‘I’m sorry.’ He realised that if Delicat were hanging around, as Claude had thought, this explained why he wasn’t too keen on making his presence known, especially to his boss.
Bouanga waved a hand in acknowledgment. ‘Thank you. To be honest, I don’t blame her – or him. They are two people who were thrown together in unusual circumstances. It is my fault because I have been too distant for too long.’ He sighed and lifted both hands.‘That’s life, is it not? It’s no good me being… what would you say, masculine about it? What good would it do when I do not feel the way I should about her?’
‘What will you do?’
‘Nothing.’ Bouanga’s look was direct and free of any guile. ‘It has been a situation of convenience for a long time. Now it should stop.’
‘And Delicat?’
‘I bear him no ill will. It is a great pity to me that he is gone. He has been loyal in his duties, but also a friend and companion. I hope he comes to no harm… for Excelsiore’s sake.’
For a man with a questionable reputation, Rocco acknowledged, the former minister had a bigger heart than most men. ‘What will you do now?’
‘I must return home.’
‘Won’t that be dangerous?’
‘Perhaps. But I cannot stay here forever, and one must face one’s future by moving forward. It is the only way.’
Rocco made his excuses and left Bouanga to his reflections. Ironic, he reflected; there was that word again: masculine. Bouanga had just used it, and Joncquet said Emmanuel had used it describing the woman he’d seen talking to Raballe.
And before that, Jouanne, who’d used it to describe the woman Rocco had first met in the café in Amiens.
Thirty-eight
Back home, Rocco got his head down and allowed himself to sink gratefully towards a kind of unconsciousness, to forget for an hour or two all about crime and kidnappings and threats to life and liberty, he hoped. He had his gun by his side, and if Nightingale came calling, he’d be ready. All being well, later maybe he’d even go for a run. For now, though, he needed the comfort and luxury of sleep.
Then his telephone rang.
‘Lucas?’ It was Claude. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but it’s important. Delsaire just called me. He said his neighbour, François, was out setting rabbit snares during the night and saw a van parked down in the marais.’
‘So what?’ The response came out slurred, his jaw not quite working fully in the half-in-half-out state of slumber. ‘It’s probably someone canoodling.’ And Delsaire, he thought vaguely, local farmer, plumber and allegedly keen but terrible gambler, shouldn’t be listening to his poacher-neighbour’s gossip.
‘It doesn’t sound like it. He didn’t think anything of it at the time, but it’s still there this morning. And he says there’s blood all over one of the side windows.’
Rocco snapped awake and swung his feet to the floor, the sudden movement making his head spin. ‘A van.’
‘A grey one.’
‘I’m on my way.’ He slipped his feet into his shoes and reached for his gun.
‘Do you want me to call the station and get some men out?’
‘Good idea. It’ll take them a while to get here, but they should set a watch for any grey vans on the roads from Poissons towards Amiens and Paris. If it’s Nightingale he might decide to make a run for it once he knows we’re on to him.’
‘Will do. But why would he come here now? You’d think he’d want to get well away.’
Rocco didn’t have to think too hard about that. There was only one reason for Nightingale being here and that was to fulfil the contract. A professional killer’s reputation was only as good as their last success; failure could mean the end of their career. And a killer with no work was susceptible to talking – or worse, selling information about past clients. That would be motivation enough to keep on working because some of those past clients might decide to shut the door on any of those secrets coming out.
‘No doubt he has his reasons. I’ll see you on the road near the entrance to the marais. And don’t let anyone else in there – if it is Nightingale he’s armed and dangerous.’
‘Got it.’
He checked again that his gun was fully loaded, then got in his car and drove through the village and on to the road leading past the marshes towards the tiny railway station. It was quiet and serene, with no traffic and only one or two people about on foot, early workers heading out to the farms. Poissons at its very best, in other words, with a spread of warm sunlight filtering through the branches and bringing the promise of a warm day.
He arrived at the first turning to a track off the road, which was one of two leading into the marais itself, and saw Claude’s car parked up on the verge. Standing next to Claude was the lean figure of Delsaire, dressed in his usual work bleus and scratching his head.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he told Delsaire as he climbed out. ‘If the van is the one I think it is, it’s driven by people you don’t want to get in the way of.’
‘So I heard,’ said the plumber, ‘but I didn’t want anyone blundering in there without knowing where the van is. It’s to do with the shooting out at Les Sables, isn’t it? Nasty business.’
Rocco didn’t deny it. Word would have gone right round the village by now, most of it containing more than a grain of fact. ‘It’s good of you. Thanks. Where is it parked?’
‘A couple of minutes’ walk into the marais from here, on a bend in the track, where there’s a wide pull-in area by a pond.’
‘I know the place,’ said Claude. ‘We won’t see it from here but it’s close enough to the road to give them warning of any vehicles approaching. If they’ve done a recce of the marais, they’ll know they can get out along the other track down there.’ He pointed further down the road to where a weathered fish-shaped sign read Pêche Réservée.
It was a risk Rocco hadn’t foreseen. ‘We need to block it off. How long before the others get here?’
‘Ten minutes, maybe sooner. They said they were ready to roll the moment they got news.’
It was going to be too tight. If it was Nightingale in there, their presence would already be known and they would be preparing to make a run for it. He couldn’t wait. Once out and free, they could go anywhere.
‘What exactly did you see?’ he asked Delsaire.
‘Not much, to be honest. I took a walk down that way because François said it looked as if somebody was sleeping in there. He said he saw some movement and the windows were a bit fogged up, but there was no equipment around to suggest they were fishing. A grey van, it is, with the corrugated sides and a seventy-five registration plate. That’s Paris, right?’
‘Yes. And you saw blood?’
‘That’s right. Smeared all over the passenger window. Really creepy, I thought, so I got out of there pretty quick and called Claude. I hope I haven’t wasted your time.’
Rocco shook his head. Instinct told him that this was no fool’s errand. ‘You haven’t, don’t worry.’
‘You’re not going in alone, are you?’ said Claude. He hefted his shotgun, the up-and-over barrels gleaming. ‘I could flush them out with this – and I know the area better than you.’
‘I know you do, but I’d rather you go down to the next entrance and let off a couple of rounds. If they know there’s a shotgun around they’ll steer clear of it and come out this way.’
Claude looked sceptical but nodded. ‘Fair enough. But if all you’ve got is your little pistol, you’d be better taking one of these.’
‘This will do me fine. We need to stop them here and now,’ he explained. ‘If they get away from here they might take hostages, and we know how that will end.’ He turned to Delsaire. ‘If you see anybody walking down this way, you might like to turn them back until the others officers get here.’
‘I hear you.’ He walked away up the road ready to play his part.
Behind him he heard the drone of vehicles in the distance, carrying clearly on the morning air. Some way
off still, but getting nearer. Rocco looked at his colleague. There wasn’t another person in the area that understood the marais as intimately as Claude did, but he also knew that Claude wouldn’t stand a chance against Nightingale. He’d hesitate for all the right reasons, which would be fatal. It was better if he could coordinate things from the road.
‘Let’s start,’ he said. ‘Give me three minutes and let off a couple of shots. That should set them running.’
Thirty-nine
Romain was dying, Lilou was now certain of it. She had examined his waist again in dismay, and found his shirt was sodden with blood pulsing out with every breath. Everything she’d done to try stemming the flow had failed, and she could see he was growing weaker by the minute.
‘Wha– what’s happening, Lilou?’ he murmured, his voice shaky. He groaned as he tried to move, and stopped as the pain became too intense. ‘You have to do something! It’s hurting so bad, Lilou!’
Lilou placed a hand on his chest, her fingers now red with blood where she’d been holding the wadding against the wound. She was stunned by the way things had turned out, as if it had all been a bad dream and she’d hoped to wake up and find it had all gone away. But it hadn’t. It was all horribly real.
Romain looked at her, his fear showing clearly as the realisation began to sink in that this was serious, that it was no longer the game it had always seemed. ‘Lilou?’
‘Bouge pas, my love. Don’t move,’ she said softly, rubbing his chest then moving her hand to his face, always her way of displaying affection. ‘We’ll get you to a doctor and he’ll make everything better, you’ll see.’ A tear sprang from her eye and rolled down her cheek, leaving a path across her skin. She brushed it away impatiently, leaving a reddish smear behind, and smiled at him, then kissed his lips, making small humming sounds deep in her throat like a contented animal consoling its young. ‘When you’re better we can take that holiday we talked about,’ she murmured. ‘Remember? You’d like that, wouldn’t you – a nice holiday?’
Romain nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. He tried to speak but the words went dry in his throat and came out as a croak.
‘Shush, my love,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t say anything. You have to conserve your strength so we can get away from here.’ She turned her head as a whistle sounded in the distance, through the trees. It might have been someone calling a dog, a hunter out early after rabbits, perhaps. But deep down she knew it for what it was. They were closing in.
‘What’s going to happen to us, Lilou?’ Romain found his voice at last, like a child, fretful and frightened for what might be about to happen. His head lolled back as if it was too heavy for him to hold and he winced in agony as the movement pulled at his torso and tugged in turn at the flesh around the bullet wound below his lower ribs. ‘We can… make a deal… talk to the flics and tell them about… Farek, can’t we? We know plenty of stuff about him that they’d want to know.’ He took a deep breath. ‘We could get a lighter sentence, right? Lilou?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s too late for that.’
‘But why? You could get away,’ he breathed. ‘If you left now… before they get here. They’d listen to me, Lilou. They’d take me to… hospital and I could say it was all my doing. Everything.’ His breathing jumped and held for a moment, then continued, light and fluttering.
‘But it wasn’t, was it?’ Her voice had turned flat, suddenly devoid of emotion. ‘It wouldn’t be true.’
‘They don’t know that.’ His head dropped forward and he looked for her, his eyes darting to find hers in a frown of concentration. ‘I could say it was me… tell them that I’m Nightingale. They’ll never know and you’d be away and free. You could start afresh.’
Lilou said nothing. For a long moment she stared at him as if he were a stranger, trying to make a decision other than the one she knew was unavoidable. Then came the sound of two shots, not immediately close by, but loud enough to send up the birds from the surrounding trees. Shotgun, she thought. A threat and a warning.
They were coming.
She made up her mind. She was going to have to let him go. It was best she did this now, she knew that. She couldn’t leave him here like this and there was no moving him, not now. She pulled back slightly and moved her free hand, adjusting her position, cementing her resolve. Her expression had changed in an instant, but Romain didn’t notice, his eyes moving restlessly as he tried to find a comfortable position away from the pain. Had he been able to see her face he would have noted that she now looked utterly cool, the tears gone as if a portrait had been scrubbed clean and repainted, the mood totally changed.
‘Lilou?’ he whispered. ‘What did you say? I can’t hear you. Are we going to move?’
The sound of voices was getting nearer, filtering through the trees from the road. Then came another whistle and in the background, the clatter of a diesel engine and a squeal of brakes. Lilou read the sounds and knew what they meant: a heavy police vehicle. That meant a search team. They would spread out through the marshes and comb every metre of track, every pond and lake. If they took Romain alive that would be the end of everything. She had too much to lose.
Her reputation for one.
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’ He coughed and dribbled blood from his mouth down his chin. ‘Why?’
‘Because.’ She didn’t bother wiping his chin, but brought up her other hand, bracing herself against the door. She was holding a dark metal spike, her fingers grasped firmly around the socket end, the point resting against Romain’s ribs. ‘You’re not Nightingale. You never have been. Never will be.’
‘No, Lilou…’ He froze and she saw everything reflected in his eyes. That whatever softness had been in her face had now gone completely. That the face in front of him was cold and hard and unforgiving, and that he realised what she was about to do.
He shifted in his seat and tried to move away. But there was nowhere to go.
Her eyes flashed and, with a sudden burst of energy, she thrust her hand against him. ‘I’m sorry, Romain,’ she said, ‘but Nightingale is my name, not yours.’
He jerked once, eyes opening wide in shock, as if he couldn’t believe what had just taken place, what Lilou had done. Then his body gave up the struggle and he slumped back against the seat, his eyes clouding over and, finally, closing.
Lilou pulled the spike free with a twist of her wrist. She wasn’t about to leave it behind; she’d had it too long, used it enough times for it to have become almost a part of her, a part of her legend. A legend she wasn’t about to share with anybody. Not even Romain.
She wiped it with a rag off the floor, then slipped it inside her coat pocket. Jumping from the van she ran round to the other side, feet skidding on the damp earth. The noises were closer now, with more engines arriving along the road and men’s voices carrying through the trees. She wrenched the door open, stepping back as Romain’s body rolled out from the passenger seat and fell to the ground. She didn’t even give it a look, but slammed the door and ran back, jumping behind the wheel.
She was gauging her chances against the approaching hunt. If she got going now, she might just be able to get away from here before they mounted a full roadblock round the village. She’d get rid of this vehicle and steal another, and hide up somewhere remote until tonight. Then she’d slip back into the village just when they weren’t expecting it and deal with Rocco once and for all. Contract completed.
After that, allowing for a couple of hours in normal traffic to Paris, she could get the rest of her money from Farek and be gone. Give it a week or two to recover and she could start thinking about taking on another contract. She smiled, feeling suddenly lighter. She’d have to find another spotter, of course, but that shouldn’t be a problem, not once she put out feelers. Romain would approve, she decided. Well, he’d suggested it, hadn’t he? Start afresh, wasn’t that what he’d said?
The engine caught at the first touch, and she win
ced at how loud it sounded, the clatter echoing back off the surrounding trees. She wondered if they could hear it the same way she did. Maybe the sound would be dispersed among trees and foliage, making it hard to judge direction. Too late to worry; she needed to get out of here and on the road, but it had to be now.
She stamped on the accelerator and the van lurched forward, the wheels spinning momentarily where they had settled into the soft earth beneath the grass. Then they gripped and the vehicle charged forward as she aimed for the track running further into the marsh. But she wasn’t aiming to hide in this damp, muddy swamp, with its lakes and wallows and the overhanging canopy of branches that threatened to shut out all light and life. She was aiming for another track she’d spotted on her brief exploration earlier, this one heading back out to the road away from where the search party was approaching.
She hit a patch of rough ground and the van jumped in the air, then settled with a bang. Bits of equipment in the back crashed around, and she heard the sound of glasses breaking and the thump as something heavy hit the floor. She didn’t bother checking but focussed on driving. Whatever was in the back could be replaced and, in any case, the first moment she got she was going to torch the van, erasing any trace that could be used against her.
She found the junction with the other track and hauled on the wheel, pulling the nose round with one eye on the dark water close by. The new track opened up wider, firmer and with a layer of rubble where the locals had tried to make it easier to use. She put her foot down. All she needed was to be out of this stinking mud hole and she could be free and away. Hell, she could even see the double line of trees bordering the road, her route to freedom. A quick tug of the wheel and she’d be out and away.
Rocco and the Nightingale Page 24