Past Imperfect (74 page)

'Not immediately. Let me see if anyone else here has any ideas...' Dominic could hear Bennacer calling out:
Vacharet - any friends or contacts in Corsica?
Mumble of background voices. After a moment: 'Doesn't seem so, I'm afraid.'

'Maybe Moudeux could go to Vacharet's. Say that we know he's in Corsica, explain that a hit man's chasing him. If we've got the information of where he is - then it's a good bet so has the hit man. Perhaps with a bit of pressure on his barman or manager, then-'

Bennacer cut in. 'Wait a minute, Dominic. One of my people working the
Panier
has remembered another club owner that Vacharet's friendly with...' Bennacer's voice faded: second conversation in the background before returning. 'Guy called Courchon. Owns a villa in Bussaglia on the North-West coast. Long shot, but it might be worth a try.'

Dominic thought things through quickly. He was in a temporary office in the Aix Palais de Justice that Corbeix had arranged for him - but flight connections were better from Marseille. 'I'm coming down to you. I should be with you in half an hour. Meanwhile get the Bussaglia police to head out to Courchon's villa, and check the next flight time to Ajaccio.' Dominic glanced at his watch: 6.52 pm. He gave Bennacer his mobile number for anything urgent coming up on Duclos en route, then left a similar message for Lepoille.

Nothing Dominic could do sitting where he was to aid the search for Duclos' registration. That was a game now being batted between the nation's network of computers.

Duclos headed east towards St Etienne and Givors. He was unsure at first where to go, in the end deciding to join the N7 near Givors. It was the busiest and most faceless of France's motorways, and from there he could head north to Paris, south for the Cote D'Azur and Spain, or east at Valence for Switzerland and Italy.

He'd been left one current account unfrozen for monthly expenses. He stopped at the first cash machine outside of Limoges and drew the day's maximum. Together with what he had in his wallet, 3,260 Francs. With food and petrol, enough to keep him going for five days or maybe a week if he stayed in cheap hotels. He knew he couldn't risk stopping again at a cash machine. Even if they hadn't by then frozen the account, his movements could be tracked.

His car was inconspicuous and didn't draw attention. Just one of countless thousands of blue Peugeot 505s nationwide, and the police probably hadn't been able to trace the registration. But he felt conspicuous, self-conscious himself, was desperately afraid people would recognize him. He'd stopped only once for petrol just after St Etienne and kept looking down as he went to pay at the counter. At the last moment he saw a baseball cap for sale to one side and grabbed it along with some sweets. The cap's peak would at least shield part of his face at future stops.

He hit the motorway again and at the Givors junction headed south. Speed steady between 120-130kmph. Not too fast to draw attention, but not too slow either. Still the occasional truck would push him over to the slow lane and rumble past.

Then it hit him: 6 pm! He glanced at his watch: 5.38 pm. At six, the main news bulletins would come on. The case had been in the press, but the only recent photo had been hazy and distorted through a car window. Few people would recognize him.

But for the main news that night, they'd probably have a full face portrait shot. From then on, he'd hardly be able to stop anywhere without being recognized. He'd planned originally to stop to eat later - but suddenly changed his plan. He pulled into the first motorway service station.

He chose a burger and fries at the self-service grill counter. The girl looked up at him and smiled,
Merci
. A baseball cap not too dissimilar to his own. A
Have a nice day
smile, or had there been a glimmer of recognition?

Duclos' nerves were racing by the time he paid and took his tray over to a table by the far wall. He took a seat facing the wall, his back to the restaurant. It was a large sprawling complex with supermarket, shops and a bar on a bridge structure spanning the motorway. A television was on in the bar area beyond the restaurant, but hardly anyone was at the bar counter paying it attention.

He let out a slow breath, tried to relax, eat his burger. It felt dry, difficult to swallow. His nerves had killed his appetite. But he forced himself, realizing that it might be his last meal for several hours. He laboured over each mouthful; it was like trying to chew and swallow cardboard.

He'd made the decision to head south just after Clermont Ferrand: he had to get to Provence before Brossard made the hits! If Brossard made the hits, he was sunk: Betina had overheard him order them!

Minutes after the thought hit, he'd stopped and phoned Brossard's number. Fifteen minutes later, when he'd stopped for petrol, he'd phoned again. Still no Brossard or message. Brossard was probably already heading towards the targets.

'I'll aim to do both tonight.'
Obviously Brossard didn't want to risk the hits in daylight. Duclos looked at his watch. Two and a half hours of daylight left. If Brossard wasn't contactable, would he make it down there by then?

If he could get there in time and they never happened, he could claim it had been Betina's neurotic ramblings. Faced with just the rest - the tenuous coin and psychic evidence and the questionable testimony of two child pimps - Thibault could still pull a few rabbits out of the hat. Perhaps Brossard could make a deal with Vacharet: his life for silence. Faced with just Aurillet, their chances in court were good.

Options, angles. Play, counter-play. Duclos' thoughts bounced between hope and desperation, skittering along a tightrope of possibilities as a
bleep-bleep
crashed in abruptly. Two kids had started playing on a nearby space wars machine. Duclos was nervous with them so close, but they paid him little attention.
Bleep-bleep... zap... crash. Bleep-bleep..
. It was more the noise that grated, bringing his already fevered nerves to boiling pitch.

His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He'd eaten two thirds of the burger and a third of the fries. He put the burger down; suddenly he couldn't stomach another bite. He remembered another restaurant from thirty years ago, staring out at the boot of his car...
wondering what to do with the boy inside..
.

And suddenly everything else around came crashing in: the space wars machine, the clatter of plates and cutlery, the noise and bustle... the news report coming up on the TV. People standing up and pointing, shouting: it's Duclos...
Duclos!
He's there... over there!
The child murderer!

Duclos stood up abruptly, turned away. He was dizzy, disorientated for a moment, wasn't sure what he should be doing next. He felt like screaming help...
Help!
... out loud above the
bleep-bleep
of the space machine and the general clatter and commotion.

He was shaking, chill sweat and goose bumps on his skin. He started making his way out hurriedly, away from the noise, the people... then stopped abruptly by the prepared food display. He knew that he couldn't go through this ordeal again of sitting in a café with people around. He grabbed five packs of wrapped sandwiches, three bags of crisps and a large bottled water and dumped them on the check out.

Wry smile from the girl at the mountain of food as she totted it up.

'Large family in the car,' he smiled back. But he was sure it came out wrong.

He could feel her eyes still on him as he moved away. He looked at his watch: 5.57pm. In a few minutes the news item would come up...
and then everyone would be staring!
A moment's recognition, and the girl would reach for the phone, start dialling the police...

Help.
Help?
It was then that he remembered Marchand's words:
'... if you should feel the need for additional help. Just call. It's just so that you know that if the worst comes to the worst, you have friends out there. People who will help you.'

But he knew that he couldn't risk making the call to Switzerland from there, risk the news item coming up and someone grabbing his shoulder while he was still on the phone. And still he had to hope that he could make it down to Provence in time to stop Brossard.

The view along the Bussaglia coastline was breathtaking. Rugged and undulating mountains, a rich green shroud of Mediterranean pines clinging to sheer rock against the azure sea.

But Francois Vacharet hardly looked at the view from the villa's front terrace; his eyes were pinned to the short snake-like stretch of road far below. The only warning of a car approaching.

The road led to only nine villas. Courchon had already told him all the regular cars to expect: he'd written them down on a piece of paper. Any cars sighted not on the list and he would race in and warn Courchon - then head across the road. Twenty metres along steps meandered down the cliffside to a small shingle beach and a boat house cut in under the rock. Courchon would greet whoever it was, then come down and tell Vacharet when they had gone.

Vacharet had mentioned his concern about the other hit to Courchon. Duclos was out of control, partly unhinged.

Courchon hissed in breath sharply when he heard who the target was. '
Jesus
. Could be trouble. Duclos doesn't have to live in Marseille, you do.' Courchon went on to explain the problem wasn't just with the police, but with the local
milieu
.

Vacharet's heart sank as he envisioned years on the run, of him having to sell his clubs and property without returning to Marseille.
If
he lived that long. For now, his main worry was surviving the next few days. Being stalked by the hit man he'd originally introduced? He might have found the irony amusing if he wasn't so desperately frightened. Brossard was an unstoppable killing machine. As far as he knew, had never missed a contract.

He jumped at practically every noise or car sighting on the road below. Only three had so far approached: all local villa owners. But what was he going to do as it became dark - sit out there all night? Even if he did, the road was unlit: there would be no warning except noise, indiscernible from any of the other owner's cars.

But seeing his concern, at least Courchon had offered one ray of hope. 'I've got some good contacts in the
milieu
. I can certainly clear your name on that front of any repercussions. They'll be pleased too of the warning.'

Great. So Brossard might still get to him, but at least he'd die with a clean bill of health as far as the
milieu
were concerned. Comforting.

Vacharet's nerves tensed. A white car was snaking its way along the road below. He trained the binoculars: Citroen BS. There was only one on the list: metallic grey. Vacharet darted inside to warn Courchon.

'Where is he now?'

'Heading down towards Provence,' said Marchand. 'Apparently he's hoping to meet up with someone there urgently.' Marchand hadn't asked why, nor did Duclos offer any explanation. Duclos' call had come only minutes after Marchand had seen him on the Geneva news: fifth item on, though he was sure it was the top story in France. Minister on the run.

Marchand had spent the last few minutes explaining the sorry mess. At the other end, Miguel Perello was thoughtful. They'd only met once before, in Panama. Perello ran the Panama associate office of a California-based law firm. That was what had made Marchand suspect it was a consortium of California bio-tech companies trying to throw the EU debate. Though it could equally be the Japanese using a California linked company as a smokescreen. All Marchand knew was that they were happy when the finger was pointed at the Greens. Industry protectionism at its best: knock an $8 billion hole in a rival market by swinging a crucial debate.

'Sounds messy,' Perello said. 'Duclos could be too much of a loose cannon now. Too dangerous.'

'I thought that was the whole idea of offering him help if things went wrong. Get him away from the whole mess.'

'Yes, of course.' Moment's silence. Crackling on the line between Panama and Geneva. 'But how long can we effectively ensure a safe haven for a prominent figure such as Duclos? It might be worth considering again the other option we discussed.'

Marchand went cold. The subject had come up at the same time they'd discussed offering Duclos help to get away. Marchand had voiced his protest strongly: Duclos suddenly killed in the midst of such a high profile investigation, however well disguised as an accident, could rebound badly. Too risky. He re-iterated the protest now.

'I know. But now look at others like Medecin,' Perello commented. 'Every so often he makes the threat of coming back to France and telling all, bringing everyone else down with him if his hand is forced. I'm not sure my people would be happy with that sort of threat hanging over them indefinitely.'

'I still don't like it.' But the protest now sounded lame.

Perello sensed Marchand's discomfort with the thought of Duclos being hit. Swiss lawyers: watches, chocolate and money. No blood. He shifted its portent to one side. 'It's certainly not a decision that would be taken lightly, or right at this moment. And whatever's finally decided, it should in any case appear that we wish to help Duclos escape. So let us keep our eye on that for now.'

Marchand was once again a willing participant. They discussed a few options before deciding: private aircraft to Portugal, scheduled airline under new identity from there. Perello confirmed fund lines and they divided duties for the final arrangements.

When Duclos phoned forty minutes later as arranged, from somewhere near Avignon, Marchand gave him an airfield name and time:
Luc et du Cannet. 10 pm.
'The pick-up will be quick. Three minutes at most. You'll know it's him because he won't show lights the last few hundred metres of descent.'

Moudeux tried to shield his mobile from the echoing bustle of the airport and the intermittent tannoy. 'I see. Yeah. Yeah... So no show on Vacharet? Yeah. One moment.' He turned to Dominic, sensed his eagerness to be brought up to date. 'The local police called. Courchon met them at the door. Said he hadn't seen anything of Vacharet. They searched the villa anyway, asked a few questions such as was Courchon aware of any other friends Vacharet had on the island - but blanks at every turn. They left. Bennacer's asking what you want the local police to do next - if anything.'