Death at the Clos du Lac (2013)

by Magson, Adrian

  He felt a pain in his chest, and slowed his mad dash; it wasn’t the agony of injury, however, that was hurting, but the more vicious bite of resentment and failure. Of knowing he had allowed himself to be sucked into a world he knew nothing about, where silky words and veiled promises counted for everything … and nothing.

  He had, quite simply, backed the wrong horse.

  He stopped for a moment to look back across the field to the house. Flickers of movement showed against the lights flaring from the building. It wasn’t much, but enough to tell him that going back wasn’t an option. The building was now lit up like a carnival, and more men would be arriving as they called up reinforcements. The chance of stealing a vehicle now was remote at best.

  He was now the object of a manhunt.

  He scanned the darkness, hoping to see a sign of the other guard, Jean-Pierre. The man had been the first to run, which had come as no surprise. Too full of himself to be truly experienced in close-quarter combat, the coward had buckled the moment real bullets had started to fly.

  Delombre moved deeper into the dark, and smelt water nearby, rank and tangy. He trod carefully, and realised he was by the canal he’d seen on the first night he’d come here. He conjured up a mental picture of the map he’d used while planning his entry to the area, and worked out the position of the lake on the other side of the canal, with the lane he’d followed on the moped somewhere off to his right. He debated going that way, but ruled it out; the cops would have it covered. Instead, he recalled the map showing details of two small farms, one near where he’d dumped the moped.

  Farms meant vehicles; it was his only way out of here.

  He veered to his right and saw the shadow of a bridge against the water. Once he was over this, he’d be away from the road with no way back. But his instincts pulled him towards open country, where he knew he could hide more effectively than any search party could uncover him. If Rocco or any of his men came too close, he’d make them regret it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The moment the sub-machine gun came to rest on the bottom step without spitting fire, Desmoulins jogged across the foyer and up the stairs, ready to shoot at anything that moved.

  ‘One man,’ he called back. ‘Dead.’

  Rocco grunted. One down, two plus Delombre to go. Fewer if the earlier shooting had been on the side of the angels.

  It had. Moments later a soft whistle came from the front entrance and one of Godard’s men covering the field came in. He slid a hand across his throat and held up a single finger.

  It left Delombre and one other.

  They covered the rest of the house with care, leapfrogging each other to check every room and cupboard. It took several minutes, the search sweaty and frenetic, the way all house clearances are, each man expecting at any moment for a door to swing back in a blaze of gunfire.

  But they found nothing, ending up back in the foyer, crunching through the fallen plaster and mouldings.

  ‘Weird that there are no other patients,’ said Desmoulins, checking his weapon.

  ‘Not really,’ Rocco replied. ‘This was strictly for the Bessine job. After what happened here before, they probably didn’t want to risk having anyone else around.’

  ‘So where are the bad guys?’

  ‘Out there somewhere.’ Rocco nodded towards the front entrance. It was bad news. A mix of open country, marshland, trees, the canal and the lake, it would take a small army to search the area effectively, and the darkness wasn’t in their favour. Too much chance of shooting at shadows … or each other.

  And Delombre would know that.

  He beckoned to Godard’s man and said, ‘Call an ambulance. The Bessine woman’s in the lobby at the back of the pool house where we came in. She needs urgent treatment. Ask Commissaire Massin to get word to her husband. The nurse is tied up in a hole in the pump room. Don’t untie her or she’ll ruin your sex life. She’s part of all this.’

  The man nodded and went in search of a telephone, while Rocco debated what to do next.

  ‘We could wait until morning,’ suggested Desmoulins. ‘Get more men in and flood the area.’

  Rocco nodded, but he didn’t like it. These men needed catching. Delombre, especially, with his experience and training, could cover a lot of ground in a few hours. His options were limited, in that he was in unfamiliar territory and needed transport to get away, but that meant heading for a farm or a village. And the nearest village was Poissons.

  ‘It’s risky either way,’ he said. ‘Claude?’ He was happy to defer to the one man who knew the area best.

  ‘I reckon they’ll go for the lake,’ said Claude calmly, checking his load and settling his jacket around him. ‘The road’s too open and the fields up behind here lead nowhere. Down by the lake and canal, it’s a small jungle. They’ll count on being able to hide until they find a way out of here.’

  Rocco nodded in agreement. It was a jungle all right, and one he’d seen at close hand. But two men in the dark were as dangerous as ten, and he wasn’t about to send anyone out there to find them who wasn’t used to the terrain.

  A clatter of footsteps heralded the arrival of several men, and Godard appeared through the door.

  Rocco said, ‘There are two men on the loose, both armed. We’ve searched the buildings, but they might have doubled back.’

  ‘No problem. We’ll run a sweep of the area.’ He looked around and saw his man using the telephone. ‘We heard a small war going off. Is anyone hurt?’

  ‘Only Desmoulins’ pride,’ Rocco said with a grim smile. ‘The three of us are going out to look for the two men down by the lake. Keep your men up here, will you? We don’t want to exchange fire with our own.’

  Godard looked as though he was about to argue, then nodded, seeing the sense in not having too many guns out there. ‘OK. But if you want more, we’re here.’

  ‘Got you.’ With that, he turned and led Desmoulins and Claude out into the night.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Once he was across the footbridge, Delombre found himself in the quiet and funereal atmosphere surrounding the lake. From the solid ground underfoot of the field leading down from the house, and the immediate area around the canal, he felt the springiness of a different kind of terrain, and the tug of vegetation against his legs, the night’s moisture soaking through to his skin. Urgent bursts of movement in the dark preceded him as waterfowl moved to avoid his approach, slapping at the surface of the lake, and the rustle of reeds and grass betrayed larger animals, perhaps fox and rabbit, slipping further into cover until he passed.

  He ignored them all and pressed on, knowing that each one was a potential signal of betrayal for anybody following.

  He spun round at a curse in the gloom, his gun swinging up.

  ‘Wait – it’s me!’ It was Jean-Pierre, clumsy and unsure, swinging a weapon above the tall reeds as he emerged from cover by the lake. He was breathing hard as if he’d run a marathon, and his movements were echoed by a sloshing sound from soaked boots and lower legs.

  Delombre considered pulling the trigger anyway; this idiot was going to get him killed if he couldn’t move more quietly than that. But he relaxed his finger. Maybe he could use him.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? I thought you’d gone.’

  ‘I tried, but I didn’t know what to do.’ He sounded like a petulant child who’d run out of games to play during the holidays.

  Delombre thought quickly. Letting this oaf stick close by meant certain capture, even death. The police would have flooded men into the area by first light, but he didn’t discount the idea of that bastard Rocco coming into the marais after him, eager to finish off what he’d started. Then he had an idea. ‘Are you any good with that thing or do you use it to frighten small girls?’

  ‘What, this?’ Jean-Pierre swung the weapon up and Delombre grabbed the barrel. He recognised it as a MAT -49 sub-machine gun with a long 32-round magazine. Out here, good for spraying holes in the air; but the fo
llowers wouldn’t know that.

  He pointed back at the footbridge. ‘You’ve got control of anyone coming over here if you hold the bridge. I’ll go round the other side of the lake and across the canal further down, then double back up the other side and shout when we’re clear to go. There are vehicles at the sanitarium – we can be in Paris before midnight. Can you do that?’

  Jean-Pierre nodded, and Delombre saw his teeth flash in the dark. ‘No problem. It’ll be a duck shoot. But don’t go without me, will you?’

  ‘Are you kidding? After this I might need a good right-hand man.’ Delombre clapped him on the shoulder, then slid away into the dark, shaking his head.

  Progress for the three officers in pursuit was slow, with Claude leading the way using dead ground and a hedgerow for cover, and listening for the movement of waterfowl in the night. Any sudden upsurge would mean a man was nearby. They crossed the field immediately below the Clos du Lac, then slowed as they approached the canal, Claude whispering caution.

  Rocco called a halt and said, ‘If there’s trouble, it will be at the footbridge. It’s the only way across and Delombre is ex-Legion; he’ll know all about ambushes and fighting in rough terrain. We need to flush him out first.’

  ‘I know a bit about fighting dirty, too,’ Claude said. ‘Let’s spread out along the bank, me in the centre with the Darne, you two twenty metres either side. When I make a signal, let’s see if we can get him to move.’

  ‘What sort of signal?’ asked Desmoulins. ‘You put one foot on that wooden bridge and he’ll hear you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t intend to do that. Wait and see – and be ready.’

  Rocco and Desmoulins moved away, while Claude edged closer to the canal and the footbridge. He was listening to the sound of water, which was slow moving here, sluggish and gentle, swirling occasionally as it encountered a fallen branch or a landfall in the bank. But he knew that if he was able to isolate that noise, any alien sound would stand out.

  He stopped a few short paces from the bridge, knowing he couldn’t be seen among the tall grass. This was his terrain, as familiar as his own garden, with every stretch of water and marshland embedded in his memory through many nights and days of patrolling; and he would defy any man to be able to use the cover here more effectively. He hunkered down and breathed easily, giving time for Desmoulins and Rocco to get into position. While he waited, he took a slim, half-litre bottle and a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his hunting jacket. He took out the cork and tore the handkerchief in half, then stuffed the material into the neck of the bottle, leaving a good length trailing down the outside.

  He was ready. He took out a lighter. Holding the bottle in his left hand, he snapped the lighter’s wheel and lit the trailing end of the handkerchief. It flared instantly, the material now soaked in spirit. Without hesitation, he pulled his arm back and hurled the petrol bomb high in the air, then rolled sideways, grabbing his shotgun.

  The flame arced over the canal and fell to earth on the other side of the footbridge. But Claude didn’t watch it fall. Instead he watched for movement nearby.

  When the bottle landed and burst, there was a cry of dismay and a figure stood up just a couple of metres from the spreading flame, caught in the flickering glare. It was Jean-Pierre. He was holding a sub-machine gun and yelling at a tongue of fire burning on one leg of his trousers, where some of the burning spirit had splashed him.

  Claude shouted, ‘Police! Drop the gun!’ He fired a round into the air, the shot echoing across the marais and sending up a frantic clatter of birds from the trees and reeds around them.

  But Jean-Pierre was beyond listening. Instead he looked about wildly, trying to locate the source of the voice. Then he swung the sub-machine gun and sent a burst of bullets spraying across the canal, spitting harmlessly into the night.

  Two shots sounded from either side of Claude, and he saw Jean-Pierre step sideways, like a dancer. He dropped the gun, then his legs refused to carry him further and he fell over without a sound, and lay still.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Delombre stopped and looked back as the blast of a shotgun shattered the night. A flash of flame with an orange tail curved gently through the air. It burned brightly for a few moments, then came more gunshots before the flame was swallowed by the dark.

  He swore quietly. They’d fooled the guard with a silly trick to get him to show himself. But it had worked. A kid could have done better.

  He turned and increased his pace as much as he dared, aware that they couldn’t be far behind. The ground softened beneath his feet, and a squelching noise sounded as he felt the sucking action on the soles of his shoes. He veered left, keeping the lake to his right. One foot sank deep, and a spray of water flew into his face, momentarily blinding him. He tasted iron on his tongue, brackish and foul, and spat it out, a layer of grit coating his lips. He veered right, trying hard to breathe more easily. This was taking too much out of him. Fitter than most men half his age, he could run almost any distance without stopping. But this terrain was killing him.

  He saw the gleam of water and moved left, then left again. He was going back towards the sanitarium, and realised that the lake here was jagged in its outline, and he’d somehow stumbled onto a small promontory, and was now in danger of being boxed in.

  He stretched himself and pushed harder, his lungs beginning to ache and his leg muscles screaming at him to stop, to rest. But he couldn’t. He powered on, and found the lay of the land beginning to pull him back to the right, away from his pursuers.

  He was going to make it!

  A shot sizzled through the air in front of him.

  ‘Give it up, Delombre. There’s no way out.’

  Rocco.

  Delombre stopped, floundering now, bewildered by this crazy terrain, the mud, the water and the dark … and the man who wouldn’t give up. Then he saw movement, a patch of paleness as a figure appeared in the corner of his eye.

  He turned and fired three times, back once more on the Legion’s commando training ground, shooting at targets, the hot sun on the Gulf of Tadjoura, in Djibouti, baking his shoulders through his shirt and the instructors screaming out their orders to both lead and confuse.

  But this was no training ground, and Delombre realised that there would be no end to the day and a shared truck ride back to camp for cold drinks.

  This was for real.

  He heard another shout, but didn’t recognise the voice. Rocco had outplayed him, bringing other men with him. Men who’d been prepared to come into the night after him.

  He moved backwards away from them. He could outrun them. They were only police, not former men of the Legion like him. Then one foot sank deep into soft mud and he lost his balance, pitching over on his back. He scrambled up immediately, feeling the softness beneath him and the wetness soaking into his clothing. He dragged his leg out of the ooze, and felt his shoe come loose. In panic, he dropped his gun. He scrabbled around and by a small miracle, found it again. Brushing it against his body to clean off the filth that caked it, he made his way further to his right, feeling the pull of reeds and long grass clutching at his legs. He sobbed in frustration, cursing softly, determined not to let it stop him.

  Then he realised the men were no longer following. He paused and looked back. He thought he could see them, indistinct shapes in the gloom, watching and waiting, and he wondered what they were planning. One of them shouted, but he couldn’t make it out above the sucking noise around him, and the sudden splashing of cold water that seemed to be up around his thighs. Just then the ground lurched beneath him and his waist felt cold and wet.

  He was sinking.

  ‘Can you see him?’ said Rocco.

  ‘No.’ Desmoulins cleared his throat and spat out a mouthful of dirty water where he’d fallen, gulping in whatever had risen to greet him. Rocco had reached down and hauled him upright, before pushing on towards the frantic splashing noise coming from near the lake.

  ‘Stop,’ war
ned Claude. ‘Don’t go any further.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Rocco thought he saw a movement, but it could have been his imagination or marsh mist or a swarm of mosquitoes. The quality of darkness here was confusing.

  ‘He’s in the mud swamp.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a soft bog – a mudflat covered in a few inches of black water. It’s fed by the lake and a couple of springs, but it never drains off. It’s pure mud, like soft chocolate.’ His voice sounded flat, dull, as if imparting something that had no good end. ‘Even cows have gone missing in there. Not a trace of them ever found.’

  ‘Bastards!’ Delombre’s voice floated out of the darkness, and more splashing echoed across the lake, less frantic now than before. Gunfire split the night as a volley of shots echoed across the water.

  The three men ducked, although none of the shots came near. They didn’t return fire.

  ‘Can’t we do something?’ said Desmoulins. ‘I know he’s a killer, but …’

  ‘No.’ Claude’s tone was final. ‘He’s too far out. Believe me, you go out there and we’ll lose you, too.’

  ‘What are his odds?’ said Rocco. He was breathing deeply, like the others, and stank of mud and rotted vegetation.

  The splashing stopped. Seconds later there was a renewed burst, but weaker now. Then silence.

  ‘Not good.’ Claude’s voice was pragmatic. ‘We won’t know until morning – maybe not even then. This place doesn’t often give back what it takes.’