Philippe phoned the number and they gave him another number for a division in West Marseille. The people in West Marseille were more circumspect and gave no information, merely asked his name, logged his call, and promised that someone would call back. Philippe didn't get the return call until the next morning, a girl named Therese giving him a number in Lyon. Philippe phoned to be informed: 'Chief Inspector Fornier is in a meeting right now. He'll be free probably about midday.'
Philippe brought Marinella up to date straightaway.
She checked her watch: 9.20am. France was an hour ahead, so Philippe planned to try again in almost two hours. 'Great. I'll be sitting by the phone waiting for news.'
Two more hours and they could hopefully piece together Christian Rosselot's life. But along with the excitement, she suddenly felt restless, ill at ease. The last days of research and Philippe's paper chase across France had obviously told on her nerves. Though as she tried to settle the rising butterflies in her stomach, it struck her that it might also be something else: the portent of possible failure was suddenly there once again. Only two hours away.
TWENTY-FIVE
8th December, 1978
'What is this — hit man of the year nomination list?'
'Close. It's the suspect list for the Bar du Telephone killings.' Duclos watched Brossard's expression keenly as he scanned down and saw his own name on the list. Hardly a flicker of recognition. 'You know what this means?'
'Yes, it means the police are going to waste their valuable time with nine suspects — and I'm one of them.'
'It also means that your life will be difficult for the next month or so. You'll be watched, perhaps brought in for questioning whenever it suits the police. Your life will be disrupted — and it will be bad for business. People won't go near you for a while with contracts.'
'Except one thing. I'm the only one on the list for whom the police have no firm identity. Just a vague photo-kit and an alias I once used. They won't know where to start.'
Duclos nodded. He knew the history. It was partly why he thought Brossard would be ideal. It had taken him almost a week to set up the meeting through Francois Vacharet. It was over three years since his last visit to Vacharet's, not long after the death of his father. Vacharet had been keen to offer him a new boy from Martinique, but Duclos had wanted to get straight down to business. He showed Vacharet the same list and asked him to pick out the ones he knew. Vacharet came up with three names. 'Forget Tomas Jaumard,' Duclos prompted.' He didn't explain why: that he'd had an association with Jaumard through his father, Emile Vacharet. 'Of the other two, which would you recommend?'
The quick biography sounded ideaclass="underline" early thirties, no arrests or convictions, master of disguises, little or nothing on police files except an identikit picture, description and modus operandi: Brossard invariably wore different wigs and glasses to change his appearance. The supposition was therefore that his normal hair style was short. Eugene Brossard was a false name from a door buzzer tag for a flat Brossard had vacated two days before a police raid. He was always one step ahead.
Duclos was sure the Brossard before him was also heavily disguised: thick blonde wig cut in Beatles style, rounded glasses with a mottled burgundy frame. He looked like a David Hockney caricature.
The only thing which had initially made Brossard uncomfortable was the tape recorder running. Duclos explained why: that any minute he was going to offer Brossard F100,000 to have someone killed. The reason for the hit was the blackmailing of a close friend. Duclos wanted to be sure that the blackmail wasn't repeated, so the tape would serve as an insurance policy — for both of them. 'Now that I've admitted a dark secret, it's your turn. Tell me about one of your hits.'
Brossard laughed at the suggestion at first, but Duclos was insistent. 'The tape will never go out of my possession; after all, it would incriminate me as much as you. What have you got to lose? If you don't want to do it, fine. Me and my hundred thousand will walk out of the room.'
Duclos listened as Brossard described in bland monotones the murder of a Chief Planning Regulator in Nice three years previous. Duclos remembered the case: a planning officer implicated in a milieu bribes scandal. The milieu got to him before the State Procureur. He couldn't help wondering why Brossard had chosen this particular story. Was it partly a warning not to misuse the tape? I've already killed one government official. Fuck with me and one more won't make that much difference.
Brossard stared coldly at Duclos. Duclos could hardly see his eyes behind the dark glasses except when he blinked. Duclos felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. He hadn't felt this uncomfortable in someone's presence since… since.
The memory of his palm sweating on the gun butt was still vivid, lifting it, so slowly... the birds suddenly alighting from a nearby tree, making Chapeau look up. He feared for a minute that Chapeau had seen the gun — had thrust it quickly back in his pocket. In the last seconds of their meeting, that fear had stayed with him, that Chapeau would suddenly wheel around, level his gun and fire. He stayed vigilant as Chapeau walked away, but the moment to take the initiative had gone. He said lamely that he wanted to stay in the lane for a bit more fresh air as Chapeau drove off. Truth was, he was shaking too much to be able to drive. Almost as soon as Chapeau had disappeared from view, he was physically sick. He couldn't face going through that again. It had taken him another eighteen months of suffering Chapeau's blackmail and insults even to be able to summon up the courage to arrange this meeting.
But despite the precautions, looking at Brossard's lips curled in a slight smile at his description of murder, his deeply hooded eyes blinking behind dark glasses — he couldn't help fearing that he might just be replacing one nightmare with another. The room they were in smelt of pine disinfectant fighting hard to disguise the odour of musky bed linen and bad plumbing. A seedy back street hotel which Vacharet had recommended where clients took hookers. 30 Francs to a cleaning lady for a room for an hour, no questions asked. She'd just raised an eyebrow and grunted at the sight of two men entering, one wearing a strange blonde wig. Duclos was eager to get out.
Brossard looked back at the list. 'So is the hundred thousand supposed to make me feel better about having my name on this list?'
'By the time you get the hundred thousand, hopefully your name won't be on the list. I'm paying Vacharet another fifty thousand to spread the right noises in the right places that you were in a friend's restaurant the night of the attack. It happened too early for you to be in one of his clubs. Within a few weeks it should spread on the milieu network and hopefully your name will come off the list.'
Brossard's eyes flickered. He was impressed. Client's plans were normally clumsy; most planning had to come from his own quarter to compensate. 'So who is it you want hit, and when?'