As the thought entered her head, she saw a small figure to her left, running through the bushes parallel to her, as if eager to make a race of it. A trick of the light, perhaps, or a kid from the village out poaching? She ignored him. She had never countenanced hurting children but if he got in her way, he’d have to take his chances. She wasn’t slowing down or stopping for anybody, no matter who they were.
She picked up speed as she developed a feel for the terrain. Low-hanging fronds were whipping at the windscreen and there was the applause-like sound of reeds close to the track slapping against the bodywork, but she could feel the ground beneath the wheels. She smiled as she saw clear sky ahead through the thinning vegetation, and decided that things were going her way at last.
As she rounded a long bend in the track and began to feel a surge of elation at the thought that this would soon be over, she looked up and felt as if somebody had punched her in the stomach. A tall figure in a long, dark coat was walking towards her barely a hundred metres away. Even as she saw him, he came to a stop in the centre of the track. He was holding a pistol in a two-handed grip and it was aimed right at her.
Rocco.
Forty
Rocco heard the vehicle engine start and stopped walking. It was loud against the prevailing silence, but not far off. Behind him the track ended at the road leading into Poissons one way, and into open countryside the other. In front of him lay the silent depths of the marshland, a succession of lakes, ponds, reed beds and muddy stretches of earth where more than one careless walker had lost a boot before retreating to firmer ground. He’d been here a couple of times before, once being hunted by gunmen from Paris, and knew the natural dangers it presented as well as the man-made, but hadn’t figured on coming back here again so soon.
He focussed on the sound. Few vehicles came here, save for the occasional weekender from one of the local towns with a licence to fish. Local fishermen either rode in on bicycles or mopeds or relied on walking through the many footpaths from the village to get here. This one, though, carried a familiar rattle, and he quickly discounted the sort of cars used by outsiders.
He tried to track the source of the noise, occasionally muffled and distorted by the trees, signalling movement, and realised he could have done with Claude’s intimate knowledge of this place to pinpoint the location. He was guessing it was ahead of him, but was it on this track or another one close by? He continued walking, using his peripheral vision to spot any movement through the foliage hanging down either side of the track. The sound was getting louder, he was sure of it. Then he caught a glimpse of grey among the green, and saw a familiar vehicle cross a gap in the trees, rounding a bend in front of him. It was a hundred metres away and coming towards him, the sunlight through the canopy of trees flickering off the windscreen.
He reached for his gun.
The van was moving fast, skidding and kicking up a splatter of soft earth and rotting debris from the track, the engine whining in protest as the wheels failed to keep a constant grip. It was a risky strategy here, with stretches of water and boggy patches concealed by reed beds on either side, but Rocco figured if he was right, the person behind the wheel was in no position or state of mind to think about safety.
One person in the cab: slight, with short blonde hair, fighting to keep the wheel under control on the uneven ground. A woman. The woman from the Café Schubert.
Nightingale.
He saw her face register surprise, then fury. The vehicle instantly put on more speed, making its back-end shake like a predator preparing itself to launch an attack. She was going to ram him. He didn’t need to check the sides of the track to know that it was very narrow here, and that he was suddenly in a vulnerable position. The water was shallow on each side, but below it was likely to be a good couple of metres of soft, glutinous mud.
He held the gun two-handed, trying to decide whether to open fire. It was hopeless trying to stop the vehicle with a few bullets, but he might be able to scare the woman into slamming on the brakes. But what if he didn’t?
Eighty metres. He fired twice, aiming dead-centre at the radiator grill. It probably wouldn’t do sufficient damage at this distance to bring the van to a halt, but the sound of the rounds slamming into the bodywork might give the driver enough of a shock to make her stop her mad dash.
It didn’t. She kept on coming, her face clearly visible through the screen, her expression set and determined.
Fifty metres. He fired again, this time at the windscreen on the passenger side. It dissolved in a shower of fragments, making the women throw up an arm to protect her face.
Twenty metres. He stepped across to the right-hand side of the track, now on the very edge and feeling soft earth beneath his right foot. Half a step and he’d be in the water. She was almost on him when he moved quickly back to his left and dived flat, seeing a flash of lying water too close for comfort.
As he hit the ground, his elbows digging into soft earth and bark chippings, he felt his coat tugged by the front wheel of the van as it roared by. He rolled sideways and turned his head in time to see the vehicle fish-tail dangerously as the woman tried to change direction at the last second. There was a splash and a wave of mud and water sprayed into the air as a rear wheel left the track. But the woman hadn’t given up yet. The vehicle miraculously failed to be dragged into the water and ploughed on, regaining the track. The engine roared as the driver tried to negotiate the next turn, but the van hadn’t been built for rallying. It skidded sideways, sending up a flurry of debris, and slammed into a large willow, the sound of breaking glass and ruptured metal echoing through the trees. For a second or two the engine kept going, before stuttering and finally cutting out.
Rocco picked himself up as a deathly silence settled over the marsh. No bird noises, no wind through the trees. Nothing. All he could hear was his harsh breathing and the pulse in his head.
He moved forward, gun ready, approaching the van on the driver’s side. For a moment he thought it was over; the woman was lying slumped in her seat. Then she moved and leaned forward, and an instant later had slipped through the empty windscreen like quicksilver and was out over the bonnet and running away down the track towards the road.
He shouted at her to stop, but she didn’t even hesitate. He fired a warning shot, aiming at the ground alongside the fleeing figure. It kicked up dirt but if she was aware of it she paid no attention and kept on running. He followed her as fast as he could, feeling clumsy and slow by comparison. Her lighter weight meant she was able to skim over the surface of mud and wood chippings and gradually pull away from him. If she got to the road, she would either run into the police or, at worst, find a hostage to take, and he didn’t want to think about that.
At the back of his mind was the certain knowledge that he didn’t want to shoot her. But there was pragmatism, too; she’d already tried to kill him and wouldn’t stop until she did. If he could take her down without using his gun, it would be a better way to end this.
He reached a bend in the track to find that she had disappeared. He slowed down, his chest heaving at the sudden burst of effort, and looked around, trying to hear anything above the beating of the pulse in his head. There was water on both sides, muddy and still between the reeds, so she hadn’t risked going off the track; it would have left too much of a tell-tale ripple. She had to be somewhere up ahead. He studied the ground in front, noting hanging branches, bushes and piled wood where some clearance efforts had been made, anywhere that could offer cover to her. Every few metres around the lakes were small inlets used by fishermen to access the water. Little more than platforms, like small jetties, they were bordered by reeds and tall grass, ideal for privacy and solitude, if that’s what you wanted… but also concealment if you were of that frame of mind.
He heard a rustle of foliage up ahead and three shots rang out, clipping the branches of a low hanging willow overhead. He ducked, hesitant about firing back as a volley of shouts erupted not far away. Claude and others, w
aiting to see what happened, no doubt on tenterhooks. He was facing the road from here, and a careless bullet would go through the foliage and hit anyone standing out there or walking by.
He heard the sound of running footsteps, muffled by the soft surface underneath, but moving away down the track. He stood up and set off in pursuit. Another few hundred metres and she would be close enough to the road to use her gun on anybody unfortunate enough to be out there in the wrong place at the wrong time. They would see a woman running and draw an entirely wrong conclusion. By the time they reacted it would be too late and she would have a hostage, maybe even a vehicle in which to make her escape.
He put on speed, risking losing his footing but spurred on by the knowledge that this had to end, and soon.
Then more shots echoed out, only this time surprisingly close. She must have stopped and doubled back, he realised, and was now waiting for him. He threw himself to the ground as he saw movement up ahead, but not before two more shots came his way, one of them slamming into a tree right next to him. The effect was dramatic. The trunk exploded into splinters, peppering his face with needle-like barbs, prickling his skin and instinctively making him close his eyes for a second. A larger splinter pierced his hand, causing him to drop his gun. It fell to the ground and landed with a soft thump where he couldn’t see it.
When he tried to open his eyes, all he could see was a blurred patchwork of light and shifting shadows as the sun played through the trees. The scenery in front of him was now a mixture of disjointed brown and green fragments, all detail gone, like looking into a shattered mirror.
He was on his knees, as good as blind and unable to pick out where she was, what she was about to do. He tried brushing the ground in front of him with his hands, searching for the gun, but it was no good. It could be anywhere. He touched the sides of his eyes and pulled at his eyelids, blinking furiously, trying everything he could to clear them. It was tiny grains of tree dust, he told himself, small enough to have affected his sight without blinding him, yet rendering him temporarily immobile. This close to danger it was a disaster.
He waited, focussing on listening to the sounds around him, for the crackle of brushed undergrowth and the snap of twigs underfoot. If she was coming, she wouldn’t be able to do it in total silence. It brought back memories of other places like this, full of foliage and colour, of humidity and heat and the smell of rotting plants, and death. Especially death. And just like then, all the birdsong had ceased.
A branch snapped directly in front of him. Then another. He realised she was probably looking right at him, checking out why he wasn’t moving. And closing in for the kill.
Her voice came suddenly, girlish and light, as if she’d won a prize at a fairground. ‘Hey – how about that? Looks like I got lucky! And I’m usually so rubbish with guns.’
He blinked in desperation, and his eyes cleared for a second. She was standing in front of him, barely three metres away, outlined against the light. She was holding a revolver, he could see that. Her hands moved and he heard a familiar click as she checked the load, followed by a snort of disgust. ‘It’s empty! Well, would you believe that?’ Her hand moved sideways as she tossed the gun away, and it landed with a plop in the pond nearby.
Rocco breathed with relief. But then her other hand moved and he caught a glimpse of something familiar. A spike bayonet. A cold chill ran through him.
‘So, Rocco,’ she said softly. ‘It’s come to this. Just you and me. Do you have any final questions?’
‘Sure. Where’s your little friend, the pretend cop?’ A smear of blood showed on her face, but she didn’t look hurt, and he wondered if it belonged to Jouanne.
She shrugged. ‘He couldn’t keep up. He didn’t have the stamina. Pity, really. He was a nice boy, if you know what I mean.’ She made a sound that was almost a giggle, light yet with a faint ragged touch that set his nerves on edge. From anybody else it might have been intriguing, attractive even. But not this woman. It made him wonder how close she was to madness.
‘He’s dead? How?’
‘One of the cops at the house managed to shoot back. Lucky shot… but not for Romain.’
‘What was that about – a diversion to draw me in?’
‘Something like that. It would have worked, too, another time. What is it they say, all the best laid plans need is a lucky idiot?’
‘What’s your name?’ He had to keep her talking, to give himself time to clear his vision and stand a fighting chance when she came in for the kill, as she surely would.
‘My name’s not important. Romain liked to call me Lilou, but that wasn’t it. He thought he was being romantic, so I let him.’
‘No name? So you’re an enigma, are you? You realise most enigmas remain just that? No names, no faces, just… obscurity. And finally nobody cares. Or were you trying to be France’s answer to Bonnie and Clyde?’
‘Don’t mock me, Rocco.’ Her voice turned cold, threatening, a flicker away from anger. She moved closer and Rocco pulled at his eyelids, getting a brief flash of clear vision for a second before it went fuzzy again. This wasn’t going to last much longer. He’d already survived longer than Vieira or Raballe.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. But Nightingale? You’ve abandoned your real name in favour of… what – a label? That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?’
‘We all have labels. You’re a cop. That’s a label.’
‘True enough.’ His right eye was clear, but something gritty was making it swim with tears. He flicked at the left one, still clogged with bark dust.
‘Ironic, don’t you think?’ she mused aloud. ‘We have something in common, you and I.’
‘Go on, educate me.’
‘We both kill people for a living.’
There was no arguing with that. It was an anti-cop sentiment he’d heard before. He’d killed, there was no denying it. You could wrap it up any way you wanted, whether fighting a war or being a cop, but it was a fact. However, there was one difference.
‘I don’t do it for money,’ he said. ‘But that bayonet, it’s a very personal way of earning your money, isn’t it? Quirky. Even twisted, some might say. Does it give you a thrill, sticking that into people? Is that all it is for you – for the kicks? I can’t make up my mind.’
Her face went dark at the deliberate taunting, as if she’d been presented with an unpalatable truth. Maybe, he reflected, there was a glimmer of something in there after all. Pride, perhaps? It couldn’t be guilt.
‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she snarled.
‘I know about as much as I care to. Common rumour has it that you’re the spotter for Nightingale, did you know that? Just a spotter… for checking the lay of the land. Whereas the actual killer is a man. That must be galling for you: being awarded only second place on the team.’
‘Shut your mouth, Rocco.’
‘Of course I know it’s not correct. Nightingale is you, isn’t it? Jouanne was… what, exactly?’
‘He was a nobody.’ She said it without emotion, her voice flat. ‘He wanted to be like me, and in the end thought he could actually be me. Big mistake. He didn’t know how. He thought all it took was to carry a gun and be willing to use it.’
Rocco nodded. ‘Did he shoot the two cops at Les Sables? Approached them as a colleague and shot them up close? That was unnecessary.’
‘That’s what I told him. It was stupid. I wouldn’t have done it but I wasn’t close enough to stop him. He got carried away with himself because he thought it would earn him a reputation – the cold killer. All it did was get you lot on our tail.’
‘So tell me some more. We have time – and there’s nobody else around. Where are you from? What’s your real name? How did you get into the murder business? I mean, it doesn’t figure on the study list for a baccalauréat as far as I recall.’
‘You think I’m stupid, Rocco? You’re playing for time. I know your colleagues are close. And you don’t get to know anything about me.’ She m
oved forward another step, a faint hint of cologne preceding her and overriding the natural smells around them. She was staring intently at him, he could see that much, and her body was rigid with tension. He guessed she was torn between wanting to get the job done and earn her fee, yet at the same time not wanting to rush, like savouring a glass of St Emilion grand cru classé you were reluctant to finish.
Finally she was standing over him. He didn’t move. Getting up would merely put himself closer to her as a target, and he had no doubts about how fast she would be able to react. Instead he sat back on his heels. To get to him she was going to have to move closer and lean in, which would throw her off-balance. He listened to her breathing, waiting for the faint catch in her throat and the rustle of fabric that would be the precursor to violent movement. It was going to be a last-ditch effort and the only warning he’d get, but he figured he could do it. It was all down to timing.
‘Funny thing is, Rocco,’ she said, her voice soft, ‘you’ve been lucky twice, did you know that? The second time was at the house when they took Bouanga and you weren’t there. But the first time – yes, there was a first time and I bet you didn’t know it – was at that shitty cop bar in Amiens. Remember?’ She chuckled, ‘If only I’d known that’s what it was before I went in there. It would have been so much fun to blow that place clean off the map. It’s funny that Romain never said. I think he must have liked the atmosphere a bit, all boys together. But where was I? Oh, yes. You remember when we were talking at the table and you were flirting with me?’
‘Don’t kid yourself – I wasn’t.’ The backs of his legs were beginning to tremble under the strain of holding the position, and he got ready to block and move. If he had to he could throw himself off the track and drag her into the water.
‘Well, maybe not. Pity, really. We could have been good together. Still, that’s your loss. What you didn’t know was, I was calculating when to do the nasty on you. Your neck was so close and so inviting and… you’ve got no idea.’ She giggled. ‘I’d actually got my little friend out under the table ready to do it, do you know that? You were that close, Rocco.’ She held up the bayonet in front of him, with her thumb and finger measuring the width of the blade near the point.‘That close.’
Rocco and the Nightingale Page 25
