Past Imperfect

TWENTY-TWO

Jean-Luc Rosselot sat on the small stone wall and looked down the slope of the field towards the courtyard and the house. It was summer again, eight months after the trial. The scent of the fields reminded him of the day he'd found Christian's bike, of days they'd spent together working on the farm… of the bleak wheat field with the gendarmes placed like markers.

Christian's small makeshift camp the far side of the wall he'd dismantled just a few months before. The winter winds had made it look dishevelled, no longer a pleasant reminder of the days when Christian used it.

The images too were fading. Many times before he'd sat on the wall and looked down, imagined Christian running up towards him, waving, calling his name. Now when he summoned up the image, he could see a figure running, but it was indistinct — it could have been any boy. The features were faded, hazy, little more than a Cezanne impression. He wondered whether it was because his eyes were watering with the pain of the memory, blurring his vision — then would suddenly realize his eyes had slowly closed, the images were playing only in his mind.

The only images that remained clearly, too clearly, were those he'd fought to blot out: the young gendarme in the courtyard with Monique collapsed at his feet, the photos of when Christian was found which he and Monique had to view at instruction, part of the process of official identification before the almost ludicrous question, 'Is it your wish that charges are proceeded with?' The two days in court, his outrage as the defence tactics became clear, and then the judge's final sentence: six years? Six years for the life of his son: not even a semblance of justice. Diminished responsibility? Metal plates, army doctors and old resistance fighter. The whole thing had been a pathetic sham.

All that he'd clung to all along had been justice. Everything else had already been stripped away. Pride, hope, some reason to explain the ridiculous, the unacceptable that he'd lost Christian. Was that what he'd hoped for that day in court? Some explanation of why it had happened to lay the ghosts to rest. In the end, reason had been as lacking as justice. What were they saying in the end: that the man had murdered his son, but it was partly excusable because he had a metal plate due to being hit by a Nazi truck twenty years ago?

Jean-Luc shook his head. He felt tired, very tired. The land, the fight to make the farm work, had been sapping him dry the last few years. Christian's death and the ensuing investigation and court case had taken whatever strength and resolve remained. He felt increasingly awkward in Monique's and Clarisse's company, could hardly look them in the eye, knew that they might see what lay beneath: that he just couldn't love them the way he loved Christian. And ashamed that he'd let them down, failed them. The last two letters from the bank he'd stuffed in a drawer without opening them. He knew already what they would say.

He rose slowly, clearing the welled tears from his eyes as he started down the field towards the courtyard. If he saw Christian now, saw a clear image again waving and calling to him, perhaps that would stop him, make him think again. But there was nothing, only the empty field. Empty and dry under the summer sun, unyielding. Nothing left to cling to any more, not even the memory. As he got closer to the house, he saw a faint flicker behind the kitchen window. Monique was busy in the kitchen, but she hadn't noticed him and didn't look up as he crossed the courtyard to the garage.

14th December, 1969

Monique Rosselot tried to make out shapes in the room. Everything was misty, as if looking through a sheet of muslin. The figures moving around were indistinct, blurred, except the nurse when she leaned close, asking her again if she could 'feel anything below her waist?'

'Yes… yes,' she answered between fractured breaths, now slightly indignant at the nurse's doubting tone.

Feel was such a lame word for the terrible pain that gripped her, starting deep in her stomach and spreading like a firestorm through her thighs and lower back. She'd never before experienced such intense pain, didn't know it was possible for any human to endure such agony.

'I don't think the epidural has taken,' she heard a man's voice. 'We might have to give her another shot.'

'I don't think we can at this stage,' came another.

And then the nurse leaning over again. 'Can you feel your body relaxing now?'

'Yes… yes.'

'But can you still feel the pain from lower down?'

Monique exhaled the 'Yes' between clenched teeth, her breathing now little more than short bursts as she tensed against the pain.

Doctor Jouanard contemplated the dilemma. The patient had been given the epidural almost thirty minutes ago. After twenty minutes when it became obvious it hadn't taken because of the patient's continuing pain, the baby was by then engaged in the birth canal. It would be almost impossible for the patient to bend forward to get the right curvature in the spine for a fresh epidural. And the risks of trying to administer it without full curvature were too high. A half centimetre off target and the patient could be paralyzed. In the end he'd ordered a mild general anaesthetic, something to calm and relax nerves, but leave the patient awake so that there was some response muscle control to push with.

At least that had now taken, but the continuing pain and the fact that the baby didn't seem to have progressed any further in the birth canal, despite concentrated pushes from the patient, began to worry Jouanard. He'd read the patient's history thoroughly: two previous natural births without complications, her pelvic girth was obviously sufficiently large, why the problems now?

With one hand on the abdomen, he could feel the baby lodged deep in the birth canal; with the other he spread back the vulva to get a clearer view. He thought he saw what looked like the baby's head, and something else — though he couldn't immediately make out what. There was also too much blood, he began to worry that something might have ruptured internally. He felt inside, trying to identify by touch what he thought was the head.

He worked his hand around, moulding to the shape of the smooth damp flesh: it was a shoulder straight ahead that he'd seen, further down he could feel the thorax and arm, and the head… the head was pushed sharply to one side. And something in between. Jouanard ran his hand around once more to make sure. He looked up sharply.

'Dr Floirat. Administer the patient immediately with full anaesthetic for surgery.'

Floirat started issuing instructions: ECG monitor and oscillatometer to be wheeled forward, doses for the thiopentone.

Jouarnard stepped back, supervising the laying out of instruments with his assistant. The blood loss worried him. Three or four minutes to set up the monitors, another minute for the thiopentone to take effect. How much more would she have lost by then? He directed a nurse to keep swabbing the flow. He noticed the patient's eyes darting, taking in the renewed activity.

'It's okay… it's okay,' he soothed. 'The epidural hasn't taken fully. We're giving you a general anaesthetic. It will all be over soon. Just relax.'

Stock phrases. Inside he was panicking. Breach birth with part of the umbilical cord wrapped around the baby's neck. Pushing against the obstruction had obviously caused an internal rupture, and the baby might already be strangled. If the placenta had ruptured, the baby would soon be dead, if it was still alive. If it was the uterus or womb, he could lose the patient as well. And he wouldn't even know where the rupture was until he opened up.

The nurses were making the last connections on the monitors. Floirat stepped forward and administered the thiopentone. Jouanard looked at his watch, almost counting down the seconds. The blood loss was heavy. Fresh swabs were being dumped in the dish every ten or fifteen seconds. The patient was still alert, responding to the nurse who was talking to check when she was fully under.

As the questions became totally mundane, Monique began to panic, bringing her anxiety at the renewed activity and the doctors sudden urgent orders to a peak. She asked the nurse, 'What's happening?', only to receive a trite smile in response.

'Nothing. Don't worry. Just relax.'

Which only made her panic all the more. She reached one hand up. 'I'd like to see my husband. Please… I'd like him here by me. To help me.'

'Yes… don't worry. We'll get him.' The same practised smile from the nurse, knowing that the patient would be fully under any second.

Waves of euphoria started to descend, and suddenly the nurse was right. There was nothing to worry about. Her body felt as if it was floating, drifting away on the echoes and voices around her.

'You see… my husband will know just what to do,' she offered pathetically, her last words before drifting completely into the darkness.

In the first moments of darkness, she saw Christian's face. He was running through a field, waving and smiling to her. But it wasn't the field by their house, it was one she didn't recognize: a wheat field, the sheaves blowing gently in the wind. And she thought: yes, it would be nice if it was a boy. Another Christian. She'd take care of him this time, love him, keep him close to her side and never let him be harmed. Oh God, please, please… just one more chance.

Floirat checked the patient's pupils for responsiveness with a penlight and nodded after a second. Jouanard made the first incision. He'd already resigned himself to the fact that he'd probably lost the baby. The challenge remaining was to save his patient's life.

28th April, 1974

Dominic Fornier swung the black Citreon through the narrow Panier lanes, beeping his horn to move some people aside as he negotiated a tight turn. As he picked up speed, the wind rush reverberated from the buildings close each side. Ahead, he could now see the crowd. Most of them were congregated on the far side. He parked behind two black Citreons already there. He recognized Lasnel from forensics and Detective Inspector Bennacer, busy taking notes among the crowd the far side.

Lasnel looked up from examining the body, grabbed his attention first. 'Inspecteur Fornier. Just in time. Another few minutes and the meat wagon might have taken him away.'

Dominic knelt beside Lasnel. 'Been here long?'

'Four or five minutes. Quite straightforward, though. Looks as if the first blow was made here, a straight lunge, quite deep, almost reaching the trachea, then the blade was run across, severing the jugular.'

'So we know at least it was a knife rather than a razor. That'll narrow it down.' Dominic smiled and patted Lasnel's shoulder.

The man's body lay face down, the blood from his neck wound spreading out and now a dark maroon, almost brown. He'd been dead now almost an hour. Dominic straightened up and Lasnel too shifted to one side for a moment as a detective moved in and took some photos using flash; though it was afternoon and bright sunshine, the buildings each side heavily shaded the narrow lane. Dominic went over to Bennacer.

'Any witnesses?'

Bennacer shook his head and pointed to a middle aged woman, quite dark, probably Moroccan or Algerian. 'She was the first to find him, two other men came up quickly afterwards, one of them went to the nearest phone to make the initial emergency call, the other's here.' Bennacer pointed to an old man not far behind the woman. 'But nobody actually saw the attack.'

Dominic clarified with Bennacer that the other man, in his twenties, hadn't appeared again but probably wasn't significant. The victim's wallet was missing, there was no available identification, but Bennacer knew him: a local club owner called Emile Vacheret. The attack had been made to look like a robbery, but Bennacer doubted it. It was probably a milieu hit.

Dominic nodded. Now that Bennacer had mentioned the name, Dominic remembered the file. Their main informant on milieu activities, Forterre, had reported moves to set up stronger drug distribution networks using Marseille clubs. Vacharet was one of the club owners in the file. Vacheret had for years used his clubs as fronts for packets of marijuana, but there was pressure for him to start handling heroine as well. Emile Vacheret was against the idea, but his son Francois, now in his early thirties, was known to be in favour. 'So it looks as if they didn't want to wait the fifteen years for the old man to retire,' Dominic commented sourly. 'Do you think his son might have actually been involved in the hit?'

'No, I don't think so. He might have disagreed with his father, but he wouldn't have gone that far. With Emile out of the way, they'd get what they wanted anyway with Francois — so no need to implicate him. It also serves as a warning: what better way to make sure the son tows the line.'

The inner politics of the milieu, thought Dominic. Essential knowledge for much of his past nine years in Marseille. As the drugs market had burgeoned, with Marseille one of the main distillation and shipment centres for Europe, the incidence of reglas de compte, settling of accounts, had increased. As with so many other similar cases, there would be no murder weapon found, no fingerprints, no witnesses. Just the usual list of suspects bounced between departmental files and computers.

'Are any of his clubs near here?'

'The nearest is at least three blocks away. Nothing in the immediate streets.'

Dominic scanned the street beyond the small crowd. Eleven days? Eleven days before he cleared his desk in Marseille and started his two year posting with Interpol in Paris. The case wouldn't have progressed much in that time, would no doubt end up with his Chief Inspector, Isnard, where it would fester in one of his two usual piles: unsolved cases and internal admin overload. If he wanted some movement on the case, some strong leg work while he was gone, his best chance lay with Bennacer.

Dominic flicked back through his notepad. Too many loose ends to tie up in just eleven days: cases in progress, reminders before he left, now he was adding more. Any work breaks had been filled with organizing packing and moving and rent contracts for their house in Aubagne and their new house in Corbeil, twenty miles south of Paris.

No doubt there would be a goodbye drink with his department and, if there was time, a last meal at ‘Pierre Tetre’ in Cannes with his wife and son. They'd dined there the night he proposed to her, then again six years back when he received his final exam results and his move from the Marseille gendarmerie to the National Police became official. The two years at Interpol was voluntary and his current ranking would remain the same, but it would broaden his work experience and help his progress to Chief Inspector: two or three years after he returned at most. Without clinking glasses first at Pierre Tetre, the move to Paris would seem somehow incomplete.

Dominic looked up. The ambulance was approaching, forcing the crowds close to the walls each side in the narrow lane. He wrote on a scrap of paper and handed it to Bennacer. 'I'm not sure how much I'll be able to do on this before I leave. But don't just let the case rot on Isnard's desk. Do the leg work yourself and work your milieu contact as best you can. This will be my number in Paris. Call me directly if anything comes up.'

As Dominic closed his notepad, he saw the word Machanaud? written on the second to last page. A year after gaining his Inspectorate with the National Police, he'd been driving through Taragnon and was reminded of the case. Machanaud should have been released two years before, might have even been paroled earlier. He tried to contact Molet through the Palais de Justice and his old law firm, only to discover that he had moved practice to Nice; four phone calls later, he gave up on tracking down a phone number. He decided to try finding out what had happened to Machanaud through Perrimond's office. After three calls to Perrimond's secretary and none of them returned, within a week a snowstorm of work had pushed it into the background and it was forgotten.

It sprang to mind again a year ago when he saw a press cutting about Alain Duclos. He'd seen nothing about Duclos in the ten years since the murder. It was a small sidebar talking about the new candidate for the RPR in Limoges, Alain Duclos, and mentioned his position as Chief Prosecutor the past five years and some notable successes against companies for labour contract infringements: mostly sweat shop use of illegal immigrants, with Duclos quoted that 'it not only imprisoned the immigrant in a cycle of modern day slavery, but also robbed the French people of their workright.' Champion of the People, Dominic thought cynically. Duclos and politics were obviously made for each other.

He'd made a mental note then to try Perrimond again but had forgotten about it. Then just the week before he'd made the entry in his notepad along with the other loose ends of his life he wanted to deal with before leaving. No doubt he was worrying for nothing. Machanaud had probably been paroled after four years and spent at most another year in an institution receiving therapy. He would try Perrimond again as soon as he got back to his office.

4th February, 1976

Rain pattered against the side window of the car. Duclos looked anxiously at his watch. Chapeau was already five minutes late. Perhaps he was having trouble finding the new meeting place.

The idea had been forming slowly the past year, though subconsciously it had probably been there far longer. Almost three years ago an old uncle of his had died and, together with his cousin, they'd handled the house clearance. Duclos knew a local antiques dealer, but they'd decided to go through the house first to identify the curios, be sure of their ground for when the dealer arrived. In an old attic trunk together with a uniform, brocade and medals, Duclos found an old service revolver, an SACM 7.6mm.

His uncle had been an army officer during the Vichy government regime, but it wasn't the sort of thing the family would make public, nor did Vichy period army memorabilia have strong re-sale value. The trunk's contents would probably not be passed to the dealer and he doubted that his uncle had even made them known to his family. Yet the gun looked in surprisingly good condition, had obviously been regularly oiled and cleaned, was now tucked away neatly with a box of ammunition at its side. Duclos looked up and listened for a second — his cousin was still busy downstairs — before pocketing the gun and the shells.

The thought didn't hit him in that moment what he might want it for, but in retrospect he recalled his eagerness to pocket the gun, his worry that his cousin might come up and prevent him being able to take it. Perhaps the intent and purpose had been there subliminally all along.

But it wasn't until almost eighteen months later, with the next demand from Chapeau, that the significance of the gun really struck him. The demands came almost every year, had worn him down bit by bit. Each step up the ladder, each pay rise or increase in stature, and Chapeau would phone. Congratulations!

He'd come almost to resent his own success, felt physically sick with each press flashbulb and item printed, knowing that Chapeau would read the clipping and the phone would ring. He began even to question his own motives for striving for such heights of ambition, that secretly he wanted Chapeau to call, that only the continuing punishment might somehow rid him of the nightmares that still haunted him periodically — waking up in a cold sweat as he saw the small boy's piercing green eyes staring back, pleading with him… please don't kill me!

In the dreams, the car boot and the final moments of attack had become one and the same, the eyes shining back at him from the boot's darkness just before he swung the rock down. The first dream had come six months after the attack and sometimes he would get quick flashbacks as he opened the boot. He'd sold the car shortly after.

But at other times he'd feel that he'd suffered enough, that the dreams were only still haunting him because each call from Chapeau would remind him, bring the incident alive again. And in those moments he'd want it all ended, the nightmare of the continuing calls and demands, the worry with his career progressing that each year he had more to lose. The price on his head increased.

And he knew then why he'd picked up the gun, knew that there was only…

Duclos' thoughts were broken. Chapeau's car had pulled up to one side. Duclos got out hastily, it was vital they weren't inside his car when he pulled the trigger. He felt light rain spots touch his face, and prayed that Chapeau didn't find it strange that he was standing outside.

Chapeau got out and walked over. New car, Duclos noticed: Citreon CX Pallas. With the money he'd been paying to Chapeau the past years, hardly any wonder he could afford a better car than himself. He put one hand in his coat pocket, touched the cool metal of the gun butt.

'I didn't know you were a country lover,' Chapeau commented, his breath showing on the cool damp air.

The weather was ideal. He'd purposely delayed the meeting until it turned damp and cool. He could wear a coat without Chapeau being suspicious.

Chapeau's feet crunched on loose shale and stone as he shuffled close. The track ran between a small area of woodland twenty miles north of Montpelier. It led to a picnic area further down which in summer would be busy; at this time of year it was deserted. Duclos had made the excuse of not wanting to meet at the usual restaurant car park: 'a waiter was looking out at intervals during our last meeting.' Chapeau said he hadn't noticed, but had agreed to the new meeting place.

Chapeau's features had become heavier with the years. His neck had a thick jowl and the bags under his eyes gave him the appearance of a sad, malevolent bulldog. He often wore dark or tinted glasses to hide his bad eye, but today there were none: the weather was too dull.

'It's cold out here,' Chapeau said. 'Has the heater been on inside your car?'

Duclos glanced at the car, thinking quickly before his hesitance gave him away. 'Probably. But I wanted a bit of fresh air. We'll be finished soon.'

Chapeau held his gaze for a second. Duclos hand tensed on the gun butt in his pocket. Was Chapeau suspicious, wondering why he wanted some fresh air when it was misty and raining?

Chapeau looked down thoughtfully, then to one side. 'No worry of any nosy waiters here. Good choice if you like privacy.' Then his gaze swivelled back until it rested on Duclos.

Duclos felt a faint trembling start to grip his legs. He took the hand hastily out of his pocket.

'You must be quite proud, Minister. I read that recent press clipping. Impressive stuff. If I didn't know you so well, I'd be tempted to vote for you myself. Amazing how your private life can be so different to your public image.'

Through the years, Duclos had become used to reading behind Chapeau's comments. What he meant was: Now your public profile has been elevated yet again, is even more polarized from your private life, the threat of downfall has far higher value. I can charge you more.

'… What a surprise they'd all get if they realized what a prick you really were.' Chapeau laughed. 'No more invites to boy scout or youth club hall openings!'

And always ended on a rebuke, a tease. Christ, for that alone it was going to feel good to kill him. Duclos sneaked his hand back on the gun, snaked one finger around until it was on the trigger. No more teasing and mocking. No more having to look into Chapeau's sad fish eye to see that the only thing to bring some life into it, some mirth, was his own discomfort.

The first thought of killing Chapeau had come as much as five years ago, but getting someone else to do it; then he quickly thought again. That was what had landed him in this cycle of blackmail in the first place. He could end up just replacing one blackmailer with another. Yet in that first moment of discovering his uncle's gun, he never dreamt that years later he would be standing on a damp and desolate lane with his own finger on the trigger.

Each meeting, each rebuke and insult, each payment, the fear of discovery and downfall stronger with each year… had bit by bit built a patchwork quilt of hatred and resolve. He would have to do it himself; there was nobody else.

'Are you okay?' asked Chapeau.

'Yes… yes. Fine.' Duclos stuttered. He could feel his nerves returning as he steeled himself, the trembling was back in his legs. 'Let's get it over with. As you say, it's cold out here.' He passed the envelope to Chapeau.

The gun and ammunition would be untraceable. Nobody had seen him come into the lane, and the location was miles away for both of them. There would be no possible connection. He would have to make the first shot count, hitting the chest or stomach, with two or three in quick succession after. A superficial wound or a miss and Chapeau would start firing back.

Chapeau was opening the envelope, starting to count the money.

With Vacharet now dead, the last link between the two of them had also gone. The last traces of 1963 would die with Chapeau. He'd got away with it once, he could do it again. He tightened his grip, felt his palm sweating on the gun butt. The best moment was while Chapeau was looking down, distracted with counting the money.

'Thirty thousand, wasn't it?' Chapeau confirmed. But he hardly looked up from counting.

'Yes.' Twelve years focused into a single moment. His legs were trembling uncontrollably and there was a tight constriction in his chest. He swallowed to try and ease it. He'd thought initially of shooting Chapeau through the coat pocket, but then realized that with the mark and powder burns he'd have to dump the coat; it could be traced. But now he began to worry that in lifting the gun out, Chapeau would see it. A flicker in the corner of his eye while he was counting, making him reach for his own gun.

Chapeau was two-thirds through counting the first bundle. Duclos knew the routine: Chapeau would count the first bundle fully, then would flick quickly through the other bundles and measure them against the first. There were six bundles in all: 5,000 Francs each made up of 100 Franc notes.

All the months of preparation, and now the moment was upon him, he felt frozen into inaction. He'd even gone out to a deserted field near Limoges one weekend to fire off a few rounds: make sure the ammunition wasn't damp or faulty and get used to the feel of the gun. But what use was that now. This was no longer cardboard targets, but pumping bullets through flesh and bone! His nerves were racing, his whole body starting to shake. Perhaps he should wait until Chapeau had finished counting, started to walk away. Shoot him in the back.

Chapeau was finishing the second bundle.

But what if Chapeau suddenly looked up and read into his expression that something was wrong? Chapeau would see that he was in a cold sweat with panic, would reach for his gun before he even had the chance. Chapeau was flicking rapidly through the bundles… starting on the fourth. Any second he could look up and the chance would be gone.

With one last silent prayer into the misty air, Duclos started to ease the gun from his pocket.