Past Imperfect

TWENTY-FOUR

'Was there much in the press about it?'

'A fair bit. Two or three clippings in La Provencal, at least. It probably even hit Le Figaro or Le Monde at one stage — though possibly lumped together with coverage or other child murders.'

'When will you know for sure?' Marinella asked. The concern had come through in her voice, she sensed; perhaps even sounded how she felt: desperate, deflated.

Philippe described being bounced between libraries and news agencies half the morning. 'But I think I've finally found a couple of reliable sources. I've left them my fax number at the LSE. I should get the results of a search and copies from microfiche records within the next few hours.'

There was nothing she could do but sit it out, wait for Philippe to receive his faxes. David Lambourne was in with a patient, and she felt ill at ease sitting by the phone in his waiting area. She wanted to bounce thoughts off him straightaway. Though was it purely to vent some of her frustrations, or get an alternative viewpoint?

She glanced at the phone. If it was later in the day, she could have at least put through a call to Sebastian and her father — but it was only 5.10am in Charlottesville. Besides, she'd called them just the day before. Her father had been preparing red snapper with peppers and bean rice for later and the night previous they'd had chicken arroz brut; it was like a restaurant waiter reading out the menu. Sebastian would have been happy to stay with her father for a month. And to phone the university — catch up on activities the last few days and perhaps get some feedback from Donaldson — she'd have to wait even longer, almost four hours. She decided on a walk, burn off some of her restlessness.

She walked for almost half a mile and found herself on the edge of Covent Garden. She decided to have a coffee in the piazza, found a deli with outside tables in the ground floor courtyard. A string quartet played Vivaldi while she sipped her cappuccino.

Just the day before she'd been excited about the case. A genuine rush at the first bit of tangible information. Philippe had traced the death certificate in the Bauriac town hall register: Christian Yves Rosselot. Death registered at 9.54 pm, 23rd August, 1963. Parents Monique and Jean-Luc. Address: Rue des Rigouards, Taragnon. The boy not only existed, some of the main details checked out!

But the registrar had mentioned a coroner's note on the certificate. Marinella asked Philippe to check. Coroner's notes were not in themselves unusual, present in all manner of accidental deaths, so she was not immediately alarmed. Towards the end of the same day, having followed the trail through the coroner's office and the Ministere Publique which had ordered the report, Philippe phoned her and dropped the bombshell: the boy had been the victim of a murder, quite a notable case in the region at the time. It was too late for Philippe to do any more checking that day, libraries and town halls in France were already closed; she'd have to wait till the morning for the confirmations she feared were looming.

On the edge of the piazza, a mime artist juggled with three red balls, making them disappear dramatically behind his white gloved hands. A bit like this case, she thought: now you see it, now you don't. If she continued and published a paper, they would laugh at her back at Virginia. A prominent murder case that had been splashed across the press. Almost as bad as the boy claiming to be Maurice Chevalier or Joan of Arc. All the details were there for him to regurgitate.

Stock lines of defence rolled through her mind about the age of the press articles and the family's lack of knowledge of France. But she knew that the sceptics's barrage would be relentless: old newspapers perhaps kept by relatives who had holidayed in the region, current books with prominent murder cases from bygone years, fresh news stories that reflected back to past cases. She knew she couldn't even start to defend her corner until she'd seen the news items from Philippe, weighed the full extent of damage.

She felt deflated, despondent. Brought to the edge of what looked like an exciting case only for it to evaporate before her eyes yet again. Was this to be the pattern of her life? Each case that looked like it had real promise ending in disappointment. Perhaps she should just get the first flight back to Virginia, erase it quickly, a fresh workload and new cases to occupy her mind. She checked her watch: Lambourne's session would have ended a few minutes ago. She headed back.

David was sipping at a freshly made tea as she walked back in. He offered her one, but she declined with thanks. 'I've just had coffee.'

She'd flagged her concerns the evening before and now fleshed out the details: as she feared, the case had been reported heavily — she'd know just how heavily by early afternoon. They'd have to start thinking in terms of the case being completely fabricated or, at best, subliminally influenced. If they didn't adopt that stance, the critics certainly would. The case and any resultant study papers were heading nowhere. 'Sorry, David — but if the news from Philippe supports what I fear, I'm bailing out. I've already been four days away from my family, there's no point in my staying on just to face another disappointment.'

Lambourne held one hand up, trying to slow her down. 'Wait a minute. Putting aside the sceptics view — what do you think? Do you think the boy's fabricating?'

'I don't know.' She thought of the frail, lost voice, how convincing it had seemed. She shook her head. 'I'm not sure either way. It looks suspicious, that's all. But I have to take a safe stance, look at the downside. If I don't, someone else will — they'll rap me over the head, beat me senseless with it. Make me look foolish.'

Lambourne was about to comment, is that the most important thing, that you don't look foolish, then thought better of it. Too harsh. 'Are you sure you're not reading too prematurely into the view the critics might, only might take on this. As Donaldson commented — playing too much to the gallery.'

'It's okay for Donaldson, he never faces the critics like me. Never does personal interviews. Just goes on his jaunts to India or wherever, compiles his papers and books, and if they don't like his findings — fine. He just lets them stew in their own juices. He's in his own little cocooned academic netherworld, protected from it all. Unlike me, he doesn't have to sit on panels and face Professor Novision, a special study team of nerds from Sceptics Incorporated and flat earth preachers who conveniently forget that over half the world's religions believe in reincarnation. It's okay for Donaldson to pontificate about the gallery, because he has absolutely no idea what-' Marinella cut herself short as she read David Lambourne's expression: shocked at the strength of her feelings, or uncomfortable at her mention of ambivalence with Donaldson? She let out a long, tired breath and apologized, admitted that the stress of another promising case curtailed abruptly had got to her. She hung her head slightly in submission. 'Donaldson has built up a body of work and a reputation within the profession that I can only but hope to emulate. It was wrong of me to criticize. I'm sorry.'

Lambourne held his palms out. 'So, what do you want to do? Anticipate the flak you might receive from sceptics and give up now — or battle on?'

'I don't know.' Marinella was thoughtful. Then suddenly she smiled. 'You should worry. If it's all a scam, at least your patient's not ill. Misguided by some inventive, headline seeking weirdo godparents, perhaps — but not psychologically disturbed.'

Lambourne grimaced meekly. 'Except one problem. I happen to believe the boy. And I'm fully committed to trying to help him through this problem.'

Marinella nodded slowly. 'For what it's worth — I believe him too. Despite how it might all end up looking to the sceptics.'

While the mood was right, Lambourne tried to buoy her spirits. Assured her that her concern about critics was both premature and probably unfounded. The weight of evidence both from his own sessions and the initial report from Dr Torrens. A lot of people to all be wrong. 'What did the Capels do — fake the accident and the coma as well?' The statistics would probably also stack up on her side. 'How many regressions have you experienced before where people have been murdered?'

'Only one. Victim of a carpetbaggers raid just after the American Civil war. No records. But I believe Donaldson has had one or two cases.'

'I bet if you check the records, you'll find that regressions involving murder reflect almost exactly its incidence in real life compared with other forms of death. One in five hundred, one in a thousand — whatever.'

Marinella knew that previous studies had shown that regressions accurately reflected real life: 51 % women, 49 % men, regardless of the sex of the subject, most from meagre or mundane backgrounds, very few rich or notable figures. She didn't recall any specific studies for murder victims.

'And most murders since the turn of the century would have hit the press, so it's not that unusual.' Lambourne raised an eyebrow. 'Have you ever heard of or read the East Kent Gazette. Or perhaps a Mexican newspaper?'

'No.'

'Well, the Capels would have had just about as much chance of seeing provincial newspapers from the South of France. And from thirty years ago — forget it!'

'But it might have also been in Le Monde, perhaps even smaller items in the British press. And then there's the possibility of books compiling various murder cases through the years.'

'For Le Monde you'll have to wait on news from Philippe. But the rest you could check yourself. There's a good library not far away on Chancery Lane. In a couple of hours, you could have done a full search.'

Marinella bit lightly at her lip. 'It's not just for them — it's also convincing myself. Building back the confidence and enthusiasm to continue.'

Lambourne wasn't sure whether he'd convinced her or not. When he went into his next session, she was still there: perhaps waiting for Philippe's call, perhaps still balancing everything out in her mind.

Though when he came out of the session, she was gone. Two hours later, just twenty minutes after Philippe had called and left a message, she phoned from the library.

'You were right — there's nothing in the British press. I've searched everything.' The enthusiasm was back in her voice. 'I'm just checking through books now. I'll know for sure in an hour or so.'

Lambourne gave her the message that Philippe had called and Marinella asked if he had mentioned Le Monde. 'No, he just left his number.'

'Okay, thanks. I'll call him.' She rang off abruptly.

Lambourne didn't see her again until early evening. She was in high spirits and brought him up to date quickly: Le Monde did have an entry, but it was only five lines on page twelve the day after the attack and mentioned only the boy's name and the village. No parents' names, no trimmings. 'The boy was alive apparently for five days after that and his later death didn't appear in Le Monde. Three articles in La Provencal, one large, two small. And nothing at all in the British press or books.'

'You look relieved.'

'I'm ecstatic. I'm also starving — let's go eat.'

Over dinner, David could hardly keep pace. This was the Marinella he remembered: confident, optimistic, energetic, eyes sparkling. He felt glad now that he'd calmed her earlier doubts. Though as she talked about the remaining steps ahead of finding the Rosselots or close past friends who could corroborate Eyran's account as Christian Rosselot, he felt the first pang of uncertainty.

Marinella was talking as if she was suddenly on an open freeway, had been lost for a while on some annoying side road, but now was full speed ahead, not an obstacle in sight. And he began to worry that he might have fired her up too much, that if she suddenly hit an obstacle and was deflated again, he'd feel partly responsible. Having rekindled her enthusiasm, if in a few sessions time he decided that continuing regressions were not in his patient's interests, it would seem heartless to suddenly pull the plug.

That enthusiasm carried Marinella through the next two days. The first stumbling block was that the Rosselots could no longer be traced in the area. One of the town hall clerks recommended Philippe to the Bauriac gendarmerie. 'They conducted much of the investigation and someone there might know.' Philippe could only find one person at the gendarmerie who remembered the investigation, Captain Levacher. While Levacher personally had no knowledge of the Rosselots or their current whereabouts, he had another number for someone who might be able to help. 'Dominic Fornier, he assisted in the investigation thirty years ago.' He had a number also for Captain Poullain who headed the investigation, but Levacher explained why he thought Dominic Fornier might be more useful. 'Here it is, National Police, Panier district, Marseille. 1974. That's the last number we have for him.'

Philippe phoned the number and they gave him another number for a division in West Marseille. The people in West Marseille were more circumspect and gave no information, merely asked his name, logged his call, and promised that someone would call back. Philippe didn't get the return call until the next morning, a girl named Therese giving him a number in Lyon. Philippe phoned to be informed: 'Chief Inspector Fornier is in a meeting right now. He'll be free probably about midday.'

Philippe brought Marinella up to date straightaway.

She checked her watch: 9.20am. France was an hour ahead, so Philippe planned to try again in almost two hours. 'Great. I'll be sitting by the phone waiting for news.'

Two more hours and they could hopefully piece together Christian Rosselot's life. But along with the excitement, she suddenly felt restless, ill at ease. The last days of research and Philippe's paper chase across France had obviously told on her nerves. Though as she tried to settle the rising butterflies in her stomach, it struck her that it might also be something else: the portent of possible failure was suddenly there once again. Only two hours away.