‘I consider it sufficient to back up your claim that it was an attempted entrapment, Inspector, and have already issued directions for your suspension to be lifted. And I apologise for the… regrettable accusations made against you. I’m sure you understand, however, that I had to follow certain… procedures.’ He coughed. ‘I believe you, too, unwittingly, became part of the distraction.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Massin nodded and reached down to his side. For the first time Rocco realised he was wearing a sidearm. Massin unclipped it and held it out. ‘I’m sorry — I did not bring your weapon. You might need this.’
It was as good as he was going to get, Rocco figured. And better than he’d expected. He tapped his coat pocket, where he’d put the Walther. ‘Thanks. But I’m good to go.’ He found his respect for Massin rising a spectral level or two; the senior officer could have hidden behind the procedural veil of further investigations into the affair, but had clearly decided to come out in the open — and in front of these other officers.
Someone clapped him on the back and he heard a volley of congratulations.
Then a stocky figure eased through the crowd, holding up a slim wallet for Massin to see. He had impressively broad shoulders and the face of a fighter, although dressed in a smart suit and tie. He spoke directly to Massin.
‘Are you in charge here?’
‘I am,’ Massin confirmed, and looked at the man’s ID. His face registered surprise. ‘How can I help you?’
The man pointed at Rocco and Claude. ‘You and these two — a word, please?’ He turned and walked away a few metres, distancing himself from the crowd of policemen and leaving the other three to follow.
‘This is my authority,’ the newcomer said, when they were standing alongside him. He showed Rocco and Claude his card. ‘It trumps anything you’re likely to see here today.’ He glanced at Massin with a grim smile. ‘I mean no offence, Commissaire, I promise you — but this is vitally important.’
‘Of course. I understand.’ Massin turned to Rocco and Claude. ‘This gentleman is one of the president’s protection team.’
‘Damn,’ Claude muttered. ‘You were in the front of the car!’
‘And you were in the Traction coming towards the bridge. Your names?’
Rocco said, ‘I’m Rocco, he’s Lamotte. Out of Amiens.’
‘Really. Are you undercover?’ The bodyguard seemed fascinated by the contrast between Claude and Rocco, one in corduroys and boots, the other in dark, tailored clothing and black brogues.
‘That’s right,’ Massin interjected. ‘These officers are under my command. Is the president safe?’
‘Perfectly, thank you. All I want to say is, what happened here today stops here.’ He glanced at the crowd of policemen, who were now going about their duties. ‘No reports, no press interviews, nothing. The president would prefer that another… incident following on so soon after the last one would not be in the best interests of the state or the people.’
‘What about the truck?’ Rocco asked, nodding towards the crash site, although he knew it was academic; if the president requested a press blackout, that’s what he would get.
The man lifted his shoulders. ‘It was an accident. A drunk who took the corner too fast.’
‘Corner?’ Claude looked up and down the straight road. ‘Which one?’
The man smiled with a touch of genuine humour. ‘Well, who knows what a drunk sees, huh? You’ll think of something. Commissaire?’ He glanced meaningfully towards the other policemen.
Massin got the message and walked away to spread the word.
The bodyguard turned to go, and Rocco said, ‘I’m surprised Colonel Saint-Cloud isn’t here to deliver that message himself.’
The bodyguard frowned. ‘Saint-Cloud? Why would he?’
‘He’s in charge of your unit.’
‘Not anymore.’ The man gave Rocco a hard stare. ‘The colonel retired on… health grounds three weeks ago. It’s not been officially announced yet, but he’s no longer responsible for this or any other unit.’ His face showed no emotion, but the phrasing carried all the meaning Rocco needed.
With that, the bodyguard turned and walked away to the black Citroen DS waiting across the bridge.
Moments later, a uniformed officer hurried across and addressed Rocco.
‘A man with a gun has been spotted by a patrol on a back road near Poissons,’ he told him. ‘They think he was dropped off by a DS with two others on board. The DS disappeared but the patrol stayed near the man’s last location.’
‘What sort of gun?’ The last thing Rocco needed was to waste time hunting a farmer chasing rabbits. He was still trying to digest the bombshell delivered by the bodyguard, and figuring out what to do about it.
‘A handgun,’ the officer replied.
Rocco pushed the Saint-Cloud business to one side. The colonel would keep for now. He said to Claude, ‘Get Desmoulins, Godard and some of his men. The fewer targets the better until we find out what this is.’ He had no doubts that it was Tasker and his remaining companions, but flooding the area with uniforms would only create pandemonium, during which the robbers might manage to slip away.
And, in any case, this was personal.
The journey took fifteen minutes, with Rocco driving as fast as he dared over the slippery roads and Claude and Desmoulins riding shotgun. Godard was following in a van with three of his men. The sleet had returned and was beginning to turn softer, falling more slowly but with the relentless regularity that would soon turn to snow. Rocco studied the sky and thought about advantages: it wasn’t yet heavy enough to settle, but it might help them by showing traces of footsteps around the location where the gunman had been seen.
He saw a patrol car parked at the side of the road not far from a wood and stopped behind it. Godard pulled up in front. The two patrol officers climbed out to greet them, stamping their feet.
‘He was running toward the trees when we saw him,’ said one, and pointed a thumb over a fence at the wood. ‘We thought it best to wait for backup. He didn’t look as if he wanted to stop and chat.’
‘Wise choice,’ said Rocco. ‘Where did the car go?’
The man jerked his chin up the road. ‘Towards Poissons. There are no other turns off this road unless they go straight past.’
‘They won’t,’ Rocco said. He glanced at the wood. ‘How thick is it in there?’ He knew the trees and copses in the area varied greatly, some thinned by woodcutters and farmers for logs, others left to nature. If anyone would know, Claude would.
‘In there? Heavy going. The owner won’t let anyone near it. You thinking of going in?’
Rocco nodded. Whoever was in there wasn’t going to come out willingly, he was certain of that. But he was damned if he was going to sit out here and wait for the man to get bored or freeze to death. And neither could he send in men who had no experience of this kind of thing.
He also needed the names of who was behind this business.
He took out the Walther and said to Claude, ‘Bring your shotgun. You others, stay here.’ He saw one of Godard’s men carrying a rifle. ‘He any good with that?’
Godard smiled. ‘Best in the unit.’
‘If our man comes out, go for a leg wound. If he fights…’ He left the rest unsaid. If the man came out, it was likely that he’d have scored one, if not two hits already, and he and Claude would be unable to help.
He ducked beneath the fence and set off across the field with Claude close behind, following the faint tracks left by the fleeing man. Flecks of snow soon began settling on their coat shoulders and in their eyebrows, and the air had gone very quiet. A few cows over by the wood stomped away as they approached.
‘You think he’ll be in there?’ Claude said softly. ‘It’s a bit obvious.’
‘It’s the only cover for several kilometres. He’ll take what he can get.’
Rocco stopped twenty metres short of the first line of trees and listened. All he could he
ar was a faint hum of wind, and in the background, a chatter of radio from the police vehicles. That would be good, he thought; hearing it would cut into the man’s confidence even more than being stranded out here alone. The knowledge that he was effectively cut off would be demoralising.
‘You ready?’
Claude nodded and lifted his shotgun.
At a nod from Rocco, they stepped apart to reduce the targets and walked forward into the trees.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
It was like stepping into a different world, immediately more sombre in spite of the lack of leaves on the trees. The outside sounds faded as the branches overhead seemed to close in on the two men, shutting out the snow-heavy sky and leaving only the chatter of the police radio to remind them of the outside world. The trunks here were jammed close together, never thinned by man, each new growth pushing against the next, reaching skywards and searching for every bit of space. Dead trees lay withered and rotting or, where there hadn’t been space to fall, hung limply like drunks off their neighbours.
Claude stopped and sniffed the air, eyes flicking over what he could see, then hunkered down, gesturing to Rocco to do the same.
The minutes slipped by, neither man speaking. Rocco was breathing easily enough, but he’d felt his heart rate increase the moment they had stopped moving. Movement was good, to a city-bred cop. It kept you awake, showed you and everyone else that you were busy and active, allowed you to check you didn’t have someone coming up behind you. But as he’d learnt long ago, movement could be a killer in the wrong place. The kill could come from under your feet, rigged to pierce your flesh with needles of bamboo; it could come from overhead, a swish of noise triggered by a careless kick against a carefully laid peg; it could come out of the undergrowth, so thick you couldn’t see through it to the danger lurking just a couple of metres away.
He said, ‘What are we doing?’ Claude was the expert here, the woodsman, and he was content to let him lead the way. But Rocco liked to know what was going on.
‘We’re waiting.’ The reply was low, just above a whisper.
‘For what?’
Claude pointed at some trees deeper into the wood, where a few small birds were twittering softly and flitting from branch to branch. ‘When they stop, we’ll know.’
They waited some more.
‘You okay?’ Claude queried, and Rocco realised he was grinding his teeth together. He relaxed his jaw and nodded. He wasn’t, quite, but he was getting there. Another few years of creeping through the woods with this man and he’d be as good as new.
Claude seemed to know what he was thinking. He leant close and said softly, ‘I knew a man once who did what you did. Went through the same thing, but in another war. Couldn’t stand the trees. Reckoned they were whispering to him like we are now, calling him names. Actually, he was just scared shitless, but couldn’t admit it.’
Rocco said nothing.
‘Anyway, in the end, he got over it by facing his demons. Went native instead of hiding in a car in city streets all day.’
Claude was talking about himself.
‘I’m like that man, you mean?’
Claude shook his head. ‘You’re nothing like him. Even in here, if I had you on my tail, I’d be running as fast as I could and I wouldn’t stop. I know you don’t like it in here, and why should you? But you use it; you don’t let it beat you. You’re always looking, even when you can’t see anything.’ He stared at Rocco, holding his gaze. ‘But others… like this man we’re looking for, he’s a rat in a tunnel. He only reacts to what he can see. Sooner or later, you’d catch him before he caught you.’
‘Is this leading anywhere?’
Claude smiled. ‘Shit, don’t ask me. I’m just talking to calm my own nerves.’ He stopped and looked round.
The birds had gone silent. Everywhere.
Only the branches whispered overhead, like an army of crickets. Anyone watching right now, Rocco thought, would have the advantage over a newcomer stepping into the trees from the outside. He slowly turned his head behind them, to the light. It was clear.
He heard a grunting noise, followed by a snap of a twig somewhere not far away. The sound triggered an unwelcome memory flash from years ago: heavy vegetation underfoot, stifling humidity, no sky to speak of and a wall of green in every direction. Unlike here where there was only brown and black, apart from the top ends of the branches. Then, there had been danger all around and a sense of utter futility facing an enemy they couldn’t see until it was too late. He waited, feeling his shoulders stiffen involuntarily; told himself to ignore it and worked hard at not squeezing his eyes shut.
Alongside him, Claude was staring into the dense trees over the barrels of his shotgun, an over-under model, the stock shiny with use and lovingly cared for, darkly functional. A tool of his trade.
Rocco took in the scenery afresh, breathing to relax. All around them was light and shadow and fresh air, and bare, wintry branches and slim trunks clustered tightly together like passengers on the Metro. High above, through a latticework of branches, was a glimpse of darkening grey sky.
‘Nice weapon,’ he whispered. ‘You think we need that?’
‘Damn right.’ Claude puffed out his cheeks. ‘It’s a Darne. Best gun ever. I bought it from a farmer who’d given up killing stuff. But this isn’t for any man; there are wild boar in this area.’ He looked at Rocco’s blank expression and said, ‘You do know about boars, don’t you?’
‘Of course. You didn’t think to mention them before we came in here?’ He’d heard the stories; normally placid if left alone and keen to avoid humans, in protection of their young, wild boars were ferocious, especially the sows.
‘Would it have made a difference?’
‘I suppose not. Are they as bad as they say?’
‘If cornered, yes.’ Claude chewed on his lip. ‘If threatened, they’ll kill. Man, beast… they’ll even wreck a car if they feel like it. A herd over by Bapaume opened up a Panhard like a tin can once.’ He indicated the base of a nearby tree where the earth had been ripped and churned over, the surrounding area peppered with small hoof marks. ‘These tracks are fresh. The animals roam, but these don’t look old. I reckon they’re not far away.’
‘How big are they?’ Rocco couldn’t recall seeing a boar close up, but felt uneasy at Claude’s obvious concern.
‘It’s not size you need to worry about. It’s weight and speed. You get hit low by a hundred-plus kilos of pissed-off pig, and you’ll go down, I promise. Then they’ll gore you with their tusks.’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t be nice.’
Rocco took a firmer hold of his gun. Come on, piggy, he thought. As if I haven’t got enough problems to be going on with, I’m going face to face with an enraged pork sausage on legs.
‘If they do come,’ Claude continued, ‘go for the nearest tree. Don’t stop to shoot; they’re too fast for a pistol shot, and once they’re stirred up, they’re not easy to stop, even with this thing.’ He raised the shotgun. ‘Believe me.’
‘What will you be doing?’
‘Me? I’ll be up the tree ahead of you.’
He straightened slowly, then stepped past Rocco and led the way deeper into the wood, pausing regularly to peer beneath the thick tangles of branches and other fallen vegetation where the boars’ low height would provide good cover.
Rocco followed, watching his friend’s back.
They had covered maybe thirty metres when Claude stopped and held out a warning hand. Slowly, very slowly, he sank to the ground and signalled for Rocco to do the same.
As they did so, an eruption of screaming came from ahead of them not twenty metres away, and a dark shape shot out from under a thicket followed by several other smaller shapes.
‘A mother and young,’ Claude hissed in warning.
And he and Rocco were right in their path.
Rocco felt his gut contract. They had nowhere to go but up, but there was no time. He swore and fired twice into the ground in front o
f where he thought the boars were. Instead of coming on, the boar turned and went back on its tracks, the young following like little boats on a string.
Suddenly the thicket moved and two shots rang out. One of the young boars flipped over and lay still. Instantly the mother squealed and charged, barrelling through the undergrowth like a vengeful rocket.
This time the scream they heard came from a man.
Claude fired two shots into the air, quickly reloading while Rocco covered him, then fired twice more.
In the silence that followed, they heard the squeals of the boars diminishing towards the far side of the wood, then a groan close by. It was followed by a crackling noise as someone made their way through the trees across their front, but too far away to see clearly.
‘He’s heading towards the road,’ said Claude. ‘Come on — we can cut him off.’ He showed Rocco the way and both men ran towards the light.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
‘Put the gun down.’ Rocco’s voice didn’t need to be loud; sound travelled well in this cold, thin air. But it carried authority.
He and Claude had burst out of the trees and run across the field in time to see the fugitive coming at an angle towards them. If he saw them or the other men waiting by the road, he made no move to change direction, but staggered on, slipping and sliding on the icy ground. He was dragging one leg badly, his breathing laboured and hoarse.
The man looked beaten and hopelessly unsteady on his feet, like a prizefighter at the end of a long, brutal bout. His shoes were clogged with mud and bits of vegetation and the cloth around his injured leg was badly torn, the flesh beneath showing bright red. His shoulders were dusted with snow and muddy, and his face was pinched and near blue with cold.
Biggs, thought Rocco. The other one had been Jarvis.
Then the runner seemed to realise where he was. He stopped, breathing heavily, and glanced back as if he thought the boar might still be after him. When he looked round, he shook his head with something approaching despair and looked at Rocco.
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