John Matthews - Past Imperfect

'What about Joel?' Her voice trembled. 'It took a woman to give you him. Not out buggering young boys!'

'Exactly.' Duclos smiled crookedly. A decade too late she'd finally got the message. 'He was the last thing I wanted!'

The images crashed in on him unwarranted: her scream as the car crashed, Joel in an incubator… The intensity of her stare unnerved him. He looked away.

He felt suddenly claustrophobic, stifled. He had to get away from her, away from her clinging eyes; as if she was searching deep for something that had never been there. Some remnant of fondness for her and Joel so that she didn't have to believe that her whole life had been wasted. Pathetic . He headed for the door.

Some movement behind him, rustling in a drawer. He was in a half daze, hardly paid any attention to it until he heard her call: 'Alain!' A harsh, chill whisper that made him turn.

He saw the half open bedside drawer at the same time as the gun: a Beretta.25 automatic they kept in case of burglars. Betina pointed it at him shakily.

Betina's eyes were stinging and bleary as she looked at her husband above the gun. She fought to control her trembling. Her husband? He was a monster! A murderer of young boys. She'd be doing everyone a favour if she pumped him full of bullets. Her finger tensed on the trigger.

Would feel good, so good. Repayment for the years of betrayal of her and Joel. Revenge for the little boy in Taragnon. But she should see him squirm a bit first. 'So do you still claim you don't love me? Or is begging for your life more appropriate? Perhaps they're one and the same.' But instead of moving away, he took a step closer. She shook her head, the trembling biting deeper in her arms. It was all somehow wrong! She'd seen it in the films: this was when they started backing away, holding one hand up and pleading.

Duclos smiled as he stepped closer. Perhaps she would be doing him a favour. The end to all his problems. 'Why don't you. I'm sick of it all. You can face it all then: public humiliation, the police at your door, a trial, a murder conviction hanging over your head! Yes, go on,' he taunted. 'Pull the trigger. You sit in my seat!'

Betina's finger trembled on the trigger. A monster! He deserved to die. But he was smiling, almost as if he welcomed it. And what would happen to Joel while she was in prison?

Duclos saw the hesitation and leapt in, took the last two steps quickly, jolted her gun arm away. The gun flew free, fell a few yards to one side. He cocked back his arm and smashed it hard into her face.

Betina fell back heavily on the floor. Her eyes were startled, a gout of blood spreading from her nose.

Duclos dived on top of her, straddling her thighs. Anger coursed red hot through his veins. She'd pulled a gun. The stupid bitch actually had the guts, the audacity! She was going to kill me! He cocked his arm to punch her again in the face, then decided against it at the last minute — shifted down and hit her in the stomach.

She screamed and groaned. He hit her again, her screams only driving on his frenzy. The long years of pent up anger and frustration washing away as he struck out: for all the times he'd cringed at her touch, for the boring predictability and monotony of her conversation, for the son he'd never wanted… for the little clique of her and Joel excluding him through the years. He hit and hit at her stomach until…

Footsteps pounding up the stairs .

Barely broke through his consciousness, his frenzy. Then it struck him how loud Betina's groans and screams had been. The gendarme. He'd heard the screams and run around to the open back door.

Duclos scanned frantically around. The gun was not far from his fight foot. He kicked it further away, just out of sight under the bed. He straightened up as the gendarme burst into the room.

The gendarme's eyes darted between him and Betina. His hand was poised by his gun holster, but it wasn't drawn.

'She became hysterical,' Duclos spluttered. 'I was trying to calm her. She fell and hit herself badly on the bedside drawer. Give me a hand to lift her up on the bed.'

The gendarme's gun arm relaxed. He came over, half stooped to lift Betina. Betina's eyes were clearing from her daze, settling on the gendarme. She was about to speak.

Duclos saw his only split-second chance, lunged for the gun under the bed. He turned and trained it on the gendarme. 'Now give me your gun. Left hand… ever so slowly. Just two fingers on the butt.'

The gendarme reached across and lifted the gun out awkwardly, held it out. Duclos grabbed it. 'Now turn around!'

The gendarme turned uneasily, trying to keep one eye on Duclos. Duclos raised the gun and smashed the butt against the base of the gendarme's head — but the first didn't connect properly, and it took a second to fell him, knock him out.

Duclos rustled in the top drawer of the dressing table for car keys and his wallet, then bolted for the door.

Joel was standing in the doorway, taking in the scene with his mother and the gendarme. Those same searching, knowing eyes which had haunted him through the years . The boy moved as if to block Duclos' exit.

Duclos sneered at how ridiculous and pathetic the boy looked, just like his mother — and barged brusquely past him, almost knocking the boy over.

Down the stairs, out the front door, feet on the gravel of the driveway. One of the reporters by the gate noticed him, was looking over curiously.

Duclos ran to the garage, past Betina's Renault parked to the side. He would have taken the Mercedes, but it was too distinctive. He'd bought a Peugeot 505 on leasing not long before leaving Strasbourg. The registration was probably still going through. Perfect.

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 .

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?