As they slipped past the ruined lodge and headed for the bridge, Rocco heard a noise. He stopped, a hand on Claude’s shoulder. A cat? Kids squealing? It sounded ghostly, a half-cry out of keeping with the surroundings.
Claude had heard it, too. ‘Christ, what is that?’ he whispered.
‘It’s coming from in there.’ Rocco pointed towards the ruin. Did they have time to investigate or would the four men bypass the second lodge and come pounding along the path? He shook off his concerns. It didn’t matter; they were here to find Francine, and this was the one place they hadn’t yet looked.
‘Come on.’ He moved through the tangle of undergrowth and up to the front door, drawing his gun. The wood looked worm-eaten and rotten and smelt of mildew, and it didn’t look as though anyone had been here in years. This was a waste of time…
He heard the noise again, this time close by.
He stepped through the doorway, feet crunching on wind-blown debris and rotten wood. It felt as if the whole building was trembling under his weight, and he wondered how safe the roof was. He looked around the room. It was a time capsule, rotting into the floorboards and decaying where it stood. An armchair had sunk like melting ice cream, its fabric tattered and faded to a uniform dull grey and trailing on the floor; a dining table had tilted drunkenly on one corner and a cupboard door hung off its hinges, revealing a bare interior covered with rodent droppings and layers of accumulated dirt.
Rocco moved across the room to a door at the back. It led to what had once been a small kitchen. More rotting wood and peeling walls, and the wreckage of a table and chairs, but with one difference: a pathway had been trodden through the clutter from the back door to a filthy square of colourless carpet near the side wall. Amid all the nature-inspired mess, it looked too out of place, too deliberate.
He signalled for Claude to keep an eye on the front of the building, then bent and flipped back the carpet.
Underneath was a trapdoor. A metal handle was recessed neatly into the wood.
Rocco pocketed his gun and heaved the trapdoor open, flooding the darkness below with light and revealing a nightmarish scene.
Francine Thorin lay staring up at him with bulging eyes, her hands lashed above her head to a thick wooden support post set in the earthen floor. A rough gag had been taped across her mouth, and she was making the high keening sound they had heard earlier, and rocking backwards and forwards, her entire body shaking with terror.
CHAPTER FORTY
‘Thank God!’ Francine gasped as Rocco tore away the gag and binding. She sagged against him, tears flooding down her face at the realisation that she was finally safe, her fingers digging into his arms in desperation. ‘That man… he was going to kill me…!’
‘Shush now,’ Rocco whispered, gently touching a finger to her lips to stop her signalling their presence to the men out in the marais. Her face was bruised, with cuts on her skin where she must have been dragged into the hole, and her hair was a tangle of dirt and cobwebs. He didn’t like to think of what she had suffered alone down here in the dark, not knowing whether the man who had taken her would ever come back or not. ‘You’re safe now. But we must get you away from here.’
She nodded, deep in shock, eyes locked on his as she gripped him even tighter. He smelt her perfume, soft and fragrant in contrast to the musky smell of the grim surroundings, and held her for a moment, dispensing with the normal advice of keeping a distance from crime victims. Above anything in the manuals, she needed contact and the reassurance of closeness, not official distance.
He turned and whistled softly to Claude, who appeared above them. His jaw dropped when he saw Francine, then he recovered quickly and grinned with relief.
‘Christ on a pony! Here — reach up.’ He bent and took Francine’s hand, and hauled her out of the hole as if she weighed nothing. He turned to Rocco. ‘We’d better move. They’ll be here any second. I think they’ve picked up our tracks along the path.’
Rocco heaved himself out of the hole and made for the back door, pulling Francine after him. Once outside, he checked the path to the front and was shocked to hear voices close by. They’d left it too late; the men must have given the second lodge a miss. There was no time to get Francine to the bridge without being seen. She was only able to move slowly, her legs still cramped from her confinement.
He drew his gun and flicked off the safety. Time to set up some delaying tactics.
He caught a movement from the corner of his eye among the trees to the side of the lodge, and spun round. One of the men must have circled around to the side. He brought up his gun, finger tightening on the trigger, and was shocked to see Didier Marthe’s face staring back at him. The scrap man was dressed in brown hunting clothes and carrying a shotgun. He looked pale and drawn, his face smeared with dirt.
For a brief second Didier wavered, staring at the three of them in desperation, especially, it seemed, at Rocco, then Francine. Rocco got ready to open fire. Then a man’s voice intruded, approaching along the path at the front of the ruined building.
In a flash, Didier turned and was gone.
Rocco turned to Claude. ‘Get her across the bridge and don’t look back. Call Massin or Detective Desmoulins in Amiens and get a squad out here on the double.’
‘Why, what are you going to do?’ protested Claude. ‘There are too many-’
‘Don’t argue — there’s no time.’ Rocco turned and ran after Didier, heading away from the bridge and deeper into the marais, crashing noisily through a tangle of dry reeds. Behind him he heard a shout from the men on the path. He didn’t stop to see if they were following.
He was counting on them doing just that.
There was no sign of Didier. The scrawny little man had moved like a greased pig, helped by his familiarity with the terrain and the colour of his clothing blending in with the vegetation.
Rocco drove on, pushing through the undergrowth and praying he wouldn’t stumble into a bog or become entangled in the patches of brambles snaking everywhere. He heard a crashing sound behind him and men calling to each other. The pursuers had been caught off guard for a moment, but if they were fit and quick, they would lose no time in regaining the initiative.
He saw a clear patch through the trees ahead and veered towards it, calculating that he was now heading back in the general direction of the main lodge. Less bothered with catching up with Didier than he was drawing the men away from Claude and Francine, he put on a burst of speed.
Suddenly a stretch of water covered with a layer of scum appeared in front of him. He swerved to go round it, then moved back in the direction where Didier had gone. More sounds of pursuit came from behind him, and he realised that one of the men was getting close, the noise of his progress through the undergrowth coming uncomfortably near. He could even hear the other man’s harsh breathing, but was comforted by the knowledge that while running, he couldn’t shoot with any accuracy.
He felt one boot sink into soft earth. He staggered, dragging against the pull of muddy soil around his ankle, and saw a dull blackness reflecting back at him under a layer of coarse weed. A bog! He tore his foot free, nearly losing the boot, but managed to stumble away towards another clear patch to his right. It put him back on course for the main lodge. If he could reach his car…
A shot rang out, startling in its loudness and clipping a branch from a tree near his head. Damn — they weren’t messing. He was tempted to ignore it. Stopping to fight would be stupid: he was outnumbered and too big a target, and he had the feeling these men had all seen action; they would not be put off by one policeman with a gun. Better to get away somewhere safe and hope Claude managed to call up reinforcements before it was too late. Even so, they had to learn that he wasn’t going to run for ever or give up too easily.
He stopped and turned, dropping to one knee to reduce the target, and sighted on the gunman charging through the brush thirty metres behind him. He took a breath and fired twice, and saw the shoulder of the man’s jacket jum
p as a shot struck home. The man was knocked sideways and there was a loud splash as he fell into the bog.
Rocco turned and continued running as two shots came in quick succession from further back in the trees, losing themselves harmlessly among the branches overhead. Undisciplined, he decided; they might have been trained once, but their discipline had gone. Indiscriminate shooting like that could only threaten their own men while giving away the shooter’s position. A volley of shouts came as the others raced to cut him off, but found their progress impeded by the sheer perversity and tangle of nature in the raw.
Rocco was tiring fast and getting short of breath, the effort of pushing through this terrain far more wearing than trotting along a level road. He had few illusions about what might happen; there were three of them and one of him. Much more of this and the outcome would be short, sharp and fatal.
Moments later he burst through a hanging veil of thin branches and was relieved to see the lodge and his car right in front of him. Snatching his keys from his pocket, he ran to the driver’s door, fumbling the key into the lock with a trembling hand and trying not to shoot himself in the process.
He threw himself behind the wheel and started the car, tramping on the accelerator. The heavy car responded instantly, leaping forward and fishtailing across the clearing… but heading straight for the lake as the steering wheel spun out of his hand.
He grappled with the wheel as a shot pinged off the bodywork. Then desperation enabled him to regain control of the wheel just in time. He slewed the car around at the last second and headed at full speed for the track back to the road. In the rear-view mirror, he saw three men emerge from the trees and run after him.
He smiled grimly, remembering the man he’d shot, and the splash.
One down, three to go.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Rocco blasted out onto the main road and spun the wheel to the left, then trod with calm deliberation on the brakes and brought the Citroen to a stop. He didn’t much care where he went right now, as long as the men followed him and not Claude and Francine. He glanced back down the track and saw a black DS parked in the bushes to one side. It could only belong to the gunmen. He waited, anxious for signs that they were coming. If they weren’t, he’d have to head for the village and hope he could find the other two before the men caught up with them.
A figure burst into view from among the trees, running onto the track. A man in a suit. Rocco waited until he was sure the man had spotted him, then trod hard on the accelerator and took off for the station. He drove as fast as he dared on the narrow road, intent on keeping a lead while still drawing the men after him. There was a long straight stretch of narrow road from the station down to where it intersected with the road to Amiens, and he knew that they would be able to see him all the way. If he didn’t turn on to the main road, they would know there was only one way for him to go: the cemetery.
He thought about Didier and where he might run. If the scrap man had any brains left, he must know that he was finished here. The police were after him for theft and assault; Rocco wanted him for kidnap; and now the four — or was it three? — men behind him wanted him for God knew what reason. But he had a good idea it was something to do with Berbier.
He saw the station crossing coming up fast. It wasn’t much, simply a weighted wooden pole to stop traffic when a train was approaching. Only now the pole lay in splinters on the ground, and nearby, a section of a car’s wing and a scattering of broken glass. Standing by the broken barrier and scratching his head was Paulais, the stationmaster.
The moment he recognised Rocco’s car, Paulais ran to the side of the road and pointed towards the cemetery, waving him through and shouting incomprehensibly as Rocco roared by.
Now Rocco knew for sure where Didier had gone. It would be the one place where he felt safe; the one place he believed no sane person would dare follow.
A white Renault with the driver’s door hanging open was skewed across the track twenty metres beyond the cemetery gate. Part of the right wing was missing and all the glass down that side had gone where Didier had collided with the crossing barrier.
Rocco stopped the car and climbed out, checking the cemetery and surrounding fields. He was almost certain the fugitive would have gone straight for the wood, but he had no desire to be proven wrong by getting himself shot in the back. He also wanted to make sure that there were no visitors inside, and that they and the gardener, Cooke, were in no danger.
He drew his gun and jumped over the gate, checking the rows of headstones. The covered walkway was deserted and the tool shed in the corner looked locked tight. There was no sign of Cooke. One thing less to worry about.
He stopped by the central cross where Nathalie Berbier’s body had been found, and turned to study the dense wood covering the hill at the far end of the cemetery. It looked dark and forbidding, and he was surprised at how quickly the daylight had slipped away. He checked his watch. Six o’clock. He’d been so busy with the hunt for Francine and the chase through the marais, he’d been unaware of time ticking by.
He breathed deeply and checked his gun. Took out a spare ammunition clip. Then he walked out of the cemetery and started up the track towards the wood. The ground here was deeply rutted and hard, and he stayed to one side, ready to throw himself down by the cemetery wall if Didier appeared. He realised that he was still wearing the rubber boots; hardly the best gear for a manhunt, but he doubted it would matter much, not once he was among the trees. He tried telling himself that coming here alone was stupid, that he should wait for help to arrive from Amiens. But deep inside he knew it would take too long. If Didier got away from here, they’d never find him again. He heard a car engine and turned. The black DS had passed the station and was barrelling along the road towards the cemetery, kicking up a furious cloud of dust in its wake. It showed no signs of stopping for the main road.
Rocco now had no choice. Going back to lead them away was no longer an option. They would be on him before he could get back to the road, and even if he got that far, their car was far more powerful and would soon overhaul him in a chase.
He turned and jogged up the track into the trees, and whatever was waiting for him.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Francois Massin put down his phone with a trembling hand. He hadn’t been expecting the call from Berbier, still less had he been quick enough to deal with the man in the way he would have liked. But as the voice had dripped like acid into his ear, part cajoling, part threatening, laying out in carefully camouflaged terms what his future might be — would be if he wasn’t able to appreciate the ‘delicacy’ of the situation — he had begun to feel a deep anger building inside him.
He stood up and walked around his office, uncertain about what his immediate response should be. He had few friends in the senior ranks of the police service — mostly his fault, he acknowledged that, and there was little he could do about it now. But right now he could have done with some wise advice on how to handle internal politics. Being threatened by the likes of Philippe Bayer-Berbier, even in the subtle, ‘friendly’ tones the man had employed, was something he had never faced before. Yet he was all too aware of the enormous power the man wielded among the ranks of senior policemen and politicians — men who could decide Massin’s fate at the snap of a finger. In a straight test of wills, he would be no match for that kind of influence.
He found himself standing before the photo of his younger self in uniform. So proud, he recalled his feelings at the time. So intense. And so determined to redeem himself and regain some of the self-respect he’d lost in the army.
And now this. He shook his head. He’d be an idiot to go up against Berbier, no matter what Rocco said the photo suggested. It would be professional suicide. He’d have no allies, no backing and would become a pariah with no fate but a lonely, humiliating resignation and a disappearance into obscurity.
It was not the ending he had envisaged for himself. And with that thought, he hated himself mo
re than at any time in his life.
A knock sounded at his door. He straightened his shoulders and called, ‘Come in.’
It was Desmoulins, looking flushed. Captain Canet hovered behind him, face tense.
‘Urgent call from Poissons, sir,’ said Desmoulins. ‘Officer under threat. The missing woman has been found and there’s been gunfire… several armed men are in pursuit of Inspector Rocco.’
‘What?’ Massin stepped towards the two officers. ‘What men?’
‘That’s not clear, sir. One of them — the kidnapper — is Marthe, the man from the hospital. The caller said the others look like ex-military. Rocco’s been forced to go to ground in the local marais.’
Massin turned away in a moment of indecision. Ex-military men who were prepared to go up against the police? Impossible, surely. What if Rocco had stumbled on some kind of official operation? Careers could be fatally damaged if the wrong response was made. Yet if it was true, and the men were not part of the state, then it boded ill if it was allowed to go unchallenged. He glanced at the photo on the wall. He hadn’t done much to be proud of since those days. Now he was embroiled in a battle of wills with an enemy he could hardly see, let alone fight.
‘Sir?’ Canet prompted him. ‘The lads are ready to go. Your orders?’
Massin turned. Desmoulins had his service weapon strapped on and a bunch of car keys in his hand. Canet, too, was armed and looked ready for action, his eyes bright. Behind them in the corridor, he sensed the presence of others.
He nodded. Maybe this would be a new start. If not, he could deal with his future later.
‘You’d better get them moving, then, hadn’t you?’
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