Past Imperfect (75 page)

Dominic nodded and held out his hand. Moudeux passed him the phone. 'Did the police believe him or do they think he was covering up?'

'They thought he acted a bit cagey - but nothing too suspicious.'

Dominic glanced up at the flicker board. Fourteen minutes left to boarding. No Duclos. No Vacharet. Deafening tannoy bombarding what few clear thoughts remained. Hustle, bustle. Everyone heading somewhere - except them. Yet another dead end. Dominic's eyes darted, searching for inspiration; but all that crashed in was people, noise, suitcases, cameras, flight bags. Finally: 'Get the local police to head back out to Courchon's and park fifty metres down the road. Sit there a couple of hours - then knock again on Courchon's door. Vacharet might yet show, or at least it might rattle Courchon into remembering something.' But it was mainly because it felt wrong just giving up on Vacharet, and Dominic couldn't think of a better plan.

'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.