His car was inconspicuous and didn't draw attention. Just one of countless thousands of blue Peugeot 505s nationwide, and the police probably hadn't been able to trace the registration. But he felt conspicuous, self-conscious himself, was desperately afraid people would recognize him. He'd stopped only once for petrol just after St Etienne and kept looking down as he went to pay at the counter. At the last moment he saw a baseball cap for sale to one side and grabbed it along with some sweets. The cap's peak would at least shield part of his face at future stops.
He hit the motorway again and at the Givors junction headed south. Speed steady between 120-130kmph. Not too fast to draw attention, but not too slow either. Still the occasional truck would push him over to the slow lane and rumble past.
Then it hit him: 6 pm! He glanced at his watch: 5.38 pm. At six, the main news bulletins would come on. The case had been in the press, but the only recent photo had been hazy and distorted through a car window. Few people would recognize him.
But for the main news that night, they'd probably have a full face portrait shot. From then on, he'd hardly be able to stop anywhere without being recognized. He'd planned originally to stop to eat later — but suddenly changed his plan. He pulled into the first motorway service station.
He chose a burger and fries at the self-service grill counter. The girl looked up at him and smiled, Merci. A baseball cap not too dissimilar to his own. A Have a nice day smile, or had there been a glimmer of recognition?
Duclos' nerves were racing by the time he paid and took his tray over to a table by the far wall. He took a seat facing the wall, his back to the restaurant. It was a large sprawling complex with supermarket, shops and a bar on a bridge structure spanning the motorway. A television was on in the bar area beyond the restaurant, but hardly anyone was at the bar counter paying it attention.
He let out a slow breath, tried to relax, eat his burger. It felt dry, difficult to swallow. His nerves had killed his appetite. But he forced himself, realizing that it might be his last meal for several hours. He laboured over each mouthful; it was like trying to chew and swallow cardboard.
He'd made the decision to head south just after Clermont Ferrand: he had to get to Provence before Brossard made the hits! If Brossard made the hits, he was sunk: Betina had overheard him order them!
Minutes after the thought hit, he'd stopped and phoned Brossard's number. Fifteen minutes later, when he'd stopped for petrol, he'd phoned again. Still no Brossard or message. Brossard was probably already heading towards the targets.
'I'll aim to do both tonight.' Obviously Brossard didn't want to risk the hits in daylight. Duclos looked at his watch. Two and a half hours of daylight left. If Brossard wasn't contactable, would he make it down there by then?
If he could get there in time and they never happened, he could claim it had been Betina's neurotic ramblings. Faced with just the rest — the tenuous coin and psychic evidence and the questionable testimony of two child pimps — Thibault could still pull a few rabbits out of the hat. Perhaps Brossard could make a deal with Vacharet: his life for silence. Faced with just Aurillet, their chances in court were good.
Options, angles. Play, counter-play. Duclos' thoughts bounced between hope and desperation, skittering along a tightrope of possibilities as a bleep-bleep crashed in abruptly. Two kids had started playing on a nearby space wars machine. Duclos was nervous with them so close, but they paid him little attention. Bleep-bleep… zap… crash. Bleep-bleep... It was more the noise that grated, bringing his already fevered nerves to boiling pitch.
His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He'd eaten two thirds of the burger and a third of the fries. He put the burger down; suddenly he couldn't stomach another bite. He remembered another restaurant from thirty years ago, staring out at the boot of his car… wondering what to do with the boy inside...
And suddenly everything else around came crashing in: the space wars machine, the clatter of plates and cutlery, the noise and bustle… the news report coming up on the TV. People standing up and pointing, shouting: it's Duclos… Duclos! He's there… over there! The child murderer!
Duclos stood up abruptly, turned away. He was dizzy, disorientated for a moment, wasn't sure what he should be doing next. He felt like screaming help… Help!… out loud above the bleep-bleep of the space machine and the general clatter and commotion.
He was shaking, chill sweat and goose bumps on his skin. He started making his way out hurriedly, away from the noise, the people… then stopped abruptly by the prepared food display. He knew that he couldn't go through this ordeal again of sitting in a cafe with people around. He grabbed five packs of wrapped sandwiches, three bags of crisps and a large bottled water and dumped them on the check out.
Wry smile from the girl at the mountain of food as she totted it up.
'Large family in the car,' he smiled back. But he was sure it came out wrong.
He could feel her eyes still on him as he moved away. He looked at his watch: 5.57pm. In a few minutes the news item would come up… and then everyone would be staring! A moment's recognition, and the girl would reach for the phone, start dialling the police…
Help. Help? It was then that he remembered Marchand's words: '… if you should feel the need for additional help. Just call. It's just so that you know that if the worst comes to the worst, you have friends out there. People who will help you.'
But he knew that he couldn't risk making the call to Switzerland from there, risk the news item coming up and someone grabbing his shoulder while he was still on the phone. And still he had to hope that he could make it down to Provence in time to stop Brossard.
The view along the Bussaglia coastline was breathtaking. Rugged and undulating mountains, a rich green shroud of Mediterranean pines clinging to sheer rock against the azure sea.
But Francois Vacharet hardly looked at the view from the villa's front terrace; his eyes were pinned to the short snake-like stretch of road far below. The only warning of a car approaching.
The road led to only nine villas. Courchon had already told him all the regular cars to expect: he'd written them down on a piece of paper. Any cars sighted not on the list and he would race in and warn Courchon — then head across the road. Twenty metres along steps meandered down the cliffside to a small shingle beach and a boat house cut in under the rock. Courchon would greet whoever it was, then come down and tell Vacharet when they had gone.
Vacharet had mentioned his concern about the other hit to Courchon. Duclos was out of control, partly unhinged.
Courchon hissed in breath sharply when he heard who the target was. 'Jesus. Could be trouble. Duclos doesn't have to live in Marseille, you do.' Courchon went on to explain the problem wasn't just with the police, but with the local milieu.
Vacharet's heart sank as he envisioned years on the run, of him having to sell his clubs and property without returning to Marseille. If he lived that long. For now, his main worry was surviving the next few days. Being stalked by the hit man he'd originally introduced? He might have found the irony amusing if he wasn't so desperately frightened. Brossard was an unstoppable killing machine. As far as he knew, had never missed a contract.