'Okay. I'll phone them back. Are you catching the flight still?'
'I don't know yet. There's still a few minutes to decide.' Though Dominic knew the answer already. They'd headed to the airport because if positive news on Vacharet came through, no time was left to catch the next flight. But Corsica without Vacharet had little appeal. Too remote if...
Cameras! The thought suddenly spun back. Dominic's eyes fixed on another passing tourist with a Pentax slung over one shoulder. He was only half listening as Bennacer signed off. 'Yes, fine,' he mumbled. Thoughts clearing, focusing. His breath caught slightly in his throat as they finally gelled. Fresh adrenalin rush after the disappointment of Vacharet. Fresh hope. He tapped out straightaway to Lepoille's number.
Lepoille had phoned while he was en route between Aix and Marseille: company traced that Duclos had leased under two years ago, but nothing registered since. He would keep looking.
'Still nothing,' Lepoille confirmed. He sounded resigned, defeated. 'I just don't think it's been registered yet.'
'Don't worry. I think I might have hit on a solution. Cameras!' Silence from Lepoille. Dominic explained: 'Apparently Duclos' home has been dogged by the press the last few weeks. When he made his break, no doubt a few will have tried to get a clear shot of him. One of them might at the same time have caught his registration number. Quick enlargement, and we've got it!'
Lepoille agreed: chances were reasonable to good. 'I'll get on it straightaway.'
Five main national papers. It shouldn't take long to find out who was outside Duclos' gate that afternoon.
Milieu crime boss André Girouves listened carefully as his lieutenant related the message from Courchon in Corsica.
'And this other club owner, his friend Vacharet, is the one involved with Duclos and Brossard?' Girouves clarified.
'Yes. Vacharet apparently recommended Duclos to Brossard for something else years ago.'
Girouves pondered. Everything was clear so far: Duclos had involved Vacharet in a scheme which had backfired, and now Duclos was using Brossard to bury the traces. Standard practice. Even high flying politicians weren't too different to himself, he mused. He'd seen the Duclos items on the news. Politician fallen from grace. Loved it.
They were in one of Girouves' favourite cafés on Quai de la Tourette. To one side was his main business adviser, to the other a lumbering lieutenant serving as bodyguard. Business talks over late afternoon coffee and pastis.
'But it's the other hit planned which was the main reason for Courchon's call,' his lieutenant said. He shuffled nervously, looked down slightly as he told Girouves who it was.
Girouves' eyes closed for a moment. He rubbed his forehead with one hand. Courchon was right to have warned them. A Chief Inspector's wife! The repercussions could be enormous.
Part of the strength of the crime empire Girouves had built up along the coast the past two decades had been stability. A departure from the muddied dividing lines and power-vacuum struggles of the seventies. And part of that stability had been gained through not crossing certain lines with the police. No more Bar du Telephon massacres.
Even amongst their own was the strict rule of never involving family in hits. A Chief Inspector's wife hit by a regular milieu freelancer? Favours would be cancelled, clubs and bars raided, licences revoked, all suspected milieu businesses would come under brutal scrutiny. The clock could be set back years.
Brossard? If it had been practically anyone else, he could have just picked up the phone and said 'don't go ahead.' But Brossard prided himself on fierce independence, wouldn't swear allegiance to either side. No gang war hits, only internal enforcement or external contracts - Brossard worked all sides with equal ease. A true independent professional.
Girouves asked a few questions about the hit, but his lieutenant knew little beyond what he'd already passed on. 'Okay. Phone Courchon straight back. Try and pump him for more information.'
Girouves took a quick slug of pastis as his lieutenant dialled out on his mobile. If they didn't learn more from Courchon, he'd have to get a few men busy phoning around. Monique Fornier? Shouldn't be too hard to find out where she was. Then he would probably have to call Tomi. The only person he knew that would stand any chance against Brossard.
... In a world full of people, there's only some want to fly because they're not crazy... they're not crazy... crazy... Ohooho. Now we're never gonna survive, unlesss...
Brossard rapped his hands on the steering wheel to the pounding beat. He particularly liked the organ backbeat, the way it seemed to slip away... his finger tensing on the trigger, shadows of figures falling back as he fired... slipping away. But he could never picture any of their faces. Probably best. No ghosts.
Dented and rusty Citroen Dianne which had seen better days. Nobody would pay him any attention. He'd chosen a blue workman's overall which was worn and slightly stained from field work. He'd used it for a hit six years ago, though this time he chose a white cap instead of a beret, turning the peak so that it covered the back of his neck. Favoured uniform of so many fieldworkers. He planned to stay low in the fields, but if by chance somebody saw him, he would blend in.
Brossard pulled the Dianne into a track in the woodland that bordered the back of the field. To anyone passing, a farmer or someone having a woodland picnic. He turned off the cassette player, took a knapsack out of the car and headed deeper into the woods. Instead of sandwiches, inside the knapsack was a Llama .357 Magnum with silencer, binoculars and infra red night goggles. After eighty metres the woods cleared and the field lay ahead.
To one side were a few olive and carob trees, but most of the field was long grass, now starting to yellow with the summer heat. At the end of the field, two hundred metres away, was a short stone wall, and beyond that the farmhouse.
Brossard walked ten paces into the long grass and sat down with his knapsack. As soon as it was dark, he would move in. The sun was already low, threatening to fall behind the westerly ridge beyond the farmhouse. It would be dark soon.
Vacharet watched the gentle surf lapping against the beach. Half pebble, half sand, it was no more than fifteen metres wide, nestled under the sheer rock face above.
Vacharet sat inside the boat shelter at the back of the beach. Cut in under a heavy rock overhang, he was completely concealed from the road above.
Lap, swish. Lap, swish. Soothing at first, now after more than half an hour, the sound was driving him mad. What could have happened with Courchon? Fifteen minutes after Courchon had first come down to give him the all clear, the same police car was snaking its way back up the road again.
What was Courchon doing - letting them camp the night? Or perhaps they'd taken him down to the station for questioning. Vacharet sighed heavily. The first grey and red wisps of sunset were showing on the horizon. He could end up on the beach half the night without knowing what had happened.
He pictured the police pacing around, firing question after question at Courchon... at the villa or down at the station? It was immaterial. The police were obviously determined, and in the end would catch up with him. Courchon might have cleared the slate with the milieu, but with the police it would be a different matter. He would have to stay away for months, longer if...
The realization suddenly hit him like a hammer. At first, he'd clung to the hope that Brossard would head first for Monique Fornier. That might at least give him a bit more breathing space. But now it hit him that he could be implicated. He'd recommended Duclos to Brossard! Being involved with the ruse with Aurillet was one thing - but conspiring to murder a Chief Inspector's wife? They would throw away the key.
Perhaps if he helped them, warned them in some way. But what if Brossard had already made the hit, and his call merely confirmed his knowledge of it, his involvement?
Vacharet came out from his hideaway below the rocks and looked thoughtfully at the steps winding up to the road above.
'What time was he there?' Lepoille asked.
'Got there about ten
in the morning. Normally the time they might show to do some shopping - if they're going to come out at all. Which has been rare.'
Third on Lepoille's list: Gaston Contarge, Pictures Editor at Le Figaro. He'd already crossed out Le Monde and Le Matin. 'So he was there when Duclos made his break?'
'Yep. Got the whole thing. It'll be front page of tomorrow's edition.'
A tingle of anticipation ran down Lepoille's spine. He told Contarge what he wanted, and why.
Contarge was quick to mirror Lepoille's excitement. Breathless, slightly hoarse: 'Amazing. Look, I'll check with the editor - but I'm sure we'll help. The only thing he might ask is an exclusive for our part in all this. Any objections?'
'No. Not as far as I can see. I've got three more newspapers on my list. Whoever comes up with the photo first, gets the story. Seems fair enough.'
Lepoille smiled as he hung up. He knew that Contarge would be sprinting for the darkroom.
He phoned Dominic straightaway with the news. 'Three more to phone, but at least we've got one hopeful already.'
Dominic was on the motorway just approaching Gardanne, fifteen minutes out from Marseille. He'd stayed at the airport bar with Moudeux for a coffee and brandy while waiting on news, then decided to head back to Vidauban. With Duclos and Vacharet by now anywhere in France, it was as good a command centre as any. 'That's great news. Let me know the minute anything comes up. I'm heading back to Vidauban, but you can ring at any time. I'll be up till late waiting on news.'
Eight minutes later when his mobile rang again, he thought it might be Lepoille with an update. But it was Bennacer. His voice was urgent, frantic.
'Dominic! We just had a call seconds ago from Corsica. We now know the hit man's second target. And brace yourself, Dominic. It's Monique. Your wife, Monique. She's the other target!'
Numbness. Then blind fear, rage. 'When?' Dominic asked tremulously.
'Vacharet didn't know. Any time - it could have even happened already. Look - I'll mobilize the nearest station straightaway, get someone out there...'
But Dominic was hardly listening. A quick mumbled, 'Fine,' a pounding in his head drowning out all else as he pushed his foot flat to the floor... 150... 160... 170... 180kmph.
As he flashed past cars and trucks at breackneck speed, he dialled out his home number at Vidauban. But it was engaged.
Bennacer looked briefly at a wall map, and phoned the station house at Draguignan. It was on an answerphone. He slammed the phone down and dialled Toulon.
Girls voice: 'Un moment. Ne quittez pas.' Then a radio operator checking positions as Bennacer explained what he needed and stressed the urgency.
'The nearest car we have is just outside Cuers. They're engaged now, but should be free in five or ten minutes. Otherwise we'll have to pull someone up from the motorway section this side of Solliès Pont.'
'How many men in the Solliès Pont car?'
'Two.'
Two rookies up against an expert hit man? 'Send both cars. Dispatch them now! And warn them: they could be up against some heavy firepower.' Bennacer glanced back at the map. In fifteen, twenty minutes they should be there.
Dominic's speed held steady at just under 190kmph. With any luck, he should be there in just under fifteen minutes. His lights had been on for the last ten minutes, and now he flashed wildly at anyone in his way.
The last grey-red remnants of twilight faded over the hills in his rear view mirror. Beyond the beam of his headlights was pitch darkness.
FORTY-FOUR
As the grey skyline turned to black, Brossard moved in closer. Fifty metres from the short stone wall, he could see the farmhouse clearly.
One light on downstairs. He trained the binoculars, and after a moment saw a woman come into their frame, brief profile: late-forties, first wisps of salt in black hair, attractive. She moved out of sight again for a second, going deeper into the drawing room.
Brossard's anticipation surged, but only a trace of what he felt when going up against experienced guns. A woman alone in a remote farmhouse. A cakewalk. He'd put on the infra-red goggles, switch off or cut the mains electricity from the garage, and break in through a downstairs window. The woman would still be fumbling for candles and night-lights when the bullet hit. One head shot, maybe two, and out. It would all be over in seconds.
Brossard kept low as he moved through the last fifty metres of grass towards the stone wall. Then he stopped again, studying the farmhouse closer and trying to work out the likely position of rooms. He quickly checked his gun and silencer, then took out the night-time goggles and put them on.
Waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust to their grey-green light, he slid over the wall and started the last distance towards the farmhouse.
'What time would you hope to get here?' Monique was speaking to Yves, her eldest son. He'd phoned to tell her he would be coming up from Marseille for the weekend. She hadn't heard from him for almost two months, so they'd spent a few minutes catching up on news before returning to when he would be arriving.
'I'm on a late shift at the station tomorrow night, finishing at ten. I'll leave straight after that. So probably close to eleven. But I've got Saturday and Sunday free.'
'That's good. Gerome will be here, he's not going anywhere this weekend as far as I know. It'll be nice to have a house full.' Already she was thinking of food and preparation: steamed C'ap Roig with cous-cous, pâté en croûte to start. A few bottles of wine on the terrace. It was going to be a good weekend. 'Gerome should be back soon. You might get a chance to speak to him.'
'It's okay. I've got to go now. But I'll see him tomorrow anyway.'
'I'll try and make sure your father relaxes a bit as well. At least one full day without calls. See you tomorrow.' Monique looked thoughtfully at the phone as she put it down. Family. New family... Old family.
With the tapes she'd played repeatedly, she'd found herself thinking more about Christian and Jean-Luc. Memories that had plagued her the first few years, sapped her strength before she'd pushed them harshly away: self-preservation for the sake of both her sanity and her new marriage. She couldn't give all to her new family while burdened by ghosts from the past.
The only vestige Dominic had complained about, at times pointedly, had been her obsessive protectiveness with Yves and Gerome. The ghosts of the past might have been buried, but a shadow had remained. She could never face losing another child, going through what she'd suffered with Christian again.
But the tapes and transcripts had brought it all back. With each playing, images of Christian and Jean-Luc had grown stronger. She'd resisted going out to the wheat field the day Dominic had met Eyran and Stuart Capel. She'd always vowed she'd never go there. The memories were too harsh. But knowing the three of them had stood in the empty filed, searching for long lost answers, had raised her curiosity about Taragnon. Perhaps the farm would be different: the memories there happy as well as sad. Alone at Vidauban that afternoon, looking out across the farm fields at the back, she'd finally made the decision. She'd taken the old Simca left permanently at the farm for transporting garden pots and plants, and driven out to Taragnon.
Though it was only thirty-five kilometres away, she hadn't been back to the area for over twenty-five years, after they'd finally sold the old farm.
She parked in the road outside the old farm and looked up. Apart from some modernization with new windows and doors, it had changed little. The outside stonework was much the same.
As she looked, a small boy of no more than four or five came out of the back door and started peddling a toy car around the courtyard. And in that moment, as she closed her eyes, she pictured Christian in the courtyard at little more than that age, laughing and playing, his gentle high-pitched voice echoing slightly from the walls. And Jean-Luc coming in from the fields, picking Christian up on his shoulders and swinging him around playfully, smiling. The proud father.
Tears streamed unashamedly down her face as she drove back to Vidauban. She'd cried bitter tear
s for both of them for so many years, but not recently.
And then not long after returning, at six o'clock the news item had come on about Duclos. She'd found herself honing in on the face flashed up on the screen as if drawn by a magnet. A face suddenly put to this new suspect Dominic had talked about almost incessantly the past weeks - Christian's real murderer! A rounded, slightly bloated face with thinning black hair and dark green, almost black eyes. Thirty years? She tried to imagine in that moment what he looked like then, when he'd murdered Christian. But it was the one leap back through the years her mind wasn't able to make.
As it grew dark, she took out a night-light and lit it in the small alcove by the telephone at the back of the drawing room. In the first glow of its light, she'd seen Christian's face clearly, the memories of those last nights of hospital vigil flooding back. She could almost feel his presence; as if he was partly with her now, guiding her actions, willing her to light the night-light.
She hadn't prayed for Christian and Jean-Luc for years, but she would that night. She felt that by purposely casting them from her thoughts, she'd also in a way abandoned them. It was time to make some amends.
Now, putting down the phone from Yves, she looked thoughtfully towards the light. She remembered the night that Yves was born, the joy she'd felt. The doctors had told her later she'd been lucky to live. At least she'd been given a second chance at happiness. Some people didn't get even that.
With a last slow sigh, she knelt down before the light, gently closed her eyes and started to pray: for Christian's and Jean-Luc's souls, for the many memories, for the happiness that once was... for the final justice that might now be so close...
Past Imperfect Page 57
