Past Imperfect

FORTY-TWO

‘Un Coca-Cola et une biere.’

The waiter put down their drinks. Stuart Capel nodded and he walked away. Eyran sipped at his coke and looked towards the beach.

‘Are you okay now?’ Stuart asked.

‘Yes, fine.’

Stuart had promised Eyran a visit to the beach after the ordeal of testifying, and Le Lavandou was one of the first they came to on their way back from Aix.

Eyran had been fine at first. Swimming, floating on his back, feeling all the tension drift from his body. But as he’d come to sit next to Stuart on the beach, the outline of the harbour and headland somehow seemed familiar. A sense of deja vu.

‘Have we been here before?’ he’d asked.

‘No. Only to the beach at Cannes. But you came with your mum and dad to the South of France a couple of years before you went to America. You’d have been, what, five or six.’

‘Maybe that’s it.’ But Eyran knew in that instant it wasn’t. He remembered other things from that holiday, but not this beach. The voices around, people talking and calling out, the excitable screeches of children playing and splashing in the shallows, echoed and rattled inside his head. And then the other familiar images suddenly flashed through: the wheat field, the nearby village square, some men playing boules they’d passed. It was almost as if his nervousness with the trial had blocked everything; then as soon as he relaxed, the gap in his mind opened.

Stuart had asked if he was okay, and he’d fluffed that it was probably just the trial and having to speak in front of the judge. But seeing his eyes dart anxiously at the people around, Stuart seemed keen to get him away. He suggested they get a drink. Now, again, he was checking.

One thing at least with which he’d been fortunate. He’d always liked his uncle Stuart, and he could tell that his uncle really cared; his fostering wasn’t just an obligation felt to his father.

‘It was something about the beach. Something I…’ Then Eyran stopped himself. Even his recall now of the wheat field was pleasant. Perhaps that was why he’d had a block before: the emphasis had been on him remembering anything bad. Yet all he felt was warmth; it reminded him of the fields by Broadhurst Farm where he played when he was younger.

Stuart was looking at him curiously, one eyebrow raised. ‘Are you sure everything’s fine?’

Eyran nodded hastily and sipped at his coke. He got on well now with Tessa, he’d settled in at his new school and made some new friends, the nightmares had stopped, and only a few sessions remained. Everything was fine.

Yet he knew that if he mentioned some fresh recall, Stuart might start to worry and think about extending the sessions. And probably that would bother Stuart more than himself. Whatever images still replayed after the sessions remaining, he’d just have to sort out himself; they’d remain his own private domain, like the copse at Broadhust Farm.

‘Yes. I feel better now,’ Eyran said. And quickly turned away from Stuart searching into his eyes for the truth, looked again towards the beach he recalled from another time.

Dominic was on the A7 heading south towards the fourth instruction at Aix en Provence.

Clear water. Corbeix' view from the two meetings Dominic had with him in the twelve days leading up to the next hearing. Thibault had fired his main ammunition and failed. There would obviously still be some obstacles ahead, but Corbeix saw them as more clearly flagged. He knew what to expect. It should be more or less plain sailing now through the remaining instruction hearings towards full trial.

In particular, the next hearing should be an easy run: Vincent Aurillet and Bennacer on Duclos' background with young boys, then later Barielle with a summary of evidence to date from Dominic and Corbeix. The main feast would be Aurillet. 'Thibault would be wise to keep his head down,' Corbeix commented. 'Aurillet's evidence is unshakeable. Duclos' voice is on tape, and Aurillet will spill forth chapter and verse about Duclos sordid history with young boys. I doubt we'll see a 'confront' notice.'

But at the last minute, just three days before the hearing, one was posted.

The only thing Corbeix could think of was Thibault possibly attacking Aurillet's seedy background. 'Trying to discredit him through that. I can't imagine he'll get much else worthwhile.'

But Dominic wondered. All the other 'confronts' had been posted at least ten days in advance. This time it was almost as if they'd only discovered something new at the last moment, or purposely wanted to post late so as not to allow time for the shoring up of defences. The thought preyed on Dominic's mind.

Dominic glanced at his car clock: 1.56 pm. He wanted to give himself at least twenty minutes before the 3 pm hearing with Bennacer and Corbeix. Bennacer was escorting Aurillet up from Marseille. After losing Eynard, they'd taken no chances and had kept him under police guard in a hotel room.

Press coverage had gained momentum the past two weeks. A copy of Le Monde was on the seat beside Dominic, Duclos' haunted face staring out on the front page, snapped through a car side window. One of the few occasions Duclos had ventured out during house arrest.

One of the more considered articles, though still along similar lines: comparisons to the Tapie case and to Medecin, the ex-Mayor of Nice self-exiled in Uruguay due to corruption charges. New France against the old. North against the south.

New France. Thirty years ago in Provence, it could take up to a year to have a new phone installed. Now a new Minitel system could be installed in 24 hours. A train then took ten hours to Paris, now a TGV sped through in less than half the time. But France was proud also of its political evolution in that period: past bureaucracy had been streamlined, the past 'old boy' networks of favouritism and protectionism torn down, corruption combatted — particularly in the provinces. With the south always considered as one of the worst offenders.

The fact that Duclos was from Limoges was conveniently overlooked: the crime had taken place in Provence, and the original trial and now the retrial were also there. Crime and corruption in the south slotted into a popular and familiar image. Good copy.

Only this time it had been given a slightly different spin: the old trial and its failure to prosecute Duclos, that instead a poor vagrant and poacher had been convicted, was seen as typical of the protectionist attitude to officialdom endemic then. Symbol of past corruption. And the new trial was seen as the fresh broom, part of the new tide that had swept away past corruption increasingly the past decade. Figurehead of just what had been torn down in re-building the new France.

The trial of the decade. It had all the ingredients: a leading politician, a detective stalking him relentlessly through three decades, regressionists and psychics on chat shows, a multi-billion dollar bio-technology dispute, and endemic corruption and political side-taking. No doubt he and Corbeix were both now viewed as champions of the new France, battling against endemic southern provincial corruption. Dominic shook his head. At heart, the issue should have been so simple: could justice finally be found for the murder of a ten year old boy?

Dominic eased his foot down, touching 165kmph. That justice was surely now closer. He pushed his concern about Thibault’s late ‘confront’ notice to the back of his mind.

'I thought you said that it would all be over at the last instruction hearing?'

'If it wasn't for something that came up unexpectedly at the last minute, it would have been,' Duclos defended. 'But it certainly will by the next.'

'First the last — now the next. My people are becoming anxious, and with good reason.' Marchand's tone was impatient. 'Despite the fact that your lawyer might have stopped mentioning the subject, the bio-technology dispute has come up again. As they say in the media: 'one of those stories that will run and run'.’

Panic. Everyone panicking, everything closing in. Duclos rubbed his strained eyes. His sleep had been poor for weeks now. Even he'd panicked after the last hearing collapsed, began to worry that this would be the pattern at every hearing: hopes built up of winning through, getting the case thrown out — then at the very last minute everything crushed. He'd started to think of last ditch options if all else failed, and had finally put through a call to Brossard: 'Two more people who might need to go the same way as Eynard.' He would phone again if he had to finally go ahead with the action. In the end, he doubted it would be necessary; but it was comforting to know there was a final fail-safe option if all else went wrong. Brossard already checking the movements of the people concerned, primed and ready to move if he had to call again.

The only one not panicking was Jaumard. He'd called Duclos at five o’clock one morning from Tacloban in the Southern Philippines. 'Thasss amazing, it's almost lunch time here,' he'd remarked to Duclos' complaint about the time. 'It's just to let you know your transfer arrived okay. I'm busy spending it here with a couple of friends.' Duclos could tell that Jaumard had been drinking, could hear a couple of girls giggling in the background. 'Well, it's nice to hear your voice, Minister. Nice to know that you're still alive, they haven't guillotined you yet.' A quick guffaw, and Jaumard rang off.

The call put Duclos in a foul mood for hours, he was unable to get back to sleep. Jaumard off in the Philippines spending his money with a couple of tarts, while he was trapped in his own house with Betina, Joel, a gendarme and half the nation's press at the gate.

Finally, he'd managed to calm himself: it would soon all be over. He reminded himself of the strength of the ace card they were holding with Aurillet at the next hearing. This time there was a virtual guarantee.

He placated Marchand. 'Don't worry. The hearing coming up now is a completely different situation. We have almost total control over what's going to happen. But if you want to wait till after the hearing to assure your people — fine. We should know in a few hours.'

'What makes you so sure of success?'

At first, Duclos wasn't going to tell Marchand. He could have just glossed over the issue, avoided answering. But he felt the need to put Marchand's mind at ease once and for all. And he was also proud, found himself almost gloating over the ingenuity of the scheme as he explained it to Marchand. At least one touch of genius among the whole mess.

Marchand's reaction was almost as breathless as Thibault's when he'd explained the ruse four days earlier. 'What — you mean Aurillet is practically in your pocket? When in fact the prosecution think he's one of their most important assets.'

'Got it in one.'

Marchand at least seemed more settled and assured as he signed off. In contrast, Thibault had been quite agitated. The sheer audacity of the scheme, or its implications? The fact that as his lawyer — unless he wanted to drop the case — he had little choice but to ride along with it. 'I'd better post a 'confront' notice straight away.'

'Do what you have to,' Duclos had commented flatly, but thought: if Thibault had delivered what he'd promised earlier, he wouldn't have even had to play the ruse and tell Thibault, worry his delicate legal sensibilities. Thibault should have been thankful it had all been laid on a plate for him. All he had to do was sit back and watch the case explode in Corbeix' face.

Dominic's hand trembled on his mobile phone as he dialled. Please God, let me be wrong… let me be wrong!

Past thoughts flashing as he'd sped fast traffic. Snippets of conversations. The phone started ringing. Motorway lay-by. The first Dominic had come to. Large trucks passing rocked his car slightly.

Bennacer answered after two rings. Background noise of traffic. Bennacer was on his mobile, obviously en route to Aix.

I'm surprised in a way that his pimp is Aurillet. Part of a conversation from over a week ago that Dominic hadn't pursued at the time. Dominic asked Bennacer about it now: 'What led you to make that comment?'

'It was just that looking at the details of the case, the boy killed in Taragnon was dusky — mixture of French and North African. Also Eyrnard in Paris specializes in a lot of that type. But as far as I know, Aurillet mostly deals with fair-skinned boys.' Bennacer glanced back towards Aurillet handcuffed to a sergeant in the back seat. Aurillet looked uncomfortable, possibly at the conversation taking place as if he wasn't there. He turned away, glanced through the side window.

'Is there a Marseille-based pimp who specializes in dusky boys?' Dominic asked.

'A couple. But the main one that springs to mind is Francois Vacharet. Place in the Panier district, used to be run by his father Emile. You should remember the father: we investigated his murder together back when you were on our patch. Looked like a milieu hit.'

'Yes, yes. I do.' Hazy memory from twenty years ago.

'That's the other thing: Vacharet's was one of the few places also operating back in ‘63.' Bennacer turned back to Aurillet. 'Too far back for you Vince, huh? Still in nappies.' Aurillet sat tight-jawed staring through the window. Probably stung by the jibe, though Bennacer thought for a moment he saw something beyond: Aurillet looked genuinely perturbed. 'So if Duclos did have a pimp back then, it wasn't Aurillet.'

'Have you got a number for Vacharet?'

'Not on me. But if you call my assistant Moudeux, he'll pull something up from the file.'

'Thanks.' Dominic rang off, dialled straight out to the Marseille station and was put through to Moudeux. Thirty seconds of Moudeux tapping through a computer file and he had the number. Dominic dialled it straightaway.

A man's voice answered after the second ring. Dominic asked for Francois Vacharet.

'He's on the other line right now. Who may I say is calling?'

'Victor. I'm an associate of Alain Duclos. Acting as liaison between him and his lawyer, Jean-Paul Thibault.'

'One moment.'

Dominic felt his nerves racing in the wait. If anything had been done to disguise Duclos' activities, then it was a strong bet it had been arranged through his real pimp. But Dominic knew that he'd have to be assumptive, take the initiative to get to the truth.

'Francois Vacharet. Can I help you?'

Dominic announced himself again. 'I'm phoning on behalf of Alain Duclos. He doesn't like to use his line at home too freely while he's under house arrest. We're just going into the session with Aurillet — and we wondered if there's anything we need to know from your perspective?'

'I don't know. Not really.' Vacharet sounded vaguely perplexed. 'My name shouldn't even come into it.'

'We understand that.' Dominic's heart was pounding. Vacharet hadn't denied knowledge of Aurillet. He knew something. 'It's just to ensure that Aurillet has everything straight to ensure that your name is kept clear.'

'He should do. Since one of the main aims was to make the police look bad, I made things pretty clear on that front.' Flat tone, as if: stupid question. 'Besides, I understand he has a tape. That should be the main thing to swing it.'

Tape? Dominic went ice cold. 'Yes, yes. Of course.' Fought to keep his voice nonchalant. 'So, from your point of view, nothing particular that we should know.'

'No, not really.

'Thanks for your time anyway. Just thought it was safest to check.' Dominic rang off. A juggernaut went close by, its air rush buffeting the car. He shook off a faint shiver and phoned Bennacer back.

'It's a set up,' Dominic said. 'I don't know how yet, but whatever you do don't let Aurillet go into the hearing. Find Corbeix straightaway and get him to arrange a half hour postponement and a private room for Aurillet. I'll be there as soon as I can.'

'You've already been told. You're not our main interest — Duclos is.'

'Well. I've only got your word for that. I'd rather wait until I can be represented by my lawyer.'

'We can do this a couple of ways. To start with, I can bounce you off every wall in this room. I'll claim that you became hysterical, started throwing yourself and furniture around — so I had to restrain you.

Silence. No response from Aurillet.

Dominic sat with Corbeix, Bennacer and Aurillet listening to the tape. It was a small flat memo tape, the type that slots neatly into a wallet. Aurillet had taped the time he was left in the questioning room with Moudeux.

'… Then we can start contacting your clients. Inform them you're under police surveillance.'

'You can't do that!'

'I don't know — public duty, I would have thought. They wouldn't want to get caught up in your mess. We've got five days of clients on tape. Then we can spread the word through our milieu contacts…'

'You bastard!'

'By the time we're finished, whether you want to talk to us or not will be immaterial — you'll be out of business.'

The few minutes remaining on the tape were in a similar vein: threats, intimidation, protests from Aurillet before reluctant agreement to co-operate. Not far different from what they'd had to employ in the first ten minutes with Aurillet now to get him to come clean, Dominic thought sourly. The fact that they already knew from Vacharet that a tape existed gave the initial vantage. Threat of prosecution for deception and perjury on one hand with virtual immunity on the other, tipped the remaining balance.

'So what was the plan?' Dominic asked. 'Getting a strike against the police for intimidation?'

'Not only that,' Aurillet said flatly. 'The voice you have on tape that you think is Duclos — it's not him. Close, but not his voice. His lawyer was going to contest that evidence too, call in a voice analyst. It wouldn't have passed the test.'

Dominic was incredulous as the full details of the plan unravelled: Duclos was desperately afraid of his background with young children emerging. Vacharet was also concerned about being implicated, so agreed to help. Aurillet had a gambling debt of 180,000 Francs which was troubling him, and in the end that was the fee agreed for his part in the plan. They knew that the police had been trying to unearth child pimp background on Duclos through milieu informants — so it wouldn't come as a surprise when an anonymous tip-off came through about Aurillet.

With that, they knew that it was likely that Aurillet's line would be tapped, though made sure by having their own sound engineer check. A decent gap of a few days, and then someone posing as Duclos phones. Aurillet is hauled in for questioning, but doesn't admit anything until unduly pressured.

'When the case comes to court,' Aurillet concluded, 'I deny everything and produce the tape. Duclos' lawyer has already been claiming that the case against his client is falsified — and all of this then ties in perfectly.'

Dominic was breathless at the audacity of the scheme. It would have appeared that the police had manufactured the tip-off and the taped call from Duclos, with a curtain call of intimidation of Aurillet. False tip-off, false tape, intimidation. Game, set and match. They'd only just scraped through the recent hearings with claims of bias — there would have been no possibility of surviving this last onslaught.

Last minute reprieve. Dominic let out a long breath and looked up at the ceiling. 'Jesus!' He looked back sharply at Aurillet. 'Was Thibault in on this?'

'I don't know…'

Stupid question, thought Dominic. Certainly, Thibault had to have been aware before the hearing now. Dominic stormed out into the corridor. He looked its length: three or four people milling, Thibault beyond them at the corridor's end on a wall pay phone.

Dominic felt his anger boil over as he paced towards Thibault. They'd been in the small room with Aurillet for over twenty minutes, and now Thibault was on the phone — no doubt warning Duclos that something had gone wrong.

Seething anger at Duclos' manipulation through the years. Manipulating the evidence and his timing in the cafe thirty years ago, fooling Poullain and Perrimond that he was straight-laced and squeaky clean, manipulating an electorate through all the years since. And now Aurillet and Thibault. Good, upright Duclos. Champion of the people! It was the police and all around him that were manipulative, dishonest...

Thibault didn't see him approach until the last minute. All Dominic overheard was: '…Good question, but I really don't know. It could be that…' Thibault glanced around, saw Dominic, muttered, 'I've got to go now,' and went to put the phone down.

Dominic grabbed it before it hit the cradle. 'Who were you speaking to… Was it Duclos?' Thibault shuffled nervously, looked down, didn't answer. Dominic spoke into the mouthpiece. 'Duclos? Duclos… is that you?

Faint sound of breathing. Some background noises. Then the line went dead.

Dominic slammed down the receiver and pushed Thibault back against the wall. 'You were in on this seedy little scheme, weren't you?' Dominic grabbed Thibault's jacket by the shoulder, balled it tight so that it pulled against his neck. 'And now you were on the phone to Duclos, warning him it might have all gone wrong!'

'Haven't you heard of client-lawyer privilege,' Thibault spluttered. Mixture of fear and outrage.

Pathetic. Just like Duclos: clinging to moral high ground to the last. Dominic thought of Thibault's assault on Calvan, the attack on both his own and Corbeix' credibility. And it was suddenly tempting to bury his fist in Thibault's face, wipe away his self-satisfied smile once and for all. But in the end he just gave Thibault a last push against the wall and let him go. He wasn't worth it.

Bennacer had followed out only seconds later, was now behind him, looking concerned. Corbeix had stayed in the room with Aurillet.

Dominic's main worry was that Thibault had managed to warn Duclos. They had Aurillet, but now they also knew that Vacharet was the main link to Duclos and young boys. Something Duclos would be eager to remove at all costs. If he'd been desperate enough to take out Eynard, then…

Suddenly it hit Dominic that even if Duclos hadn't already been warned by Thibault's call — he'd have guessed something was wrong by him suddenly snatching the phone and calling out his name.

Dominic turned to Bennacer. 'Call your station. Get a squad car out to Vacharet's. And fast.'

'Duclos? Duclos… is that you?'

Duclos recognized the voice immediately. A cold shiver spread through his body. Something had gone wrong. Desperately wrong.

Duclos went over to the window and looked out. Joel was in the garden, kicking a football. The view from the front was probably much the same as it had been twenty minutes ago: gendarme by the front door and thirty metres beyond two reporters by the gate. Life chez Duclos. Less reporters than a few weeks back, but no doubt the rat pack would increase again closer to the full trial.

Joel's movements in the garden hardly registered beyond his thoughts. But he'd hardly noticed the boy anyway through all the years, he thought ruefully. Why should now be any different. Especially now.

Full trial? With everything now fallen apart, his last ace card destroyed — there would almost certainly be a full trial. And nothing to stand between him and conviction but two people. Two key people around which all else hinged.

Duclos' fists balled tight. His face was flushed, raw acid anger surging beneath. It was hardly believable that Fornier and his rag-tag bunch had got this far, would end up pushing him to these limits. Had they forgotten who he was?

He'd already half guessed something was wrong twenty minutes before Thibault's call. Vacharet had phoned, mentioned he'd just had a call from someone called Victor. 'Said that he acted as liaison between you and your lawyer. Just struck me afterwards to check he was kosher.'

Asshole. 'The time to check is beforehand. It's a bit late now.' When pressed, Vacharet claimed that he hadn't said much, but Duclos had sensed his defensive tone, his nervousness. With Thibault's call, Duclos knew that whatever it was had been enough: the police had woven the strands together.

The problem was, Vacharet probably also now knew. He might panic and do something foolish at any minute.

Duclos picked up the phone and dialled Brossard's number.

Francois Vacharet stared at the phone for a full minute after his call to Duclos. Jesus, he had put his foot in it.

Though hopefully he hadn't given away to Duclos just how badly. His mind grappled for other possible options: perhaps it hadn't been the police, just some obscure clerk in Thibault's office Duclos wasn't aware of. Victor? But as Duclos had protested, Thibault knew that his home line was secure, they'd spoken several times on it. And for anything as sensitive as that, Thibault would have phoned directly.

No, it had been the police or someone in the prosecutor's office. There remained little doubt. Once they'd uncovered the full extent of his little ruse with Aurillet, they'd be at his door in no time. And once Duclos knew…

Vacharet shuddered. He recalled one of his last conversations with Duclos when he'd discovered through the milieu grapevine about the hit on Eynard. He'd protested that if he'd known about the hit, he'd never have offered to help with Aurillet.

'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.

'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.