Duclos went pale. Even at what Vacheret had estimated, 5,000 - 6,000 francs, it had been a fortune: over half a year's salary and a third of his savings. Now it was going to cost more. 'I'm not sure if my friend can afford that. He was expecting it to be less.'
'There's people around in a hospital, more risk of being seen, some sort of diversion will probably have to be created. I'll have to visit at least once beforehand to work out what that diversion might be. It's not worth doing under seven thousand.'
'But the boy's half dead already. All you have to do is sneak in and cut off his life support, or put a hand over his mouth. My friend even knows the room he's in and the layout.'
Chapeau's brow furrowed. 'So your friend has actually been there?'
Duclos faltered, looking away for a second as a young couple passed. The memories of the day before came flooding back. He'd known from the outset that it would be hard to skirt around the issue; it was vital to pass on detailed information so that Chapeau didn't start phoning the hospital. The only way his imaginary friend would know that information was if he'd actually been in the room. 'Yes - at first he thought be might be able to deal with the problem himself.'
'How close did he get?'
Heartbeats. The nightmare was still vivid. The sound of his own heartbeat and pulse almost in time with the bleep from the life support machine. Stepping closer... reaching out. Sounds in the corridor. A moment's pause as he went to put his hand over the boy's mouth. Voices outside getting closer, more prominent. '...He was actually inside the room when he got disturbed.'
Chapeau's tone was slightly incredulous. 'What? Your friend gets a second chance at it - and still he can't manage to finish the boy off?'
Fighting to control the trembling as his hand closed in, feeling for a second the boy's shallow breath on his palm. Warm vapour, cool against his sweat. Indecision. Then quickly retracted... sudden panic as he heard voices almost upon him... 'I told you, he was disturbed. What else could he do?' Duclos stammered.
'I don't know. You tell me.' Chapeau half smiled. 'Sounds to me as if your friend's a bit of a gutless shit.'
Duclos didn't answer, turned away, biting at his lip. Coming out of the room, the worst part had been realizing that the people outside had already passed; he could have stayed a moment longer. He even thought for a moment of going back inside - but his nerve had gone. He had been close, so close.
Chapeau savoured his discomfort for a moment before commenting more philosophically, 'Still, I suppose if it wasn't for friends like that, there'd be no need for people like me. Shall we conclude matters?'
It took another ten minutes for them to run through the other details: room number, position and floor, best timing, payment arrangements. Chapeau took the point of the urgency of the situation; at any moment the boy could wake up. He would try and make a reconnaissance of the hospital, work out a diversion and hopefully execute the plan all in the same day: tomorrow.
They were coming to a point in the park where both the marina and the old harbour could be viewed: a succession of white masts speared the skyline, stretching back towards the town. Again it reminded Duclos that this was his holiday; he should have been out sailing on the Vallon's Jonquet '42, the wind in his hair, then afterwards grilled sea bream or swordfish washed down with a glass of chilled white wine in a cafe overlooking the old harbour. Instead he was negotiating murder and being taunted by this Neanderthal prick, who was also going to take almost half his savings for the privilege. But hopefully the whole sad saga would soon be over. That was what he was paying for. The thought of the freedom ahead, of not having to go through this nightmare again, made it all worthwhile. Means to an end. He took a deep, refreshing breath of the salty air of the harbour.
As they concluded, Duclos asked how the boy was going to be killed, but Chapeau said that he wouldn't know till after the first visit. Chapeau had given nothing away. Twenty minutes of conversation and Duclos knew nothing about the man; he was still the same shadowy figure as when they'd entered the park.
Chapeau asked if he was heading back towards the fort, but Duclos said he wanted to enjoy the last rays of sunset over the harbour. Truth was, he couldn't bear to stay in Chapeau's company a moment longer. The man made his skin crawl. Duclos found a bench near the apex of the harbour walk as Chapeau headed back. A part of him felt relieved at the action he'd taken, but yet another felt strangely uneasy.
Had Chapeau suspected him of lying? He'd kept everything as remote as possible: the friend, a disagreement with a rent boy, the nickname. It was unlikely Chapeau would tie anything in with the recent newspaper article, even if he had seen it. And with the depth of detail provided about the room's position and best timing, he doubted Chapeau would call the hospital. Surely it was unlikely that all his precautions would collapse? The thought of what Chapeau might do in response sent a shiver through his body.
Duclos looked away from the harbour view for a moment, watching Chapeau's figure as it receded into the distance, faintly silhouetted against the dying light. And for a while his strong will to believe he'd taken the right action fought hard against the fear of what new horrors he might have introduced.
Dominic was called to the teleprinter as soon as the message came through. It was from the gendarmerie in South Limoges, and read:
Your enquiry regarding Alain Lucien Duclos. Not at the Limoges address you supplied from vehicle registration. However, Monsieur Duclos is known to us. He is an Assistant Prosecutor attached to the main Cour d'Assises in Limoges. According to work colleagues, he is currently holidaying with friends at the Vallon estate near Cotignac, Provence. Trust this is helpful.
- Head of Station, Captain Rabellienne
Dominic ripped the message from the printer. The corridor and reception was busy, and he found Poullain in the back mess room having coffee with Harrault. He handed the message across and waited a moment as Poullain read it.
'Do you want me to make initial enquiries?' Dominic asked.
Poullain was hesitant as he lifted his attention from the message. 'No, no - it's okay. I think I'd better phone first - then we'll probably go out there together.' It looked like a waste of time, a complete mis-match, thought Poullain. An Assistant Prosecutor staying with one of the area's largest landowners and more highly regarded citizens: Marcel Vallon. It would need personal kid glove treatment; Vallon was good friends with the Mayor, they played golf together and belonged to the same Masonic lodge. Poullain looked at his watch. They had a meeting about the Rosselot case scheduled for late afternoon with Bouteille, the Prosecutor in Aix en Provence. 'If we can see this Duclos late morning or lunch time, since we have to pass through here again on our way to Aix, do you think you could have the notes typed up and put in some semblance of order before tomorrow's meeting?'
'Yes, I think so.' Dominic faltered only for a second; another lunch time with a rushed sandwich.
'Good. Let's plan for then. I'll phone within half an hour. Anything new from Machanaud?'
'No, not really. Apart from the car sighting he mentioned. As you requested, we got him to sign the forms and hand over his identity card, then let him go just before eleven last night.'
Without sufficient evidence to hold Machanaud, it was all they'd been able to do: a standard 'local police to be notified if moving' form, and holding his identity card. Without it, new housing, jobs or any form of social registration for Machanaud would be practically impossible.
Poullain had already half discounted the car sighting. It had been so vague: a dark car, perhaps blue or dark grey, sloping at the back, possibly a Citrëon DS. When pressed, Machanaud admitted he'd only caught a quick flash of it between the bushes - but what he was sure of was that it had left only minutes before him. How convenient? Machanaud knew that if he didn't come up with another possible scapegoat things were looking grim for him, and after a couple of hours alone in the jail cell, he came up with one. Quelle surprise.
Poullain glanced again at the brief message. I
t looked like it would come to nothing, but you never knew. If nothing else, it would at least demonstrate they were being thorough and exploring all options. A bit of dressing for when they laid Machanaud's head on a plate for Bouteille and Naugier.
TEN
The car tyres of the Citreön DS19 crunched on the gravel driveway. The front of the building was an imposing but flat three story Provençal masse, its line broken only by frequent window boxes and a long terrace at one end running above the garage. A row of neatly manicured cypress firs framed the semi-circular sweep of the driveway, with two smaller trees in large pots each side of the entrance.
Vallon's servant came out to greet them and showed them through the house, along a wide main hallway then into a narrower corridor towards the door at its end: the library. Marcel Vallon was nowhere to be seen. He'd ascertained on the phone with Poullain that his presence wouldn't be required. While Poullain had assured him that it was nothing too serious, something just to help with their other enquiries, Vallon had made it patently clear their visit was an intrusion, a favour granted only by his good nature. Don't take advantage, was the silent undertone. Poullain was therefore already nervous about the visit, complaining on the drive over that it would be a waste of time, would serve no purpose other than to upset Vallon. He'd probably get a call from the Mayor in a day or so.
While they waited in the library, Dominic could sense Poullain's unease returning. Poullain had taken one of three seats by a low round coffee table, while Dominic sat at a small drop leaf desk by the window. A room four metres long and three wide, two walls were lined with books, the atmosphere austere, stuffy. This was old Provence, old money and power. A gentle reminder. They waited almost five minutes before Duclos walked into the room.
A taut smile upon introduction to Poullain, a brief nod towards Dominic. He was only slightly taller than Poullain, and slim, Dominic noted: short dark black hair swept neatly across, a rounded, almost baby face, eyes so dark green they were almost black. Some women liked that sort of soft, innocent look, thought Dominic; someone to mother. But he couldn't help thinking that some men liked it too.
Poullain started with the niceties of thanking Duclos for seeing them at such short notice and apologizing for the intrusion; it was just a general enquiry regarding visitors to Taragnon five days ago, on the eighteenth. A young boy had been attacked then. No attempt at subterfuge, Dominic noted; no trap for Duclos by drawing him out before mentioning the main purpose of their visit.
'We are as a result talking to anyone in the area at the time for information. Your car was seen at the Café Font-du-Roux during lunch time that day. I wondered, Monsieur Duclos, do you remember your movements then, last Thursday, particularly before and after your visit to the Font-du-Roux?'
A moment's thought from Duclos, a slow blink. 'Well, I remember stopping at the café. I'd been to Aix-en-Provence for the morning and was on my way back. What exactly did you want to know?'
'Let's start with the time you arrived at the café, if you remember.'
Duclos looked down, feigning deep thought. A hundred times over he'd worked out his timing and what he'd say if questioned; but coming straight out with it would seem unnatural, pre-prepared. How much hesitance was normal to recall something that happened five days ago? 'It would have been quite late in the lunch period, one thirty, maybe quarter to two. I remember stopping because I knew I wouldn't make it back for normal lunch time here at the estate, and the chef Maurice can be quite strict. He doesn't like preparing separately for late-comers.' Duclos forced a smile. 'Yes, it would have been about then.'
'And did you stay long?'
'Maybe an hour or so. Service was a bit slow when I arrived, they were quite busy. And I had coffee and brandy to finish.'
'So, you left at what - half past two or so?'
'No, it was closer to three when I asked for the bill. I remember looking at my watch then, because I'd planned to head to Juan les Pins for the afternoon and started to get a bit anxious about being too late. Perhaps five minutes to settle the bill, so about three when I left.'
'Had you arranged to meet someone in Juan les Pins?'
'Nothing particular planned. But I'd seen someone on the beach the day before that I hoped to bump into again. A girl. So I wanted to be there more or less at the same time.'
Poullain looked towards Dominic. 'For our notes, then: you arrived at Café Font-du-Roux at a quarter to two and left at three. More or less.'
'Yes, I suppose it must have been closer to a quarter-to when I arrived. I don't think I stayed as long as an hour and a half.'
A moment's silence. The sound of Dominic's pen scratching on paper. Some distant splashing from the swimming pool in the rear garden and courtyard, which Dominic could just see at an angle if he looked through the window at his side.
Duclos' heart pounded. The timing was etched on his mind: arrived at 1.38, left at 2.51, three minutes drive to the farm lane, eight minutes off the road with the boy, heading off again at 3.02. Hopefully he'd buried the eleven minutes without them noticing. Surely the barman wouldn't remember the exact time he left? He fought to control his nerves; it was vital he appeared calm.
'And after the café, did you head straight for Juan les Pins?' Poullain asked.
'Yes.'
'Did you stop anywhere or see anyone on the way?'
'No.' A moment's afterthought: 'Oh, except I stopped off at a garage near Le Muy, filled up with petrol, had an oil check.' Speeds of 110-140 kmph nearly all the way to hopefully bury the eight minutes he'd been off the road with the boy.
'Do you remember the name of the garage?'
'No. It was a few kilometres before Le Muy, on the right.' It was the only garage for fifteen kilometres, thought Duclos; they were bound to find it if they bothered to check.
'And what time did you get to Juan les Pins?'
'About a quarter to five, maybe five. I don't remember exactly.' Duclos felt small beads of sweat pop on his forehead, but then it was quite hot in the room. Pulse racing, palms clammy as he'd stopped by a bin in a deserted alley at the back of town, pushing deep inside the rock and the boy's shirt wrapped in a large rag from the car.
'In Juan les Pins, did you go anywhere in particular, perhaps meet the girl you'd hoped to?'
'No, she didn't show. But the café I went to on the beach is one I've been to a few times before. Claude Vallon and I had lunch there just a week ago. The owner knows us.' If the garage didn't remember him stopping, he was sure at least the café owner would. Inside his nerves were racing, but it was hopefully going well: pauses at the right juncture, the afterthought of the garage, remembering the timing of leaving the Taragnon café but guessing at the arrival time: accurate details, but not too glib too quickly. Though now he sensed, as the questions became more direct and personal, that perhaps he was being too compliant. 'But what has my visit to Juan les Pins got to do with this? I thought you were interested in events around Taragnon and the Font-du-Roux?'
Quick retreat and apology from Poullain. 'Yes, yes - I'm sorry. We just need to ascertain people's general movements. We're quite happy to accept that you were not in Taragnon later on. So, earlier, on the way into Taragnon, did you see or meet anyone?'
A barely perceptible flinch from Duclos. Poullain didn't notice it, only Dominic; though it could have been the sudden jump in timing and mood, from hours after the event to before, defensive to offensive. 'Such as this young boy? No, I'm afraid not,' said Duclos. The final masterstroke to throw forensics: inserting a finger in the boy's rectum and working it brusquely around. Hopefully interpreted as a second attack. 'There were people walking about in the main street of Taragnon, but I don't remember anyone in particular.'
'You stopped nowhere in or near Taragnon except the café?'
'No.' The bottle taken from the café. Stripping down to his underpants before striking the boy with the rock. Then washing down with the bottled water and dressing again. No bloodstains.
Poullain wait
ed for Dominic's note taking to catch up with them, using the gap to collect his thoughts. Then he re-capped on a few points, mainly clarifying times. At one point, he asked Dominic, 'What time do you have noted for the time that Monsieur Duclos arrived at Juan les Pins?'
'Five or a quarter to.' Dominic was sure Poullain remembered the time; normally statement re-caps were purely to see if the suspect said something different second time around.
'And the time you stopped at the garage, Monsieur Duclos?' asked Poullain. 'I don't believe we covered that before.'
Duclos shrugged slightly. 'I don't know, what is it? Just over halfway there. About four o'clock, I suppose.'
Poullain nodded slowly, as if still pre-occupied with all the prior information. Then he suddenly went off at a tangent. 'Do you visit your friends here, the Vallons very often?'
'At least once a year. Nearly always in the summer months. Claude Vallon and I went to the same university, Bordeaux.' A slight frown from Duclos. 'Why do you ask?'
Poullain shook his head hastily. 'No particular reason. It's just that your car was reported in response to our request for any strangers to the area - when in fact it appears you're almost an honorary local.' Poullain grimaced weakly. He could hardly admit that he wanted to know the strength of association between Duclos and the Vallons in case of later problems with his own Mayor. He sighed faintly, bracing his hands on his thighs with an audible slap. 'Well, I think that's just about it, Monsieur Duclos. Thank you for your time.' Poullain stood up, nodded curtly, and shook hands with Duclos. Heading for the door, he turned. 'Oh, I forgot. One thing I meant to ask. You mentioned that when you went through Taragnon, you were on your way from Aix-en-Provence. What time did you leave there?'
Duclos' hammering nerves had settled slightly with the questioning trailing off, but his keen prosecutor's nose made him suddenly alert again. The throw away question; he'd seen them so often catch defendant's out. The boy's stark green eyes struggling to look back at him as he pushed his face flat down to the earth, raising one arm with the rock... 'Twelve-fifteenish, I suppose. It was just a quick shopping trip. I was there probably no more than an hour and a half.'
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