Death on the Marais

CHAPTER FORTY

‘Thank God!’ Francine gasped as Rocco tore away the gag and binding. She sagged against him, tears flooding down her face at the realisation that she was finally safe, her fingers digging into his arms in desperation. ‘That man… he was going to kill me…!’

‘Shush now,’ Rocco whispered, gently touching a finger to her lips to stop her signalling their presence to the men out in the marais. Her face was bruised, with cuts on her skin where she must have been dragged into the hole, and her hair was a tangle of dirt and cobwebs. He didn’t like to think of what she had suffered alone down here in the dark, not knowing whether the man who had taken her would ever come back or not. ‘You’re safe now. But we must get you away from here.’

She nodded, deep in shock, eyes locked on his as she gripped him even tighter. He smelt her perfume, soft and fragrant in contrast to the musky smell of the grim surroundings, and held her for a moment, dispensing with the normal advice of keeping a distance from crime victims. Above anything in the manuals, she needed contact and the reassurance of closeness, not official distance.

He turned and whistled softly to Claude, who appeared above them. His jaw dropped when he saw Francine, then he recovered quickly and grinned with relief.

‘Christ on a pony! Here — reach up.’ He bent and took Francine’s hand, and hauled her out of the hole as if she weighed nothing. He turned to Rocco. ‘We’d better move. They’ll be here any second. I think they’ve picked up our tracks along the path.’

Rocco heaved himself out of the hole and made for the back door, pulling Francine after him. Once outside, he checked the path to the front and was shocked to hear voices close by. They’d left it too late; the men must have given the second lodge a miss. There was no time to get Francine to the bridge without being seen. She was only able to move slowly, her legs still cramped from her confinement.

He drew his gun and flicked off the safety. Time to set up some delaying tactics.

He caught a movement from the corner of his eye among the trees to the side of the lodge, and spun round. One of the men must have circled around to the side. He brought up his gun, finger tightening on the trigger, and was shocked to see Didier Marthe’s face staring back at him. The scrap man was dressed in brown hunting clothes and carrying a shotgun. He looked pale and drawn, his face smeared with dirt.

For a brief second Didier wavered, staring at the three of them in desperation, especially, it seemed, at Rocco, then Francine. Rocco got ready to open fire. Then a man’s voice intruded, approaching along the path at the front of the ruined building.

In a flash, Didier turned and was gone.

Rocco turned to Claude. ‘Get her across the bridge and don’t look back. Call Massin or Detective Desmoulins in Amiens and get a squad out here on the double.’

‘Why, what are you going to do?’ protested Claude. ‘There are too many-’

‘Don’t argue — there’s no time.’ Rocco turned and ran after Didier, heading away from the bridge and deeper into the marais, crashing noisily through a tangle of dry reeds. Behind him he heard a shout from the men on the path. He didn’t stop to see if they were following.

He was counting on them doing just that.

There was no sign of Didier. The scrawny little man had moved like a greased pig, helped by his familiarity with the terrain and the colour of his clothing blending in with the vegetation.

Rocco drove on, pushing through the undergrowth and praying he wouldn’t stumble into a bog or become entangled in the patches of brambles snaking everywhere. He heard a crashing sound behind him and men calling to each other. The pursuers had been caught off guard for a moment, but if they were fit and quick, they would lose no time in regaining the initiative.

He saw a clear patch through the trees ahead and veered towards it, calculating that he was now heading back in the general direction of the main lodge. Less bothered with catching up with Didier than he was drawing the men away from Claude and Francine, he put on a burst of speed.

Suddenly a stretch of water covered with a layer of scum appeared in front of him. He swerved to go round it, then moved back in the direction where Didier had gone. More sounds of pursuit came from behind him, and he realised that one of the men was getting close, the noise of his progress through the undergrowth coming uncomfortably near. He could even hear the other man’s harsh breathing, but was comforted by the knowledge that while running, he couldn’t shoot with any accuracy.

He felt one boot sink into soft earth. He staggered, dragging against the pull of muddy soil around his ankle, and saw a dull blackness reflecting back at him under a layer of coarse weed. A bog! He tore his foot free, nearly losing the boot, but managed to stumble away towards another clear patch to his right. It put him back on course for the main lodge. If he could reach his car…

A shot rang out, startling in its loudness and clipping a branch from a tree near his head. Damn — they weren’t messing. He was tempted to ignore it. Stopping to fight would be stupid: he was outnumbered and too big a target, and he had the feeling these men had all seen action; they would not be put off by one policeman with a gun. Better to get away somewhere safe and hope Claude managed to call up reinforcements before it was too late. Even so, they had to learn that he wasn’t going to run for ever or give up too easily.

He stopped and turned, dropping to one knee to reduce the target, and sighted on the gunman charging through the brush thirty metres behind him. He took a breath and fired twice, and saw the shoulder of the man’s jacket jump as a shot struck home. The man was knocked sideways and there was a loud splash as he fell into the bog.

Rocco turned and continued running as two shots came in quick succession from further back in the trees, losing themselves harmlessly among the branches overhead. Undisciplined, he decided; they might have been trained once, but their discipline had gone. Indiscriminate shooting like that could only threaten their own men while giving away the shooter’s position. A volley of shouts came as the others raced to cut him off, but found their progress impeded by the sheer perversity and tangle of nature in the raw.

Rocco was tiring fast and getting short of breath, the effort of pushing through this terrain far more wearing than trotting along a level road. He had few illusions about what might happen; there were three of them and one of him. Much more of this and the outcome would be short, sharp and fatal.

Moments later he burst through a hanging veil of thin branches and was relieved to see the lodge and his car right in front of him. Snatching his keys from his pocket, he ran to the driver’s door, fumbling the key into the lock with a trembling hand and trying not to shoot himself in the process.

He threw himself behind the wheel and started the car, tramping on the accelerator. The heavy car responded instantly, leaping forward and fishtailing across the clearing… but heading straight for the lake as the steering wheel spun out of his hand.

He grappled with the wheel as a shot pinged off the bodywork. Then desperation enabled him to regain control of the wheel just in time. He slewed the car around at the last second and headed at full speed for the track back to the road. In the rear-view mirror, he saw three men emerge from the trees and run after him.

He smiled grimly, remembering the man he’d shot, and the splash.

One down, three to go.