Past Imperfect

junction, and TLN 493 heading north from Puget-Valle. Lepoille had already confirmed the Le Luc car was in position, so Dominic asked TLN 493 its current location.

Hoarse voice through airwaves surf: 'We're just about running parallel with Pignan — we should make it to the junction in about seven minutes.'

Dominic glanced at the map he'd spread out on the passenger seat. He spoke into his mobile. 'When do you expect Duclos to reach the junction?'

'About four or five minutes.'

Then back to the radio: 'Expect him to pass you at about four or five kilometres your side of the junction — if he's heading your way. Keep your eyes sharp then.'

Dominic clicked off the radio but kept the mobile on to Lepoille. He checked his speed: 152-154kmph. Parts of the road were winding and it was difficult to go faster. 'I should reach the N7 in about five minutes.' And Duclos was eight or nine minutes away from that point, he estimated: eleven kilometres beyond the motorway junction. He should be able to head Duclos off in plenty of time. 'I'll phone you again when I reach there.'

Dominic glanced again at the map, picturing their triangular formation as dots closing in. They had him! There was no way out. Almost unreal that after all these years he was finally so close. And now there was nothing tentative, venturesome about the case — they had Betina Duclos' testimony! They would throw away the key with Duclos.

So close. He felt the earlier rush of anticipation grow stronger as the trees and hedgerows flashed by in the stark beam of his headlamps… shadows marking his progress. Tombstones for Duclos. He hit a flat stretch and edged his speed up to 160kmph.

The past weeks of activity had left him tired and jaded. But now the adrenalin rush made him alert again, he could feel it touching every nerve end as he sped on, the kilometres starting to zip by… seven… six…

Dominic flicked the radio back on. He raised the motorway car, aware that Duclos would probably reach them first. 'He should be passing you in no more than two or three minutes if he's heading straight on. If so, give immediate pursuit and we'll radio ahead. Keep the airwaves open throughout.' He left a similar message with the second car heading north, but with a four minute timing.

Less than a minute later, as the N7 junction loomed ahead, he called Lepoille and brought him up to date. '…About two minutes now on the motorway, three if he's heading south.' Dominic turned at the N7, heading toward the motorway. Closing the triangle tighter. 'And maybe four minutes for him to pass me if he comes this way.'

Dominic tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, anxious as it came up to the minute mark for Duclos to pass the motorway car, then looked towards the radio as he silently counted down… fifty seconds… forty… thirty. At ten seconds he prompted: 'Anything yet?'

'No.'

Beats of silence: Forty… fifty… a minute over! Duclos must have headed south or was coming north towards him! 'TLN-493 — he could be heading down towards you. If so, he should be passing any second.'

'Okay.'

But his radio stayed obstinately silent as the seconds passed: a minute over heading south, two heading north. The chances that Duclos was heading his way increased, and Dominic slowed — honing in closer on each passing car: type, colour and finally number among the glare of oncoming headlamps.

Still silence from the radio.

Duclos must be heading towards him, he'd have reached either of the other points by now. Dominic pulled over at the first farm turning on a flat stretch and backed in so that he was side-on to the traffic, ready to turn out quickly.

Dominic's nerves tensed. Any second now: scrutinizing each passing car, looking ahead two and three cars at the first hint of shape and form on the horizon, lights and shapes becoming a blur, headlamp star bursts as his eyes watered… Come on… come on!

He knew that if he saw Duclos now, there would be little subtlety left: he would just ram his car broadside and yank him out at gun point. But each car that at first looked hopeful, then finally when closer he saw wasn't Duclos, raised his panic another notch. And sunk him deeper into despondency; Duclos' smug face seeming to rise up increasingly out of each set of passing lights… fooled you… fooled you again!

Dominic made a final check with the other two cars: nothing. Then looked at his watch: 9.57 pm. Duclos wasn't going to show! Dominic became frantic. He banged his fist on the steering wheel. Where? For God's sake… where? He stared blankly at the map. They'd had Duclos cornered, and he'd disappeared into thin air!

There was hardly anything in the triangle left worth Duclos heading for: Le Luc and small nearby villages such as Le Cannet, a few small roads leading to farms. Unless Duclos had taken the N7 doubling back so that-

Dominic froze. Airfield! The small yellow square to the right of the triangle suddenly leapt out at him.

The TB20 Trinidad banked at 9,000 feet as it came over the last stretch of the Alpes Maritimes.

There was a thin cloud layer, ghostly mist racing towards them and clinging to the windscreen. Then after a minute they were through and the lights of the Cote D'Azur were ahead. The pilot started a descent to 6,000 feet as he prepared to bank again.

His passenger had hardly said a word throughout, and his presence had increasingly unnerved him. A stocky man in his late thirties named Hector whose Swiss French had an Italian or Spanish accent, wearing a padded leather jacket which made him look even bulkier. The only bit of good news was that Hector would be staying in Portugal with his pick-up. At least he would have the journey back without his company.

6,000 ft… 5,600… 5,200. He dropped in stages following the lights along the coast, then as he saw the lights of Toulon ahead, banked sharply for the final descent.

Darkness. All they could see was the shape of three grey hangars at the far end of the airfield and another two to their far right by a small office building. Nine aircraft in total: two to their right, four spread between the more distant hangars, and three on a flat tarmac area at the end of the main runway. But there were no lights, no movement or activity.

Dominic had arrived at the airfield at 10.02pm, a minute after the Le Luc car with two gendarmes. The driver, a sergeant named Pierre Giverny, informed him that it was much the same now as when he had arrived. 'Total darkness. No sign of activity.' What Giverny hadn't noticed as he'd pulled in was one of the three planes on the tarmac beyond the runway taxiing slowly, starting to move to position to take off. It braked and stood motionless as soon as his lights appeared. Duclos' car was out of sight, tucked behind the back of the furthest hangar.

Dominic was parked next to the gendarme's car: two sets of headlamps on full beam, probing expectantly into the darkness, though most of their effectiveness faded less than halfway along the main runway. Everything beyond was just vague, grey shadow.

'Perhaps I was wrong,' said Dominic. He looked thoughtfully towards the distant hangars and planes.

In the darkness of the plane's cockpit, Hector commented: 'Give them a moment more and they'll probably go.'

The pilot nodded with a pained smile. Hector had suddenly found his voice: police and night-time raids. Probably familiar ground.

Duclos consciously held his breath as he looked on at the figures in the distance, shadowy silhouettes alongside the headlamp beams. His nerves were racing out of control. One of the cars he was sure was Fornier's!

He saw the figures huddled together talking, looking towards them. A shiver ran up his spine, his whole body suddenly shuddering. Then after a second they turned, seemed to be making their way back towards their cars.

'See!' Whispered, almost breathless exclamation from Hector.

Duclos thought Hector might have been a navigator, until he'd slipped in the back when Duclos had first got