Past Imperfect

FOURTEEN

The small back room was insufferably hot. A ceiling fan swirled slowly, but Poullain could still feel his shirt sticking to his back. He adjusted a small swivelling desk fan so that its sweep cut across him more directly. The telephone rang.

It was Perrimond, the Aix Chief Prosecutor. 'I've had a chance now to think about this new information from Machanaud, and I think your assessment is right. It's a little too convenient that he should suddenly now remember an accurate description of the car. Has there been much mention of the car in Taragnon or Bauriac?'

'Not so much in Bauriac. But we visited quite a few shops in Taragnon and then the restaurant just outside where Duclos had lunch. The village is small, news spreads quickly, and Machanaud hits the bars heavily, spends half his time leaning on the counter swapping stories with barmen. I think that's how he picked up the description of the car.'

'Yes, yes. I would agree.'

A brief pause, flicking of papers from Perrimond's end. 'So what do you want me to do?' Poullain asked.

'It's up to you. But if you should decide not to ask Machanaud in to make the statement official on the basis the description has been manufactured from local gossip, I'd support that assessment.'

'I understand.' But he suddenly realized the decision was back with him; he'd hoped merely to provide background and let Perrimond decide. The desk fan cut a cool swathe of air across his chest. More papers turning, then, 'Oh, I had a call from Bayet, the Aix Mayor yesterday. Apparently, Marcel Vallon is quite a close friend of his. Mr Vallon expressed concern about the police questioning of one of his house guests, this Duclos character. Of course, this came a day before this new information, so I felt quite safe assuring that Monsieur Duclos had merely assisted with some information and was not in any way a suspect.'

The message was clear to Poullain: if they made the statement official, they would be duty bound to question Duclos again. Perrimond would have to backtrack on what he'd said and call the Mayor, the Mayor would have to call Vallon, and he'd have to go cap in hand when he phoned Vallon again to arrange a second interview, this time under far less hospitable circumstances. But he felt uncomfortable making the decision without more support from Perrimond. 'So you think it might be awkward to suddenly put Duclos back under the spotlight?'

'The awkwardness I can argue with the Mayor. This is a murder case and we have to do what's right and damn the awkwardness. But I would like at least to be armed with a good reason. If at the end of the day it couldn't possibly be Duclos because he was in a restaurant at the time, and if you're already suspicious that Machanaud has merely picked up on the car description from town gossip, I'd rather not make the call. I'd sound foolish. You just phone Vallon directly yourself for a second interview and be prepared for a cold blast of air, and I'll wait for the Mayor to phone again. And if and when he does, I'll tell him it's something routine regarding a sighting of Duclos' car. Nothing to worry about. Really, Poullain, It's up to you what you do.'

'I see.' It would be awkward. It would be foolish. It would serve absolutely no purpose because the person concerned was somewhere else at the time. There was only one sensible decision to be made, and it was now entirely his to make. No more clues or guidance. 'I think I made my views clear at the outset.'

'Yes you did. Now I've given you my input. I can only deliberate on details you present to me for prosecution, not how or why those details should be gained. While the case is still under a rogatoire general and not yet passed to the examining magistrate — it's an investigative matter. Your jurisdiction.'

Whichever way it went, he would never be able to say 'Perrimond made the recommendation.' He was on his own. 'I understand. If I should decide to pursue the matter, I'll call you first as a matter of courtesy. Let you know whether or not to expect another call from the Mayor.'

Perrimond mentioned that the warrant for Machanaud would be ready the next day and that he would be requesting a pre-trial for only three weeks time. 'Machanaud's defence — probably a standard State appointee — will no doubt try and push for anything up to two months. We'll end up somewhere between. How's the statement from this woman he used to live with coming along?'

'It will be typed up later, delivered tomorrow when we pick up the warrant.' Through Machanaud's old work place on the Carmargue they'd tracked down a divorcee with three children in le Beausset with whom he'd had a relationship. She'd had a child for him, a girl, but he'd disappeared when it was only three. She hadn't heard from him since, nor had a penny been sent for the child. The tale of bitter desertion, of his hard drinking and violent temper tantrums, lashing out at her and sometimes the children, had been an important breakthrough. Built a picture that Machanaud was not just a harmless oddball vagabond, he had a temper, was unpredictable and violent when drunk. 'It's quite a strong statement. I think she'll make a good witness on the stand.'

'Good.' The case against Machanaud was looking stronger by the day. That was where their energies should be concentrated; not wild goose chases with this Duclos and him having to fend off calls from the Mayor.

They arranged the time for collecting the arrest warrant for Machanaud, and Poullain commented: 'I should also by then have decided if there'll be any follow up on the car description and Duclos.'

'Very good. I'll see you tomorrow.' Perrimond bit lightly at his lip just after he hung up. The call had gone well, except at the end he realized he'd sounded too nonchalant; already confident of the decision Poullain would make.

Dominic finished his shift at 7.00 pm. He changed at home, fried two veal steaks, tossed some salad and fifty minutes later sat with his mother on the back porch, sipping some chilled white Bordeaux in the fading evening light. Pale pink, then crimson streaks along the skyline, finally ochre. In the last of the light, his mother asked if he was going to cut back the mimosa in the next few days.

He did most of the gardening now, she'd become too frail, and they'd talked about the mimosa the week before. But he'd just been too busy recently with the investigation; workload should be lighter soon. How was it going? she asked. He made light of it, didn't want to burden her with his disasters: that they were probably charging the wrong suspect and there was little he could do about it. He just said there were two strong suspects, but that evidence was light on the one he suspected the most. Difficult.

They talked about his older sister Janine and her husband possibly visiting from Paris at Christmas; she'd missed the previous Christmas and had come out at Easter instead. Her boy Pascal was now nine, her younger daughter, Celeste, just six. His mother surveyed the garden fondly, probably remembering her grandchildren running around playing earlier in the year. Then her eyes fell back to the tree and the mimosa. 'It's starting to get strangled. We shouldn't leave it too long.'

'Don't worry, this weekend or next I'll see to it.' The tree. As far as she was concerned, it might as well be the only one in the garden. A young tangerine tree now a bushy six foot high, his father planted it two years before he died. He saw its first blossom, but died before the November when it fruited. His mother viewed it now as a symbol: she'd seen two years full fruit, how many more would she witness from what her dear departed had planted? And now a nearby overgrown mimosa was threatening its continuing blossom and fruit, and she was too weak to cut it back.

It somehow seemed unjust that after a lifetime’s work and struggle, they'd moved to this quiet backwater in expectation of a long and peaceful retirement, and within four years his father was dead. Another two, and his mother was gravely ill.

Dominic lit a night light on the table as it became too dark and they sat like two lovers on their first date. Except that the stories swapped were old and familiar, fond memories. Perhaps one of the last chances.

Fading light. His mother's skin had a pale yellow translucency to it, looking now even more ghostly under the flickering candle light. He drank faster than normal, swilled away the unwanted thoughts; he was on his third glass to his mother's one before he even noticed. He started to mellow. The sound of cicadas and crickets added rhythm to the night, pulsed gently through his veins.

When his mother finally announced that she was tired and headed for bed, he felt suddenly restless. He sat only five minutes on the empty terrace before resolving to head back into town. She hardly made it past nine these days; the medication sapped her strength as much as the illness. Was this what it would be like when she was finally gone?Empty terraces by candle-light, Odette or some other simple shop girl with the right face and the right smile sat opposite just to fill the void. He needed another drink.

Louis' was half full. He sat up at the bar and Louis, after pouring a beer, asked if he'd seen Monique Rosselot again. Louis' interest was somewhere between the healthy curiosity he showed in any good looking village woman and genuine concern for how she was coping with her grief. Dominic hadn't seen her, nor anyone else from the gendarmerie as far as he knew. 'We probably won't now until the memorial service. There's been nothing new.' Somebody would probably have to see her straight after arresting Machanaud, tell her that a suspect had been arrested. But he couldn't tell Louis: news could too easily reach Machanaud on the village grapevine.

'I think a lot of people will be going to the service,' Louis commented.

'I know.' Originally shunned, now at least in her worst hour the village would be there for her. It took time to be accepted in Taragnon.

Louis gave him the latest from Valerie through the neighbours. Jean-Luc wasn't coming back from seeing his family for another day or so, might not even make it for the memorial service. Monique was distraught, awkward that she might have to be alone in front of the village. Tongues would wag: either that they were having problems or that he didn't care about his son's service. Both were far from the truth, Monique had protested to the Fievets, but that might be the impression given. Louis shook his head. Louis' distant, slightly glazed expression said it all: if Louis had a woman like that, he certainly wouldn't desert her at a moment like this.

They indulged in small talk, and it quickly came around to Odette and his love life. He had only seen Odette once since the investigation had started, had been too busy. But Louis was a master at reading between the lines when it came to romance, was astute enough to realize things weren't going well. The glazed look was back, broken prematurely by a renewed throng at the bar. Louis excused himself to serve. The cinema had just emptied out, and two tables in the corner had also filled. Louis was obviously going to be rushed, little time for more talk. After a few minutes Dominic knocked back his drink and said his good-byes to a suddenly harried Louis.

His first intention was to head home, but as the night air hit him, he decided on another drink. He aimed his bike for the Maison des Arcs bar two kilometres out of town. It was almost empty, just a few die-hards clustered at the bar. He stayed only for a quick beer and a play on their fruit machine, then went on to the Bar Fontainouille near Taragnon.

Just past eleven thirty when he arrived, this time he ordered a brandy. It was busy, though most of the noise and activity was towards the end of the room with a group of ten or eleven, mostly men, egging on whichever contestant they'd backed in a table football game. Among the noise and throng, it was a moment before he noticed Machanaud; though Machanaud was already staring at him, and he had the uneasy feeling that he probably had been doing so on and off from when he'd walked in. Machanaud raised his glass. Dominic nodded back and smiled.

He looked just as quickly away from Machanaud, as if he was partly listening in on a conversation of Henri the barman with a customer two bar stools away. In the corner of his eye he could tell that Machanaud was still looking over at intervals. He wondered if unconsciously he'd sought out Machanaud, he knew this bar was one of his regular haunts. See the suspect on his last night of freedom. Reconcile the image in his mind of the harmless vagabond and poacher with how Perrimond would soon portray him before a jury: woman and child beater, child molester, murderer.

Dominic wasn't convinced by the ex-girlfriend's statement, felt that Poullain had prompted too conveniently. She had a hard face, lined and worn and looking ten years beyond her thirty-five years. Struggling between absent fathers, state aid and part time cleaning jobs to keep food on the table for four children, the bitterness and scars showed in her mannerisms and speech. With Machanaud's illegitimate child she'd probably been unable to get aid. Then suddenly comes the chance of pay-back: 'We can't get you money, but we can get you retribution. Just say the right thing and we'll nail the bastard.' How often did a woman like that get the system working on her side?

The table football game was breaking up: money was changing hands, coins and notes being slapped on the table side, back patting and jovial abuse, someone suggesting that the loser join the paraplegic's league. Machanaud started singing a ribald version of Lili Marlene to the cheers of some colleagues.

Perhaps he would simply whisper in Machanaud's ear, 'Go and go now. Get far away. Come tomorrow afternoon there'll be no more chances. They're out to get you and there's nothing I can do to stop them.' Dominic wished now he hadn't come. He felt awkward, could hardly look Machanaud in the eye knowing what was coming the next day. He swilled the last of the brandy in his glass and knocked it back, was suddenly eager to get out. But it was already too late. Machanaud's voice had trailed off mid chorus, he was peeling away from his group and coming across. A swathe of black hair fell across his face, and he tilted his head as if to see better.

'And how is young Monsieur Fornier this evening?'

'Fine. I was just leaving. But can I get you one before I go?' He held out a 5F note to get Henri's attention.

In the same hand as a Gauloise, Machanaud held up a small tumbler with half an inch of pale amber spirit in the bottom. He passed the tumbler across the bar. 'I'll have another eau de vie, if that's okay.'

Dominic ordered and paid, and Henri poured in his normal elaborate style of pulling the bottle gradually further from the glass.

After taking the first swig, Machanaud commented, 'I suppose you'll all be over the moon with this new information.'

Dominic squinted quizzically at Machanaud. Surely the gossip network didn't work that quickly for him to already know about his ex-girlfriend's statement. And was he drunk enough to be sarcastic about his own downfall? 'I don't understand. What information?'

'The car. The car. I suddenly remembered what that car passing looked like. I came into the station two days ago and told your desk sergeant.'

'Who was that?'

'Didn't catch his name. Young chap, brown hair, slightly wavy.'

Briant or Levacher, thought Dominic. Why hadn't Poullain mentioned it?

'Can't be many Alfa Romeos like that, at least not in this area. You've probably tracked it down already, but don't want to say much. Salut.' Machanaud took a quick slug, knocked back half his eau de vie. Then he was suddenly thoughtful. 'Isn't that why you've asked me in tomorrow? Make the statement on the car official?'

Dominic's mind was still reeling. Duclos car! 'Yes, yes,' he answered hastily. Perhaps in all the confusion Poullain had overlooked mentioning it. The past days had been a nightmare of notes, typing statements, reports and filing for the arrest warrant. Or perhaps Poullain intended to mention it only once he had the full statement from Machanaud. Perhaps. It had been Dominic's suggestion to serve the warrant on Machanaud by asking him in to make another statement, rather than trying to serve it outside and risk a scene, fighting to subdue a handcuffed Machanaud all the way back in the car. Now he knew why Poullain had been so keen on the suggestion: Machanaud had expected to be asked in to make his car statement official.

Machanaud noticed Dominic's consternation and leaned over, whispering conspirationally, 'It's okay, if it's awkard to talk about it, I understand.'

Machanaud cut a pathetic image, smiling, probably thinking that half the local gendarmerie were busily tracking down the car that would solve their largest case in years, and he'd provided the vital clue. Totally unaware of the sword of Damocles hovering over his own head. Dominic felt a pang of guilt aiding Poullain's false pretence with the statement. Or was he missing something with Machanaud that Poullain and others saw?

Machanaud with one reassuring hand on Dominic's shoulder, smiling, the harmless poacher. Dominic smiled in return. Tinker, tailor, poacher, murderer. Machanaud leering, one hand raised with the rock to smash down on the boy's skull. Which was the right image? From the end of the room came renewed shouting and cheering. Two new contestants had stepped up to the table football machine. Beyond a plume of gauloise smoke, Dominic could smell the eau de vie on Machanaud's breath. Eau de mort. Water of death. Machanaud swilling down the boy's bloodstains from his clothing. Dominic shook the images away. The atmosphere in the bar was suddenly claustrophobic, suffocating. He stood up.

'Are you all right?' asked Machanaud.

'Yes, yes. Fine. It's just someone I should have seen, and I suddenly realized I might now be too late.' He looked at his watch: 12.06am. Officially, Poullain finished today's shift at midnight, but often he was still there up to half an hour afterwards.

Chapeau backed into a side farm track a hundred yards along from the main gates of the chateau on the opposite side of the road. Some trees and foliage mostly concealed his car, though he had a clear view of its main gates through a small gap. Two days before, when he'd first made the drive, he'd kept a discreet distance from the Alfa Romeo all the way from Marseille, especially on the quieter country road. On that first occasion he waited across from the chateau fifteen minutes.

Then spent the next day checking with the land registry and vehicle registration in Paris: the chateau was owned by one Marcel Vallon, one of the area's largest vineyard owners and wine producers. But the car was registered to Alain Duclos with a Limoges address. So this wasn't Duclos' family house, he was probably a family friend or business associate visiting.

Chapeau decided to return, see if Duclos was staying with the Vallons or whether two days ago had been just a one time visit. After half an hour he saw a Bentley leave, then a delivery van arrive fifteen minutes later. Then nothing for over twenty minutes. Chapeau was getting impatient, it was late morning and the heat was building up, he longed to get moving and get some air rush through the car's interior — when finally the green Alfa Romeo appeared. It was heading towards him!

He quickly ducked down out of sight, heard the engine drone pass, and raised up again. He counted three seconds, fired up the engine, waited for a Renault Dauphine to pass heading in the same direction, and pulled out.

Harrault was on desk duty and confirmed that Poullain was still in his office, getting ready to leave. Dominic decided to look through the desk register first, then talk to Poullain. Harrault flicked back the page, then stood to one side as Dominic ran one finger down the entries. Nothing. He was halfway through checking back through the entries when Poullain came out of his office.

He looked between Harrault and Dominic. 'I thought you'd finished a few hours back, Fornier. Looking for anything interesting?'

'Yes. I just bumped into Machanaud. He asked how our enquiries were going after his statement about the car.'

Poullain met his stare for a moment, then nodded towards his office. It was obviously going to be awkward discussing this openly in front of Harrault. As soon as the door was shut behind him, he questioned, 'So. What is the problem?'

'I don't see anything entered in the register.'

'And you won't. Not until I've discussed the development fully with Perrimond.'

'But Machanaud came in two days ago.'

'If he'd come in five or six days ago, or mentioned it on one of our first interviews, it might have been different.' Poullain walked around his desk, stood to one side of his seat. 'Think about it, Fornier. We've been asking about sightings of his car at bars and shops throughout Taragnon. Half the village has probably heard about it. And suddenly, miraculously, Machanaud remembers what it looked like. Don't be so naive! Machanaud has picked up on the description from village gossip.'

'Is that what Perrimond thinks?'

'No, it's what we have both discussed at length as a distinct possibility. He'll no doubt tell me what he thinks tomorrow.'

Dominic shook his head. 'Regardless of what we think, it should be taken as a full statement and entered in the register. We can interpret it any way we wish after that.'

Poullain was keen to keep some distance in the argument, a pending decision from Perrimond gave him someone detached to blame. 'I have to take Perrimond's guidance as prosecutor. If the statement is so obviously false, is not heading anywhere concrete, there's no point. I can't force him to pursue it. Also, we would probably then have to question Duclos again — an additional waste of investigative time we can ill afford.'

'Perhaps it wouldn't be such a waste of time. If we mention his car has been sighted, put him on the spot, his story might change. Something new might come to light.'

Poullain stared dully at Fornier. So they were back again to Fornier's groundless suspicion of Duclos. When he thought about Perrimond's concern about the mayor's call, the whole messy background he was stealthily avoiding mentioning, the eagerness in Fornier's voice was almost laughable. 'And what is going to change? All the waiters who saw Duclos while the attack took place are suddenly going to say they were all wrong. They didn't see Duclos. Or is Duclos going to do it all for us and just say that the waiters were all lying. He wasn't in the restaurant at the time. Wake up! It's not going to happen. There's no point in us even going through the exercise.'

'Is that your assessment or Perrimond's?'

Poullain stared back icily. 'Both!'

It was already clear the answer that would be coming the next day, thought Dominic. The statement wouldn't be made. 'Then I don't agree with it.'

Dominic noticed Poullain openly flinch; then his head cocked slightly, as if he hadn't heard properly, his eyes darting fleetingly across the desk top for explanations before looking up again. The surprise showed in his face. In their previous disagreements over Duclos, Dominic had always given way.

For a moment Poullain looked undecided how to rise to this new challenge. Then at length he exhaled audibly and waved a hand to one side. A dismissive gesture, as if the whole affair was suddenly unworthy of his emotions. 'And what exactly do you propose to do?'

'If the decision is made not to take the statement, then as the assisting investigative officer, I would like my disagreement of that action recorded.'

'Are you sure that's what you wish to do? You're aware of its seriousness.'

Dominic felt uncomfortable under Poullain's intense glare, his heart pounding heavily. But he'd gone too far to back down again now. His mouth was dry as he stammered, 'Yes.'

Poullain stared at him a moment longer, then sat down and rubbed his forehead with one hand. Fornier obviously wasn't going to budge, was forcing the issue to its limit. The procedure, normally used only in extreme cases, was to protect officers who felt that a line pursued in an investigation might later reflect badly on their career records; once filed, the complaint would no doubt end up on his area commanding Colonel's desk in Aix. All manner of awkward questions and complications could arise. Faced with that, perhaps it would be easier to take Machanaud's statement and visit Duclos again, regardless of the fact that it was all a waste of time. Do everything by the book. Perrimond would just have to put up with another call from the Mayor. Poullain sighed. 'Is there anything else?' He looked up only fleetingly, his annoyance evident.

'No.'

'Then I'll make your thoughts known to Perrimond when I visit him tomorrow and pick up the arrest warrant. You stay here in case I'm not back before Machanaud arrives.'

'What shall I tell him if you're not back by then?'

'Tell him you think it's for a statement, but you won't know for sure until I arrive.' Poullain forced a tight smile. 'If you get your way, you'll be partly telling the truth.'

Chapeau sat in a cafe in a side street just off Marseille's Rue St Ferreol. Duclos' car was parked twenty yards along in the same road, he could just see its back bumper, was ready to mobilize quickly if it moved, coins already on the table for the black coffee and brandy chaser he was drinking.

At one point following Duclos from the Vallon estate, he thought of giving up. The road headed towards Aix and Marseille, but most interesting of all it went through Taragnon, the village where the boy was found. For a while he toyed with the enticing possibility that Duclos might stop in Taragnon, perhaps even re-visit the old crime scene — but Duclos headed straight through the village. Shortly after, when Duclos took the Marseille rather than the Aix road, it struck him that Duclos might be visiting Vacheret's for one of his young boys. He decided to continue following.

They were parked close to the main shopping area, and the Panier district and Vacheret's establishment were over a mile away. He'd followed to the corner and seen Duclos head in the opposite direction towards the Opera and the Palais de Justice, before deciding to find himself a cafe in the small side street and car sit. He'd been there now forty minutes and this was his second coffee and brandy.

Where was Duclos? Shopping no doubt: buying designer shirts and silk underpants, or whatever gay paedophiles liked wearing. Or perhaps a quick stroll in the Puget gardens, sitting on a park bench and feeding the pigeons while surreptitiously getting his jollies by watching young boys in shorts play with a football. People like Duclos made him sick. Clean on the outside, dirty inside, and with the cheek to look down their noses at people like himself. He might be a thug and a killer for hire, but there was no pretence. What you saw, you got. No false labelling.

He sharply knocked back another slug of brandy to quell his growing anger. Little shit. Feeding him a false line to commit a murder that would have had half the gendarmes in the Var hunting him down. The irony and sheer joy of stiffing Duclos for the 7,000 francs was already waning. He wanted more, much more. If he'd actually gone through with the murder, he would have probably killed Duclos straight after collecting the money; followed him out into the country lanes beyond Aubagne, pulled up alongside at the first deserted crossroads, pumped two bullets through Duclos head, and drove on. Bliss.

It had still been a tempting proposition following Duclos to the Vallon estate that first time. But he was glad now he'd shown restraint. If he was patient, nurtured it well, this could turn out to be a long and profitable association. A meaningful relationship. No point in fucking Duclos on the first date. He had been disappointed to discover that Duclos wasn't part of the Vallon family, that would have been a remarkable pot of gold to strike so quickly. But he was obviously a family friend, perhaps came from a similar moneyed background. Waiting and watching, he would soon know.

Chapeau suddenly pushed back from the table, almost spilling his coffee. Duclos was passing! Heading for his car. Chapeau was poised to stand up and head out, and pointed to the coins on the table for the benefit of the concerned waiter looking over.

Duclos put a shopping bag in his car, leant over, re-arranged something in the back seat for a moment, then straightened up and locked the door again. He started heading back down past the cafe. Chapeau turned away from the window, looked back towards the bar until Duclos was past, then got up and went out. He hovered by the doorway for a few seconds, until Duclos was about eighty yards ahead and almost at the end of the road, then followed.

He saw Duclos turn right this time, heading towards La Canebiere and the old port, with the Panier not much further on. Perhaps Duclos would end up at Vacheret's after all. Along Rue St Ferriol towards La Canebiere, the shops gradually became smaller and seedier. Cheap souvenirs and cards, carved wood and ivory, beads and caftans, goat skin drums, a delicatessen with goat's cheese and couscous. They might as well be in the kasbah. Half the shopkeepers and people passing were North African.

At La Canebiere, Duclos turned left towards the old port, past the quayside cafes and the Hotel de Ville. A brief respite of nice cafes and shops, people dining out and looking out over the kaleidoscope of brightly painted fishing boats in the harbour. Then they turned into the winding Panier back lanes: dark and narrow cobblestone streets, washing strung at intervals between the dank stone buildings to catch what few shafts of sunlight filtered through. Some yorrelling in the distance, a radio playing the latest hit from Morocco: wavering pipes and strings that sounded like cats being strangled.

An old man in a black djellabah passed Chapeau and, on the corner, in front of a small cafe with a beaded curtain entrance, a young Moroccan was trying to sell lottery tickets. Wearing a stained pale blue shirt, black trousers and flip-flops, his watery eyes behind dark glasses stared distractedly at the corner gable of the house across the street. Chapeau doubted that he was really blind, and listened hard beyond his repetitive sales chant for Duclos' footsteps in the next street. Finally he picked it up: to the left, thirty, forty yards down. He waited a second before following.

As Duclos took the next right hand turn, Chapeau realized he was heading for Vacheret's. At the end was a short street that wound up some steps, with Vacheret's not far along in the next street. Chapeau kept a block behind, hidden around the corner, waiting until Duclos had receded deeper into the street before walking in. By the time Chapeau reached the start of the steps, Duclos was already at its top, turning left towards Vacheret's. The short street was deserted: one side was a half demolished building, the other the blank stone side of a building plastered with posters. Two cats scavenged around a group of rubbish bins at the top of the street. Now that he knew Duclos was heading for Vacharet's, he might as well head back. But he was suddenly curious to see how long Duclos stayed: twenty minutes, it could be a simple business meeting. Forty or fifty minutes and he was probably with one of the young boys.

Chapeau decided to wait it out, found a bar not far around the corner with Vacheret's a hundred yards further up on the opposite side. It was a small and seedy bar; sawdust over cream and terracotta patch tiling. The barman was fat and wearing an orange T-shirt two sizes too small. From his accent, he was a local Marseilles, though over half the bar were North Africans: two men playing checkers in the corner, two at the bar, and a group of local workmen in blue overalls at another table. The radio was playing Tony Bennett. The barman poured the brandy Chapeau ordered.

Chapeau waited.

An easy listening station, Edith Piaf, Bert Kampfaet and Frank Sinatra followed. A minah bird in the corner chirped in on every other chorus. Chapeau wondered how the Moroccans liked Frank Sinatra: after cats being strangled, it must sound like golden syrup. It was his kind of music, but the accompanying minah bird and the sounds of checkers being banged down to grunts and shouts started to grate on his nerves. Half the afternoon he'd spent tracking this prick Duclos. And now Duclos was probably in some lavish back room with potted palms, getting sponged down by one pre-pubescent boy while getting his rocks off with another, while he sat in a bar surrounded by grunting Moroccans and a minah bird singing along to Frank Sinatra. Great. His hand gripped tightly at his glass. He looked at his watch: almost thirty minutes. Ten minutes more and he'd leave.

But minutes later, already thinking ahead to the other pieces of the puzzle he'd like to put into place with Duclos, an idea struck him, a smile slowly crossing his face. Perfect. His initial gloating gradually gave way to the worry that it was almost too good, too cheeky, it must somehow be flawed; but after chewing it over some more between brandy slugs, he saw few pitfalls. At the same time it might also get rid of some of his pent up anger and frustration with the little turd. All he had to do was keep close to the end of the bar, look out at an angle until he saw Duclos emerge, then head out a moment beforehand. He put some change on the bar to cover the brandy, ready for a quick exit.

Chapeau sat through Billie Halliday, Maurice Chevalier, Mario Lanza and Brenda Lee, with minah bird accompaniment and checker-slapping percussion, before Duclos finally emerged.

Chapeau stepped out briskly, he was at least eighty yards ahead of Duclos, and hoped and prayed that Duclos didn't suddenly recognize his profile from behind. Ten yards more, six, two… he ducked around the corner sharply, taking the steps almost two at a time, now at a half run. He stopped thirty yards down, eyeing up an open doorway in the derelict building for suitability a second before stepping inside. He went two yards in, stepping over the rubbish piled up. And waited.

The sound of Duclos' footsteps came after a minute. The short street was deserted; Chapeau prayed that nobody else suddenly came into it. A sudden sound from behind. Chapeau jumped, wheeling sharply around to see a cat pulling at a rubbish bag. Its eyes met his for a second in the semi-darkness, then it scampered off. Chapeau's nerves settled back.

Duclos was close. Very close. Footsteps almost upon him.

Chapeau held his breath low, shallow — and as soon as Duclos' profile came into view, he stepped deftly from the shadows and struck out quickly. A right fisted blow to Duclos' cheek. Duclos hadn't seen him, had only started to turn towards the approaching sound as Chapeau's ham fist connected.

Chapeau swung again, hitting Duclos nose from the side this time, feeling the bone crunch and seeing the blood spurt as Duclos crumpled and fell. This felt good. Chapeau got in a quick left to the stomach as Duclos was going down, then as Duclos hit the ground and lay prostrate on his side, all that was left was to kick. He managed one to Duclos' groin before Duclos rolled over and put his hands down, then made do with two swift kicks to his kidneys.

Duclos started to look back up towards his attacker, so Chapeau pushed one hand against the side of Duclos face, jamming it hard against the ground. Half kneeling now, he took out his gun, a Heckler amp; Koch 9mm, and slid it next to his hand against Duclos' cheek. Duclos' eyes shut tight as the cold steel of the barrel pressed home. Chapeau cocked the chamber. The eyes scrunched tighter, a breathless 'non' escaping. Chapeau savoured Duclos' fear a moment longer before un-cocking and releasing the pressure. Then deftly flipped the gun in the same motion and swung the butt twice sharply against the side of Duclos' ribs; and again lower to his kidneys and stomach. It was a measured attack. He didn't want to kill Duclos: just enough to make him walk like an old man for a week and piss blood.

Chapeau reached across and took out Duclos' wallet from his inside pocket. Straightening up, he gave one farewell kick to Duclos' groin. Keep him away from the young boys for a few weeks. Then he slipped his gun back inside his jacket and scampered off down the steps to the receding groans from Duclos, which brought a smile to his face.