Dominic slammed down the receiver and pushed Thibault back against the wall. 'You were in on this seedy little scheme, weren't you?' Dominic grabbed Thibault's jacket by the shoulder, balled it tight so that it pulled against his neck. 'And now you were on the phone to Duclos, warning him it might have all gone wrong!'
'Haven't you heard of client-lawyer privilege,' Thibault spluttered. Mixture of fear and outrage.
Pathetic. Just like Duclos: clinging to moral high ground to the last. Dominic thought of Thibault's assault on Calvan, the attack on both his own and Corbeix' credibility. And it was suddenly tempting to bury his fist in Thibault's face, wipe away his self-satisfied smile once and for all. But in the end he just gave Thibault a last push against the wall and let him go. He wasn't worth it.
Bennacer had followed out only seconds later, was now behind him, looking concerned. Corbeix had stayed in the room with Aurillet.
Dominic's main worry was that Thibault had managed to warn Duclos. They had Aurillet, but now they also knew that Vacharet was the main link to Duclos and young boys. Something Duclos would be eager to remove at all costs. If he'd been desperate enough to take out Eynard, then...
Suddenly it hit Dominic that even if Duclos hadn't already been warned by Thibault's call - he'd have guessed something was wrong by him suddenly snatching the phone and calling out his name.
Dominic turned to Bennacer. 'Call your station. Get a squad car out to Vacharet's. And fast.'
'Duclos? Duclos... is that you?'
Duclos recognized the voice immediately. A cold shiver spread through his body. Something had gone wrong. Desperately wrong.
Duclos went over to the window and looked out. Joel was in the garden, kicking a football. The view from the front was probably much the same as it had been twenty minutes ago: gendarme by the front door and thirty metres beyond two reporters by the gate. Life chez Duclos. Less reporters than a few weeks back, but no doubt the rat pack would increase again closer to the full trial.
Joel's movements in the garden hardly registered beyond his thoughts. But he'd hardly noticed the boy anyway through all the years, he thought ruefully. Why should now be any different. Especially now.
Full trial? With everything now fallen apart, his last ace card destroyed - there would almost certainly be a full trial. And nothing to stand between him and conviction but two people. Two key people around which all else hinged.
Duclos' fists balled tight. His face was flushed, raw acid anger surging beneath. It was hardly believable that Fornier and his rag-tag bunch had got this far, would end up pushing him to these limits. Had they forgotten who he was?
He'd already half guessed something was wrong twenty minutes before Thibault's call. Vacharet had phoned, mentioned he'd just had a call from someone called Victor. 'Said that he acted as liaison between you and your lawyer. Just struck me afterwards to check he was kosher.'
Asshole. 'The time to check is beforehand. It's a bit late now.' When pressed, Vacharet claimed that he hadn't said much, but Duclos had sensed his defensive tone, his nervousness. With Thibault's call, Duclos knew that whatever it was had been enough: the police had woven the strands together.
The problem was, Vacharet probably also now knew. He might panic and do something foolish at any minute.
Duclos picked up the phone and dialled Brossard's number.
Francois Vacharet stared at the phone for a full minute after his call to Duclos. Jesus, he had put his foot in it.
Though hopefully he hadn't given away to Duclos just how badly. His mind grappled for other possible options: perhaps it hadn't been the police, just some obscure clerk in Thibault's office Duclos wasn't aware of. Victor? But as Duclos had protested, Thibault knew that his home line was secure, they'd spoken several times on it. And for anything as sensitive as that, Thibault would have phoned directly.
No, it had been the police or someone in the prosecutor's office. There remained little doubt. Once they'd uncovered the full extent of his little ruse with Aurillet, they'd be at his door in no time. And once Duclos knew...
Vacharet shuddered. He recalled one of his last conversations with Duclos when he'd discovered through the milieu grapevine about the hit on Eynard. He'd protested that if he'd known about the hit, he'd never have offered to help with Aurillet.
'What is this - paedophile pimps solidarity week,' Duclos teased. Duclos went on to assure how he saw Vacharet in a totally different light: reliable and trusted, whereas Eyrnard had been a rat ready to tell all at the drop of the first wad of notes.
'Very comforting. But no more killings.'
Duclos had assured that there would have only been one more planned in any case, and only then as a last ditch fail-safe. 'Now with this little scheme in place, that won't be necessary.'
Vacharet cradled his head in his hands. He wished now he hadn't asked that one last question, asked out of morbid curiosity who that intended person had been. But Duclos almost seemed to relish telling him, remarked that in a way it was only fair he should know. 'After all, you recommended me to the hit man yourself all those years back. Eugene Brossard.'
Butterfly nerves danced in Vacharet's stomach. With the scheme fallen apart, that target would no doubt be back on Brossard's hit list. With his own name now probably alongside.
Vacharet jumped up and hurriedly packed a briefcase. He wasn't going to hang around to see who got there first: the police or Brossard!
He mumbled to his barman on the way out: 'Any calls, I've gone fishing. You don't know where I am. I'll phone you later.'
A quick stop off at home to pick up a suitcase, then he would head straight for the airport. As he came to the junction with Rue de la Republique, a police car with Moudeux and a sergeant passed, heading towards the Panier.
Brossard called back within forty minutes. As before, Duclos had left a message at a bar for Brossard. Duclos picked it up on the first ring.
'Those two names we discussed. I want you to move on them now,' Duclos said. 'There's no time to lose.'
'Which one should I aim for first?' asked Brossard.
'I'm not sure, let me think for a second.' Vacharet was probably more urgent, but he wondered if there was something he'd overlooked. Brossard had phoned him back the day after his first call; already he knew the movements of both targets the next few days. As ever, efficient.
Brossard chuckled at his hesitance. 'Decisions. Decisions. Not like shopping, is it? Deciding which shirt to choose. Not quite the same when you're deciding on someone's life.'
Memories of Chapeau and Jaumard. The many jibes through the years. Hit man's revenge: how often did they get the chance to rib establishment figures? Duclos ignored it. 'Vacharet's more urgent. But you should try and take out both within hours of each other, if possible. Because once one has been hit, the police will tighten everything on the other.'
'Fine. I'll aim to do both tonight.'
They made money transfer arrangements, and Brossard rang off. But Duclos thought he heard a faint echo on the line, and then a second click. As if someone else had been listening in. Duclos' heart froze. He thought that Thibault had assured the line wouldn't be tapped!
'...Vacharet's more urgent. But you should try and take out both within hours of each other, if possible. Because once one has been hit, the police will tighten everything up on the other.'
'Fine. I'll aim to do both tonight.'
Betina had picked up the phone not long after it rang. She thought that it was strange that it had only rung once, then stopped. Wondered if there might be a fault on the line. But picking it up, she heard Alain's voice. She was in the downstairs drawing room; he'd obviously answered it upstairs. She was about to put it straight back down, when part of the conversation grabbed her: not quite the same when you're deciding on someone's life...
An icy hand gripped her stomach as she listened to the rest of the conversation. At its end, she stood stock still, numbed, frozen. Too shocked to admit the reality of what she'd just heard
, but the futility of grasping for other explanations also dawning: her mind trapped between the two. She shook her head. Too many years already spent fooling herself.
Telling herself that the trips away had just been business, nothing more. That his rarely touching her had been in respect of her past problem, her frigidity. But part of her had always suspected. The first thought had been that he was having an affair. He wouldn't be the first politician to keep a mistress. And perhaps given her past problem, she'd in part brought it on herself. Not acceptable, but at least understandable.
Betina walked towards the stairs, started her way up. But even that chink of realization she'd in the end pushed away. Hid behind her love, her absorption with Joel. The day that Alain told her that he was leaving her and wanted a divorce, she would worry about it.
Then with the first newspaper reports, she'd pushed it even stronger away. Young boys? Alain. Ridiculous!
Betina reached the top of the stairs. But now she knew: Alain had done it! He had killed the boy... and now he was sending a hit man to remove the key witnesses. All the past denial came suddenly crashing back in: the trips away, him cringing at her touch...
She shuddered at the thought of the monster she'd lived with for eighteen years - under the same roof with her and Joel! Joel. She'd read the papers. My God, that poor boy had hardly been older than Joel was now.
Her heart pounded as she reached for the bedroom door handle. Her mouth was dry. With a final swallow of resolve, she turned it and opened the door.
It took a second for Duclos to notice her standing there. He was still wondering about the click on the line.
He heard her say: 'It's true, isn't it? All true. You did kill that boy.'
She was ashen faced, and Duclos saw that she was trembling. It had been Betina on the line! She'd overheard his conversation with Brossard.
His mind spun. Judging from her expression, the stock lines of defence and denial that had tripped of his tongue since the first newspaper reports, just wouldn't wash this time. If she'd overheard him with Brossard, she knew. She knew everything.
He looked down at the floor, blinked slowly, in the end said nothing. His panic waned. He owed her no explanation.
'All a lie, wasn't it? The boy, our marriage. All the weekends away, the nights when you shrinked at my touch.' She moved closer, but stopped a metre away. As if bridging that last distance between them would somehow contaminate her. Her voice was raising. 'A pathetic sham, a lie! And I thought at one time that you loved me... if only for those first few years.' She shook her head, her face contorted.
Duclos looked up at her. Pitiable. Clinging to the hope that he might have once loved her. A few measly years among their lifetime together. As if reconciling that might make the rest not so bad. Acceptable. He didn't feel like giving her even that satisfaction. He sneered: 'Of course I never loved you. You just looked good at all the dinner parties and functions. And your ridiculous problem with frigidity from a date rape was ideal - the last thing I wanted was you touching me!'
She moved closer, then. Her eyes darted.
'You're pathetic,' he taunted, and felt the stinging slap strike his face a second later. If he'd said nothing, she'd have probably just stared a second longer, eyes searching for an explanation that wasn't there, then turned away. But perversely a part of him wanted the confrontation, a catharsis for his own anger and frustration. Take it all out on poor, pathetic Betina. She was such an easy target. 'My skin crawled at every single touch through the years. I'd rather have fucked Mitterrand!' But this time he caught her arm in mid-flight, wrenched it hard and levered himself up. He lashed at her face with the back of his free hand.
Betina flew back, crumpled quickly to the floor. She glared back, eyes wild. Raw hatred. A red welt and speck of blood showed high on her left cheekbone.
'What about Joel?' Her voice trembled. 'It took a woman to give you him. Not out buggering young boys!'
'Exactly.' Duclos smiled crookedly. A decade too late she'd finally got the message. 'He was the last thing I wanted!'
The images crashed in on him unwarranted: her scream as the car crashed, Joel in an incubator... The intensity of her stare unnerved him. He looked away.
He felt suddenly claustrophobic, stifled. He had to get away from her, away from her clinging eyes; as if she was searching deep for something that had never been there. Some remnant of fondness for her and Joel so that she didn't have to believe that her whole life had been wasted. Pathetic. He headed for the door.
Some movement behind him, rustling in a drawer. He was in a half daze, hardly paid any attention to it until he heard her call: 'Alain!' A harsh, chill whisper that made him turn.
He saw the half open bedside drawer at the same time as the gun: a Beretta .25 automatic they kept in case of burglars. Betina pointed it at him shakily.
Betina's eyes were stinging and bleary as she looked at her husband above the gun. She fought to control her trembling. Her husband? He was a monster! A murderer of young boys. She'd be doing everyone a favour if she pumped him full of bullets. Her finger tensed on the trigger.
Would feel good, so good. Repayment for the years of betrayal of her and Joel. Revenge for the little boy in Taragnon. But she should see him squirm a bit first. 'So do you still claim you don't love me? Or is begging for your life more appropriate? Perhaps they're one and the same.' But instead of moving away, he took a step closer. She shook her head, the trembling biting deeper in her arms. It was all somehow wrong! She'd seen it in the films: this was when they started backing away, holding one hand up and pleading.
Duclos smiled as he stepped closer. Perhaps she would be doing him a favour. The end to all his problems. 'Why don't you. I'm sick of it all. You can face it all then: public humiliation, the police at your door, a trial, a murder conviction hanging over your head! Yes, go on,' he taunted. 'Pull the trigger. You sit in my seat!'
Betina's finger trembled on the trigger. A monster! He deserved to die. But he was smiling, almost as if he welcomed it. And what would happen to Joel while she was in prison?
Duclos saw the hesitation and leapt in, took the last two steps quickly, jolted her gun arm away. The gun flew free, fell a few yards to one side. He cocked back his arm and smashed it hard into her face.
Betina fell back heavily on the floor. Her eyes were startled, a gout of blood spreading from her nose.
Duclos dived on top of her, straddling her thighs. Anger coursed red hot through his veins. She'd pulled a gun. The stupid bitch actually had the guts, the audacity! She was going to kill me! He cocked his arm to punch her again in the face, then decided against it at the last minute - shifted down and hit her in the stomach.
She screamed and groaned. He hit her again, her screams only driving on his frenzy. The long years of pent up anger and frustration washing away as he struck out: for all the times he'd cringed at her touch, for the boring predictability and monotony of her conversation, for the son he'd never wanted... for the little clique of her and Joel excluding him through the years. He hit and hit at her stomach until...
Footsteps pounding up the stairs.
Barely broke through his consciousness, his frenzy. Then it struck him how loud Betina's groans and screams had been. The gendarme. He'd heard the screams and run around to the open back door.
Duclos scanned frantically around. The gun was not far from his fight foot. He kicked it further away, just out of sight under the bed. He straightened up as the gendarme burst into the room.
The gendarme's eyes darted between him and Betina. His hand was poised by his gun holster, but it wasn't drawn.
'She became hysterical,' Duclos spluttered. 'I was trying to calm her. She fell and hit herself badly on the bedside drawer. Give me a hand to lift her up on the bed.'
The gendarme's gun arm relaxed. He came over, half stooped to lift Betina. Betina's eyes were clearing from her daze, settling on the gendarme. She was about to speak.
Duclos saw his only split-second cha
nce, lunged for the gun under the bed. He turned and trained it on the gendarme. 'Now give me your gun. Left hand... ever so slowly. Just two fingers on the butt.'
The gendarme reached across and lifted the gun out awkwardly, held it out. Duclos grabbed it. 'Now turn around!'
The gendarme turned uneasily, trying to keep one eye on Duclos. Duclos raised the gun and smashed the butt against the base of the gendarme's head - but the first didn't connect properly, and it took a second to fell him, knock him out.
Duclos rustled in the top drawer of the dressing table for car keys and his wallet, then bolted for the door.
Joel was standing in the doorway, taking in the scene with his mother and the gendarme. Those same searching, knowing eyes which had haunted him through the years. The boy moved as if to block Duclos' exit.
Duclos sneered at how ridiculous and pathetic the boy looked, just like his mother - and barged brusquely past him, almost knocking the boy over.
Down the stairs, out the front door, feet on the gravel of the driveway. One of the reporters by the gate noticed him, was looking over curiously.
Duclos ran to the garage, past Betina's Renault parked to the side. He would have taken the Mercedes, but it was too distinctive. He'd bought a Peugeot 505 on leasing not long before leaving Strasbourg. The registration was probably still going through. Perfect.
Duclos jumped in, started her up and swung around.
He was shaking heavily, raw adrenalin surging, a dull pounding in his head. After-rush of Betina and the gendarme. He felt it powering him on: foot hard on the accelerator, out the driveway - a last sharp turn through the gate.
Cameras clicked and flashed as he sped past the gate onto the road, catching his crooked and desperate smile. But Duclos was past caring. Freedom.
FORTY-THREE
Dominic spread out a map of France. Where? Where? Two of them now to find. Vacharet and Duclos.
Past Imperfect Page 55
