Chapeau looked down at the number on the dial and read it out. 'Five minutes, no more. Or I'll be phoning your office back again.' He hung up.
Duclos made a quick excuse to his secretary about seeing a client on the third floor, he wouldn't be longer than twenty minutes. He headed out along the long corridor, then skipped down instead of up. By the time he reached the main Palais de Justice steps, he was practically at a run.
Chapeau picked up the phone on the second ring. Less than three minutes: impressive. Duclos was even keener than he thought.
'Okay, what do you want?' Duclos' voice came breathlessly.
Obviously no patience left for preamble or politeness, thought Chapeau. What was the world coming to? 'Luckily for you, it looks like they're nailing some poor local poacher for what you did to that young boy.' Chapeau listened intently over the static on the line for Duclos' reaction.
A short intake of breath. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
Chapeau had no time for fencing. 'Look, I know all about the boy in Taragnon. I saw the whole story in the papers. And I know that there's no friend. It was you — you attacked him, and that was why you wanted me to finish him off in the hospital. You were afraid he'd awaken and identify you.'
'You're wrong. It was for my friend. And I know nothing about Taragnon — my friend told me the boy was from Marseille.'
Chapeau read the bluff, could pick up on the tremor at the back of Duclos' voice. If there was any slight doubt remaining, now he was certain. There was no friend: Duclos had killed the boy. But he would have to push hard to get Duclos to admit it. 'Come on, Duclos. You've got a weakness for the young boys, you're a regular customer at Vacharet's. You want me to believe that this friend of yours has got exactly the same problem. And you drive straight through Taragnon on your way from the Vallon Estate to Aix.'
'So does my friend. Whether you believe me or not doesn't really concern me.' Flatter, calmer voice now. 'You seem to be forgetting along the way that the boy was still alive in the hospital. You're the one who killed him. You can't tell your little theory to anyone without incriminating yourself.'
Chapeau allowed Duclos his glorious moment's gloating before dropping the bombshell. 'That's the beauty of it — I never touched the boy. When I got to his room, he was already in emergency, they were fighting to save his life. I was annoyed at first that I'd missed him; and then it struck me that if the boy died that night, you'd have no way of knowing I hadn't made the hit. So I decided to claim the kill and stiff you for the money anyway. I don't think I've ever had so much fun.' Chapeau sniggered. 'Except that is for beating the shit out of you a week later.'
Longer, deeper silence this time. Chapeau could almost feel the waves of panic at the other end. Duclos' mind racing whether to continue denying, question or retreat. A slow exhalation. 'Why should I believe you now?'
It was a weak protest, more grudging acceptance than doubt. 'You don't have to. Why don't I call the police and tell them about you hiring me to kill the boy, let them work out if the boy died on the operating table or not. After all, they have access to all the hospital records. And then when they turn up to arrest you, you can tell them all about your little friend. As an accomplice, and seeing as the murder you hired me for never took place, you'd probably only get a few years.'
'No, no. Don't do that.'
Chapeau savoured the panic in Duclos' voice before commenting, 'So whether it's you or your friend, at least we've established one thing. You don't want me to go to the police.'
Duclos was slow to answer, his voice subdued, barely audible. 'No.'
'That's a shame, because I had such a strong urge to do my citizen's duty this time. The story of that poor poacher in the paper really touched me. So unfair. You know, I probably have a lot more in common with someone like that than… than someone like yourself, Monsieur Prosecutor. It would almost feel like I'm betraying one of my own. I think it would take quite a lot to persuade me to do something like that.'
'What do you want?' Duclos had no energy left to spar with Chapeau. As it dawned on him that Chapeau was probably telling the truth about not killing the boy and he realized how vulnerable he was, a sinking sensation gripped his stomach. In the past weeks of work, he'd finally started to free his thoughts from the nightmare of Taragnon, but now it was back with him full force. Bleak years of the incident re-kindled with each demand from Chapeau stretched out ahead. He felt physically sick.
Chapeau paused for breath; like a lion circling his prey, now he had Duclos exactly where he wanted him, ready for the kill. But it was too soon. Besides, only a couple of months had passed since he'd probably cleaned Duclos out. 'I don't know yet. I'll have to think about that one. I'll probably call you again when the date for the final trial for this fellow has been set. There'll still be time then for them to haul someone else in for questioning and acquit him if they get new information.'
'When will that be?' Flat monotone, defeated, washed along on whatever Chapeau suggested. It had taken him almost a month to fully get over the injuries from the beating in the Marseille alley; he was still haunted by the image of the cold steel barrel sliding against his cheek, sure in that moment he was going to die. Duclos shuddered; now once again he felt powerless and afraid.
'Two months — maybe as much as four or five. You know probably better than me how slow the wheels of justice turn in France. Why don't I send you regular press clippings, keep you up to date.'
'No, no, it's okay.' The thought of regular reminders through the post made Duclos' blood run cold. Surely Chapeau wasn't serious? 'Just phone me when you're ready.'
'I will. In the meantime I suggest you're a good boy and start saving up for when I call. Have you got a piggy bank?'
'You bastard. You slimy fucking bastard!'
'Oh, I do love it when you're angry. It gets me so excited.' Chapeau blew an exaggerated kiss close to the mouthpiece and hung up.
EIGHTEEN
Voices from the rooms, running feet in the courtyard, a ball bouncing, laughter, crying. Christian biting back the tears after being stung by a bee, Jean-Luc running down the field with Christian on his shoulders and her worrying about them falling, Christian at six holding up his favourite puppet doll, Topo Gigio: he'd left it in the courtyard and some chickens had pecked the stuffing out and an arm was almost falling off. She'd re-stuffed it and sewn the arm that night, tucked it back in alongside him while he was asleep. Christian running out of the surf at Le Lavandou, helping Jean-Luc by measuring the boules for a local village game, Christian blowing out the candles on his tenth birthday party.
Fragments of memories, some old pictures on the shelves and in albums, Christian's old clothes and toys. All that was left.
Monique had promised herself each time that the next day she'd clear them away… the next day. Each time she looked at his room — with each toy and item of clothing in exactly the same place he'd left them that afternoon — it was easy in that moment to believe that he was simply away, a school trip or summer camp, and soon would return.
But as the images flooded back — the police drawing up in the courtyard that first day, her candle-light vigil in the hospital, the young gendarme at her door saying he was sorry… so sorry — a cold steel hand of reality reached deep inside her and ripped out her emotions, her very soul, stripped bare every fibre and nerve ending until her pain was rendered down to no more than pitiful numbness, a grey void… whispers in the first empty dawn after his death… 'Oh Christian… Christian'. Knowing in that moment that there would be no more answer, no kisses like soft butterflies on her cheek, no more embraces and feeling the warmth of his body…. clinging now only to the memory, hugging the top cover of his bed around her and rocking gently as her emotions flooded over and once again her body sank into uncontrollable sobbing.