Death at the Clos du Lac (26 page)

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 followers 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.

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,’ warned 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.’

Out on the mudflat, Delombre had given way to utter exhaustion. He tossed away his gun. It was no use to him now; all his shells were gone and his enemies were out of sight and beyond reach. He hoped he’d managed to take at least one of them with him with that last volley, and that it was Rocco. Bloody man.

The watery ooze was now up to his chest, its relentless sucking power drawing him deeper and deeper, the more he struggled. Something moved against his leg, wriggling frantically, then was gone. He began to shiver, goosebumps rising on his upper chest and shoulders, but it wasn’t the cold. A gentle pressure was gripping him, and he could feel the wetness moving inexorably upwards towards his neck and face, claiming him centimetre by centimetre.

He coughed as the foul stench of mud filled his nostrils, and tried one last time to lift his legs, to push himself up from whatever certain horror lay beneath.

But it was no good. He was too tired.

He sighed. It shouldn’t end like this. Not for him. But there were some things you couldn’t control.

With a final defiant curse at the fates, he emptied his lungs of air, then lifted his arms and made his body go rigid, and allowed himself to sink smoothly beneath the surface.

Rocco arrived home and left the car out in the road. He felt too tired to open the iron gates and drive inside, and with a long day of paperwork and briefings ahead of him, there were better things to worry about. Like catching a couple of hours sleep. He checked his watch. Already nine o’clock. He’d promised Massin a full report at midday.

He’d sent Claude and Desmoulins home, and left Captain Canet and a fresh team of officers to finish off at the Clos du Lac. Medics had taken away a bruised and bewildered, but otherwise increasingly lively Véronique Bessine, swapping his coat for a blanket, and her husband, no doubt accompanied by half the cabinet and the media, was on his way to Amiens hospital to meet her. Dion was on her way to a high-security cell and a lot of questioning.

He went over to the pump and kicked off his muddy shoes and trousers, dropping his jacket to the ground. He got the pump flowing with a few deft strokes, and washed
off the mud and filth that had soaked through his trousers onto his legs and feet. The ooze was black, like coal dust, and the rank smell took him right back to the last few moments of the chase as Delombre vanished in the dark. He left his soiled things outside, ready to take to Madame Drolet at the co-op for cleaning, and went indoors and changed into fresh clothes and shoes.

The phone rang.

‘Inspector?’ It was Georges Maillard. ‘Sorry to trouble you, but I heard you go by. There’s somebody down here you should see.’

Rocco walked down the road to the café, the smell of stale water replaced by the tangy aroma of cow droppings from the farms along the way. Cows, he decided, were better than swamps.

Maillard was waiting for him at the café door, scratching his belly and yawning. He waved a thumb towards the side of the building, which edged on to a stretch of green space beneath a line of chestnut trees.

‘There’s someone here arrived more than an hour ago and woke me up asking directions to your place. I knew you weren’t in, so I told her she should wait here. I gave her coffee and kept an eye on her, and last I saw she was asleep in her car. Nice model. She’s not bad, either.’ He smiled knowingly, then added more seriously, ‘Sounded bad, during the night. Anyone hurt?’

‘Nobody who didn’t expect it. Does this woman have a name?’

‘I asked, but she said she wanted to surprise you.’ He fluttered his eyebrows, then turned and went inside, humming tunelessly.

Rocco walked round to the side of the café, and saw a sporty-looking cream Renault Floride parked beneath a tree. Jacqueline Roget was curled up behind the wheel, asleep.

He tapped gently on the window. She came awake instantly, looking up and smiling when she saw who it was, and wound down the window.

‘You realise I could arrest you for violating local parking laws,’ he told her sternly.

She grinned and yawned, then opened the door and climbed out. She was dressed in a jumper and slacks and looked surprisingly fresh, considering where she’d been sleeping and the time of day.

‘Sorry, Officer,’ she said meekly, then added, ‘I remembered what you said about your house being at the end of a road, but I wasn’t sure which one, so I stopped here to ask directions, just in case.’ She fluffed her hair into place and straightened her jumper. ‘The owner, Georges, was very sweet. He said there had been shooting just outside the village during the night, so it might be best if I stayed here until you got home. There were a bunch of other men here, talking about it. He told them to watch their language and they asked if I was any good at
Babyfoot
.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘I thrashed them. I used to beat everyone when I was at college but I didn’t tell them that. Georges is a big fan of yours, by the way. He thinks you’re tough.’ She frowned and looked him over. ‘The shooting. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. You want to drive me to my place? Only our every move is now being closely monitored.’ He was referring to the curtain twitching in the café’s end window.
Give it a couple of minutes and the entire village would know he’d got a lady visitor who beat everyone at
Babyfoot
.

He directed her down the lane and led her inside, where he put the kettle on and excused himself while he bagged up his dirty clothes. Jacqueline watched for a moment, then picked up his shoes and began to clean off the mud.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ he protested, but she shooed him away.

‘I used to clean my father’s boots when he came in from fishing. I became quite expert. Besides, if you leave these too long, you’ll ruin them.’ She studied the inside label. ‘They’re English. Expensive.’

‘It’s a weakness I have.’

‘Well, I’m pleased you have at least one.’ Then her eyes became serious. ‘Was the shooting to do with Delombre?’

‘Yes. He got away.’ He guessed that might not be accurate, but they wouldn’t know for sure until later this morning when they dragged the lake.

‘You weren’t hurt, though.’ It was a statement, a reassurance, and said with relief.

‘No. I ducked.’

She frowned slightly. ‘Please don’t joke.’ She put his shoes down and began to stuff them with newspaper.

‘Sorry. It’s a coping mechanism.’

‘Yes, I know.’ She brushed her hands, then looked up as a skittering noise sounded across the ceiling. ‘You’ve got fruit rats! I love them – they’re so cute, with their little Zorro masks.’

‘I didn’t know they wore masks.’ He tried to recall the things Claude had said about them. Razor-sharp teeth was one. Not masks, though. Another species, maybe.

‘The little ones do. Aunt Celestine has them, too. You won’t try to get rid of them, will you?’

‘I’m not sure I could, now,’ he replied. ‘In fact I’m thinking of adding them to the rent book. Would you like some cake?’

‘I’d love some.’

He cut two slices and put them on plates. They sat and ate in silence, and Jacqueline expressed her approval by having a second slice.

‘My neighbour,’ he explained. ‘She doesn’t think I eat enough.’

‘Lucky you. It must be nice being surrounded by people who think so highly of you.’ She dusted crumbs off her fingers. ‘Would it be dreadfully bad for your reputation,’ she added carefully, ‘if I stayed here today? Only I have a lot of thinking to do. This place feels so peaceful.’

Rocco felt the last of the cake go dry in his mouth, and his heart began pounding faster again. Actually, he decided, it hadn’t slowed much in the first place. ‘We’d have to keep one foot on the floor and drink lots of tea.’

She smiled and blushed. ‘Of course.’

He explained about having to report to Massin, and the likelihood that Interior Ministry people would descend on Amiens in droves, in the wake of the kidnapping and shooting. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back.’

‘That’s all right. I’ll only stay a few hours. Then I have to go back to the city.’

He asked, ‘Does your aunt know you came?’

‘Of course. I told you, she’s the family black sheep. She approves.’

‘And you’re taking after her?’

She looked down. ‘No. Not really. My father thinks I’m a lot like her, especially doing the job I’m doing. Was doing.’

‘“Was”? Is that what the thinking is about?’

‘Yes. I resigned. I decided that all the skulking around and being secretive wasn’t really me, nor was being expected to make late-night visits to a senior officer’s apartment. So I rang my supervisor yesterday evening. He told me there’s a big reorganisation going on, so I shouldn’t make any rash decisions, but I said it wouldn’t make any difference.’ She bit her lip. ‘Levignier has disappeared. Did you know that?’

‘No. I didn’t. When?’

‘Sometime yesterday. My supervisor told me that a security guard saw him being picked up outside the office by two men in a car. He didn’t come back. What do you think that could be about?’

Justice, Rocco thought instinctively. A clear-up operation to make sure none of what had happened over the past few days ever got out. Levignier was probably discovering the hard way that even being near the top of ISD was no guarantee of protection against failure. It had so many ramifications, failure, especially allied to official circles; one of them being its cast-offs getting scooped up like rubbish in a dustpan.

‘I’m sorry I was so touchy at my aunt’s,’ she said after a while, and another cup of tea. ‘About the questions, I mean. I don’t know what came over me.’

‘It’s what I do,’ he explained. ‘Ask questions. But I’ll try to keep them appropriate to the occasion in future.’ He realised immediately how that sounded, but suddenly didn’t mind. It was an unusual concept, the future.

She was smiling, a delicate crease forming in the middle of each cheek. She said, ‘I might keep you to that.’