He'd made a mental note then to try Perrimond again but had forgotten about it. Then just the week before he'd made the entry in his notepad along with the other loose ends of his life he wanted to deal with before leaving. No doubt he was worrying for nothing. Machanaud had probably been paroled after four years and spent at most another year in an institution receiving therapy. He would try Perrimond again as soon as he got back to his office.
4th February, 1976
Rain pattered against the side window of the car. Duclos looked anxiously at his watch. Chapeau was already five minutes late. Perhaps he was having trouble finding the new meeting place.
The idea had been forming slowly the past year, though subconsciously it had probably been there far longer. Almost three years ago an old uncle of his had died and, together with his cousin, they'd handled the house clearance. Duclos knew a local antiques dealer, but they'd decided to go through the house first to identify the curios, be sure of their ground for when the dealer arrived. In an old attic trunk together with a uniform, brocade and medals, Duclos found an old service revolver, an SACM 7.6mm.
His uncle had been an army officer during the Vichy government regime, but it wasn't the sort of thing the family would make public, nor did Vichy period army memorabilia have strong re-sale value. The trunk's contents would probably not be passed to the dealer and he doubted that his uncle had even made them known to his family. Yet the gun looked in surprisingly good condition, had obviously been regularly oiled and cleaned, was now tucked away neatly with a box of ammunition at its side. Duclos looked up and listened for a second — his cousin was still busy downstairs — before pocketing the gun and the shells.
The thought didn't hit him in that moment what he might want it for, but in retrospect he recalled his eagerness to pocket the gun, his worry that his cousin might come up and prevent him being able to take it. Perhaps the intent and purpose had been there subliminally all along.
But it wasn't until almost eighteen months later, with the next demand from Chapeau, that the significance of the gun really struck him. The demands came almost every year, had worn him down bit by bit. Each step up the ladder, each pay rise or increase in stature, and Chapeau would phone. Congratulations!
He'd come almost to resent his own success, felt physically sick with each press flashbulb and item printed, knowing that Chapeau would read the clipping and the phone would ring. He began even to question his own motives for striving for such heights of ambition, that secretly he wanted Chapeau to call, that only the continuing punishment might somehow rid him of the nightmares that still haunted him periodically — waking up in a cold sweat as he saw the small boy's piercing green eyes staring back, pleading with him… please don't kill me!
In the dreams, the car boot and the final moments of attack had become one and the same, the eyes shining back at him from the boot's darkness just before he swung the rock down. The first dream had come six months after the attack and sometimes he would get quick flashbacks as he opened the boot. He'd sold the car shortly after.
But at other times he'd feel that he'd suffered enough, that the dreams were only still haunting him because each call from Chapeau would remind him, bring the incident alive again. And in those moments he'd want it all ended, the nightmare of the continuing calls and demands, the worry with his career progressing that each year he had more to lose. The price on his head increased.
And he knew then why he'd picked up the gun, knew that there was only…
Duclos' thoughts were broken. Chapeau's car had pulled up to one side. Duclos got out hastily, it was vital they weren't inside his car when he pulled the trigger. He felt light rain spots touch his face, and prayed that Chapeau didn't find it strange that he was standing outside.
Chapeau got out and walked over. New car, Duclos noticed: Citreon CX Pallas. With the money he'd been paying to Chapeau the past years, hardly any wonder he could afford a better car than himself. He put one hand in his coat pocket, touched the cool metal of the gun butt.
'I didn't know you were a country lover,' Chapeau commented, his breath showing on the cool damp air.
The weather was ideal. He'd purposely delayed the meeting until it turned damp and cool. He could wear a coat without Chapeau being suspicious.
Chapeau's feet crunched on loose shale and stone as he shuffled close. The track ran between a small area of woodland twenty miles north of Montpelier. It led to a picnic area further down which in summer would be busy; at this time of year it was deserted. Duclos had made the excuse of not wanting to meet at the usual restaurant car park: 'a waiter was looking out at intervals during our last meeting.' Chapeau said he hadn't noticed, but had agreed to the new meeting place.
Chapeau's features had become heavier with the years. His neck had a thick jowl and the bags under his eyes gave him the appearance of a sad, malevolent bulldog. He often wore dark or tinted glasses to hide his bad eye, but today there were none: the weather was too dull.
'It's cold out here,' Chapeau said. 'Has the heater been on inside your car?'
Duclos glanced at the car, thinking quickly before his hesitance gave him away. 'Probably. But I wanted a bit of fresh air. We'll be finished soon.'
Chapeau held his gaze for a second. Duclos hand tensed on the gun butt in his pocket. Was Chapeau suspicious, wondering why he wanted some fresh air when it was misty and raining?
Chapeau looked down thoughtfully, then to one side. 'No worry of any nosy waiters here. Good choice if you like privacy.' Then his gaze swivelled back until it rested on Duclos.
Duclos felt a faint trembling start to grip his legs. He took the hand hastily out of his pocket.
'You must be quite proud, Minister. I read that recent press clipping. Impressive stuff. If I didn't know you so well, I'd be tempted to vote for you myself. Amazing how your private life can be so different to your public image.'
Through the years, Duclos had become used to reading behind Chapeau's comments. What he meant was: Now your public profile has been elevated yet again, is even more polarized from your private life, the threat of downfall has far higher value. I can charge you more.
'… What a surprise they'd all get if they realized what a prick you really were.' Chapeau laughed. 'No more invites to boy scout or youth club hall openings!'
And always ended on a rebuke, a tease. Christ, for that alone it was going to feel good to kill him. Duclos sneaked his hand back on the gun, snaked one finger around until it was on the trigger. No more teasing and mocking. No more having to look into Chapeau's sad fish eye to see that the only thing to bring some life into it, some mirth, was his own discomfort.
The first thought of killing Chapeau had come as much as five years ago, but getting someone else to do it; then he quickly thought again. That was what had landed him in this cycle of blackmail in the first place. He could end up just replacing one blackmailer with another. Yet in that first moment of discovering his uncle's gun, he never dreamt that years later he would be standing on a damp and desolate lane with his own finger on the trigger.
Each meeting, each rebuke and insult, each payment, the fear of discovery and downfall stronger with each year… had bit by bit built a patchwork quilt of hatred and resolve. He would have to do it himself; there was nobody else.