The young man shook his head when Matt finished. "Monsieur, I swear on the name of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, that I am not one of Lacoste's men. I am exactly as I appear to be. I am a priest. So tell me, do you have any suggestions as to how I might help?"
Matt recalled how Lacoste had left his keys on the table while waiting for the helicopter to arrive. Perhaps the man was always careless. He shook his hands and made the handcuffs rattle against the steel leg of the table. "I think the chief has the key to our problems on his desk."
Father Alban looked blank.
"The key," repeated Matt, looking down to his handcuffs. The French word clé had the same double meaning as it did in English. Hopefully anyone listening would think he meant the solution rather than a physical key. "He may have the key to our problems on his desk."
The priest sighed. "I have to say that there is nothing I can do to help you. Perhaps we will meet again at the court of the magistrate."
Matt sighed. "Don't bother to waste your time. We're not pleading guilty. We have absolutely nothing to confess."
The boyish priest opened the door and stood there. "We all have things to confess, monsieur." He left, with Matt feeling angrier than before the visit.
He and Zoé sat together in silence. A few minutes later, the young gendarme knocked at the door before kicking it open. Matt wondered why he should have bothered to knock.
"You are both to come with me," he said in a voice that sounded over-dramatic. Perhaps he'd been taking lessons from Lacoste.
Matt held back. Experience told him to be cautious. "Where?"
"Le toilet." The remark seemed to amuse the young man.
"Not before time," said Matt. "And we want some coffee."
"But of course. Coffee, a baguette, some fruit."
"Is that a joke?" asked Matt, standing between the guard and Zoé. He was determined to protect her from these familiar scenes of police procedure.
"No joke, monsieur. Captain Lacoste wants to talk to you about the murder of an old woman. You will miss your petit déjeuner if you do not hurry. The Captain will not be kept waiting."
He wouldn't either. Matt knew that the young gendarme was right.
They were taken to a large room and given lukewarm coffee and two pieces of very fresh French bread. A portion of apricot jam lay in a sticky mess in one corner of the tray. The confiture must have been the young gendarme's idea of fruit.
Lacoste sat and smoked, watching while they ate. "I am wondering how many murder charges I can stick on you," he said, almost as much to himself as to Matt and Zoé.
"You're too slow to understand what's going on," snapped Matt. "I insist that you let us use a phone."
"Insist?" The Captain stood up. Even at his full height he failed to look imposing, but his sharp tongue more than made up for what he lacked in inches. "Monsieur, you will regret speaking to me like that. The case against you is becoming more serious by the minute. You may be interested to know that my men made a small mistake in the identification of the body of Madame Boissant. I think perhaps we will be charging you with involvement in the murder of her neighbor. In fact, I am sure we can involve you." He blew a lungful of smoke across the room, adding in a tone of mockery, "Monsieur!"
"You mean Sophie Boissant is still alive?" Zoé put her hands to her face. "How did her neighbor die?"
"It seems she heard someone knocking at the empty house next door and came downstairs to investigate. Neighbors on the other side heard the disturbance, but did not realize what had happened until this morning. But it is of no consequence. We will charge you with the murder."
"We were being held by your men at the construction site when it happened," protested Matt.
Lacoste raised his eyebrows. "Records can be flexible."
Matt glanced at the gendarme standing by the door. The Captain intended to fix up a false charge in front of a junior officer -- and the young man just grinned.
They would both do it, and probably not for the first time. Collusion. Lacoste would do it for vindictiveness; the young gendarme for progression.
Chapter 22
HE TRIED to turn away from the light. His head hurt and he felt sick.
"Wake up, Jason."
Someone leant over him, pulling at his clothes. Hell, it was his father. Then he remembered. The green and orange truck. The wild creatures inside. The man with the chains. He struggled to get to his feet, panic pushing him up, but his legs were powerless. "The Berlitzan oil! We used the Berlitzan oil!"
His father leaned down. "You were a fool to have that stuff with you."
Jason closed his eyes and tried to swallow. His throat hurt where the chain had dug in. "I save your life, and all you can do is moan. Who hit me?"
"I did."
No apology; no explanation. Jason got his eyes fully open. "I told you not to breathe the stuff."
"I didn't breathe it, but you did. You tried to rip the panels off the truck with your bare hands. You wanted to kill those animals."
Jason touched his throat. "It hurts like hell."
"Have you got any more?" his father demanded.
He couldn't help it. He hesitated.
His father grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him roughly. "Bury it here, boy. We came to France to get rid of Berlitzan oil -- not to start making a collection of the stuff."
He pushed his father away and found he could stand. "One hell of a crack you gave me. What did you use?"
His father kicked a heavy stick lying in the grass. "You were mad. Really mad. You picked up the jack handle. You were going to kill me."
"Yeah?" He smiled. "My eyesight's blurred, but I feel fine. I can remember being mad with you."
His father pointed to the truck. "It must be full of fumes in there. I think they've killed each other, but keep away."
"The rest of the oil is still in the cab. I promised some to Aziz."
"There's no way Aziz is having Berlitzan oil."
Jason stared between the trees, trying to focus on the hippy wagon. From the highway, it looked as though it had been parked normally. The extensive damage to the front would not be apparent to any passing driver, but the large patch of engine oil on the ground said it was going no further.
"Don't give Berlitzan oil to Hammid Aziz, boy." His father sounded as angry as ever. "How many cylinders are there?"
"Nine. No, eight. We've just used one."
"Eight! You got eight frigging cylinders?"
From inside the truck came a sound of someone moving. Jason turned. He'd not thought about it before, but this was how it would always be. The contestants would fight to the end, but there would have to be one survivor. Like a Destruction Derby of old automobiles, the end would come, but one would remain alive. Always someone left.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, but the display had been broken and the phone was dead. "Aziz will help us ----
in return for a couple of cylinders of Berlitzan oil. I vote we get the hell out of here."
As they turned to leave, Jason glanced back to see a large figure scramble through the broken glass into the cab of the truck, holding a chain. A Volvo station wagon slowed as it approached them. The man driving wound down the window while the woman passenger waved a route map excitedly.
"Excuzez moi!" the man called across the wide clearing. "Can either of you speak English?"
Jason shook his head. He wasn't going back. The couple might recognize him later.
The Englishman took the route map from the woman. "It's all right," he shouted, "I'll ask in the lorry. There's a chap in there with a chain. He ... he seems to be in some sort of trouble."
Jason and his father hurried out of sight.
The woman's scream was loud enough to make the rooks fly out from the trees. The long, piercing cries for help ended abruptly. Jason turned to his father. "I guess we can have the Volvo."
They waited fifteen minutes and returned warily. Jason kicked at the motionless bodies of the English
man and the woman. Then he noticed that the back door of the truck was open.
His father looked around. "How about we find a pay phone and speak to Urquet again? He's the best corporate lawyer in America. He'll do anything to protect Americans."
"Especially DCI Americans," added Jason dryly. "You've got the whole world in your damn pocket. I'm going to the Volvo."
"Don't leave me, Jason."
Jason turned. "Watch that truck, and be prepared to run like hell if anything so much as moves."
A sudden gust of wind shook the oaks, the rustle of the jagged leaves masking any sounds that might be coming from the truck. The blue Volvo stood enticingly with the passenger door wide. The keys were still in the ignition. Jason turned away from the two bodies. The English driver and his passenger had come to the end of their holiday thirty miles short of the Channel Tunnel.
"We can't leave our bags in the truck, Jason. They'll get us identified."
Jason noticed his father sounded tired and strained, and for a moment he almost felt sorry for the old fool. "I'll fetch them. You jump in the station wagon."
"Let me help. I'm ready for anything now."
"You're not ready for that maniac. Okay, walk slowly, and it's everyone for himself if there's anyone still in the truck. I'm not hanging around for some geriatric to keep up."
"Or behind the trees. He might be behind the trees."
"Sure, he might be anywhere."
They reached into the truck and found their luggage in the cab covered in splinters of glass from the shattered rear window. Without a word they lifted the tailgate of the Volvo and placed it on top of the owner's camping gear. His father was already in the passenger seat by the time Jason got round to the driver's door.
"Get the hell out of here, Jason. It sounds like the cops are coming. I can hear a siren."
Jason heard it, too. He started the engine and revved it until it screamed. The automatic drive engaged with a thump. His anxiety to get away made the rear wheels spin wildly on the damp earth.
"Back off on the gas, boy!" His father's eyes were wild.
"Leave it. I know what I'm doing."
The wheels spun again, digging deeply into the soft ground. Then suddenly the tires bit and the large Volvo lurched forward.
Chapter 23
MATT WAS fuming, although Zoé seemed resigned to her handcuffs. She winked at him as they sat on a massive wood and metal bench in the cool passageway of the magistrate's court.
Lacoste said they were being taken before the magistrate at ten o'clock to face a murder charge. Matt didn't believe him. If they were facing a murder charge, security would be much tighter. Lacoste was probably trying to frighten them into making an admission in front of the magistrate. The gendarme who brought them to the courthouse had handcuffed them to the metal armrests, and sat between them looking bored.
Attaching handcuffs to the ornamental ironwork was probably against orders, but it allowed the gendarme a certain amount of freedom while keeping the prisoners secure. It looked like a long established custom, judging by the worn paint on the substantial metal bars. The high entrance hall inside the Palais de Justice was painted a gentle shade of green, making the old stone walls feel chilly. Matt sighed wearily. Lacoste was still refusing them the use of a phone. Perhaps they could attempt something useful -- like trying to escape.
The young priest, Father Alban, entered the hall, almost running in his haste to join them. "Monsieur, mademoiselle, you remember what I said to you at the gendarmerie?"
"That you wouldn't help us," Matt reminded him angrily. The man was too dim-witted to understand something as simple as a direct hint over a key. "And I told you not to waste your time here," he added. He glanced up at the large clock above the stairs. Eight minutes to go.
A woman in a short black skirt pinned a notice to a green baize board. The gendarme who was sitting between them checked their handcuffs and turned to the priest.
"Keep an eye on these two for me, Father." He walked across for a chat with the woman.
Father Alban leaned forward as soon as they were alone. "I am getting you both out of here." His eyes were bright with excitement.
"What do you have in mind? An escape tunnel?"
"There is no need for sarcasm, monsieur. First a security guard is shot, and then one of my elderly parishioners is murdered during the night. I think that Captain Lacoste is not looking for the people responsible. You are a detective, monsieur, and I charge you with the duty of bringing the criminals to justice. I hope I make myself clear. I am putting my future with the Church on the line for you. Do not let me down."
Matt felt exasperated. "You've left it too late. I tried to get you to help earlier -- while we still had time."
"I understood what you meant, monsieur, but you did not understand my reply," the priest said quietly. "My exact words were, 'I have to say that there is nothing I can do to help you.' But that did not mean I would not do it. If I had replied to your suggestion of the key, Captain Lacoste would have heard me on his listening devices. Priests are not naïve. I have just come from Lacoste's office, and I am glad to say he was not there."
Father Alban reached into his jacket pocket.
"He was not there, but his keys were on his desk, just as you told me. That man is so careless with his possessions. It is the large black Peugeot in the yard outside." The young priest clutched a ring holding several keys, one of which had a car immobilizer.
Even as Father Alban said it, Matt felt his stomach leap. Was it worth risking further charges? Yes, of course it was, if he wanted justice. He spoke in a whisper. "I am sorry if I sounded rude. I am tired. Very tired." He turned to Zoé. "We're going to walk out of here."
"And our handcuffs?" she asked.
"Ah, yes, it is the little key on the ring," whispered Father Alban. "I will release you."
He put what looked like a simple suitcase key into Matt's and then into Zoé's handcuffs, and they snapped free from their wrists.
The boyish priest nodded his head in understandable relief. "Start towards the door and take it easy -- very easy. I will cause a diversion. Your gendarme has taken a fancy to the young woman at the notice board, so I shall admonish him for unclean thoughts. I have never before thought of lust having a positive side." Father Alban smiled to himself as though the joke was a private one.
The gendarme was now laughing loudly with the woman.
The double doors to the courtyard were already open to allow air to circulate in the hall. It was a strange sensation to know there was freedom ahead. Matt couldn't bring himself to turn round. The gendarme might still be at the notice board receiving an ear bashing from Father Alban for impure thoughts. Or he might be drawing his handgun.
"Walk slowly, Zoé. Let's look as though we're waiting to be called as witnesses."
The doors led into a large courtyard used as a car park for the gendarmes and court officials. The sudden rise in temperature struck Matt immediately.
But Zoé began to shiver. "Now where?"
The courtyard had an opening onto the street, with high metal gates that were open. A gendarme stood by them to make sure no one unauthorized entered. Perhaps he didn't bother to check who was leaving. Matt could see a large black Peugeot in the row of cars parked against the wall of the courthouse.
He nodded to Zoé. "There's Lacoste's car."
"We are going to steal it?" asked Zoé in disbelief.
He wondered if this was a serious question. A better question might be whether the car key fitted Lacoste's Peugeot.
The gendarme at the gates was watching a woman in a tight dress on the other side of the street. She bent down to do something to her shoe. Father Alban would probably see this as yet another positive side to lust, and certainly the timing was perfect.
"Open the driver's door and slide across," Matt whispered.
Apart from the gendarme at the gate, the courtyard was deserted.
Matt slipped into the driver's seat and put th
e key in the ignition. It turned, and the engine started. He looked up. The gendarme was still appraising the woman.
A police car turned in through the gates and stopped, blocking the exit. Matt guessed that if he and Zoé stayed put, the gendarme on duty probably wouldn't notice there was anyone in the Captain's Peugeot.
"What are we waiting for?" Zoé sounded anxious as she turned round in her seat. "Be quick, they are closing the gates!"
The police car moved into the yard. The closing gates called for immediate action. "We'll crash them, like I did to get out of Tom Grieves' yard."
Someone must have raised the alarm. They could hear shouting, and suddenly a black-suited figure on a bicycle shot through the narrow gap. Father Alban was also making his escape. Matt released the handbrake and hit the automatic transmission into reverse. As he floored the accelerator, the car shot back. There was no longer any point in stealth.
They got to the gates going backwards at high speed. The ornamental steel gave way as the Peugeot crashed through, the car going almost too fast for Matt to control. An approaching van sounded its horn, a long blast of aggravation as it snaked in the road under heavy braking.
"Look out, Matt!"
One of the gates became entangled with the Chief's Peugeot and fastened itself to the rear of the car. Matt selected forward drive and the gate dragged behind in a screeching stream of orange sparks. As the speed increased it suddenly broke free.
"What happened to the van?"
Zoé had been watching all the time and she turned back in excitement. "The van, it has run over the gate. It is stuck across the road, and the police cars, they cannot get past."
Matt kept his foot flat on the floor.
"Where are we going?" asked Zoé anxiously.
"Not far in this." The magistrate's court was on the edge of Saint Somer, and soon they'd be in open countryside. "We'll stop somewhere out of sight of the main road."
A voice on the radio made them jump. The gendarmes were reporting four major events. The first was the theft of the Captain's Peugeot within the past two minutes, being driven by two criminals. A priest on a bicycle was also a wanted man. There was an update on the death of a hippy traveler an hour ago, involving an abandoned white Citroen car. The fourth major event was a helicopter crash at the same time. The theft of the Peugeot seemed to be receiving priority.