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.