Past Imperfect

Duclos jumped in, started her up and swung around.

He was shaking heavily, raw adrenalin surging, a dull pounding in his head. After-rush of Betina and the gendarme. He felt it powering him on: foot hard on the accelerator, out the driveway — a last sharp turn through the gate.

Cameras clicked and flashed as he sped past the gate onto the road, catching his crooked and desperate smile. But Duclos was past caring. Freedom.

FORTY-THREE

Dominic spread out a map of France. Where? Where? Two of them now to find. Vacharet and Duclos.

No registration. Two gendarmes taking it in turns to guard Duclos the past weeks, and neither had taken Duclos’ car numbers: The garage door was always closed. Our Station Commander never asked us to. The only number we know is the car they used regularly when going out — the Renault.

Dominic shook his head. He'd put out a registration search through Lepoille and Interpol National over an hour ago. No answer yet.

Duclos could be halfway to Paris by now, or to the Swiss border, or heading due south. One of those sleepy Pyrenees border posts with Spain where guards just wave people through. Without a registration number, they couldn't conduct a national search or a border alert.

And Vacharet had been on the run almost two hours longer. No trace yet either on where he was headed.

Two hits planned, Betina Duclos said she'd overheard. Vacharet was mentioned as one — explaining his sudden flight — but the other hadn't been named.

They'd put additional pressure on the only other person in hand: Aurillet. Two hits. What did he know? Aurillet said that Vacharet had voiced concern following the Eynard hit and about another planned, but no name; it was more in the vein of at least some good coming out of their plan. 'Now at least that hit won't be made. One life saved.'

But Vacharet obviously knew. It could be another child pimp like Vacharet or Eynard, but what if Duclos had sent a hit man after Roudele to bury the coin evidence, or to England after Eyran Capel?

Dominic clenched a fist tight. Twenty minutes passed with no return calls, and his impatience grew. He could have phoned his Lyon station, but he had no wish to hear the day's panics and emergencies. Only one thing now that he wanted to know.

He called Monique to ease his tension. She was at Vidauban, spent more time there now in the summer months. She'd travelled down by train the night before, Gerome had picked her up at the station.

'I'll be quite late tonight,' he said. 'Could be a long one.'

'Will you go back to Lyon or come here?'

'Probably Vidauban.' He was better off staying in Aix or Marseille for news on Vacharet. Vidauban was closer. 'But don't expect me much before ten or eleven.'

She started some small talk about Gerome, but he was only half listening — and cut her off early. Anxious in case calls were trying to get through.

Unsettling silence again. The phone inert. Dominic's thoughts fighting to move, but in the end equally inert. The clock on the wall provided an ominous, pulsing reminder that things elsewhere were in motion while he sat there: Duclos racing across the country, a hit man heading for his targets. Ghosts skittering across a map with no discernible form or direction.

But how far could Duclos get? No passport, assets frozen, money perhaps just for food, petrol and a few nights pension.

Seven minutes before the phone rang again, though it seemed far longer. It was Lepoille.

'We've found something on Vacharet. Air France flight to Corsica.'

'Can we get the Ajaccio airport police to stop him?'

'Too late. He landed over twenty minutes ago. He's in a taxi and away. Could be anywhere on the island.'

Momentary hope fading. Perhaps Bennacer could dig something up from the lead. 'Anything yet on Duclos and car registration?'

'Nothing yet. Could be a long haul. There's nothing in his name, and apparently he got the car recently on leasing through a company. We've got to find the company and hope that the registrations already through. Otherwise we'll find nothing.'

A quick good luck and 'keep hunting', and Dominic phoned Bennacer. 'Vacharet's in Corsica. Anything spring to mind?'

'Not immediately. Let me see if anyone else here has any ideas…' Dominic could hear Bennacer calling out: Vacharet — any friends or contacts in Corsica? Mumble of background voices. After a moment: 'Doesn't seem so, I'm afraid.'

'Maybe Moudeux could go to Vacharet's. Say that we know he's in Corsica, explain that a hit man's chasing him. If we've got the information of where he is — then it's a good bet so has the hit man. Perhaps with a bit of pressure on his barman or manager, then-'

Bennacer cut in. 'Wait a minute, Dominic. One of my people working the Panier has remembered another club owner that Vacharet's friendly with…' Bennacer's voice faded: second conversation in the background before returning. 'Guy called Courchon. Owns a villa in Bussaglia on the North-West coast. Long shot, but it might be worth a try.'

Dominic thought things through quickly. He was in a temporary office in the Aix Palais de Justice that Corbeix had arranged for him — but flight connections were better from Marseille. 'I'm coming down to you. I should be with you in half an hour. Meanwhile get the Bussaglia police to head out to Courchon's villa, and check the next flight time to Ajaccio.' Dominic glanced at his watch: 6.52 pm. He gave Bennacer his mobile number for anything urgent coming up on Duclos en route, then left a similar message for Lepoille.

Nothing Dominic could do sitting where he was to aid the search for Duclos' registration. That was a game now being batted between the nation's network of computers.

Duclos headed east towards St Etienne and Givors. He was unsure at first where to go, in the end deciding to join the N7 near Givors. It was the busiest and most faceless of France's motorways, and from there he could head north to Paris, south for the Cote D'Azur and Spain, or east at Valence for Switzerland and Italy.

He'd been left one current account unfrozen for monthly expenses. He stopped at the first cash machine outside of Limoges and drew the day's maximum. Together with what he had in his wallet, 3,260 Francs. With food and petrol, enough to keep him going for five days or maybe a week if he stayed in cheap hotels. He knew he couldn't risk stopping again at a cash machine. Even if they hadn't by then frozen the account, his movements could be tracked.

His car was inconspicuous and didn't draw attention. Just one of countless thousands of blue Peugeot 505s nationwide, and the police probably hadn't been able to trace the registration. But he felt conspicuous, self- conscious himself, was desperately afraid people would recognize him. He'd stopped only once for petrol just after St Etienne and kept looking down as he went to pay at the counter. At the last moment he saw a baseball cap for sale to one side and grabbed it along with some sweets. The cap's peak would at least shield part of his face at future stops.

He hit the motorway again and at the Givors junction headed south. Speed steady between 120-130kmph. Not too fast to draw attention, but not too slow either. Still the occasional truck would push him over to the slow lane and rumble past.

Then it hit him: 6 pm! He glanced at his watch: 5.38 pm. At six, the main news bulletins would come on. The case had been in the press, but the only recent photo had been hazy and distorted through a car window. Few people would recognize him.

But for the main news that night, they'd probably have a full face portrait shot. From then on, he'd hardly be