Rocco turned and continued running as two shots came in quick succession from further back in the trees, losing themselves harmlessly among the branches overhead. Undisciplined, he decided; they might have been trained once, but their discipline had gone. Indiscriminate shooting like that could only threaten their own men while giving away the shooter’s position. A volley of shouts came as the others raced to cut him off, but found their progress impeded by the sheer perversity and tangle of nature in the raw.

Rocco was tiring fast and getting short of breath, the effort of pushing through this terrain far more wearing than trotting along a level road. He had few illusions about what might happen; there were three of them and one of him. Much more of this and the outcome would be short, sharp and fatal.

Moments later he burst through a hanging veil of thin branches and was relieved to see the lodge and his car right in front of him. Snatching his keys from his pocket, he ran to the driver’s door, fumbling the key into the lock with a trembling hand and trying not to shoot himself in the process.

He threw himself behind the wheel and started the car, tramping on the accelerator. The heavy car responded instantly, leaping forward and fishtailing across the clearing … but heading straight for the lake as the steering wheel spun out of his hand.

He grappled with the wheel as a shot pinged off the bodywork. Then desperation enabled him to regain control of the wheel just in time. He slewed the car around at the last second and headed at full speed for the track back to the road. In the rear-view mirror, he saw three men emerge from the trees and run after him.

He smiled grimly, remembering the man he’d shot, and the splash.

One down, three to go.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Rocco blasted out onto the main road and spun the wheel to the left, then trod with calm deliberation on the brakes and brought the Citroën to a stop. He didn’t much care where he went right now, as long as the men followed him and not Claude and Francine. He glanced back down the track and saw a black DS parked in the bushes to one side. It could only belong to the gunmen. He waited, anxious for signs that they were coming. If they weren’t, he’d have to head for the village and hope he could find the other two before the men caught up with them.

A figure burst into view from among the trees, running onto the track. A man in a suit. Rocco waited until he was sure the man had spotted him, then trod hard on the accelerator and took off for the station. He drove as fast as he dared on the narrow road, intent on keeping a lead while still drawing the men after him. There was a long straight stretch of narrow road from the station down to where it intersected with the road to Amiens, and he knew that they would be able to see him all the way. If he didn’t turn on to the main road, they would know there was only one way for him to go: the cemetery.

He thought about Didier and where he might run. If the scrap man had any brains left, he must know that he was finished here. The police were after him for theft and assault; Rocco wanted him for kidnap; and now the four – or was it three? – men behind him wanted him for God knew what reason. But he had a good idea it was something to do with Berbier.

He saw the station crossing coming up fast. It wasn’t much, simply a weighted wooden pole to stop traffic when a train was approaching. Only now the pole lay in splinters on the ground, and nearby, a section of a car’s wing and a scattering of broken glass. Standing by the broken barrier and scratching his head was Paulais, the stationmaster.

The moment he recognised Rocco’s car, Paulais ran to the side of the road and pointed towards the cemetery, waving him through and shouting incomprehensibly as Rocco roared by.

Now Rocco knew for sure where Didier had gone. It would be the one place where he felt safe; the one place he believed no sane person would dare follow.

* * *

A white Renault with the driver’s door hanging open was skewed across the track twenty metres beyond the cemetery gate. Part of the right wing was missing and all the glass down that side had gone where Didier had collided with the crossing barrier.

Rocco stopped the car and climbed out, checking the cemetery and surrounding fields. He was almost certain the fugitive would have gone straight for the wood, but he had no desire to be proven wrong by getting himself shot in the back. He also wanted to make sure that there were no visitors inside, and that they and the gardener, Cooke, were in no danger.

He drew his gun and jumped over the gate, checking the rows of headstones. The covered walkway was deserted and the tool shed in the corner looked locked tight. There was no sign of Cooke. One thing less to worry about.

He stopped by the central cross where Nathalie Berbier’s body had been found, and turned to study the dense wood covering the hill at the far end of the cemetery. It looked dark and forbidding, and he was surprised at how quickly the daylight had slipped away. He checked his watch. Six o’clock. He’d been so busy with the hunt for Francine and the chase through the marais, he’d been unaware of time ticking by.

He breathed deeply and checked his gun. Took out a spare ammunition clip. Then he walked out of the cemetery and started up the track towards the wood. The ground here was deeply rutted and hard, and he stayed to one side, ready to throw himself down by the cemetery wall if Didier appeared. He realised that he was still wearing the rubber boots; hardly the best gear for a manhunt, but he doubted it would matter much, not once he was among the trees. He tried telling himself that coming here alone was stupid, that he should wait for help to arrive from Amiens. But deep inside he knew it would take too long. If Didier got away from here, they’d never find him again. He heard a car engine and turned. The black DS had passed the station and was barrelling along the road towards the cemetery, kicking up a furious cloud of dust in its wake. It showed no signs of stopping for the main road.

Rocco now had no choice. Going back to lead them away was no longer an option. They would be on him before he could get back to the road, and even if he got that far, their car was far more powerful and would soon overhaul him in a chase.

He turned and jogged up the track into the trees, and whatever was waiting for him.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

François Massin put down his phone with a trembling hand. He hadn’t been expecting the call from Berbier, still less had he been quick enough to deal with the man in the way he would have liked. But as the voice had dripped like acid into his ear, part cajoling, part threatening, laying out in carefully camouflaged terms what his future might be – would be if he wasn’t able to appreciate the ‘delicacy’ of the situation – he had begun to feel a deep anger building inside him.

He stood up and walked around his office, uncertain about what his immediate response should be. He had few friends in the senior ranks of the police service – mostly his fault, he acknowledged that, and there was little he could do about it now. But right now he could have done with some wise advice on how to handle internal politics. Being threatened by the likes of Philippe Bayer-Berbier, even in the subtle, ‘friendly’ tones the man had employed, was something he had never faced before. Yet he was all too aware of the enormous power the man wielded among the ranks of senior policemen and politicians – men who could decide Massin’s fate at the snap of a finger. In a straight test of wills, he would be no match for that kind of influence.

He found himself standing before the photo of his younger self in uniform. So proud, he recalled his feelings at the time. So intense. And so determined to redeem himself and regain some of the self-respect he’d lost in the army.