The marais at night was a ghostly environment. Musty smells, strange sounds and the furtive movement of wildlife echoed in the ever-changing and almost invisible landscape. With a weak moon flitting through thin cloud cover, it was a mass of shifting shadows, adding to the unreal quality of the place. Rocco had spent too many nights on surveillance in city streets and back alleys to be anything but easily bored by inner-city stillness and its lack of vibrancy; but this place had an undercurrent all of its own that was almost a relief to a bored cop.
He was lying beneath the overturned aluminium boat near the reeds, a few paces from the back door of the main lodge. Arriving on foot just after two thirty a.m., he’d slid underneath the curve of its side, dragging in a square of canvas tarpaulin to form a groundsheet against the damp grass. The location gave him a clear view of the lodge and the approach along the path into the marais, but the road and the turning circle in front of the building were hidden from his sight. He had debated waiting in the reeds across the far side, giving him a view of both approaches, but a sneak look earlier had revealed soft, marshy ground underneath. He’d also dismissed the interior of the building: it was too restrictive and Didier would expect it of a city cop, anyway.
In the end, the boat had been the only solution. He hadn’t mentioned his intentions to anyone, mainly to prevent Claude from insisting on joining him. Two-man surveillances were easily spotted, and he’d seen so many fall apart through the presence of two breathing souls trying hard to remain still. In addition, he had no guarantees that the scrap man would come back here. For all he knew, he was a hundred miles away by now, nursing his wounds. Yet something told him otherwise. Too much had been happening in a very short space of time for Didier to have gained access to his home for long, and if he wanted to remain at large – and he was too much of a survivor not to – there were things he would need, like money. And that meant the locked cellar. Didier didn’t seem the sort to have faith in bank accounts.
He shifted his weight to ease the pain in his side. The nurse at the hospital had said it would be uncomfortable for some days, and had given him a supply of painkillers if it got too much to bear. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten to bring them with him.
He tensed as something pale entered his field of vision. But it was too high off the ground to be human. He relaxed as an owl flashed briefly through a patch of moonlight. Soundless and white, it glided into the trees and was gone, swallowed by shadows. Then a fox appeared, trotting nimbly along the path and nosing under a fallen branch before disappearing among a heavy growth of reeds. From his position, Rocco could feel the cooler air coming off the lake, and heard a variety of plops and soft swirls as the creatures of the water went about their business. At any other time, he would have enjoyed the opportunity to study the place. But now was not it.
Time had passed quickly. When he tilted his watch towards the moonlit gap near the ground, he saw it was 04.00. The time most cops on surveillance detail found the hardest to stay awake. Not criminals, though; they loved the hours leading to dawn, like feral cats on the prowl, going about their unseen business.
He yawned, and wished he’d brought coffee. A strong caffeine hit would have worked wonders right now, but he knew that a hunted man like Didier would pick up the smell from fifty paces away.
He checked his watch again. 04.10. Now time was hanging. Then he tensed as a crackle of grass came from his left, and he heard the familiar, faint whistle-brush of undergrowth against fabric.
A bird flitted up into the trees and a swirl of water in the lake behind him indicated something moving nearby. Whatever it was had come through the trees from his left, following the line of the track from the road. He cursed. The boat was tilted to the left, with the lower edge against the ground, and he wouldn’t get a sight of the intruder until he or she moved across his front nearer the lodge.
Was it a moonlight hunter? Someone else from the village on a foray for fish or fowl?
Silence.
Something brushed against the hull of the boat and Rocco froze, half-expecting his cover to be lifted away. He was sure he could hear someone breathing. A man, it had to be. There was a sour smell, like that of disturbed water or mud mixed with body odour.
A faint cough, followed by a sigh. Rocco tensed, ready to follow the boat upright, gun at the ready. Instead, he heard a metallic click and a footfall. Whoever was out there was moving away.
He lay on his side, giving him an extra few centimetres of view under the curve of the boat. A shadowy figure crossed between him and the lodge, paused for a moment, then continued walking. Stopped again as the clouds shifted and pale moonlight flooded the clearing. The figure had moved in an odd, crablike fashion, as if normal walking was too hard, and was now standing slightly bent over, as if nursing a bad back. Or a gunshot wound.
It was Didier. He was standing in full view. He had a bag slung across his shoulder and was holding a shotgun, his battered bush hat a clear marker. He stood there for a few moments, head turning to scan the shadows like an animal at bay, and Rocco swore he could hear the man sniffing like an old bloodhound.
Then he was gone, moving soundlessly along the path towards the second lodge until he vanished into the shadows.
Rocco counted to fifty, then lifted one side of the boat and slid out. He followed the direction in which Didier had gone, keeping the tall reeds between him and the path. It was hard on his stomach and thigh muscles, but a relief to be out in the open where it gave him the chance to take out his gun and get the blood circulating in his veins. If Didier spotted him and swung that shotgun on him, he wanted to be able to defend himself.
He came in sight of the second lodge and hunkered down on the path. He was sweating, his heart going like a train, and he resolved to get back to some morning runs after this was over. Nothing too energetic, though. Just enough to make him feel better than he did right now, which was tired and flabby.
He counted to twenty, impatient to have it ended. There was no movement in the lodge, no signs of light. With a last look around and his chest pounding with tension, he crossed the clearing past the lodge and moved along the path towards the final lodge and the bridge to Didier’s house.
He reached the last bend in the path and paused. No sounds or movement. He was about to step forward to view the ruined building, when something touched his leg.
He looked down.
His shin was resting against a thin sliver of silver strung across the path.
Tripwire.