Past Imperfect

'Yes, of course.' Moment's silence. Crackling on the line between Panama and Geneva. 'But how long can we effectively ensure a safe haven for a prominent figure such as Duclos? It might be worth considering again the other option we discussed.'

Marchand went cold. The subject had come up at the same time they'd discussed offering Duclos help to get away. Marchand had voiced his protest strongly: Duclos suddenly killed in the midst of such a high profile investigation, however well disguised as an accident, could rebound badly. Too risky. He re-iterated the protest now.

'I know. But now look at others like Medecin,' Perello commented. 'Every so often he makes the threat of coming back to France and telling all, bringing everyone else down with him if his hand is forced. I'm not sure my people would be happy with that sort of threat hanging over them indefinitely.'

'I still don't like it.' But the protest now sounded lame.

Perello sensed Marchand's discomfort with the thought of Duclos being hit. Swiss lawyers: watches, chocolate and money. No blood. He shifted its portent to one side. 'It's certainly not a decision that would be taken lightly, or right at this moment. And whatever's finally decided, it should in any case appear that we wish to help Duclos escape. So let us keep our eye on that for now.'

Marchand was once again a willing participant. They discussed a few options before deciding: private aircraft to Portugal, scheduled airline under new identity from there. Perello confirmed fund lines and they divided duties for the final arrangements.

When Duclos phoned forty minutes later as arranged, from somewhere near Avignon, Marchand gave him an airfield name and time: Luc et du Cannet. 10 pm. 'The pick-up will be quick. Three minutes at most. You'll know it's him because he won't show lights the last few hundred metres of descent.'

Moudeux tried to shield his mobile from the echoing bustle of the airport and the intermittent tannoy. 'I see. Yeah. Yeah… So no show on Vacharet? Yeah. One moment.' He turned to Dominic, sensed his eagerness to be brought up to date. 'The local police called. Courchon met them at the door. Said he hadn't seen anything of Vacharet. They searched the villa anyway, asked a few questions such as was Courchon aware of any other friends Vacharet had on the island — but blanks at every turn. They left. Bennacer's asking what you want the local police to do next — if anything.'

Dominic nodded and held out his hand. Moudeux passed him the phone. 'Did the police believe him or do they think he was covering up?'

'They thought he acted a bit cagey — but nothing too suspicious.'

Dominic glanced up at the flicker board. Fourteen minutes left to boarding. No Duclos. No Vacharet. Deafening tannoy bombarding what few clear thoughts remained. Hustle, bustle. Everyone heading somewhere — except them. Yet another dead end. Dominic's eyes darted, searching for inspiration; but all that crashed in was people, noise, suitcases, cameras, flight bags. Finally: 'Get the local police to head back out to Courchon's and park fifty metres down the road. Sit there a couple of hours — then knock again on Courchon's door. Vacharet might yet show, or at least it might rattle Courchon into remembering something.' But it was mainly because it felt wrong just giving up on Vacharet, and Dominic couldn't think of a better plan.

'Okay. I'll phone them back. Are you catching the flight still?'

'I don't know yet. There's still a few minutes to decide.' Though Dominic knew the answer already. They'd headed to the airport because if positive news on Vacharet came through, no time was left to catch the next flight. But Corsica without Vacharet had little appeal. Too remote if…

Cameras! The thought suddenly spun back. Dominic's eyes fixed on another passing tourist with a Pentax slung over one shoulder. He was only half listening as Bennacer signed off. 'Yes, fine,' he mumbled. Thoughts clearing, focusing. His breath caught slightly in his throat as they finally gelled. Fresh adrenalin rush after the disappointment of Vacharet. Fresh hope. He tapped out straightaway to Lepoille's number.

Lepoille had phoned while he was en route between Aix and Marseille: company traced that Duclos had leased under two years ago, but nothing registered since. He would keep looking.

'Still nothing,' Lepoille confirmed. He sounded resigned, defeated. 'I just don't think it's been registered yet.'

'Don't worry. I think I might have hit on a solution. Cameras!' Silence from Lepoille. Dominic explained: 'Apparently Duclos' home has been dogged by the press the last few weeks. When he made his break, no doubt a few will have tried to get a clear shot of him. One of them might at the same time have caught his registration number. Quick enlargement, and we've got it!'

Lepoille agreed: chances were reasonable to good. 'I'll get on it straightaway.'

Five main national papers. It shouldn't take long to find out who was outside Duclos' gate that afternoon.

Milieu crime boss Andre Girouves listened carefully as his lieutenant related the message from Courchon in Corsica.

'And this other club owner, his friend Vacharet, is the one involved with Duclos and Brossard?' Girouves clarified.

'Yes. Vacharet apparently recommended Duclos to Brossard for something else years ago.'

Girouves pondered. Everything was clear so far: Duclos had involved Vacharet in a scheme which had backfired, and now Duclos was using Brossard to bury the traces. Standard practice. Even high flying politicians weren't too different to himself, he mused. He'd seen the Duclos items on the news. Politician fallen from grace. Loved it.

They were in one of Girouves' favourite cafes on Quai de la Tourette. To one side was his main business adviser, to the other a lumbering lieutenant serving as bodyguard. Business talks over late afternoon coffee and pastis.

'But it's the other hit planned which was the main reason for Courchon's call,' his lieutenant said. He shuffled nervously, looked down slightly as he told Girouves who it was.

Girouves' eyes closed for a moment. He rubbed his forehead with one hand. Courchon was right to have warned them. A Chief Inspector's wife! The repercussions could be enormous.

Part of the strength of the crime empire Girouves had built up along the coast the past two decades had been stability. A departure from the muddied dividing lines and power-vacuum struggles of the seventies. And part of that stability had been gained through not crossing certain lines with the police. No more Bar du Telephon massacres.

Even amongst their own was the strict rule of never involving family in hits. A Chief Inspector's wife hit by a regular milieu freelancer? Favours would be cancelled, clubs and bars raided, licences revoked, all suspected milieu businesses would come under brutal scrutiny. The clock could be set back years.

Brossard? If it had been practically anyone else, he could have just picked up the phone and said 'don't go ahead.' But Brossard prided himself on fierce independence, wouldn't swear allegiance to either side. No gang war hits, only internal enforcement or external contracts — Brossard worked all sides with equal ease. A true independent professional.

Girouves asked a few questions about the hit, but his lieutenant knew little beyond what he'd already passed on. 'Okay. Phone Courchon straight back. Try and pump him for more information.'

Girouves took a quick slug of pastis as his lieutenant dialled out on his mobile. If they didn't learn more from Courchon, he'd have to get a few men busy phoning around. Monique Fornier? Shouldn't be too hard to find out where she was. Then he would probably have to call Tomi. The only person he knew that would stand any chance against Brossard.

… In a world full of people, there's only some want to fly because they're not crazy… they're not crazy… crazy… Ohooho. Now we're never gonna survive, unlesss…

Brossard rapped his hands on the steering wheel to the pounding beat. He particularly liked the organ backbeat, the way it seemed to slip away… his finger tensing on the trigger, shadows of figures falling back as he fired… slipping away. But he could never picture any of their faces. Probably best. No