Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Delombre was in a mood to kill. At the top of his list was Rocco, the interfering cop he’d underestimated so badly. That realisation alone was like a savage worm eating away inside him, knowing that he should have been better than this. How could he have allowed himself to be beaten so easily? He should have been back in Paris by now, reaping the benefits of a job well done, instead of fleeing like an escaped prisoner into a land of bogs and water, of cow pastures and ploughed fields, where the eyes of every inbred country yokel would be on the lookout, hoping for a reward by bagging him.

He swore bitterly as he stumbled in the darkness, his city shoes useless on the slippery grass, and felt the sticky moisture of God knew what sort of filth seeping over the rims to wet his feet. Right alongside Rocco and sharing in his hate was Levignier, the willing architect of this whole plan, and Girovsky, the scheming money man and whining little Pole who stood to gain most, even though the initial idea had failed. No doubt he would even now be insinuating himself alongside those other industrialists in Bessine’s team, to grab a share of the proceeds from the talks with Taiwan, a born survivor.

He felt a pain in his chest, and slowed his mad dash; it wasn’t the agony of injury, however, that was hurting, but the more vicious bite of resentment and failure. Of knowing he had allowed himself to be sucked into a world he knew nothing about, where silky words and veiled promises counted for everything … and nothing.

He had, quite simply, backed the wrong horse.

He stopped for a moment to look back across the field to the house. Flickers of movement showed against the lights flaring from the building. It wasn’t much, but enough to tell him that going back wasn’t an option. The building was now lit up like a carnival, and more men would be arriving as they called up reinforcements. The chance of stealing a vehicle now was remote at best.

He was now the object of a manhunt.

He scanned the darkness, hoping to see a sign of the other guard, Jean-Pierre. The man had been the first to run, which had come as no surprise. Too full of himself to be truly experienced in close-quarter combat, the coward had buckled the moment real bullets had started to fly.

Delombre moved deeper into the dark, and smelt water nearby, rank and tangy. He trod carefully, and realised he was by the canal he’d seen on the first night he’d come here. He conjured up a mental picture of the map he’d used while planning his entry to the area, and worked out the position of the lake on the other side of the canal, with the lane he’d followed on the moped somewhere off to his right. He debated going that way, but ruled it out; the cops would have it covered. Instead, he recalled the map showing details of two small farms, one near where he’d dumped the moped.

Farms meant vehicles; it was his only way out of here.

He veered to his right and saw the shadow of a bridge against the water. Once he was over this, he’d be away from the road with no way back. But his instincts pulled him towards open country, where he knew he could hide more effectively than any search party could uncover him. If Rocco or any of his men came too close, he’d make them regret it.