John Matthews - Past Imperfect

'What is this — paedophile pimps solidarity week,' Duclos teased. Duclos went on to assure how he saw Vacharet in a totally different light: reliable and trusted, whereas Eyrnard had been a rat ready to tell all at the drop of the first wad of notes.

'Very comforting. But no more killings.'

Duclos had assured that there would have only been one more planned in any case, and only then as a last ditch fail-safe. 'Now with this little scheme in place, that won't be necessary.'

Vacharet cradled his head in his hands. He wished now he hadn't asked that one last question, asked out of morbid curiosity who that intended person had been. But Duclos almost seemed to relish telling him, remarked that in a way it was only fair he should know. 'After all, you recommended me to the hit man yourself all those years back. Eugene Brossard.'

Butterfly nerves danced in Vacharet's stomach. With the scheme fallen apart, that target would no doubt be back on Brossard's hit list. With his own name now probably alongside.

Vacharet jumped up and hurriedly packed a briefcase. He wasn't going to hang around to see who got there first: the police or Brossard!

He mumbled to his barman on the way out: 'Any calls, I've gone fishing. You don't know where I am. I'll phone you later.'

A quick stop off at home to pick up a suitcase, then he would head straight for the airport. As he came to the junction with Rue de la Republique, a police car with Moudeux and a sergeant passed, heading towards the Panier .

Brossard called back within forty minutes. As before, Duclos had left a message at a bar for Brossard. Duclos picked it up on the first ring.

'Those two names we discussed. I want you to move on them now,' Duclos said. 'There's no time to lose.'

'Which one should I aim for first?' asked Brossard.

'I'm not sure, let me think for a second.' Vacharet was probably more urgent, but he wondered if there was something he'd overlooked. Brossard had phoned him back the day after his first call; already he knew the movements of both targets the next few days. As ever, efficient.

Brossard chuckled at his hesitance. 'Decisions. Decisions. Not like shopping, is it? Deciding which shirt to choose. Not quite the same when you're deciding on someone's life.'

Memories of Chapeau and Jaumard. The many jibes through the years. Hit man's revenge: how often did they get the chance to rib establishment figures? Duclos ignored it. 'Vacharet's more urgent. But you should try and take out both within hours of each other, if possible. Because once one has been hit, the police will tighten everything on the other.'

'Fine. I'll aim to do both tonight.'

They made money transfer arrangements, and Brossard rang off. But Duclos thought he heard a faint echo on the line, and then a second click. As if someone else had been listening in. Duclos' heart froze. He thought that Thibault had assured the line wouldn't be tapped!

'…Vacharet's more urgent. But you should try and take out both within hours of each other, if possible. Because once one has been hit, the police will tighten everything up on the other.'

'Fine. I'll aim to do both tonight.'

Betina had picked up the phone not long after it rang. She thought that it was strange that it had only rung once, then stopped. Wondered if there might be a fault on the line. But picking it up, she heard Alain's voice. She was in the downstairs drawing room; he'd obviously answered it upstairs. She was about to put it straight back down, when part of the conversation grabbed her: not quite the same when you're deciding on someone's life…

An icy hand gripped her stomach as she listened to the rest of the conversation. At its end, she stood stock still, numbed, frozen. Too shocked to admit the reality of what she'd just heard, but the futility of grasping for other explanations also dawning: her mind trapped between the two. She shook her head. Too many years already spent fooling herself.

Telling herself that the trips away had just been business, nothing more. That his rarely touching her had been in respect of her past problem, her frigidity. But part of her had always suspected. The first thought had been that he was having an affair. He wouldn't be the first politician to keep a mistress. And perhaps given her past problem, she'd in part brought it on herself. Not acceptable, but at least understandable.

Betina walked towards the stairs, started her way up. But even that chink of realization she'd in the end pushed away. Hid behind her love, her absorption with Joel. The day that Alain told her that he was leaving her and wanted a divorce, she would worry about it.

Then with the first newspaper reports, she'd pushed it even stronger away. Young boys? Alain. Ridiculous!

Betina reached the top of the stairs. But now she knew: Alain had done it! He had killed the boy… and now he was sending a hit man to remove the key witnesses . All the past denial came suddenly crashing back in: the trips away, him cringing at her touch…

She shuddered at the thought of the monster she'd lived with for eighteen years — under the same roof with her and Joel! Joel . She'd read the papers. My God , that poor boy had hardly been older than Joel was now.

Her heart pounded as she reached for the bedroom door handle. Her mouth was dry. With a final swallow of resolve, she turned it and opened the door.

It took a second for Duclos to notice her standing there. He was still wondering about the click on the line.

He heard her say: 'It's true, isn't it? All true. You did kill that boy.'

She was ashen faced, and Duclos saw that she was trembling. It had been Betina on the line! She'd overheard his conversation with Brossard.

His mind spun. Judging from her expression, the stock lines of defence and denial that had tripped of his tongue since the first newspaper reports, just wouldn't wash this time. If she'd overheard him with Brossard, she knew . She knew everything.

He looked down at the floor, blinked slowly, in the end said nothing. His panic waned. He owed her no explanation.

'All a lie, wasn't it? The boy, our marriage. All the weekends away, the nights when you shrinked at my touch.' She moved closer, but stopped a metre away. As if bridging that last distance between them would somehow contaminate her. Her voice was raising. 'A pathetic sham, a lie! And I thought at one time that you loved me… if only for those first few years.' She shook her head, her face contorted.

Duclos looked up at her. Pitiable. Clinging to the hope that he might have once loved her. A few measly years among their lifetime together. As if reconciling that might make the rest not so bad. Acceptable. He didn't feel like giving her even that satisfaction. He sneered: 'Of course I never loved you. You just looked good at all the dinner parties and functions. And your ridiculous problem with frigidity from a date rape was ideal — the last thing I wanted was you touching me!'

She moved closer, then. Her eyes darted.

'You're pathetic,' he taunted, and felt the stinging slap strike his face a second later. If he'd said nothing, she'd have probably just stared a second longer, eyes searching for an explanation that wasn't there, then turned away. But perversely a part of him wanted the confrontation, a catharsis for his own anger and frustration. Take it all out on poor, pathetic Betina. She was such an easy target. 'My skin crawled at every single touch through the years. I'd rather have fucked Mitterrand!' But this time he caught her arm in mid-flight, wrenched it hard and levered himself up. He lashed at her face with the back of his free hand.

Betina flew back, crumpled quickly to the floor. She glared back, eyes wild. Raw hatred. A red welt and speck of blood showed high on her left cheekbone.