‘That’s a Molotov cocktail, that is,’ said Simeon knowingly, shuffling over to join them and lifting one leg to scratch at his groin. ‘Light the rag and chuck the bottle, the car goes up in flames. Pouf!’ He grinned, revealing a mouthful of discoloured teeth.
Rocco didn’t doubt him. The farmer was of an age where he would know; where men and women just like him would have learnt the art of sabotage against an invading foe; where a wine bottle filled with petrol was an easily sourced weapon and all it took to be useful was someone willing to get in close, light the rag and throw it.
‘Can you describe the car?’ he asked.
Simeon shrugged. ‘Fancy. Black. Shiny — like the ones they use in official processions. Citroen, I think. I’m better with horses, of course… I know about them.’
‘A DS?’ Claude suggested. ‘They’re used in processions — especially black ones. And funerals. There are none round here, though. Too expensive, and who wants to drive round looking like a funeral director — or a politician?’
Rocco shook his head as the buzz increased. So what they had was a truck ramming an official-looking car, and two men jumping out of the ditch and throwing pretend petrol bombs and firing guns. It prompted a thought. He turned to where Claude had picked up the glass.
‘Any shell cases?’
‘No. I thought about that. They must have picked them up… unless they used revolvers.’
‘They weren’t real, anyway.’
Rocco and Claude turned and looked at Simeon, who was scrubbing at his groin again like an old dog.
‘Say again?’ Rocco was trying not to imagine what was going on down there. The man looked as if he and hot water and soap were distant acquaintances.
‘Guns. I know guns, too. They weren’t firing live rounds. The sound wasn’t right. Too flat and dull, like damp fireworks.’
Make that pretend petrol bombs and blank rounds, thought Rocco. He said, ‘Did you see where they went afterwards?’
‘No. Like I told you, I was on my way back home with the horse. But I could hear them. Sound travels out here, you see; nothing to stop it. Wherever it was they went, they had a sick Renault to take with them. It sounded more like a tractor and kept banging, like there was something broken-’
‘Hey!’ Claude jumped in. ‘You didn’t say anything about it being a Renault before.’
‘Well, I only just realised, didn’t I? There’s a builder over towards Fonzet uses one just like it. Got it cheap off the military, he said.’ He nodded. ‘Renault. Bet you anything.’
Rocco shook his head. No bet. Camera, men, vehicles, fake petrol bombs and blank bullets, lots of blood and a tooth. On the surface it added up to nothing more improbable than a makeshift film set. He wasn’t sure but he had a feeling film-makers were supposed to get a licence for shooting scenes on public roads, even out here. It could soon be checked. And the blood might well turn out to be a simple accident; a stuntman who’d miscalculated and performed his final cascade.
Except, where were the film crew and equipment?
CHAPTER FOUR
George Tasker sat back and eyed the long mirror above the cafe bar. It glittered under the lights, and had gold-coloured patterns at each corner, like scrolls. That had to go, he decided; something that big was just asking for it. A well-placed chair would do it — maybe a table if things really got going.
He sipped at a glass of cognac and watched the others getting tanked. He didn’t much care for spirits, and would rather have had a pint of Guinness. But the excuse for a bar they had chosen didn’t stock decent beer and the bartender didn’t seem to care one way or another. The food on offer was pretty much limited to bread, boiled eggs and cold meat, which didn’t hold a candle to free booze as far as Fletcher and the others were concerned. They’d piled in with venom, eager to try drinks they never would have normally, encouraged by the wad of francs Tasker had slapped on the bar.
He sighed and rubbed the calloused knuckles of his right hand, waiting for the fun to kick off. Instructions were to take root here and let the rest take care of itself… with a little help from him and the readies supplied for the trip. He didn’t know and didn’t much care what else was going on, only that he had his part to play. The truck and the dented Citroen had been dumped as instructed, the truck torched along with the body of whoever it was had fallen underneath it, and the car left at a breaker’s yard to be ‘disappeared’. It seemed a waste to him, chopping a decent set of wheels like that, but arguing tactics wasn’t his call. They’d be getting a train out of here, anyway.
He felt something sharp and metallic in his pocket. It was the spare key to the truck; he’d trousered it when they’d first picked up the vehicle, in case Fletcher lost his. The big man was useful in tight corners and for jobs that didn’t require much thinking, but there were times when his age began to show and he got careless. Like the way he’d hit the Citroen full pelt, nearly taking Tasker and Calloway out of the game for good. No judgement, that was his problem. Brains scrambled by too many lost fights and too much booze. If he had his way, this would be Fletcher’s last job for the Firm before he got relegated to something where he couldn’t harm anyone.
He watched as the man chugged back a tall glass of thin, gassy beer, egged on by roars of approval from the others, before slamming the empty down on the bar and laughing like he’d won the Olympics. The bartender said something Fletcher clearly heard but didn’t understand. His response was to stick a thick middle finger in the air right in front of the man’s face and belch, then watch the Frenchie go red.
Big bloke to upset, that bartender, Tasker noted. Probably handy in a ruckus, too; like any barman worth his job, accustomed to chucking out troublesome drunks. But he wasn’t big enough or handy enough for these lads once they got going. He sipped the cognac and waited. Checked his watch. Nearly lunchtime already.
Time for some fun.
Less than three miles away, Olivier Bellin, the owner of the breaker’s yard where the Citroen DS had been left, walked round the car studying the damage. It was pretty serious, he noted. Whatever this had skidded into had been solid enough not to give. Still, he’d seen worse over the years; driven some, too, when he’d had to. As bad as it seemed, though, given the right treatment it could be made to look right. As long as nobody looked too close.
He scratched his head. He was in a not uncommon dilemma. He’d been paid to take in this car, no questions asked, and get rid of it. He’d done it plenty of times before when a vehicle had to cease to exist. That was ‘get rid’ as in destroy, chop up, crush, cut and reduce down to the last nut and washer. But Bellin was greedy, always on the lookout to make an easy killing. His view was that since the man paying for the job to be done was a long way from here, and unlikely ever to show his face anywhere near Amiens — and certainly not down this end of town — what was the problem? And this car was just so tasty… if viewed from the right angle. Suffering the indignity of being reduced to scrap this early in its life would be a sacrilege.
He checked the odometer. The numbers were fairly high but not a killer. The condition of the seats and carpet wasn’t bad, either. A wash and brush-up and they’d look like new. The rest of the bodywork was sound, as were the tyres. The way the side had been caved in was a bit serious, there was no denying, and there might be some underlying problems with the structure. But he knew a couple of guys who could take care of that.
He stared up at the sky, juggling the need for some quick cash from a punter wanting a cheap DS to show off to his neighbours, and the likelihood of The Man in Paris ever finding out that his instructions had not been carried out to the letter.
The Man in Paris. Bellin licked his lips nervously. Now there was someone he didn’t like to think about. Several guys who’d disobeyed him were rumoured to have disappeared over the years, probably in yards pretty much like this one, come to think of it. And he had no wish to end up the same way.