea?’
‘No thanks, Dominique. It’s late enough and I don’t want to keep you.’ He introduced Sgt McLean and the two men shook hands.
‘Very well. You wished someone to make a statement, I believe?’
Nialls nodded at Skelton. ‘This… gentleman wants to confirm his part in attempting to bribe a French police officer in a village called Poissons-le-Marais, near Amiens. He took the photos of the inspector being set up.’
Dominique, a third secretary and a liaison officer between the British and French police, whom Nialls had already briefed in his phone call, gestured at the table in the centre of the room, which held a recorder and a notepad. He switched on the recorder and stared at Skelton with a show of disapproval. ‘I have spoken to colleagues since your phone call, and the suspension is not yet official, pending investigations. The photographs are quite clear, I understand, although taken at night. They show an officer apparently taking an envelope from a second man. But if this gentleman has something to say on the matter, his… cooperation would be appreciated.’
‘Damn right,’ Nialls muttered. ‘Taken at night, eh? Not easy to do, I’d have thought… although you’re used to snapping away in the dark, aren’t you? Care to enlighten us amateurs, Bones?’
The photographer looked as if he were going to argue. Then his ego got the better of him. ‘It’s easy enough, if you know what you’re doing.’
‘And I bet you do. Go on, then: blind us with science.’
‘Does 800 ASA mean anything?’ At Nialls’ blank look, he sniggered. ‘Didn’t think so. It’s a new fast film, just out. Dead simple. Got him in the headlights.’ He simulated the clicking of a camera and winked, enjoying his own cleverness.
Nialls wanted to hit him, but smiled instead. The rest would be easy. Once someone like Bones began talking, he’d be hard to stop. He glanced at Dominique. ‘You have developing facilities here?’
‘Of course. Our security manager can deal with that and have the prints ready for you very quickly. We have a courier going across the Channel first thing in the morning. They should be in Amiens very early.’
‘Prints?’ Skelton looked from one man to the other. ‘What prints?’
‘Of you and your statement,’ said Nialls. He smiled coolly, although he doubted Skelton would appreciate the irony of the situation. ‘You’re going to be famous, Bones. I think this is the first time anyone’s photographed a statement and sent it to another country with a snap of the guilty party. How about that?’
Skelton scowled, clearly torn between incriminating himself further and being any kind of front runner in the photography world. ‘This isn’t right. I should call my lawyer.’
‘If you think he can protect you, go ahead.’ Skelton didn’t sound convinced, and was probably weighing up the odds of going along with this against the probability of what would happen if word got out that he’d talked to the police. To speed the photographer’s thinking, Nialls leant close and said softly, ‘But if you do, I’ll have to let you go immediately, won’t I? Then you’re on your own. And it’s cold and dark out there, Skelton. Very dark.’
Skelton blinked rapidly. ‘I’ve got no choice, have I?’
‘Put like that — no, you bloody don’t. Now start talking, chapter and verse.’
Three hundred and fifty kilometres away, in a smoke-filled bar near Belleville in the north-east of Paris, Marc Casparon was having second thoughts about the wisdom of what he was doing.
He’d found his way here on the recommendation of a contact from his days on the force. He’d ordered a light beer to clear his head while waiting for a man named Susman, who claimed to have an inside link with a hard-core student group calling themselves Red Machine. Opposed to almost anything de Gaulle proposed or did, they were more than a bunch of activist malcontents, having shown themselves capable of violence in street marches, rapidly escalating to organised raids on opposition groups. Now they were rumoured to have picked up some financial backing. It was a worrying development. Rebellious students with no cash soon ran out of everything but hot air; those same students with access to funds were a whole different ball game.
He sipped his beer and reflected on how much time he had spent over the years waiting in late-night bars like this for contacts like Susman to show up. Too many, whatever it was — and not always with anything worth trading. It probably added up to a lot of wasted hours. But that was the life he’d chosen and at least Susman had always proven reliable. Well, fairly reliable. The man had a marijuana habit and sometimes behaved as if he had demons after him. He shook off the thoughts. At least now he was here by choice. It made him wonder how Lucas Rocco was holding up. The news of the investigator’s suspension had travelled quickly, but few believed it; every cop worth his salt got accusations flung at him at least once in his career. It was part of the job and didn’t mean there was any truth to it. And nothing he’d heard led him to believe Rocco was corrupt. Some cops were and he could call their names to mind. But not Rocco; he’d stake his life on it.
