Authors: John Matthews
'Perhaps it wouldn't be such a waste of time. If we mention his car has been sighted, put him on the spot, his story might change. Something new might come to light.'
Poullain stared dully at Fornier. So they were back again to Fornier's groundless suspicion of Duclos. When he thought about Perrimond's concern about the mayor's call, the whole messy background he was stealthily avoiding mentioning, the eagerness in Fornier's voice was almost laughable. 'And what is going to change? All the waiters who saw Duclos while the attack took place are suddenly going to say they were all wrong. They didn't see Duclos. Or is Duclos going to do it all for us and just say that the waiters were all lying. He wasn't in the restaurant at the time. Wake up! It's not going to happen. There's no point in us even going through the exercise.'
'Is that your assessment or Perrimond's?'
Poullain stared back icily. 'Both!'
It was already clear the answer that would be coming the next day, thought Dominic. The statement wouldn't be made. 'Then I don't agree with it.'
Dominic noticed Poullain openly flinch; then his head cocked slightly, as if he hadn't heard properly, his eyes darting fleetingly across the desk top for explanations before looking up again. The surprise showed in his face. In their previous disagreements over Duclos, Dominic had always given way.
For a moment Poullain looked undecided how to rise to this new challenge. Then at length he exhaled audibly and waved a hand to one side. A dismissive gesture, as if the whole affair was suddenly unworthy of his emotions. 'And what exactly do you propose to do?'
'If the decision is made not to take the statement, then as the assisting investigative officer, I would like my disagreement of that action recorded.'
'Are you sure that's what you wish to do? You're aware of its seriousness.'
Dominic felt uncomfortable under Poullain's intense glare, his heart pounding heavily. But he'd gone too far to back down again now. His mouth was dry as he stammered, 'Yes.'
Poullain stared at him a moment longer, then sat down and rubbed his forehead with one hand. Fornier obviously wasn't going to budge, was forcing the issue to its limit. The procedure, normally used only in extreme cases, was to protect officers who felt that a line pursued in an investigation might later reflect badly on their career records; once filed, the complaint would no doubt end up on his area commanding Colonel's desk in Aix. All manner of awkward questions and complications could arise. Faced with that, perhaps it would be easier to take Machanaud's statement and visit Duclos again, regardless of the fact that it was all a waste of time. Do everything by the book. Perrimond would just have to put up with another call from the Mayor. Poullain sighed. 'Is there anything else?' He looked up only fleetingly, his annoyance evident.
'No.'
'Then I'll make your thoughts known to Perrimond when I visit him tomorrow and pick up the arrest warrant. You stay here in case I'm not back before Machanaud arrives.'
'What shall I tell him if you're not back by then?'
'Tell him you think it's for a statement, but you won't know for sure until I arrive.' Poullain forced a tight smile. 'If you get your way, you'll be partly telling the truth.'
Chapeau sat in a café in a side street just off Marseille's Rue St Ferréol. Duclos' car was parked twenty yards along in the same road, he could just see its back bumper, was ready to mobilize quickly if it moved, coins already on the table for the black coffee and brandy chaser he was drinking.
At one point following Duclos from the Vallon estate, he thought of giving up. The road headed towards Aix and Marseille, but most interesting of all it went through Taragnon, the village where the boy was found. For a while he toyed with the enticing possibility that Duclos might stop in Taragnon, perhaps even re-visit the old crime scene - but Duclos headed straight through the village. Shortly after, when Duclos took the Marseille rather than the Aix road, it struck him that Duclos might be visiting Vacheret's for one of his young boys. He decided to continue following.
They were parked close to the main shopping area, and the
Panier
district and Vacheret's establishment were over a mile away. He'd followed to the corner and seen Duclos head in the opposite direction towards the Opera and the Palais de Justice, before deciding to find himself a café in the small side street and car sit. He'd been there now forty minutes and this was his second coffee and brandy.
Where was Duclos? Shopping no doubt: buying designer shirts and silk underpants, or whatever gay paedophiles liked wearing. Or perhaps a quick stroll in the
Puget
gardens, sitting on a park bench and feeding the pigeons while surreptitiously getting his jollies by watching young boys in shorts play with a football. People like Duclos made him sick. Clean on the outside, dirty inside, and with the cheek to look down their noses at people like himself. He might be a thug and a killer for hire, but there was no pretence. What you saw, you got. No false labelling.
He sharply knocked back another slug of brandy to quell his growing anger. Little shit. Feeding him a false line to commit a murder that would have had half the gendarmes in the Var hunting him down. The irony and sheer joy of stiffing Duclos for the 7,000 francs was already waning. He wanted more, much more. If he'd actually gone through with the murder, he would have probably killed Duclos straight after collecting the money; followed him out into the country lanes beyond Aubagne, pulled up alongside at the first deserted crossroads, pumped two bullets through Duclos head, and drove on. Bliss.
It had still been a tempting proposition following Duclos to the Vallon estate that first time. But he was glad now he'd shown restraint. If he was patient, nurtured it well, this could turn out to be a long and profitable association. A meaningful relationship. No point in fucking Duclos on the first date. He had been disappointed to discover that Duclos wasn't part of the Vallon family, that would have been a remarkable pot of gold to strike so quickly. But he was obviously a family friend, perhaps came from a similar moneyed background. Waiting and watching, he would soon know.
Chapeau suddenly pushed back from the table, almost spilling his coffee. Duclos was passing! Heading for his car. Chapeau was poised to stand up and head out, and pointed to the coins on the table for the benefit of the concerned waiter looking over.
Duclos put a shopping bag in his car, leant over, re-arranged something in the back seat for a moment, then straightened up and locked the door again. He started heading back down past the café. Chapeau turned away from the window, looked back towards the bar until Duclos was past, then got up and went out. He hovered by the doorway for a few seconds, until Duclos was about eighty yards ahead and almost at the end of the road, then followed.
He saw Duclos turn right this time, heading towards La Canebiere and the old port, with the
Panier
not much further on. Perhaps Duclos would end up at Vacheret's after all. Along Rue St Ferriol towards La Canebiere, the shops gradually became smaller and seedier. Cheap souvenirs and cards, carved wood and ivory, beads and caftans, goat skin drums, a delicatessen with goat's cheese and couscous. They might as well be in the kasbah. Half the shopkeepers and people passing were North African.
At La Canebiere, Duclos turned left towards the old port, past the quayside cafés and the Hôtel de Ville. A brief respite of nice cafés and shops, people dining out and looking out over the kaleidoscope of brightly painted fishing boats in the harbour. Then they turned into the winding
Panier
back lanes: dark and narrow cobblestone streets, washing strung at intervals between the dank stone buildings to catch what few shafts of sunlight filtered through. Some yorrelling in the distance, a radio playing the latest hit from Morocco: wavering pipes and strings that sounded like cats being strangled.
An old man in a black
djellabah
passed Chapeau and, on the corner, in front of a small café with a beaded curtain entrance, a young Moroccan was trying to sell lottery tickets. Wearing a stained pale blue shirt, black trousers and flip-flops, his watery eyes behind dark glasses stared distractedly at the corner gable of the house across the street. Chapeau doubted that he was really blind, and listened hard beyond his repetitive sales chant for Duclos' footsteps in the next street. Finally he picked it up: to the left, thirty, forty yards down. He waited a second before following.
As Duclos took the next right hand turn, Chapeau realized he was heading for Vacheret's. At the end was a short street that wound up some steps, with Vacheret's not far along in the next street. Chapeau kept a block behind, hidden around the corner, waiting until Duclos had receded deeper into the street before walking in. By the time Chapeau reached the start of the steps, Duclos was already at its top, turning left towards Vacheret's. The short street was deserted: one side was a half demolished building, the other the blank stone side of a building plastered with posters. Two cats scavenged around a group of rubbish bins at the top of the street. Now that he knew Duclos was heading for Vacharet's, he might as well head back. But he was suddenly curious to see how long Duclos stayed: twenty minutes, it could be a simple business meeting. Forty or fifty minutes and he was probably with one of the young boys.
Chapeau decided to wait it out, found a bar not far around the corner with Vacheret's a hundred yards further up on the opposite side. It was a small and seedy bar; sawdust over cream and terracotta patch tiling. The barman was fat and wearing an orange T-shirt two sizes too small. From his accent, he was a local Marseilles, though over half the bar were North Africans: two men playing checkers in the corner, two at the bar, and a group of local workmen in blue overalls at another table. The radio was playing Tony Bennett. The barman poured the brandy Chapeau ordered.
Chapeau waited.
An easy listening station, Edith Piaf, Bert Kampfaet and Frank Sinatra followed. A minah bird in the corner chirped in on every other chorus. Chapeau wondered how the Moroccans liked Frank Sinatra: after cats being strangled, it must sound like golden syrup. It was his kind of music, but the accompanying minah bird and the sounds of checkers being banged down to grunts and shouts started to grate on his nerves. Half the afternoon he'd spent tracking this prick Duclos. And now Duclos was probably in some lavish back room with potted palms, getting sponged down by one pre-pubescent boy while getting his rocks off with another, while he sat in a bar surrounded by grunting Moroccans and a minah bird singing along to Frank Sinatra. Great. His hand gripped tightly at his glass. He looked at his watch: almost thirty minutes. Ten minutes more and he'd leave.
But minutes later, already thinking ahead to the other pieces of the puzzle he'd like to put into place with Duclos, an idea struck him, a smile slowly crossing his face. Perfect. His initial gloating gradually gave way to the worry that it was almost too good, too cheeky, it must somehow be flawed; but after chewing it over some more between brandy slugs, he saw few pitfalls. At the same time it might also get rid of some of his pent up anger and frustration with the little turd. All he had to do was keep close to the end of the bar, look out at an angle until he saw Duclos emerge, then head out a moment beforehand. He put some change on the bar to cover the brandy, ready for a quick exit.
Chapeau sat through Billie Halliday, Maurice Chevalier, Mario Lanza and Brenda Lee, with minah bird accompaniment and checker-slapping percussion, before Duclos finally emerged.
Chapeau stepped out briskly, he was at least eighty yards ahead of Duclos, and hoped and prayed that Duclos didn't suddenly recognize his profile from behind. Ten yards more, six,
two
... he ducked around the corner sharply, taking the steps almost two at a time, now at a half run. He stopped thirty yards down, eyeing up an open doorway in the derelict building for suitability a second before stepping inside. He went two yards in, stepping over the rubbish piled up. And waited.
The sound of Duclos' footsteps came after a minute. The short street was deserted; Chapeau prayed that nobody else suddenly came into it. A sudden sound from behind. Chapeau jumped, wheeling sharply around to see a cat pulling at a rubbish bag. Its eyes met his for a second in the semi-darkness, then it scampered off. Chapeau's nerves settled back.
Duclos was close. Very close. Footsteps almost upon him.
Chapeau held his breath low, shallow - and as soon as Duclos' profile came into view, he stepped deftly from the shadows and struck out quickly. A right fisted blow to Duclos' cheek. Duclos hadn't seen him, had only started to turn towards the approaching sound as Chapeau's ham fist connected.
Chapeau swung again, hitting Duclos nose from the side this time, feeling the bone crunch and seeing the blood spurt as Duclos crumpled and fell. This felt good. Chapeau got in a quick left to the stomach as Duclos was going down, then as Duclos hit the ground and lay prostrate on his side, all that was left was to kick. He managed one to Duclos' groin before Duclos rolled over and put his hands down, then made do with two swift kicks to his kidneys.
Duclos started to look back up towards his attacker, so Chapeau pushed one hand against the side of Duclos face, jamming it hard against the ground. Half kneeling now, he took out his gun, a Heckler & Koch 9mm, and slid it next to his hand against Duclos' cheek. Duclos' eyes shut tight as the cold steel of the barrel pressed home. Chapeau cocked the chamber. The eyes scrunched tighter, a breathless
'non'
escaping. Chapeau savoured Duclos' fear a moment longer before un-cocking and releasing the pressure. Then deftly flipped the gun in the same motion and swung the butt twice sharply against the side of Duclos' ribs; and again lower to his kidneys and stomach. It was a measured attack. He didn't want to kill Duclos: just enough to make him walk like an old man for a week and piss blood.
Chapeau reached across and took out Duclos' wallet from his inside pocket. Straightening up, he gave one farewell kick to Duclos' groin. Keep him away from the young boys for a few weeks. Then he slipped his gun back inside his jacket and scampered off down the steps to the receding groans from Duclos, which brought a smile to his face.