‘You don’t know French cops. They don’t play nice when it suits them, and those boys in blue weren’t being too gentle, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Tasker shrugged. ‘So what? We’re still in one piece, aren’t we? It’s no worse than a dust-up down Brick Lane. You take the bruises and you get the money. They might not let us go today… but they have to sometime. We sit here until they do, then we go home.’ He grinned without humour. ‘It’s all part of the plan — and you’re being paid well for it, so don’t screw it up.’
The threat in his voice was a chilling reminder of his authority, and the men said nothing. Out in the corridor, they heard footsteps approaching. The door was unlocked.
A uniformed officer stepped in and stood in the doorway. Big and ready, he was holding a short baton in both hands. Two others stood just behind him, similarly armed. The lead man pointed at Tasker with the business end of the baton and beckoned.
Tasker folded his arms and sat back. ‘You want me, Pierre, you’ll have to come in and get me. Only you might have to get used to wearing your little stick through your nose.’
The officer hesitated, unsure of what the Englishman had said. But the body language was clear enough. The three officers made a move to step forward, then a voice murmured behind them and they stepped aside.
Another man entered the room.
Rocco stopped just inside the door and looked around at the five prisoners. They stared back, clearly surprised by his appearance. What they had no doubt expected was a group of heavies coming in in force; what they were seeing was a taller-than-average man, dark-haired and tanned, with broad shoulders, dressed in a good-quality, long, dark coat and trousers and expensive shoes. And seemingly unconcerned by their number in the confined space.
‘Well, well. Look what the cat’s brought in.’ Tasker was the first to speak. ‘Fe fi fo fum… I smell a senior frogeater.’ He kept his eyes on Rocco but his next words were clear enough. ‘Shtumm, boys, remember.’
Rocco moved further inside the room. He was holding a handful of British passports. Flicking them open, he studied the contents at length, allowing the silence to build. Then he compared faces with photos, going from one man to the next, staring them in the eye and noting their reactions. When he was finished, he slapped the passports shut and put them away, then studied the state of the men’s hands.
The big man, Tasker, was clearly the leader. Every group of individuals had one — even a group of violent drunks. And authority radiated off this man like an electric current. He was forty-five years old, married and listed as a businessman. He had the brutal appearance of a barroom brawler, although his suit looked expensive, if flash, as did the large gold rings on his fingers. Somewhere along the road of his life, someone had flattened his nose, and he had developed layers of old scar tissue over his eyes and was missing half of one eyebrow. He’d probably been a good puncher in his time, thought Rocco, eyeing his big shoulders and bunched knuckles, but with a poor defence. And judging by the fresh cuts and abrasions on his hands, he had been using those knuckles only a short while ago.
The second big man, Fletcher, was older at fifty-one. He had the dull eyes of a follower and a hard-man body going to seed around the edges. His clothes were also flashy, but cheap. He, too, was nursing cuts to his hands. Two younger men named Biggs and Jarvis were working hard at ignoring Rocco, but failing. They looked fit, like former soldiers or athletes, but beginning to go soft, their fingers yellowed by nicotine and reddened with scratches and cuts. Both were listed as customer managers. And then there was a man named Calloway, occupation professional driver, more French than English by appearance and somehow aloof from his companions. And smarter.
Rocco couldn’t think when he’d last seen such a mixed bunch, and decided it would have been back in Paris. They would have been criminals, too, just like this lot, of that he was certain.
‘For your information, Mr Tasker,’ he said in English, looking at the big man, ‘my name is Rocco. Inspector Rocco. That’s a strange word, “shtumm”. Is it London slang?’ He held Tasker’s gaze but the man looked too surprised to say anything. ‘Is there a particular reason why your friends should remain quiet?’
‘Terrific.’ The soft murmur came from Calloway, on hearing Rocco’s easy grasp of the language.
Tasker glared at him, but said to Rocco, ‘Go screw yourself, copper.’
‘See, that is what I do not understand,’ Rocco replied, and looked at each of the men in turn. He walked up and down, forcing them to follow him with their eyes, each turn taking him closer and closer until he was right in front of them, and they were having to crane their necks to see his face. ‘Five… friends, come to France and have a little fun. They drink too much of our wine and beer — even a bottle or two of cognac, according to the bar owner — and end up drunk. So drunk they completely ruin a bar.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens, of course. Even here we are not immune to the odd fracas. But then the men prove… difficult when taken in for questioning.’
‘So?’ Tasker stuck his chin out. ‘What’s your point?’
‘My point, Mr Tasker, is why? Most people in your situation would be eager — is that the word, eager? — to get out of here. After all, our jails are not famous for being comfortable.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a constant source of national shame, but budgets are very limited. However, you men are different. No, for some reason, you make more of this… episode than it needs. Almost as if you want to stay here. Is it the British military cemeteries which have attracted you to our region? I think not. It can hardly be the local fishing because you do not look like any fishermen I have ever seen. I’m just a little puzzled, that’s all. Perhaps we should talk about it.’ He studied Tasker’s eyes very carefully, looking for something, but failing to find it. It only added to his bafflement. He decided to unsettle him and turned to the three officers, pointing at Calloway. ‘Bring that man.’ Then he turned and left the cell.
‘Hey!’ Tasker was on his feet in an instant. ‘Come back here, copper! Why aren’t you questioning me? Hey — frog!’
But Rocco’s footsteps were already fading along the corridor.
Tasker could only watch as the officers lifted Calloway from his seat and took him away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘One of my colleagues,’ Rocco said in a conversational tone when they were all seated in a room upstairs, ‘recognised you from Le Mans a few years ago. You were good, he says, but your team let you go after an accident. Is that correct?’
‘Something like that.’ Calloway shifted in his seat. It was clear even to Rocco from his accent that the former race driver came from a different strata of English society to the other men, and he wondered about the man’s apparent fall from grace. He was good-looking in a soft-focus kind of way, like a film star just past his prime. Clean-shaven and tanned, he’d clearly been following the sun. No doubt some women would find him attractive.
‘You do not seem at ease with those others, Mr Calloway. Would you care to tell me why you are with them?’
‘A couple are friends from way back,’ Calloway replied easily. ‘I heard they were coming here for a bit of fun and decided to tag along.’
‘Fun. In Picardie in December? What kind of fun would that be? You think we have skiing here?’
A wry grin. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’ The comment showed a level of wit and intelligence, highlighting further his difference from the other men.
Rocco flicked a hand sideways. ‘You call what you did to that cafe fun?’
‘Yeah, well, maybe it did get out of hand a bit. We’re sorry. Your English is pretty good. Where did you learn it?’
‘Here and there.’ Rocco reached across the table and grasped Calloway’s hands. The palms were clean and soft. Driver’s hands, unmarked by rough labour… or glass splinters from a wall mirror. He flipped them over. Not a scratch on the backs, either.
‘You didn’t take part, did you? In that destruction. Why is that? Were you looking after your hands?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Calloway was beginning to look uncomfortable under the closeness of Rocco’s scrutiny. He tugged his hands out of Rocco’s grip and thrust them in his pockets.
