Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,2

died out here in the cold and you were unlucky enough to hit him.’

‘Makes no odds what he is or what he did,’ Tasker muttered coldly. ‘He’s dead. Someone might miss him.’ He gestured at the truck and said, ‘Get him in there and cover him up good. We’ll find a place to dispose of him later.’

‘Why not in the trees?’ said Fletcher. ‘Nobody’d look, not out here.’

‘We don’t know that. We’ll take him with us. We’ve got to torch the truck anyway; we can do both together. Then let’s get out of here. I need some breakfast and a strong drink to warm me up.’ He turned and scanned the bleak horizon, city eyes oblivious to the farmer and his horse low down against the colourless backdrop, seeing only stretches of cold, featureless fields rolling into the distance with no obvious buildings, few hedges or trees and fewer signs of life. ‘Fucking Nora. Who’d want to live out here?’

CHAPTER TWO

The dull pounding in Lucas Rocco’s head gradually moved outwards, morphing from a foggy background noise in a sludgy dream to the more identifiable sound of someone hitting his front door with what sounded like a sledgehammer.

He swung out of bed, instinctively snatching up his MAB 38 on the way. If it was the local priest finally come to welcome him into his flock, he’d simply put a few rounds through the wood before going back to sleep. Just in case it was Mme Denis next door, he yanked the door open with the gun behind his back.

‘Do you know it’s gone ten in the morning?’ It was the stocky figure of Claude Lamotte, the local garde champêtre for the village of Poissons-les-Marais and the surrounding district. ‘You’re not on holiday, are you?’ He raised heavy eyebrows at the sight of Rocco in his shorts, his muscular chest covered in goosebumps. ‘Christ, that’s a sight a man could do without.’

Rocco stood aside and beckoned him inside with the gun, squinting at the grey light of a December morning. ‘Very funny. What do you want?’

‘Coffee and a bite to eat, first,’ said Claude. He brushed past and dropped a fresh baguette on the table, then headed for the sink and began filling a saucepan with water. ‘Some of us have been up since dawn, you know that?’ He put the water on the boil, then turned and looked at the gun as Rocco slumped into a chair. ‘You weren’t about to end it all, were you? Only I’d hate to interrupt a man in his hour of despair.’ He bent and peered closely into Rocco’s face. ‘You do look like crap, though.’

‘You should see it from my side. I was on a stake-out most of the night.’ He put down the gun and rubbed his eyes. They felt full of grit and the view was hazy, like looking through muslin.

‘Really? Sounds like fun. Any results?’

‘No. A no-show. We had information about tobacco smuggling but I think it was a decoy. When I catch up with the so-called informant, I’m going to shoot off his toes one by one.’ He looked at the baguette. ‘Is that mine?’ The baker came round every morning in a battered old 2CV, and if Rocco was out, left it by the door in a plastic box.

‘It is. No longer warm, but fresh and too good to waste.’ Claude tore off one end and took a bite with great relish. ‘Superbe. Best bit of the loaf. You want the other end?’ Before Rocco could answer, he looked around expectantly. ‘You got any butter in this place?’

Rocco waved a hand. ‘Cupboard, top shelf. Help yourself but please do it quietly.’

‘Okay. You want coffee?’

‘Why not? Now you’ve ruined my sleep I might as well get dressed. Excuse me.’ He got up and wandered through to the bathroom. By the time he had dressed and come back, Claude had made coffee and smeared thick butter on slices of baguette, and was sprinkling a layer of cocoa powder over his. He sighed in expectation. ‘This is the way to start the day.’ He took a huge bite and coughed as he inhaled some of the powder, then winked in enjoyment. ‘Takes me right back.’

Rocco sat down and picked up a slice of bread, ignoring the cocoa powder. ‘You country cretins have some disgusting habits.’

Claude dunked his bread in his coffee. ‘That’s the trouble with you fancy city-bred cops – you’ve forgotten how to enjoy yourselves. All croissants and china cups, that’s