Death at the Clos du Lac (2013)

by Magson, Adrian

  The second man blundered past him, laughing at some shared joke, and was halfway across the room before he noticed Delombre sitting there in the half shadow cast by the standard lamp.

  ‘Hey, putain – who’re you?’ he squawked, drunkenly aggressive. ‘Get out of my chair!’

  ‘Please don’t call me names. We haven’t been introduced.’ Delombre’s voice was soft, but carried a tone of menace that pierced the atmosphere in the room like an arrow. Unfortunately, the man failed to heed it.

  ‘I said, get the fuck out of my fuck—’

  Delombre shot him in the chest. The force of the bullet flipped him round sideways, the report no bigger than a loud slap. He landed in a heap on one of the army cots, and subsided with a sigh.

  ‘Jesus!’ said the man in the leather jacket, ‘you didn’t have to do that!’ He stared at his colleague’s body and swallowed hard, then turned and threw up noisily in the corner with a horrible hacking sound.

  Delombre waited until he was done, then said, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Danny. It’s Danny.’ The man spat on the floor, trying to clear his throat. ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’

  ‘You’ll find out. Sit down on the other bed, Danny, and wipe your face. You’ve got sick all over your chin.’

  Danny sat and dabbed at his mouth with his sleeve, merely managing to smear the vomit across his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes, his breathing coming heavy and fast, and stared once more at his friend as if he couldn’t believe what he’d seen.

  ‘So, how did it go, with your important guest?’ Delombre queried casually, huffing on the side of the suppressor and rubbing at it with his sleeve to remove a speck of gunshot residue. He also noticed a stray strand of wool-like substance that the armourer had used to pack the baffles inside, and gently teased it out. It happened to these things, but not usually after a single shot. He’d have to speak to the rogue armourer about that. ‘Did she behave herself?’

  ‘What? You just shot my mate dead and you want to know whether she—’

  ‘Yes, I want to know,’ Delombre interrupted him. ‘And if you argue with me one more time, you’ll join your foul-mouthed friend in whatever version of hell you’re both bound for.’

  Danny nodded quickly and held up a hand. ‘OK, OK. Sorry. We, uh … we did as we were told. To the letter. We kept on the move, kept her fed and watered, then delivered her as arranged to the farm near Clermont.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She was fine. We made sure there was nobody else about, then took her out of the van and handed her over to the ambulance driver and his mate. She was still asleep … well, unconscious, really. But that was it. Job done.’ He frowned. ‘Are you saying she wasn’t all right after that? Because if so, that’s not down to us. She was good when we handed her over.’

  Delombre ignored him. ‘Did she see your face?’

  ‘No, not once. I made sure of it. Not a glimpse. I kept the hood thing in place all the time.’ He gave a sickly smile. ‘I mean, it’s not like I haven’t done stuff like this before, right?’

  ‘So how did she eat and drink?’

  Danny explained how he had done it, lifting the hood just enough for the woman to take in food and liquid, but no more. ‘There’s no way she saw my face, honest.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’ Delombre looked down at the man’s cowboy boots. ‘Nice boots. You wear them all the time?’

  ‘Yes, sure. Why not – I paid enough for them. I had them imported specially from Fort Worth in Texas.’

  ‘Great. So they’re – what, unique, then?’

  ‘I’d say so. I mean, why pay top money to wear the same as every other mug?’

  ‘How very wise. But – sorry, but I have to be sure – this woman you were holding, she never saw your face, not once? Or that of your deceased partner over there?’

  ‘That’s right. He stayed out of sight, mostly in the cab.’

  ‘Yet each time you lifted the hood to feed her … she’d have had only a clear view downwards, right?’

  ‘Uh … I guess. Yes.’ Danny frowned, not making the connection.

  ‘Downwards at your fancy imported and uniquely identifiable footwear. Isn’t that correct?’

  The question was met by a heavy silence, and Danny stared at Delombre, his mouth open as the implications of what he’d said sank in fully. He went very pale and stared at the gun, any remnants of drunkenness now instantly dissolved.

  ‘I said, correct?’

  ‘Hey … no, wait!’

  ‘No, thanks. You’re dismissed.’

  The leather jacket jumped as the first shot hit home, then jumped again with the second. Danny groaned once and fell back on the bed.

  As Delombre stood up, he heard the downstairs door creak, and a scuff of footsteps on the stairs. A whisper of voices fed upward as if through a funnel, and he felt the movement of air in the room. Somebody was trying to be quiet, but not because they were frightened of waking the neighbours.

  Then came a sound he knew all too well: the rattle of a round being chambered.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Delombre switched off the lamp. It was probably too late, as they’d have already seen the glow from the street. He’d been careless, assuming the car noise earlier to have been these two morons returning from whatever bordello they’d been celebrating in. But it explained why there had been such a short time lapse between the car stopping and the two dead men arriving on the stairs.

  They’d been followed. And he had a good idea who was doing the following. Divisional Inspector Drueault and his band of eager beavers had proven better than he’d thought. They’d found the truck rather than standing down as he’d advised, and followed the trail to this address.

  He stood up in a fluid movement and grabbed the man in the leather jacket. Dragging the lifeless body behind the armchair, he propped it in place so that only the head, shoulders and arms were showing. Then he moved the standard lamp so that it would throw up a glow behind the dead man. It wasn’t nearly enough of a distraction, but it would have to do. Hopefully, any cop coming through the door expecting trouble would see Danny’s outline and shit himself.

  He moved over to the door. He had perhaps twenty seconds left before the men downstairs came up in a rush, weapons out and ready to shoot. Once they got to the top he’d have no way out. He had to slow them down.

  He took a deep breath and stepped out onto the landing.

  The one named Detric was in the lead, already halfway up. He had his weapon in his right hand and was hugging the wall, trying not to make a noise. He looked up as Delombre appeared, but his gun was pointing away.

  Big mistake.

  Delombre shot him before he could bring up his gun, then reached up and swiped the bulb in one smooth movement. It popped and everything went black.

  Men were shouting at the bottom of the stairs as their wounded colleague tumbled down among them. Delombre continued across the landing, flicking the broken chair down on top of them to add to the chaos, and through the open door into the empty flat. Two shots rang out behind him, but they were shooting blind, no doubt hoping to scare him into giving up.

  He closed the door and hurried across to the open window, swinging one leg over the sill. Lowering himself easily, he hesitated for a second, then dropped. As his feet hit the wooden structure of the coal store, he pushed himself off and jumped to the ground, making no more than a hollow thump. The noise would be lost among the shouting upstairs and the two more gunshots that rang out as the remaining cops stormed the flat and came face to face with a desperado hiding behind the armchair.

  At least Danny had finally done something right.

  He looked out of the rear gate. The alley was dark and full of rubbish, but his eyes were already adjusting. The cops had made another mistake: they hadn’t posted a man to cover the rear. Stuffing the gun in his jacket, he walked away in the dark.

  Rocco’s telephone jangled with what seemed unusual harshness, springing him from
sleep barely minutes after he’d finally managed to nod off. He scrambled for the handset and dragged it onto the pillow. It was still dark outside.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me.’ He sat up as if fired from a gun, throwing back the bedclothes. It was Jacqueline, her voice steady and calm. Just two words, neither of them clear enough to judge whether she was still mad at him or not.

  ‘Hello, again.’

  Her voice was cool, businesslike. ‘The man Delombre? I called a friend of mine who knows everyone in ISD. He confirmed what I thought. Delombre is a contract employee for the department, and works exclusively for Marcel Levignier. He’s a former Legionnaire and does not do office work. I asked for a description, and was told he’s tall and thin, exceptionally fit, with fair hair thinning on top. I hope that answers your question.’

  ‘Wait.’ He didn’t want her to put down the phone. ‘Please. I owe you an apology. I’m very sorry. But I promise, I didn’t come to your aunt’s house just to ask questions. Well, not those questions, anyway. But thank you for doing this.’

  The silence went on far too long, and he thought she’d hung up until he heard a faint sigh.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Remember what I said about Levignier. He will do anything in the pursuit of duty. His man Delombre is a killer.’

  There was a click as the phone went down.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Delombre arrived at the Clos du Lac just after nine. It was a cloudy morning, muggy with a promise of rain. He strode through the front door, past the large figure of a security guard who nodded in recognition and stood back.

  ‘Where’s the nurse?’ he said, his voice bouncing around the marbled foyer. He made Dion’s title sound like an insult.

  ‘She’s here.’ Inès Dion appeared from the back of the building, heels clattering briskly on the tiles. She looked neat and in control, dressed in a smart two-piece suit. She nodded at the security guard. ‘Thank you, Jean-Pierre, I’ll deal with this.’ She met Delombre’s gaze without flinching. ‘This is unexpected.’

  ‘Get used to it. Where is she?’

  Dion flushed slightly at his tone, but said nothing, merely turning away to lead him upstairs. She walked confidently, arriving on the landing and turning right along a carpeted corridor lined with gloomy paintings. She stopped at a door in an alcove and took out a key.

  ‘Is she awake?’ Delombre asked, ‘or will I have to slap her to get her attention?’

  ‘She’s drifting in and out of consciousness,’ Dion replied. ‘Slapping won’t do her any good. Sorry.’

  Delombre looked her in the eye, trying to determine if she was being sarcastic. ‘Pity,’ he said, and waited for her to unlock the door, then pushed past her and into the room.

  It was simply furnished, with shafts of light coming through the shutters across the big double windows. In the centre of the room was a single bed and a small, wheeled table holding a plastic water jug and a plastic glass. A woman lay beneath a blanket and bedspread, breathing irregularly. Her hair was spread across the pillow and a few damp strands pasted against the skin of her forehead. The air smelt musty, with a faint tang of sweat.

  ‘Hasn’t she been washed?’

  ‘No. Why bother?’ Dion walked over to the bed and tapped the woman on the shoulder. There was no response.

  Delombre joined her. ‘Good point, I suppose. Can she understand us?’

  ‘She will when she comes round. What do you want her to do, exactly?’

  ‘The easiest thing in the world: speak to her husband.’

  Dion’s eyes widened. ‘You’re letting her go?’

  He chuckled. ‘Good God, no.’ He turned away and walked over to the window, peering through the louvres into the outside world. All he could see, though, were mature evergreens shutting off any view of the surrounding countryside. ‘It’s been decided to give her poor besotted spouse a hint of hope, so he sees the error of his ways and stops talking to certain parties. For that we need her alert and chatty, not drugged or insensible.’

  ‘I’ll need time. The sedatives she was given were quite strong.’

  He checked his watch and turned back to the bed. ‘You have thirty minutes. I’m going downstairs for coffee. In the meantime, this might help.’ He reached out and picked up the jug of water from the bedside table and emptied it over the sleeping woman’s face.

  Without waiting to see the reaction, he turned and walked out of the room.

  He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the crunch of car tyres on the gravel outside, and saw through the glass panel over the front door a black Citroën Traction cruise to a stop in the car park.

  ‘It’s the cop,’ called out Jean-Pierre, the security guard, from beside the entrance. ‘The one called Rocco.’

  The Clos du Lac looked quiet as Rocco got out of his car. There were just two vehicles in the car park: a small Renault he recognised as belonging to Miss Dion, and a light-blue Peugeot 404.

  Alix Poulon climbed out the other side and looked around. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Listen to what she says, mostly. And watch her face and body language. You’ll pick up on inflections that I’d miss. I want to know when she’s lying.’

  ‘When? Not if?’

  ‘Both. But she’s clever enough to use elements of the truth – how she sees it, anyway.’

  He walked over to the Peugeot and looked through the window. There was nothing inside on view to show who might own it, no papers or clothes or a glaring sign giving the owner’s details. It was too new to belong to a staff member, too impressive unless a visiting family member had been allowed access to a patient.

  He walked over to the front entrance and saw movement behind the glass.

  Jean-Pierre was standing on the other side, watching him.

  ‘Lucas.’ Alix said softly. ‘To your right.’

  He turned his head and saw a figure standing at the corner of the building. Another guard, as bulky as Jean-Pierre, but not as tall. The dogs were out in force.

  ‘There are no visits allowed today,’ said Jean-Pierre, swinging the door half open and filling the gap. ‘Come back next week.’ He began to close the door, a snide smile on his face.

  Rocco waved his police card in the air. ‘This is official business. You close that door and I’ll come right through it and stamp all over you.’ For emphasis, he flicked back his coat and showed his gun. ‘You choose.’

  Jean-Pierre hesitated a second, then stood aside, his face tight.

  ‘There’s a good boy. Now go get your boss – or would you like me to go looking for her?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Inspector.’ Inès Dion’s voice floated down the stairs ahead of her. She was walking down almost regally, head held high and composed, like a fashion model, Rocco thought.

  ‘What do you want? I’m afraid we’re very busy right now.’ She saw Alix behind him and smiled briefly.

  ‘This shouldn’t take long,’ he replied. ‘Just a couple of questions.’

  She considered it for a moment then gestured to a side room and led the way.

  As Rocco followed her, he caught a glimpse of movement at the top of the stairs. He felt a strong urge to call out, but resisted it. No doubt another one of Dion’s tame guards. The thought made the muscles in the middle of his back go tight.

  Above them Delombre stood and waited, holding his breath. He hadn’t counted on coming this close to Rocco. Thankfully the interfering investigator hadn’t seen him. But the longer he was here, the more likely it was that something would go wrong.

  He checked his watch. He would soon have to make the call to a prearranged number, so that Robert Bessine could hear his wife’s voice. It was vital that the aircraft manufacturer got the message that all was well, and set in motion the cancellation of his talks with Taiwan. Anything less would be a disaster. Delombre had few fears about any man, and knew he was skilled enough to take care of himself in most situations; but he was no fool. He k
new that if he failed at this late stage, so critical was it to success or failure, he wouldn’t want to be around for Levignier’s anger to show itself, or for one of Girovsky’s private army of thugs to come looking for retribution.

  He felt the back of his neck twitch at the recognition that he was not invulnerable, especially from those he served. It was a feeling he wasn’t accustomed to, but he had to acknowledge the fact. There wouldn’t be a frontal attack, he knew that, because that would be messy and cause waves. It would instead be a single man, perhaps two, as skilled as himself and probably younger, fitter, faster. He wouldn’t see them coming, but he might hear their final move.

  By then it would be too late.

  While he waited for Rocco to leave, he pondered on his next move, after all this was over.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  ‘You’ve never once asked after Mr Drucker,’ said Rocco, taking a seat across from Inès Dion. Alix was standing off to one side, seemingly not part of the conversation, and from where she could watch Dion’s face for reaction. They were in the library, surrounded by an expanse of bookshelves, the atmosphere sombre yet restful. Rocco could have spent some time in a room like this. He had never been an avid reader, but with all this room had to offer, he’d have been ready to give it a try.

  For a second Dion didn’t reply, a faint crease touching her forehead. Then she said, ‘I didn’t ask you, perhaps. Should I have done?’

  ‘Didn’t you wonder what had happened to him?’ His gaze was on the small pulse beating at the side of her throat.

  ‘Not really. I was too … upset with everything else that had happened.’ She brushed a hand across her lap, a vague gesture that to Rocco resembled dismissal. ‘He must have decided to move on. He could hardly have counted on this as having been his finest hour, could he?’