John Matthews - Past Imperfect

Dominic clenched a fist tight. Twenty minutes passed with no return calls, and his impatience grew. He could have phoned his Lyon station, but he had no wish to hear the day's panics and emergencies. Only one thing now that he wanted to know.

He called Monique to ease his tension. She was at Vidauban, spent more time there now in the summer months. She'd travelled down by train the night before, Gerome had picked her up at the station.

'I'll be quite late tonight,' he said. 'Could be a long one.'

'Will you go back to Lyon or come here?'

'Probably Vidauban.' He was better off staying in Aix or Marseille for news on Vacharet. Vidauban was closer. 'But don't expect me much before ten or eleven.'

She started some small talk about Gerome, but he was only half listening — and cut her off early. Anxious in case calls were trying to get through.

Unsettling silence again. The phone inert. Dominic's thoughts fighting to move, but in the end equally inert. The clock on the wall provided an ominous, pulsing reminder that things elsewhere were in motion while he sat there: Duclos racing across the country, a hit man heading for his targets. Ghosts skittering across a map with no discernible form or direction.

But how far could Duclos get? No passport, assets frozen, money perhaps just for food, petrol and a few nights pension.

Seven minutes before the phone rang again, though it seemed far longer. It was Lepoille.

'We've found something on Vacharet. Air France flight to Corsica.'

'Can we get the Ajaccio airport police to stop him?'

'Too late. He landed over twenty minutes ago. He's in a taxi and away. Could be anywhere on the island.'

Momentary hope fading. Perhaps Bennacer could dig something up from the lead. 'Anything yet on Duclos and car registration?'

'Nothing yet. Could be a long haul. There's nothing in his name, and apparently he got the car recently on leasing through a company. We've got to find the company and hope that the registrations already through. Otherwise we'll find nothing.'

A quick good luck and 'keep hunting', and Dominic phoned Bennacer. 'Vacharet's in Corsica. Anything spring to mind?'

'Not immediately. Let me see if anyone else here has any ideas…' Dominic could hear Bennacer calling out: Vacharet — any friends or contacts in Corsica? Mumble of background voices. After a moment: 'Doesn't seem so, I'm afraid.'

'Maybe Moudeux could go to Vacharet's. Say that we know he's in Corsica, explain that a hit man's chasing him. If we've got the information of where he is — then it's a good bet so has the hit man. Perhaps with a bit of pressure on his barman or manager, then-'

Bennacer cut in. 'Wait a minute, Dominic. One of my people working the Panier has remembered another club owner that Vacharet's friendly with…' Bennacer's voice faded: second conversation in the background before returning. 'Guy called Courchon. Owns a villa in Bussaglia on the North-West coast. Long shot, but it might be worth a try.'

Dominic thought things through quickly. He was in a temporary office in the Aix Palais de Justice that Corbeix had arranged for him — but flight connections were better from Marseille. 'I'm coming down to you. I should be with you in half an hour. Meanwhile get the Bussaglia police to head out to Courchon's villa, and check the next flight time to Ajaccio.' Dominic glanced at his watch: 6.52 pm. He gave Bennacer his mobile number for anything urgent coming up on Duclos en route, then left a similar message for Lepoille.

Nothing Dominic could do sitting where he was to aid the search for Duclos' registration. That was a game now being batted between the nation's network of computers.

Duclos headed east towards St Etienne and Givors. He was unsure at first where to go, in the end deciding to join the N7 near Givors. It was the busiest and most faceless of France's motorways, and from there he could head north to Paris, south for the Cote D'Azur and Spain, or east at Valence for Switzerland and Italy.

He'd been left one current account unfrozen for monthly expenses. He stopped at the first cash machine outside of Limoges and drew the day's maximum. Together with what he had in his wallet, 3,260 Francs. With food and petrol, enough to keep him going for five days or maybe a week if he stayed in cheap hotels. He knew he couldn't risk stopping again at a cash machine. Even if they hadn't by then frozen the account, his movements could be tracked.

His car was inconspicuous and didn't draw attention. Just one of countless thousands of blue Peugeot 505s nationwide, and the police probably hadn't been able to trace the registration. But he felt conspicuous, self-conscious himself, was desperately afraid people would recognize him. He'd stopped only once for petrol just after St Etienne and kept looking down as he went to pay at the counter. At the last moment he saw a baseball cap for sale to one side and grabbed it along with some sweets. The cap's peak would at least shield part of his face at future stops.

He hit the motorway again and at the Givors junction headed south. Speed steady between 120-130kmph. Not too fast to draw attention, but not too slow either. Still the occasional truck would push him over to the slow lane and rumble past.

Then it hit him: 6 pm! He glanced at his watch: 5.38 pm. At six, the main news bulletins would come on. The case had been in the press, but the only recent photo had been hazy and distorted through a car window. Few people would recognize him.

But for the main news that night, they'd probably have a full face portrait shot. From then on, he'd hardly be able to stop anywhere without being recognized. He'd planned originally to stop to eat later — but suddenly changed his plan. He pulled into the first motorway service station.

He chose a burger and fries at the self-service grill counter. The girl looked up at him and smiled, Merci . A baseball cap not too dissimilar to his own. A Have a nice day smile, or had there been a glimmer of recognition?

Duclos' nerves were racing by the time he paid and took his tray over to a table by the far wall. He took a seat facing the wall, his back to the restaurant. It was a large sprawling complex with supermarket, shops and a bar on a bridge structure spanning the motorway. A television was on in the bar area beyond the restaurant, but hardly anyone was at the bar counter paying it attention.

He let out a slow breath, tried to relax, eat his burger. It felt dry, difficult to swallow. His nerves had killed his appetite. But he forced himself, realizing that it might be his last meal for several hours. He laboured over each mouthful; it was like trying to chew and swallow cardboard.

He'd made the decision to head south just after Clermont Ferrand: he had to get to Provence before Brossard made the hits! If Brossard made the hits, he was sunk: Betina had overheard him order them!

Minutes after the thought hit, he'd stopped and phoned Brossard's number. Fifteen minutes later, when he'd stopped for petrol, he'd phoned again. Still no Brossard or message. Brossard was probably already heading towards the targets.

'I'll aim to do both tonight.' Obviously Brossard didn't want to risk the hits in daylight. Duclos looked at his watch. Two and a half hours of daylight left. If Brossard wasn't contactable, would he make it down there by then?

If he could get there in time and they never happened, he could claim it had been Betina's neurotic ramblings. Faced with just the rest — the tenuous coin and psychic evidence and the questionable testimony of two child pimps — Thibault could still pull a few rabbits out of the hat. Perhaps Brossard could make a deal with Vacharet: his life for silence. Faced with just Aurillet, their chances in court were good.