Past Imperfect

ghosts.

Dented and rusty Citroen Dianne which had seen better days. Nobody would pay him any attention. He'd chosen a blue workman's overall which was worn and slightly stained from field work. He'd used it for a hit six years ago, though this time he chose a white cap instead of a beret, turning the peak so that it covered the back of his neck. Favoured uniform of so many fieldworkers. He planned to stay low in the fields, but if by chance somebody saw him, he would blend in.

Brossard pulled the Dianne into a track in the woodland that bordered the back of the field. To anyone passing, a farmer or someone having a woodland picnic. He turned off the cassette player, took a knapsack out of the car and headed deeper into the woods. Instead of sandwiches, inside the knapsack was a Llama.357 Magnum with silencer, binoculars and infra red night goggles. After eighty metres the woods cleared and the field lay ahead.

To one side were a few olive and carob trees, but most of the field was long grass, now starting to yellow with the summer heat. At the end of the field, two hundred metres away, was a short stone wall, and beyond that the farmhouse.

Brossard walked ten paces into the long grass and sat down with his knapsack. As soon as it was dark, he would move in. The sun was already low, threatening to fall behind the westerly ridge beyond the farmhouse. It would be dark soon.

Vacharet watched the gentle surf lapping against the beach. Half pebble, half sand, it was no more than fifteen metres wide, nestled under the sheer rock face above.

Vacharet sat inside the boat shelter at the back of the beach. Cut in under a heavy rock overhang, he was completely concealed from the road above.

Lap, swish. Lap, swish. Soothing at first, now after more than half an hour, the sound was driving him mad. What could have happened with Courchon? Fifteen minutes after Courchon had first come down to give him the all clear, the same police car was snaking its way back up the road again.

What was Courchon doing — letting them camp the night? Or perhaps they'd taken him down to the station for questioning. Vacharet sighed heavily. The first grey and red wisps of sunset were showing on the horizon. He could end up on the beach half the night without knowing what had happened.

He pictured the police pacing around, firing question after question at Courchon… at the villa or down at the station? It was immaterial. The police were obviously determined, and in the end would catch up with him. Courchon might have cleared the slate with the milieu, but with the police it would be a different matter. He would have to stay away for months, longer if…

The realization suddenly hit him like a hammer. At first, he'd clung to the hope that Brossard would head first for Monique Fornier. That might at least give him a bit more breathing space. But now it hit him that he could be implicated. He'd recommended Duclos to Brossard! Being involved with the ruse with Aurillet was one thing — but conspiring to murder a Chief Inspector's wife? They would throw away the key.

Perhaps if he helped them, warned them in some way. But what if Brossard had already made the hit, and his call merely confirmed his knowledge of it, his involvement?

Vacharet came out from his hideaway below the rocks and looked thoughtfully at the steps winding up to the road above.

'What time was he there?' Lepoille asked.

'Got there about ten in the morning. Normally the time they might show to do some shopping — if they're going to come out at all. Which has been rare.'

Third on Lepoille's list: Gaston Contarge, Pictures Editor at Le Figaro. He'd already crossed out Le Monde and Le Matin. 'So he was there when Duclos made his break?'

'Yep. Got the whole thing. It'll be front page of tomorrow's edition.'

A tingle of anticipation ran down Lepoille's spine. He told Contarge what he wanted, and why.

Contarge was quick to mirror Lepoille's excitement. Breathless, slightly hoarse: 'Amazing. Look, I'll check with the editor — but I'm sure we'll help. The only thing he might ask is an exclusive for our part in all this. Any objections?'

'No. Not as far as I can see. I've got three more newspapers on my list. Whoever comes up with the photo first, gets the story. Seems fair enough.'

Lepoille smiled as he hung up. He knew that Contarge would be sprinting for the darkroom.

He phoned Dominic straightaway with the news. 'Three more to phone, but at least we've got one hopeful already.'

Dominic was on the motorway just approaching Gardanne, fifteen minutes out from Marseille. He'd stayed at the airport bar with Moudeux for a coffee and brandy while waiting on news, then decided to head back to Vidauban. With Duclos and Vacharet by now anywhere in France, it was as good a command centre as any. 'That's great news. Let me know the minute anything comes up. I'm heading back to Vidauban, but you can ring at any time. I'll be up till late waiting on news.'

Eight minutes later when his mobile rang again, he thought it might be Lepoille with an update. But it was Bennacer. His voice was urgent, frantic.

'Dominic! We just had a call seconds ago from Corsica. We now know the hit man's second target. And brace yourself, Dominic. It's Monique. Your wife, Monique. She's the other target!'

Numbness. Then blind fear, rage. 'When?' Dominic asked tremulously.

'Vacharet didn't know. Any time — it could have even happened already. Look — I'll mobilize the nearest station straightaway, get someone out there…'

But Dominic was hardly listening. A quick mumbled, 'Fine,' a pounding in his head drowning out all else as he pushed his foot flat to the floor… 150… 160… 170… 180kmph.

As he flashed past cars and trucks at breackneck speed, he dialled out his home number at Vidauban. But it was engaged.

Bennacer looked briefly at a wall map, and phoned the station house at Draguignan. It was on an answerphone. He slammed the phone down and dialled Toulon.

Girls voice: 'Un moment. Ne quittez pas.' Then a radio operator checking positions as Bennacer explained what he needed and stressed the urgency.

'The nearest car we have is just outside Cuers. They're engaged now, but should be free in five or ten minutes. Otherwise we'll have to pull someone up from the motorway section this side of Sollies Pont.'

'How many men in the Sollies Pont car?'

'Two.'

Two rookies up against an expert hit man? 'Send both cars. Dispatch them now! And warn them: they could be up against some heavy firepower.' Bennacer glanced back at the map. In fifteen, twenty minutes they should be there.

Dominic's speed held steady at just under 190kmph. With any luck, he should be there in just under fifteen minutes. His lights had been on for the last ten minutes, and now he flashed wildly at anyone in his way.

The last grey-red remnants of twilight faded over the hills in his rear view mirror. Beyond the beam of his headlights was pitch darkness.

FORTY-FOUR

As the grey skyline turned to black, Brossard moved in closer. Fifty metres from the short stone wall, he could see the farmhouse clearly.

One light on downstairs. He trained the binoculars, and after a moment saw a woman come into their frame, brief profile: late-forties, first wisps of salt in black hair, attractive. She moved out of sight again for a second, going deeper into the drawing room.

Brossard's anticipation surged, but only a trace of what he felt when going up against experienced guns. A