He lifted the gun, then heaved painfully, emptying his stomach on the floor and coughing, dropping to one knee. Eyes streaming and disorientated from the effects of the explosion, he looked around and saw the room tilt. For a second he thought it was the cellar ceiling giving way and dragging the house with it. Then he realised his sight and balance were playing tricks.
He was in no shape to follow Didier. Not yet. He needed his shoes, anyway. Running through the marais in his socks would be murder.
He got to his feet, swaying momentarily, then pushed himself off the wall and went to the kitchen sink. It was filthy, the God-awful smell enough to make him throw up if he hadn’t already emptied his guts. No taps, but a jug of water stood on the side. He gulped at it, the liquid swamping down his chin and across his chest, cool and refreshing. He swilled out his mouth and spat a mixture of saliva, dust and blood into the sink. Not too much red, he noted vaguely; must have bitten his lip when the grenade went off.
He’d been lucky.
Shoes, he reminded himself dully. He had to get his shoes. And something from the cellar. But what? He couldn’t remember, only that it seemed important. His brain felt fried. He rubbed his face, trying to instil enough control to do the right thing. He listened to the creaking of the building around him. It seemed to be settling on its haunches like a mortally wounded animal with a series of cracks and groans.
The cellar. Now.
Rocco groaned and took a deep breath. He desperately didn’t want to go back down there, but he had no choice.
No more than two minutes later, Rocco returned to the kitchen with a cardboard box tucked under one arm. He’d caught a quick glimpse of it, thrown on the floor when he’d upended the cabinet, and found it again by feel. The one glimpse had been enough. Inside one of the open flaps he’d seen the glossy sheen of black-and-white photographs. They were grainy and of poor quality, but good enough to make out clearly the faces of the men involved. And the girls they were with. There was also a notebook stuffed down one side, crammed with names and dates. The handwriting was untutored and shaky, but still legible.
Didier’s proof.
He walked out of the house, gun held aloft. He doubted he’d get to use it: Didier would be long gone by now, scurrying away through the marais like the little weasel he was, on his way to freedom and obscurity.
He stepped on the bridge, trusting Didier not to have endangered his own escape route. He wasn’t sure why he was coming this way, or what he was going to do when he got across. He’d be better off taking the photos to his car and leaving Didier for someone else to worry about. He’d fall over if he didn’t rest soon. That wouldn’t be good. Humiliating, even. Christ, he felt tired, he just wanted to go home and sleep for a week.
But going home wasn’t what he did. He chased criminals.
He was halfway across the stream when the explosion came. Flat and vicious, the sound echoed across the marais and ripped the night apart. It shook the trees, emptying the marais of birdlife in a surge of flapping, frantic wings and cries of protest. Rocco stopped, thinking he’d sprung one of Didier’s traps.
Then he realised he could still feel his legs. Knew what it was.
Didier. He’d run into his own tripwire.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The street near the Bois de Boulogne still wore an air of tranquil exclusivity. The house martins were singing discreetly, the cars were parked nose to tail and the usual dog shit was scattered liberally across the pavement; all was well with the world in true Parisian fashion.
Soon change that, thought Rocco. He climbed stiffly out of the Citroen and sniffed the air, welcoming the familiar smell of city fumes topped with the hint of coffee.
‘You sure you don’t want me up there?’ Claude was in uniform. He’d discarded his boots in favour of polished shoes. On the way into the city, he’d mentioned that the circumstances called for correctness: the official face of the law. He had also refused to wait at the end of the street.
Rocco wasn’t sure about correctness. Not yet. But then, it had been a long time since he’d worn any kind of uniform. ‘I’ll be fine. If I’m not, you’ll soon hear.’ He paused and tapped the car roof. ‘Thanks, though. Good to have you along.’
He had endured a bit of attitude from Claude on the way down. Part self-imposed guilt at not knowing about Francine’s double life and how she had taken them all in, part his annoyance at Rocco taking on Didier by himself. Rocco still wasn’t sure what had upset Claude most: being left out or not being able to put a bullet in Didier’s head himself. He’d hardly even bothered playing with the car radio.
As if reading his mind, Claude took out his gun and laid it on the seat beside him. ‘Just shout. I wouldn’t mind using this on someone. Just the once.’
As Rocco crossed the pavement and reached up to press the entryphone button, a black car drew up behind his own. A man climbed out, leaving a uniformed driver behind the wheel. The newcomer wore a suit and carried a briefcase, and was holding up the ID of a senior officer of the Judiciary Police. He looked tough and businesslike and nodded cordially to Rocco.
‘George Bleriot,’ the man said. ‘You ready to do this?’
Rocco returned the nod. Massin had told him someone would be needed to ensure that everything went to order: someone with sufficient powers to do whatever was required. He reached for the button but the gate was already open. He pushed it back, walked across the cobbled yard, past the green cherub in the dry fountain. No fancy car, he noted. Not that they had anyone to drive it, anyway.
He banged on the door, the sound echoing up the stairs. He tried the handle. It turned. The door opened. As he’d expected, the old woman met them halfway up the stairs. She looked aggressive and determined, one clawed hand gripping the banister like a bird of prey about to launch itself into the air.
He’d already decided that if she gave him any shit, he’d toe-punt her down the stairs, followed closely by her treacherous, murderous, double-dealing son. Bleriot would just have to pretend he hadn’t seen it.
‘Where is he?’ he said, walking straight at her.
She moved aside at the last second, gesturing at the same doorway he had used before. As he brushed past he picked up the same sickly-sweet perfume.
It reminded him of death and decay.
‘What do you want?’ she hissed, glaring at them in turn. ‘What are you here for? This is an affront — an insult. I will be calling the Ministry-!’
‘You do that, you old witch,’ Rocco said calmly, ‘and I’ll make sure you end up in a cell with half a dozen heroin addicts doing cold turkey.’
‘Wha-?’
‘If he doesn’t,’ Bleriot added, ‘then I will.’
They found Berbier in his study, staring out of the window. He was dressed in an expensive grey suit, with a blue shirt and discreet burgundy tie, to outward appearances a composed and powerful figure, at ease with the world.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ He turned to face them, chin jutting forcefully from his collar. But Rocco sensed there was little conviction in the words or the pose. There was a shaving nick on one side of the man’s chin, and a tiny spot of blood on his shirt collar.
A scuff came from behind and Rocco glanced over his shoulder. Berbier’s mother had followed them into the room. Her chin was trembling, although whether out of fear, indignation or old age, he couldn’t tell.
No phone call to the Ministry, then. She wouldn’t have had time.
‘End of the game,’ said Rocco. He took a black-and-white photo from his pocket and flicked it onto the desk so both the Berbiers could see. It showed Nathalie, pupils heavily dilated, one breast falling out of a white blouse, being pawed by a fat man with a sweaty face and greedy eyes. In the background stood a pair of large oil lamps. He now knew who the man was, and Massin would, about now, be dropping a heavy dossier with other photos onto the desk of his superiors.