Past Imperfect

FORTY-FIVE

The police siren screamed through the night.

Still alive. Alive! Dominic had shrieked the word above Monique's wailing cry as she'd looked on over his shoulder at Gerome's crumpled body. The chest and lower part of the neck had been a mass of blood, and it had been hard to find the pulse at first.

Dominic knew that he would need light for what he had to do, and rushed to the garage to switch back on the electricity. Then he took a large bed sheet from the linen cupboard. He felt for the entry wound: through Gerome's right breastbone, a few centimetres off centre. Slightly more to the left and it would have hit his heart.

But he knew that shattered bone could still have severed vital arteries or be sitting close to the heart. And blood loss was so heavy that Gerome could easily still die from that alone. Ripping the sheet in two, with one part he'd mopped up the excess blood and with the other tied a bandage and part tourniquet around the upper chest, wrapping under the right arm.

A police car with two gendarmes had arrived at that moment. It would have taken too long to get an ambulance, so Dominic arranged that one gendarme drive the police car as a lead, while the other drove Dominic's car following behind. Dominic would meanwhile tend to Gerome in the back of the car.

The second police car arrived just as they had Gerome in and ready to go. Dominic suggested they stay and phone for a meat wagon and forensics for Brossard.

Dominic grabbed another sheet to help stem any extra blood flow. Monique was to go in the lead car, but she'd insisted on staying close to Gerome. She'd stayed turned from the seat constantly, her eyes darting concernedly with each movement as he tended Gerome — blood stark against the white sheet binding in the intermittent glare from the police car's flashing light ahead.

The pulsing glare and the siren added an urgency to every movement. Don't die… please don't die! Dominic made sure to keep the airway free, kept Gerome turned slightly to one side. He hardly took his eyes off Gerome all the time — not only the constant need to tend and watch for any changes in breathing and pulse — but because he didn't want to meet Monique's eyes: frantic, pleading… surely it couldn't be? All the years she'd feared something like this happening, though mainly with Yves because of his work, and in the end it had been Gerome.

Dominic could almost feel her thoughts coming across in waves without looking up. And it had all been due to his obsession with justice for Christian. No… No! It was unthinkable. He couldn't let it happen. Gerome wouldn't die. Yet from the blood loss and the weakness of Gerome's pulse and breathing, he knew that they would be lucky to save Gerome. It would be a desperate race against time.

'How far now to the hospital at Draguignan?' he asked the gendarme driving.

'Fourteen, fifteen kilometres. Five, six minutes at most.'

Gerome hadn't at any time regained consciousness, and Dominic started to think of the many equally as unacceptable alternatives: coma, mental impairment, paralysis… a pall of hopelessness descending as he took in the full horror of his son's shattered, bloodied body. He scrunched his eyes tight, and suddenly he had an image of Gerome as a young child, playing in the sea, and him lifting Gerome above a wave that threatened to swamp him… lifting him out of danger and planting kisses on his smiling cheek as Gerome shrieked with excitement, feeling the slight tremble in Gerome's small body. And he wished he could do that now, just lift him free of the danger. But as he opened his eyes he was back with the stark flashing glare and horror, blurred now from his tears welling.

Seeing his anguish, Monique commented: 'We'll be there soon.'

Her first words since asking 'Is he going to live?' as her initial wailing panic had subsided. Dominic had responded hastily, Yes,' not even thinking whether he might be lying. Reflected his wish in that moment more than what he believed.

Minutes later, as they burst through swing doors at Draguignan hospital with Gerome alongside on a gurney led by two medics, Dominic's mobile phone started ringing. He didn't answer it. His other life as a policeman could wait a while. All that mattered was Gerome.

Guy Lepoille viewed the photo sent from Contarge at Le Figaro on his computer screen. He'd asked Contarge to send through a scanned image by modem to Interpol's X400 server so that he could pull it up.

A few keyboard taps and he blew it up to 4x image enlargement, cropping in on the number plate. As Contarge mentioned, all visible except the last two numbers. He deliberated for only a second before deciding to put out the nationwide alert first. He phoned through to NCB Division II, from where it would be routed through to Interpol National and within minutes would be broadcast to regional stations and police cars throughout France.

Then he dialled Dominic's number. Tell him the good news: everything was already in motion, the hunt for Duclos was on in earnest. But the number rang without answering.

Lepoille looked back thoughtfully at his computer screen as he hung up. Those last two numbers bothered him. Some impressive image recognition equipment had been installed the past few years by Division 4, primarily for counterfeit bill or art theft and fraud detection. If he put the image through its paces, he wondered if he might pull up the last two numbers.

A 1 or a 4, a 3 or an 8? All Lepoille could make out were vague shadows. He enlarged to 16x magnification and started piecing together the likely shape that the blurred dots remaining might have taken. Then he asked the computer for percentage likelihoods for each suggestion. After seven minutes, he had an 83 % on a 4 on one number and 74 % on an 8 on the other, with all other choices scoring less than 10 %. Full house! Got the bastard. Lepoille let out a little yelp and clapped his hands, causing a few people in the computer room to look over.

Lepoille put through an update to the NCB division, then tried Dominic again.

Duclos sat in the car park of the motorway services at Brignoles-Cambarette.

As he'd raced up to the N7 junction only two kilometres from Fornier's farmhouse, he'd had to decide quickly what to do. He didn't want to head straight for the airfield, there was almost an hour to spare and, besides, if Fornier was following, the last thing he wanted to do was lead him straight there!

But which way to head? He hadn't seen any lights turn out, but what if the realization hit Fornier a minute later and he decided to give chase?

He decided on west, heading deeper into France; east towards Nice and the Italian border would be the more obvious choice for anyone following. Five kilometres along some headlamps looming up quickly in his rear-view mirror worried him, and he took the E80 motorway turn-off. They didn't follow. He continued heading west and a few kilometres further on pondered what to do. He didn't want to head too far away from the airfield, yet didn't want to stop on the hard shoulder: too open, too conspicuous for any passing police cars. He also needed a main junction turn off in order to turn and head back the way he'd come.

It was then that he'd decided on the next motorway services at Brignoles-Cambarette. Another twenty-one kilometres, it would take him less than ten minutes and only be fifteen-sixteen minutes away from the airfield.

Duclos looked at his watch: 9.23 pm. Sixteen minutes into his thirty minute wait in the car park. It had felt like a lifetime. He'd parked at the very back of the car park where few people passed and might notice him. Only two cars had so far come around the back in search of parking spaces, and he'd ducked down out of sight.

He could see the hub of activity of people parking and entering the service complex of shops and restaurants forty metres ahead. He'd parked facing so that he'd be forewarned of anything suspicious, any out of place movements or cars approaching. His nerves had bristled as a police car approached — but it went straight through without hardly pausing.

Looking on at the activity, the hustle, bustle ahead — brought home to him more acutely the fugitive, the outcast he had become. Mothers and fathers with their children, young couples, old couples, teenagers, people on holiday from the north — dining, buying souvenirs and gifts, grabbing a few snacks and groceries. A tableau, a microcosm of life in France — and he was sitting outside it all, alone in the dark at the back of the car park.

Sitting outside their merry little circle… in the same way that he had sat outside Betina's and Joel's life all through the years. Damn them! Betina. Joel. Corbeix. Fornier… especially Fornier! 'Damn the lot of you!' Duclos shouted, sure that his voice had carried no more than a few metres away; nobody had heard him.

Perhaps that was why Fornier hadn't re-appeared to chase him. Brossard had been lying in wait, had already blasted the wife and then the son — and then put a hole clean through Fornier as soon as he appeared. The thought put a thin smile on Duclos' lips. The first all day.

Ker-vrooom… bap… bap! Duclos jumped, his heart pounding, eyes darting sharply towards the sound: five cars to the right, battered old Opel, bad exhaust by the sound of it. Duclos' nerves slowly settled back as he watched it pull out and away, but he was still anxious that he hadn't noticed anyone approach. They must have come from the petrol pumps to one side and circled around the back. He would have to be more alert. He could have looked up to see a gendarme standing by his side window.

But in the remaining minutes, though he was more vigilant in keeping an eye on all directions, the incident had unnerved him. The events of the day had slow-boiled his nerves, but it was as if the car starting had suddenly turned the flame up high.

Each sound — leaves rustling, a car door slamming rows away, footsteps on gravel in the distance, voices by the main service's entrance — cut straight through him, his nerves thrumming like taut piano wire. His hands were shaking, his palms sweaty. He steadied them on the steering wheel only to discover that his whole body was trembling.

Duclos slowly closed his eyes. The sounds ahead, the people milling around, the succession of cars passing in and out — everything seemed to be closing in. There was a ringing in his ears, a dull ache at the back of his head. Even when he opened his eyes again, he could hear his own pounding pulse.

He suddenly felt the way he had earlier in the service cafe — that someone among the throng ahead would see him, pick him out sitting in the shadows at the back of the car park, and start walking towards him, pointing. And suddenly there would be a crowd following, all pointing, shouting: Duclos. Duclos!

His face would have been on news bulletins at least twice by now. He shook his head, tried to shake off his clawing fear. The only thing which helped was looking down upon them, clinging to the moral high ground which he felt had separated him from the masses over the years. Look at them! Non-descript rabble. He'd done so much for them, for France. And now they'd turned their backs on him. As far as he was concerned they could all rot. Perhaps he would be better off in South America.

But within minutes the trembling was back, a pounding in his head that said Go, Go… Get away! As far from the rabble as possible. As if they might be unpredictable — a Bastille mob that could suddenly turn and steal away his escape at the last second.

He hastily started the Peugeot and headed away — four minutes earlier than originally planned. He looked at the people receding in his rear view mirror and let out a long slow sigh, fighting to relax again, swallowing back the butterfly nerves and nauseousness rising in his stomach. Picking up speed on the slip-way to re-join the motorway, he didn't notice the police car he'd seen earlier, now parked on a ramp to one side — he was busy looking at the approaching traffic.

One of the gendarmes only noticed the blue Peugeot at the last minute — they too were more pre-occupied with the oncoming traffic. But he was unsure, and by the time he'd confirmed the registration with his central dispatch as the one broadcast earlier, the Peugeot was out of sight. Dispatch would radio ahead.

'What here… here near Vidauban?'

Dominic's tone was incredulous, disbelieving. The second time his mobile had rung he'd answered, and Lepoille had told him about them coming up with Duclos' car number: the newspaper photo ploy had worked and a nationwide search was already in full swing. Great. Good news. Well done.

But now with this second call from Lepoille twenty minutes later it hit him that the chase had been brought to his doorstep! 'Why? What on earth is he doing down here?'

'No idea. The sighting we have, the only one so far, was from near Brignoles.'

'Which way is he heading?'

'West — towards you. He's on the E80 motorway and should hit the junction down the road from you just past Le Luc in no more than eight or nine minutes.'

Perhaps some sort of meeting to pay off Brossard was the only explanation Dominic could think of. And then the image suddenly flickered back from his subconscious: a blue Peugeot parked up on the road side, a distant face caught for a split second in the stark glare of the spotlights — Duclos! Duclos had been waiting by the approach to his house while Brossard was inside! The fleeting image so totally out of place at the time, it hadn't registered. The last place he'd expected Duclos. But why was Duclos now heading back towards him rather than away?

'…That was why I'm calling now,' Lepoille said. 'You're the nearest car north of the junction.'

Suddenly it hit Dominic with a jolt what they wanted: to join the chase, help apprehend Duclos! At any other time, he would already be running for his car, but not now. Not while his son's life was still hanging in the balance in the next room. 'But I left a squad car at the farm at Vidauban. What about that?'

'I don't know. The closest cars that could be raised apart from you was one heading south just past Puget-Valle — which was turned straight around — and another seven kilometres into the E-80 heading east from the Le Luc junction. They've been told to stay where they are. The next turn off is almost eighteen kilometres — they wouldn't get back in time to cover the junction.'

Either one could be the cars sent earlier to Vidauban, Dominic reflected. But Lepoille obviously didn't know about the drama at the farmhouse. On Lepoille's first call he'd mentioned where he was, but not why: too personal, the conversation would have become maudlin. Dominic had been sitting next to Monique on the nearest hospital corridor bench to Emergency. But after the first few words, he stood up, started pacing away. With what she had on her mind now, insensitive for her to be bothered with police logistics. 'But the Puget-Valle car — won't they make it up to the junction in time?'

'No — they'll be about five or six kilometres short. You won't make it to the motorway junction by then either, but you should be able to make the N7 junction easily. That will effectively cut Duclos off from heading east on the N7 or north through Grasse. With the motorway and south already covered — we'll have him cornered!'

Impossible choice. Desert Monique and Gerome at such a moment, or let the man who had wreaked these horrors on his family escape? The thought of Duclos so close made his adrenalin surge with a mixture of anger and excitement: the prospect of personally hunting down Duclos felt somehow fitting. Right. But he couldn't… just couldn't. 'Isn't there another car you can send?' Dominic's voice was pleading, desperate.

'No, afraid not. We've already checked all the options.

Dominic was half turned away, and glanced back as he sensed Monique looking over more pointedly. Seeing the pain and anguish etched deep in her face made the decision for him. Long sigh. 'I'm sorry. I just can't do it.' Dominic briefly outlined the events at the farmhouse. 'Gerome's still in emergency — we're waiting on news any minute. I just can't leave now.'

'I'm sorry, Dominic. If I'd known, I wouldn't have asked.'

'It's okay, how could you know. Look, let me know how-'

'If you don't go — will he get away?' This from Monique, cutting in.

'I'm sorry, I-' For a second Dominic was confused, not sure who to address first. Then: 'Guy — I'll call you back in a second.' Monique's expression was taut. Fobbing her off with a lie seemed pointless: the N7 was one of Duclos' main escape route options. Dominic shrugged. 'Yes, I suppose so. He might.'

'And this is the same man responsible for Christian and now Gerome?'

'Yes.' Flat tone. One word denoting so much of her life's anguish.

Her jawline tightened. She contemplated the floor for a second before looking back at Dominic. 'Then I think you should go. I'm here for Gerome, and the doctors are doing their best. There's nothing you can do for him by staying.'

Dominic shook his head. 'No… no. I couldn't possibly leave you and Gerome at a moment like this. I wouldn't be able to face either of you squarely again, or myself for that matter. I can't go.'

Monique looked at him steadily, eyes piercing. 'And if Gerome should die — do you think it will be any easier to face me knowing that you've let the man responsible get away?'

Dominic felt the words like a knife. If she wanted to punish him for what had happened, that was it now: those words. But as he met her eyes, he could see that she was resolute, determined. Beyond the barb, she wanted him to go. Arguing looked futile. The same message he'd read before: get him, get him. Don't let him get away!

Dominic started to hit back with more protests, but Monique was insistent — practically screaming at him to go as she became frantic that vital seconds were being lost. With a last defeated shrug and an elicited promise from Monique that she call him the second there was any news on Gerome — he turned hastily away, already dialling out to Lepoille.

Monique closed her eyes, a tear rolling down one cheek. Gerome near death, and it had sounded as if she partly blamed Dominic. But she knew that if she hadn't taken that stance, he wouldn't have gone. She could live without seeing justice done — had already done so for so many years — but Dominic? Despite his protests, she could see that part of him desperately wanted to track down Duclos, exact justice. She'd seen it in his indecision on the phone, in the hunted, frantic look in his eyes when he discovered Duclos was so close, the plea in his voice: '…Isn't there another car you can send?' She knew that until he caught Duclos, the past would never be fully laid to rest.

Monique looked thoughtfully at the closed doors of the emergency room. A cold, desolate chill crept over her. Once again she would be alone praying for the life of a son. Though this time at least the choice had been hers.

The first thrill, the anticipation of the chase hit Dominic as he felt the surge of his car engine powering away from the hospital. Then it built layer by layer as he continued his conversation by mobile with Lepoille and switched on his police radio to patch in and make contact with the other two vehicles: BRN 946 east of the Le Luc motorway junction, and TLN 493 heading north from Puget-Valle. Lepoille had already confirmed the Le Luc car was in position, so Dominic asked TLN 493 its current location.

Hoarse voice through airwaves surf: 'We're just about running parallel with Pignan — we should make it to the junction in about seven minutes.'

Dominic glanced at the map he'd spread out on the passenger seat. He spoke into his mobile. 'When do you expect Duclos to reach the junction?'

'About four or five minutes.'

Then back to the radio: 'Expect him to pass you at about four or five kilometres your side of the junction — if he's heading your way. Keep your eyes sharp then.'

Dominic clicked off the radio but kept the mobile on to Lepoille. He checked his speed: 152-154kmph. Parts of the road were winding and it was difficult to go faster. 'I should reach the N7 in about five minutes.' And Duclos was eight or nine minutes away from that point, he estimated: eleven kilometres beyond the motorway junction. He should be able to head Duclos off in plenty of time. 'I'll phone you again when I reach there.'

Dominic glanced again at the map, picturing their triangular formation as dots closing in. They had him! There was no way out. Almost unreal that after all these years he was finally so close. And now there was nothing tentative, venturesome about the case — they had Betina Duclos' testimony! They would throw away the key with Duclos.

So close. He felt the earlier rush of anticipation grow stronger as the trees and hedgerows flashed by in the stark beam of his headlamps… shadows marking his progress. Tombstones for Duclos. He hit a flat stretch and edged his speed up to 160kmph.

The past weeks of activity had left him tired and jaded. But now the adrenalin rush made him alert again, he could feel it touching every nerve end as he sped on, the kilometres starting to zip by… seven… six…

Dominic flicked the radio back on. He raised the motorway car, aware that Duclos would probably reach them first. 'He should be passing you in no more than two or three minutes if he's heading straight on. If so, give immediate pursuit and we'll radio ahead. Keep the airwaves open throughout.' He left a similar message with the second car heading north, but with a four minute timing.

Less than a minute later, as the N7 junction loomed ahead, he called Lepoille and brought him up to date. '…About two minutes now on the motorway, three if he's heading south.' Dominic turned at the N7, heading toward the motorway. Closing the triangle tighter. 'And maybe four minutes for him to pass me if he comes this way.'

Dominic tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, anxious as it came up to the minute mark for Duclos to pass the motorway car, then looked towards the radio as he silently counted down… fifty seconds… forty… thirty. At ten seconds he prompted: 'Anything yet?'

'No.'

Beats of silence: Forty… fifty… a minute over! Duclos must have headed south or was coming north towards him! 'TLN-493 — he could be heading down towards you. If so, he should be passing any second.'

'Okay.'

But his radio stayed obstinately silent as the seconds passed: a minute over heading south, two heading north. The chances that Duclos was heading his way increased, and Dominic slowed — honing in closer on each passing car: type, colour and finally number among the glare of oncoming headlamps.

Still silence from the radio.

Duclos must be heading towards him, he'd have reached either of the other points by now. Dominic pulled over at the first farm turning on a flat stretch and backed in so that he was side-on to the traffic, ready to turn out quickly.

Dominic's nerves tensed. Any second now: scrutinizing each passing car, looking ahead two and three cars at the first hint of shape and form on the horizon, lights and shapes becoming a blur, headlamp star bursts as his eyes watered… Come on… come on!

He knew that if he saw Duclos now, there would be little subtlety left: he would just ram his car broadside and yank him out at gun point. But each car that at first looked hopeful, then finally when closer he saw wasn't Duclos, raised his panic another notch. And sunk him deeper into despondency; Duclos' smug face seeming to rise up increasingly out of each set of passing lights… fooled you… fooled you again!

Dominic made a final check with the other two cars: nothing. Then looked at his watch: 9.57 pm. Duclos wasn't going to show! Dominic became frantic. He banged his fist on the steering wheel. Where? For God's sake… where? He stared blankly at the map. They'd had Duclos cornered, and he'd disappeared into thin air!

There was hardly anything in the triangle left worth Duclos heading for: Le Luc and small nearby villages such as Le Cannet, a few small roads leading to farms. Unless Duclos had taken the N7 doubling back so that-

Dominic froze. Airfield! The small yellow square to the right of the triangle suddenly leapt out at him.

The TB20 Trinidad banked at 9,000 feet as it came over the last stretch of the Alpes Maritimes.

There was a thin cloud layer, ghostly mist racing towards them and clinging to the windscreen. Then after a minute they were through and the lights of the Cote D'Azur were ahead. The pilot started a descent to 6,000 feet as he prepared to bank again.

His passenger had hardly said a word throughout, and his presence had increasingly unnerved him. A stocky man in his late thirties named Hector whose Swiss French had an Italian or Spanish accent, wearing a padded leather jacket which made him look even bulkier. The only bit of good news was that Hector would be staying in Portugal with his pick-up. At least he would have the journey back without his company.

6,000 ft… 5,600… 5,200. He dropped in stages following the lights along the coast, then as he saw the lights of Toulon ahead, banked sharply for the final descent.

Darkness. All they could see was the shape of three grey hangars at the far end of the airfield and another two to their far right by a small office building. Nine aircraft in total: two to their right, four spread between the more distant hangars, and three on a flat tarmac area at the end of the main runway. But there were no lights, no movement or activity.

Dominic had arrived at the airfield at 10.02pm, a minute after the Le Luc car with two gendarmes. The driver, a sergeant named Pierre Giverny, informed him that it was much the same now as when he had arrived. 'Total darkness. No sign of activity.' What Giverny hadn't noticed as he'd pulled in was one of the three planes on the tarmac beyond the runway taxiing slowly, starting to move to position to take off. It braked and stood motionless as soon as his lights appeared. Duclos' car was out of sight, tucked behind the back of the furthest hangar.

Dominic was parked next to the gendarme's car: two sets of headlamps on full beam, probing expectantly into the darkness, though most of their effectiveness faded less than halfway along the main runway. Everything beyond was just vague, grey shadow.

'Perhaps I was wrong,' said Dominic. He looked thoughtfully towards the distant hangars and planes.

In the darkness of the plane's cockpit, Hector commented: 'Give them a moment more and they'll probably go.'

The pilot nodded with a pained smile. Hector had suddenly found his voice: police and night-time raids. Probably familiar ground.

Duclos consciously held his breath as he looked on at the figures in the distance, shadowy silhouettes alongside the headlamp beams. His nerves were racing out of control. One of the cars he was sure was Fornier's!

He saw the figures huddled together talking, looking towards them. A shiver ran up his spine, his whole body suddenly shuddering. Then after a second they turned, seemed to be making their way back towards their cars.

'See!' Whispered, almost breathless exclamation from Hector.

Duclos thought Hector might have been a navigator, until he'd slipped in the back when Duclos had first got in. Hector's presence behind him made him uneasy. A final soupcon of tension he could have done without after the mounting panic of the day. Duclos felt his stomach in knots, his nerves breaking close to the edge.

Dominic got back into his car, starting her up. He moved forward, starting to turn… then suddenly stopped. He looked thoughtfully back at the runway fifty metres ahead, its long expanse of darkness and the planes and hangars at its end.

'What's he doing?' Duclos hissed. A frozen silence with no answer between them in the confined darkness of the cockpit. Only slow breathing, waiting. Then: 'Oh God… Jesus!' As Duclos saw the lights straighten, start to head towards them.

'Go… Go!' Hector shouted. 'Get going!' He took out a gun and waved it, though the pilot was unsure if it was as a threat or to fire at the oncoming car.

The pilot started up and jolted forward, completing the turn quickly so that they were in line with the runway. Then he throttled up high, starting to roll forward furiously.

The car had almost covered the fifty metres of tarmac beyond, was approaching the beginning of the runway…

The plane shook and rattled as they picked up speed. The pilot knew that once the car had covered half of the runway, it would be too late, they would be blocked from take off. He bit at his lip. It was going to be close.

80… 90…. He watched the speedometer climb quickly to over 100 kmph. But he could see that the car had already covered almost quarter of the runway.

'Are we going to make it?' asked Duclos. He was trembling, though he wasn't sure if it was more fear of collision or them not getting away.

'I don't know.'

As the reach of the car's beam hit them, the pilot switched on his own lights. A stronger marker of their own presence, hopefully intimidating, a deterrent. The car seemed to falter slightly before picking up speed again. The second car had also now started following, was just touching the start of the runway.

'Don't worry,' Hector said. 'As soon as he sees we're serious, we're not stopping — he'll back off.' But his undertone wavered; even Hector now wasn't sure.

As the airplane lights hit Dominic, he'd braked slightly on impulse — it suddenly appeared more ominous, threatening — before steeling himself again.

His first intention had been purely to investigate the planes and hangars ahead, so one of the planes moving suddenly from the group had surprised him. Turning quickly to panic as he realized it was turning, positioning, was starting along the runway. Making a bid for escape!

He knew in that second with certainty that Duclos was inside.

If he could get close enough to block their passage, they would be forced to abort take off. But he could see now that they weren't easing back His own speed was edging over 90 kmph, and the plane was probably nearing 170, 180… rolling furiously towards take off.

The first twinge of fear gripped him. If they collided at that speed, there would be little chance of survival. But Monique's words rang in his ear: '… do you think that it would be any easier to face me — knowing that you've let the man responsible escape?' But it wasn't just Monique… the other faces long etched in his mind burned home stronger in the glare of the plane's lights… Christian, Machanaud… as if they too were somehow depending on him. No!.. No! He'd chased Duclos for too long, too many lives affected — he couldn't let him go now! He kept his foot down hard, powering on…

'He's crazy!' Hector screamed as the car lights raced towards them.

Duclos said nothing, was too afraid, his simmering panic of the day reaching a crescendo. Almost catatonic, a nervous dribble crept from the corner of his mouth, his whole body seeming to tremble in time with the shuddering of the plane as it screamed forward. The engine's roar, the fast approaching lights, the shaking and rumbling — a cacophony of sound and light which suddenly made him realize it was all going to end here. Here on this runway in a ball of flame! His whole body was bathed in sweat. But part of him perversely almost welcomed the oblivion — an end to all the panic and madness, the running and hiding and chasing. He couldn't go on any more! Nerves screaming: End it… Yes, end it! I can't face another second… A crooked smile crossing his face as it dawned on him that Fornier would also be consumed in the fireball.

'We're not going to make it!' the pilot screamed.

'Keep going… keep going!' Hector shrieked, pointing his gun. This time it was a threat.

Ninety metres… eighty… seventy… The distance closed rapidly between them.

Gerome… Monique. Duclos standing outside his house waiting to give the assassin his blood money! Dominic gripped the steering wheel tight.

The pilot suddenly saw a niche, a slim chance. If he turned a fraction at the last second, the car would hopefully sweep past under the wing. He looked to the side, judging height quickly. It would be close — but probably their only chance now.

A monster! All those lives. So much destroyed. Duclos escaping was unthinkable. Dominic headed straight for the airplane's searing lights.

The pilot tilted the wheel slightly to the right, and felt the first lift under the wings practically at the same second.

Forty metres… thirty…

Dominic saw the veering in direction almost too late to react, sudden panic that the plane might sweep past him and escape — and he turned the wheel sharply. Too sharply. He felt the back swing around and the car slide into a spin, tilting heavily. It skidded inexorably forward with tyres screaming for almost ten metres before the tilt finally verged into a sickening roll — and Dominic saw everything spinning… the plane's lights, the car roof and side window, the seat and floor, shards of glass suddenly showering down around him and swirling as he thought: Gerome… Monique!

The first roll of the car cut sharply into the side of the plane's windscreen view, but with the second roll the pilot could see the car was heading straight for them, its frame starting to fill the windscreen… but they were lifting… lifting... the nose edging up above the dark ominous shape.

The pilot felt the thud as the car hit something below them, then the violent shuddering and shaking through the joystick, fighting to keep control as the plane dipped and wavered. He thought for a second they were going to nose-dive straight down and crash, but the wavering quickly righted, they started to lift again.

Oh God… Monique! Dominic's last thought as darkness finally swallowed up the cataclysm swirling around him. If anything happened to Gerome and now him, she could never face it. She would be practically alone.

500 ft… 1,000. Steadily climbing, the lights of the coast starting to appear in the distance below. The pilot looked out briefly for damage. He could see fuel dripping back from below one wing and checked his gauge. It was probably a slow leak, but enough to stop them making it to Portugal. They might have to put down beforehand. But the thud had been one of the struts or possibly the landing wheel. If damage was bad, they might not be able to put down.

An electrical spark caught on the fumes from Dominic's carburettor, a small fire starting… but in his inner darkness all he could see was the single candle flame burning, flickering across Monique's gentle profile. And as the flames became more intense, starting to catch the dripping petrol all around him, he was back in the wheat field searching for Duclos. The gendarmes were tapping forward with their canes, but Poullain had ordered them to torch the wheat field ahead. He was sure that Christian's murderer was still hiding in the field, and the flames and smoke would help flush him out. But Dominic was also concealed among the long sheaves, on his knees searching for the coin as the flames came close, starting to lick all around him… growing panic as he felt the searing heat and realized the fire had surrounded him, there was no way out.

As the plane touched 2,000 ft, they saw the car's explosion in the distance below, as if someone had lit a runway bonfire to mark a landing point. A slow smile crossed Duclos' face.

As the explosion came, a jolt went through Monique's body. A feeling of dread as if something terrible had happened to Gerome in the emergency room at that second.

She looked up anxiously towards the emergency room doors, expecting a doctor to come out with a drawn face at any moment.

But with the passing seconds and nobody appearing, she went back to her silent prayers of the past hour, thinking: please… please. Not this second time. Surely God couldn't be so cruel as to let another of her sons die. It never occurred to her in that moment that her prayers should have been for Dominic.