Death on the Marais

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Rocco found himself wondering how long Didier had set the fuse for. Six seconds? Ten? Three? A split second later he was throwing himself across the room, hurling the armchair towards the partition doorway and grabbing the metal cabinet. He ripped it away from the wall and threw it across the gap, too, then upended the wardrobe. It might not be enough, but it was all he had, a barrier against certain death. Trying to go for the grenade instead would merely be a quicker way to die.

At the last second, he dropped flat to the floor. Covered his ears. Opened his mouth.

The grenade went off.

The noise in the confined space was unbelievable. The concussion shook his whole body and he felt a hundred needle stabs of pain in his hands and across the back of his head. Something hot touched his leg, then was gone, and the air was sucked away from him, making him gag with the effort to breathe. The room filled with choking dust and he felt a shower of debris falling across his back.

The light went out, bringing total blackness.

Then Rocco was up and hurling himself towards the stairs by instinct, clawing past the cabinet and wardrobe and wondering how long he had before the ancient building caved in on top of him.

He reached the door at the top and kicked it open in a fury, slamming it back against the kitchen wall. The lights were on. He drew his gun and checked the empty room. Saw through the dirty window a pale shape on the other side of the stream, moving crablike along the path into the marais.

He lifted the gun, then heaved painfully, emptying his stomach on the floor and coughing, dropping to one knee. Eyes streaming and disorientated from the effects of the explosion, he looked around and saw the room tilt. For a second he thought it was the cellar ceiling giving way and dragging the house with it. Then he realised his sight and balance were playing tricks.

He was in no shape to follow Didier. Not yet. He needed his shoes, anyway. Running through the marais in his socks would be murder.

He got to his feet, swaying momentarily, then pushed himself off the wall and went to the kitchen sink. It was filthy, the God-awful smell enough to make him throw up if he hadn’t already emptied his guts. No taps, but a jug of water stood on the side. He gulped at it, the liquid swamping down his chin and across his chest, cool and refreshing. He swilled out his mouth and spat a mixture of saliva, dust and blood into the sink. Not too much red, he noted vaguely; must have bitten his lip when the grenade went off.

He’d been lucky.

Shoes, he reminded himself dully. He had to get his shoes. And something from the cellar. But what? He couldn’t remember, only that it seemed important. His brain felt fried. He rubbed his face, trying to instil enough control to do the right thing. He listened to the creaking of the building around him. It seemed to be settling on its haunches like a mortally wounded animal with a series of cracks and groans.

The cellar. Now.

Rocco groaned and took a deep breath. He desperately didn’t want to go back down there, but he had no choice.

No more than two minutes later, Rocco returned to the kitchen with a cardboard box tucked under one arm. He’d caught a quick glimpse of it, thrown on the floor when he’d upended the cabinet, and found it again by feel. The one glimpse had been enough. Inside one of the open flaps he’d seen the glossy sheen of black-and-white photographs. They were grainy and of poor quality, but good enough to make out clearly the faces of the men involved. And the girls they were with. There was also a notebook stuffed down one side, crammed with names and dates. The handwriting was untutored and shaky, but still legible.

Didier’s proof.

He walked out of the house, gun held aloft. He doubted he’d get to use it: Didier would be long gone by now, scurrying away through the marais like the little weasel he was, on his way to freedom and obscurity.

He stepped on the bridge, trusting Didier not to have endangered his own escape route. He wasn’t sure why he was coming this way, or what he was going to do when he got across. He’d be better off taking the photos to his car and leaving Didier for someone else to worry about. He’d fall over if he didn’t rest soon. That wouldn’t be good. Humiliating, even. Christ, he felt tired, he just wanted to go home and sleep for a week.

But going home wasn’t what he did. He chased criminals.

He was halfway across the stream when the explosion came. Flat and vicious, the sound echoed across the marais and ripped the night apart. It shook the trees, emptying the marais of birdlife in a surge of flapping, frantic wings and cries of protest. Rocco stopped, thinking he’d sprung one of Didier’s traps.

Then he realised he could still feel his legs. Knew what it was.

Didier. He’d run into his own tripwire.