way through the bushes, making sure he kept Tasker in his line of sight. The closer he got to the lane, he noted, the more twitchy Tasker seemed to become, pulling Alix closer to him, screwing the twin barrels of the sawn-off into the side of her neck and edging back to the corner of the house for protection.
‘That’s far enough!’ Tasker shouted. ‘I want to see your gun, Rocco.’
Rocco flicked his left hand. ‘It’s in my pocket.’
‘Take it out and show it to me. Slowly.’
Rocco did so, taking out the revolver belonging to Biggs. He held it aloft by the barrel. At this distance, he doubted Tasker would recognise it. A gun was a gun.
‘Now throw it away from you.’ Tasker was grinning now, his movements edgy, clearly in a heightened state of excitement. His face was bristly and his clothes crumpled, and Rocco wondered whether he’d taken drink or drugs, but guessed the man was high on the sudden application of power.
High but not incapable. If anything it made him all the more dangerous.
He tossed the revolver into the nearest bush.
‘Now your ankle gun.’
Rocco said, ‘What do you think this is – Hollywood? We’re not permitted to carry secondary weapons.’
Tasker gave it some thought, then nodded grudgingly. ‘Okay. Open your fingers and flex them so I can see they’re empty.’
Rocco did so. And felt the shoelace around his finger begin to slip. The knot was coming undone. He kept his face blank and focused on Alix. She looked unhurt but stressed, wincing where the shotgun barrels were grinding into her neck. He hoped she had the presence of mind to know what to do if anything happened. When anything happened.
‘Get down on the road,’ said Tasker. ‘I want to see you up close.’
He waited until Rocco had made his way down onto the lane, then pushed Alix forward, almost lifting her off the ground and making her cry out. They arrived at the gate crushed together and Tasker stopped, pressing Alix against the metal bars.
Rocco tensed. If Tasker opened fire now, he’d got nowhere to go.
‘You can let her go,’ said Rocco. ‘She does not have to get hurt.’
‘I said, get down.’ Tasker lifted the butt of the gun, but kept the barrels against Alix’s neck. ‘I won’t tell you again.’
Rocco dropped his hands halfway and lowered himself carefully to the ground in the press-up position. As he did so, he felt the Walther slip inside his sleeve. The shoelace was almost undone now. If he had to get up again and lift his arms, he wouldn’t be able to stop it sliding about and out of his reach.
‘You think this is going to be a confession, right?’ Tasker grinned, and pushed his face alongside Alix’s, grinding his hips against her buttocks in an obscene simulation. ‘That I’m going to beg for freedom so I can go home?’ The grin vanished and his voice hit a higher pitch. ‘Home to what? Nothing. They’ve dumped me in it, you know that? Like I’m a fucking nobody.’ A flare of anger turned his face red and he looked around as if suddenly aware that someone might be creeping up on him. ‘Tell your men to stay back, Rocco, or I’ll blow her brains all over this shitty village. And Jesus – what is that stink?’
A breeze had sprung up, carrying farmyard smells along the lane.
‘It’s called cow shit,’ said Rocco. ‘Look, why don’t we talk? This doesn’t have to end badly.’
‘Badly? Badly?’ Tasker’s face twisted and a volley of spit came through the bars of the gate. ‘What kind of word is that? This isn’t just bad, you crappy, fucking, French copper. This is far worse than that. Because we’re all going to end up the same way – don’t you get it?’
Rocco tensed as he saw Tasker’s grip tighten around the trigger guard of the shotgun. He readied himself to move, all the while knowing that in the time it would take this madman to press the trigger of the lupara, he’d be lucky if he got one foot beneath him. He felt sick and wondered how else he could have played this.
Then he heard a car engine approaching. He turned his head towards the village. Surely Godard or Desmoulins weren’t coming down here. Then he realised the noise was coming from the other way – from the open countryside towards Danvillers.
It was a grey 2CV van, with a bale of straw strapped to the roof. A small crate