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.'