Past Imperfect

THIRTY-ONE

Shallow breathing. Half light from the hallway spilling across Eyran's profile as he slept. Stuart Capel stood over the bed, contemplating. In some lights, at some angles, he could see Jeremy's features in Eyran's face. Remember Jeremy as he was as a child, the two of them playing together. Eyran was the last link with those memories.

Lost now, all so distant — and pushed away even further by the confusion and nightmares running riot in Eyran's mind. Still, the Eyran he remembered — the carefree smiling boy from their trip to California before the accident — was out of reach.

Seven sessions in five weeks. Had Eyran's state of mind improved? Certainly, the frequency of dreams had diminished. Two a week had been the average before the sessions, now they were at least a week or ten days apart and less violent and upsetting. Of the four dreams over those five weeks, two dreams had been with Gigio, two without.

The latest development Stuart found hardest to accept: Past life regressions? Gigio no longer an invented, protective character from the part of Eyran's psyche refusing to accept the loss of his parents — but a real life in its own right. A life that Eyran had supposedly lived in France from 1953 to 1963. Christian Rosselot. He shook his head. It was unreal, ludicrous, another turn-off along the nightmarish road they'd been led down since Jeremy's death. Yet this one had no familiar landmarks, no signposts, dragged him abruptly away from the only tangible element with Eyran's condition he'd clung to: Eyran's non-acceptance of his parents death. He could relate to that. He had felt the emotion strongly himself, had spent the last long weeks struggling to come to terms with Jeremy's death and had barely succeeded. A friendly face in his dreams taking him to see Jeremy, he imagined could be quite reassuring, soothing. Make him feel somehow that Jeremy hadn't completely gone.

But his reservations about entering Eyran into therapy had lingered until the second session when David Lambourne brought up the possible danger of a predominant character pushing Eyran over the edge into schizophrenia. Only then did he feel assured he'd made the right decision. His earlier fears were allayed.

Now with that premise thrown out of the window, Stuart's doubts were back. Before the final session with Marinella Calvan, he'd voiced his concerns to Lambourne of continued probing into Eyran's past. Lambourne had defended that because the past real character of Gigio/Christian had also experienced sudden separation from his parents, secondary influence was still significant. How even apart from that core shared experienced of loss, there were other elements linking the two lives: a period of coma in both boys, Eyran's brief death, the wheat field in Eyran's dreams which was also the last place to feature in Christian's life. By knowing more about Christian Rosselot, they would be better armed to tackle Eyran's current condition.

Stuart had only been partially swayed, and perhaps it had shown in his face because Lambourne added. 'With this one final session with Mrs Calvan, the main forays into the past will be complete. We can then assess afresh where we want future sessions to head.'

Though Stuart didn't totally agree with Calvan's views, he appreciated her courage of conviction. After the last session, she'd thanked him and Amanda for allowing her to delve into Eyran's past and explained how she hoped it might help: that it wasn't only a question of symbols, it was determining where they had stronger relevance. In which life was there stronger non-acceptance of loss and separation? Hopefully the two sessions and the notes and transcripts would provide the answers to that. Provide a stronger framework for conventional therapy to continue.

Calvan had nodded towards Lambourne at that point, but Stuart noted a slight clouding in Lambourne's eyes, as if he disagreed or previously had had words with her on the subject. But Lambourne made no comment. Just smiled tightly at Calvan's nod.

The only time Stuart had spoken with Calvan before was for twenty minutes after her first session with Eyran, when she'd provided some of her background with regressions, children and xenoglossy. She preferred cases of xenoglossy in children because of the unlikelihood of them learning the language by other means. Fluent Spanish, medieval German, Phoenician, obscure regional dialects. Hundreds of authenticated case studies and papers compiled between herself and her mentor, Dr Emmett Donaldson. Impressive stuff, incredible. Somehow too incredible to be real. Stuart hadn't voiced any doubt, but Calvan somehow sensed it, had suddenly asked him if, apart from Eyran, he knew anyone who had been in a coma. No, he hadn't. But, she pressed, he had probably heard of people who after being in a coma had afterwards suffered amnesia. Memory loss. 'Yes,' he'd answered. Calvan had succinctly pointed out that if a period of coma had the ability to wipe out memory, then a death certainly would. 'People tend not to believe in past lives simply because they themselves have no personal recall of a past life. Nothing tangible with which to relate. But that doesn't mean they haven't occurred. Most people under hypnosis do in fact recall past lives. And my colleague Dr Donaldson has had great success in sessions with young boys up to the age of seven while awake. After that, the ability to recall diminishes.'

Stuart could just imagine Calvan back in Virginia, pacing in front of first year students, dazzling the class with the same graphic example. Why was he still so sceptical?

Marinella Calvan's parting words after the last session still rang in his mind: 'At least now we know it's a real past life, the danger of possible schizophrenia has gone. No more worries about a secondary character taking over.'

But Stuart hadn't felt any relief. Replacing something tangible — something with which he could strongly relate — with a concept he still couldn't quite grasp, just didn't sit right. Regardless of the obvious benefits stressed by Calvan.

When he'd first mentioned his doubts to Amanda about the continuing sessions, she'd quickly thrown in his face that he'd never been keen on them, and now at the first obstacle, the first turn in the road with which he didn't agree — he was ready to throw in the towel. 'Leave it to the experts, Stuart. It's their problem. Why their walls are full of diplomas in psychoanalysis and yours aren't. You're never going to second guess them at their own game.'

So that was how she saw it. The age old argument. While it was their problem, he wasn't so obsessed with Eyran, he had more time to devote to his own family. To Tessa and herself. Eyran had conveniently been shoved off to the sidelines: someone else's problem. If Stuart called an end to the sessions, the problem of Eyran was back fully in their laps.

But Amanda's comment, however mis-guided, threw a starker light on his own doubt. He had originally hoped that the sessions would break down the barriers and imaginary characters in Eyran's mind. He would feel closer to Eyran again. The Eyran he remembered. But now the character was real, not imaginary. Not one that would be shifted by a few couch-side questions from Lambourne. And apart from worrying where the future sessions with Eyran might now head, he wondered whether at heart it wasn't scepticism, but more that he didn't want to believe. Accept the reality of a secondary character who would always be with Eyran, however deeply buried in his subconscious. Yet again he would be sharing Eyran.

Time was too tight for the evening flight to Lyon, so Dominic decided to stay over another night at the Meridien. He opted for an afternoon flight the next day so that he would be readily available through the morning for any news from Marinella Calvan. They had the final session at eleven o’clock, and he imagined that she would broach what he'd proposed either directly before or after the session, while both the Capels and Lambourne were present.

Though she'd voiced caution and doubt, her questions and keen interest had also displayed strong eagerness to help. Dominic was hopeful.

No call by eleven. She either hadn't yet broached the subject, or it was too awkward to hold up the session or make the call while the Capels were still there. Or, if she got agreement, she might even plough straight in and ask some pertinent questions straight away. Another hour or so to wait.

Dominic felt at a loose end. He'd earlier phoned his Lyon office and gained an update on activities while he was away from Inspector Guidier, his second in command. He now phoned Guidier back and asked him to make contact with the Lyon Public Prosecutor's office. 'Try Verfraigne. It's just a hypothetical situation at this stage.' Dominic explained what he wanted: the likely prosecution procedure for a murder case re-opened after over thirty years. Any obvious pitfalls and obstacles. 'It wouldn't come under Lyon's jurisdiction, but Aix-en-Provence. So the names of prosecutors and any likely chains of command for such a scenario there would also be helpful.'

Guidier was curious. 'Anything interesting?'

'Could be. Could be.' Dominic didn't want to say anything until Marinella Calvan had called, didn't want to tempt fate. But by starting the process, at least he had the feeling something was in motion. 'I'm leaving here at one-forty. But I won't be back in the office in Lyon until probably six or seven. Just time to pick up some files before I head down to Vidauban for the weekend.' He gave the hotel telephone number for any immediate news.

Dominic's second call was to Pierre Lepoille at Interpol. Lepoille was one of the best Interpol intelligence officers he knew. A researcher in his mid-twenties when they'd worked together at Interpol in Paris; now thirty-four, Lepoille was a true scion of the electronic age. A walking encyclopaedia of random knowledge, with whatever he didn't know a few keystrokes away: Interpol's own secure network, the FBI's AIS programme, Minitel or surfing the Internet.

Lepoille was part of the permanent backbone of intelligence staff who supported the shifting quotas of officers, like himself, on two year assignments with Interpol. Or liaised with the myriad of police forces world-wide. Gaining access, breaking codes, smashing deftly through virgin cyberspace barriers — few secrets could be safely cocooned from Lepoille's probing keystrokes. The thought of a criminal being apprehended in Kuala Lumpur from an initial enquiry from a backwater police station in Tupelo, Mississippi, all through a succession of quick-fire keystrokes, Lepoille found addictive.

His only other addiction was Gauloise, but since smoking was not allowed in the computer room, Lepoille's two vices were in serious conflict. Lepoille would grasp at any excuse to head to the canteen, lighting up as soon as he was out of the computer room, then would chain smoke, practically lighting one from the embers of another. But at some stage Lepoille's withdrawal symptoms of being away from his computers would become stronger and he'd be eager to return. Dominic recalled many a chain-smoking canteen meeting with Lepoille.

'Dominic. Nice to hear from you. Been a while.'

They spent a few minutes catching up on the eight months since their last meeting before Dominic got to what he wanted: 'Psychics. Cases proven through psychic phenomena, as well as failed cases involving the same. With the latter, any obvious legal obstacles that came out of why the cases failed.'

'In France, or beyond.'

'Mainly France. But any big landmark cases outside might also be useful.'

'Okay.' Lepoille didn't ask what it was for. Countless intelligence enquiries every week had numbed him to the unusual. Lepoille had become used to not asking.

Dominic left Lepoille his number at Vidauban for anything that might come through in the next day or two, then took a long deep breath and sat back. It was done. Everything put in motion. Nothing left but to see what came back in. He looked at his watch: 11.52am. Calvan would be finished in just eight minutes. The phone could ring and he would know whether his efforts of the last fifty minutes had been wasted or not.

By twelve-fifteen, when there was still no call from Marinella Calvan, Dominic's nerves were frazzled and his doubts returned full force. He realized he'd probably been foolish, allowed his blind enthusiasm to take control, burying the doubts Calvan had flagged. Blot them out in the same way that Christian didn't want to recall the murder. Alternative, mostly lame, excuses started to spring to mind of why she hadn't yet called — and finally Dominic picked up the phone. The thought of another hour's phone-watching before he headed off for his flight, waiting anxiously to know, was unbearable.

'I'm afraid she's not here.' David Lambourne's voice. 'She's gone shopping. Some bits and pieces she needed to pick up apparently before her flight back to Virginia.'

'When is she preparing to leave?'

'Later this evening. Six-thirty, seven o'clock.' Brief silence. 'Anything I can help with, Inspector Fornier?'

'It was just that she mentioned she might call me.' If Lambourne knew anything, hopefully he'd speak up. But he just responded blandly, 'I see.' Dominic didn't want to prompt by asking, Didn't she discuss the matter with you? Too clumsy. 'Do you expect to see her later, or will she go straight back to her hotel?'

'She said that she'd probably call by for half an hour or so between three and four, there's some final notes she'd like to go over with me before leaving.'

Final notes? Dominic wondered if that was when she'd chosen to raise the subject with Lambourne, perhaps explained why she hadn't called so far. But by then he realized he'd either be waiting himself to board a flight or mid-air to Lyon. 'Can you tell her I called. It's very important. I'm flying out myself soon, but she could leave a message at my office or reach me over the weekend on this number.' Dominic gave Lambourne his Lyon HQ and Vidauban numbers and rang off.

Over the next twenty-four hours, Dominic see-sawed hopelessly between doubt and hope over what news might come from Calvan.

There was no news or message when he arrived at his office in Lyon at 6.40pm, only an urgent file on his desk from Guidier which needed to be checked before an instruction hearing Monday, and a note: Verfraigne is in court until Monday. More information then. But his assistant knew the name of the Aix Chief Prosecutor: Henri Corbeix.

Dominic picked up the file and the note and phoned Monique to tell her he was on his way. He'd already phoned her once before boarding his flight, pre-warned her they would be heading down to Vidauban for the weekend. Hopefully she would already have most things packed and prepared.

When he arrived, the suitcases were by the door, but she'd pan fried some sea bass with peppers and dill on a bed of rice. His favourite. A glass of white Bordeaux was at its side. She'd already had hers, but she thought he might want something before the drive.

He grimaced apologetically. 'I'm sorry. I already ate on the flight. I'm not that hungry,' he lied. 'I should have told you when I phoned.

Monique looked back towards the food. He wasn't sure if she was put out by his refusal, or simply working out what to do with the fish. He was eager to get away, see if there was a message on his Vidauban answerphone from Marinella Calvan — but now he felt guilty. 'How long will you be?'

'Five or six minutes. I just need to finish my make-up and throw a few more things in the overnight bag.'

'Well, now that you've prepared it. It looks too good to go to waste. I'll see what I can manage.'

By the time Monique was ready, he'd finished all of the fish, two-thirds of the rice, and downed the last gulp of Bordeaux as he picked up the first bags.

'Fire somewhere?' Monique asked halfway through the drive.

Dominic didn't realize till that moment how fast he'd been driving: 168kmph, when his normal average was 130-140kmph. He eased back to just over 150 kmph.

After the flight and the day's events, Dominic was tired. The oncoming headlights stung his eyes towards the end of the drive. Particularly their stark glare on the unlit roads approaching Vidauban and the farmhouse. The drive had taken two hours-twenty minutes rather than the normal two hours-fifty.

But when he pressed the replay button on the answerphone, there were no messages from Calvan. Only one from Lepoille: 'Psychics. Interesting subject. Nothing much come up in France yet, but I'm still trying. Quite a lot from America though, some of them big cases. I'm on a short shift tomorrow — four hours starting at midday. We'll speak then.'

Monique caught his expression as he looked up from the machine. 'Anything wrong?'

'No, nothing. Nothing.' It was probably more his anxiety she sensed than the short message on the tape. Calvan would be in the middle of a long flight back to Virginia, no more messages would come through that night. And with the time difference, the earliest he could now receive a call would be early afternoon the next day.

Monique sensed his restlessness the next morning. Conversation was stilted over coffee and hot bread. If it was warm enough, Monique usually served up outside, but with this morning's early crispness she wore a thick towelling robe over a T-shirt and jeans. Dominic wore a sweat shirt.

She wondered whether his tension was connected with the tape and transcript she'd read and his trip to London. Analysts, past-life regressionists, voices from the past, and now messages on their answerphone about psychics. Possibly it was all as strange to him as to her.

With the first tape, she'd pushed whatever emotions she might have had away, harboured doubts and used the mechanical exercise of preparing the questions both as a shield and to throw it back quickly in the lap of whoever sent it: analysts, hoaxers, or whatever they were.

But with the transcript, she'd found herself wrestling with a fast changing range of emotions: disbelief, anger, outrage that it might be a hoax, rereading segments over and over and searching for fault or possible invention, not wanting to believe — before final acceptance; an acceptance that cut through her and chilled her to the bone. It was Christian's voice. There was no doubt. She didn't know how or why, or even pretend to comprehend. But it was him. She did her duty; after three attempts to express her thoughts in a few lines without rambling or being too sentimental, she had faxed the short note back to London.

There had been no tears, then. They hadn't come till the next morning when she read back through the transcript. The first time she'd read it purely clinically, objectively: is this Christian's voice? As if she was an expert character or voice analyst. But the second time, she actually attached Christian's voice, recalled its soft tones, its joy and vibrance, so open and innocent: '…It was made of shell, in the shape of an old galleon. The light inside made the shell almost luminescent and direct light would also shine through the portholes. It was beautiful.' And in that moment, she recalled Christian's face clearly, full of joy as Jean-Luc paid the rest of the money and the shop-keeper took the galleon down from the shelf and handed it to Christian. And all the other moments of him smiling suddenly flooded back: looking up at her with pride with one of his first drawings from school, her sewing the arm back on his Topo Gigio doll and his kiss of thanks, him asking for a story as she tucked him in bed, bright green eyes sparkling up at her. The soft touch of his small hands against her cheek. All gone now. Gone. Gone for so many years. So many.

The tears convulsed her in a sudden tidal wave, heavy racking sobs that shook her whole body uncontrollably. And she'd rocked slightly with their rhythm, muttering so many at intervals, as if it was a mantra that would finally return some control, some normality. Sudden grief rising up and mugging her after so many years felt strange to her. She hadn't cried for Christian for fourteen years, since Gerome's tenth birthday party, when she'd suddenly recalled a similar party for Christian, his last. But that didn't help, the recalled shame of not having grieved for so many years merely added poignancy.

Perhaps to cover her tears and confusion, she'd prepared one of Dominic's favourite dishes when he arrived. There. See. Everything's fine. Normal.

She didn't say much on the drive, not wishing to bring up the subject in case her emotions and the tears welled up again. She'd read the transcript and identified the voice. She'd sent her fax back to London. She'd cried. It was over.

But then she became aware that Dominic wasn't saying much either and he seemed tense and anxious, was driving faster than normal. Now, this morning, sipping his coffee, she could feel the same tension.

'Did something happen in London? You seem anxious, as if you're waiting on some news.'

'Just tired.' Dominic forced a smile. 'And now having to face catching up on work. You know what it's like whenever I go away. Things back up.'

'I thought it might have been something to do with the tapes and transcripts. That they'd somehow upset you.'

Dominic looked back at her. The stark morning light caught the lines of pain etched in her face. Lines he'd hoped had mellowed years ago and wouldn't return. She was still incredibly beautiful, a dusky Sophia Loren with just a fleck of salt in her dark pepper hair. And if he smiled, she would smile in return, and he could look upon them as laughter lines… the pain and sad memories would suddenly melt away. But he sensed she was speaking more for how she felt than for him: the tapes and transcripts had upset her. He reached one hand out and touched hers.

'Of course I was upset by them. But it was more concern for the effect they might have on you.'

'I cried a bit. But I'm okay now.' She forced a smile, felt the eyes welling slightly again. She'd planned not to mention her crying; some quick sympathy and a smile from Dominic and suddenly the words were out. He had that effect on her.

'Are you sure?'

She just nodded, looked down and sipped at her coffee.

Dominic wondered whether he'd done the right thing coming down to Vidauban for the weekend. It had seemed a good idea to get away, both for him and Monique. But now, having left his number with half the world, hoping to just sit back and relax while the calls flooded back in, he felt suddenly cut off, restless. Four hours to wait before Lepoille made contact, five or six for anything from Calvan. He could start on Guidier's file to kill the time, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to apply his mind effectively. He was too pre-occupied.

And for Monique, he wondered whether Vidauban might be too nostalgic coming straight after her reading the transcript. The thought hadn't hit him until the night before as he turned into the driveway, as the farmhouse and its small courtyard were caught in the headlamps.

When they'd bought it six years ago, time enough seemed to have passed from Christian and Taragnon for it not to be a reminder. Just a nostalgic link with an area they loved. It had also looked different to the Taragnon farmhouse — the front facade was flat. But three years ago he'd added a small office that jutted out into the courtyard, and from that moment it held a far stronger resemblance. Except that instead of the blank wall of the side of Jean-Luc's garage, a large window looked from his office onto the courtyard. And rather than looking out across open fields, a small rockery garden sloped up to a few pine trees and a half stone wall twenty metres away, separating them from the property next door. The only open fields were beyond the garden the other side of the house.

After breakfast, Dominic retired to his office for lack of anything else to do. He shuffled some papers and files and glanced through the first pages of Guidier's file without it really grabbing his attention. Just after ten o'clock, Gerome appeared on the patio for breakfast and Dominic came back out to say hello. Work was fine. Jaqueline was fine, Gerome grimaced. She hadn't come over because he was heading off to see a friend in Montpelier. He would be staying overnight in Montpelier and would see them about midday the next day. 'A couple of hours work on the computer and then I'm off.'

Computer. Dominic thought again of Lepoille. Three hours before he was in his office.

Dominic finally got into Guidier's file: motorbike mugging spree. Two youths on a bike averaging twelve muggings a week over seven months had caused practically a mini crime wave. When they were finally apprehended, reported drive-by muggings dropped to no more than five a month.

When the phone rang at 1.10pm, he was fully immersed in the report, it broke his attention abruptly. It was Lepoille. His enthusiasm was infectious, but Dominic found it hard to take it all in just over the phone: several cases in America tracked down through psychics, many of them notable: 'Son of Sam' killings, the Boston Strangler, the case of Mona Tinsley, Manson/Bugliosi: proving psychic influence over others to commit a murder. Some departments even had regulars they went to when everything else failed: Gerard Croiset and Peter Hurkos were the names that came up the most. But very little so far in France — 'Except relatives in the Petit Gregoire case contacting a psychic early on to discover if the boy was dead or just missing. The police here hardly ever seem to involve psychics, just relatives or sometimes the press. And rarely does it feature in official police filing or trial evidence. I'm tracking down a couple of leads in Paris, I'll know more on Monday. There's a stack of Interpol print-outs and e-mails on my desk. Some arrived late yesterday, but most of it came through this morning. I'll bike it over to you Monday.'

'Great. I'll look forward to going through it.' Hopefully in the reading something would leap out; nothing immediately had from Lepoille's quick fire descriptions. 'And thanks for the help, Pierre.'

Though six hours later, when there was still no call from Marinella Calvan, Dominic's excitement had dissipated, doubt set in again. Though this time, unlike before, it was set in concrete. Midday now in Virginia, his urgent messages left with Lambourne. She wasn't going to call. Perhaps she'd even been by the phone when he'd called Lambourne, signalling to make an excuse. When the package arrived from Lepoille, he'd probably just throw it straight in the bin. He'd been foolish to build up his hopes.

Marinella Calvan was on a United Airlines 19.50 flight back to Virginia. In the next seat was an overweight and over-friendly sales manager named Bob returning to Richmond, who she’d finally managed to extricate herself from with a few curt smiles to get back into the file on her lap.

She made notes on a fresh sheet of paper as she scanned back through the transcripts. Depth of detail had been remarkable. They effectively knew everything about Christian Rosselot's life: where he lived, went to school, daily and weekly habits, and a variety of rich recollections, some of which only the boy himself could have possibly known.

The last session she’d used mostly to fill in any gaps. But at one point she’d sat up sharply, her skin bristling as Christian talked about his best friend Stephan. ‘He also went to my school, but he lived on the far side of the village. It was Stephan I was going to see the day I became lost in the wheat field… I never made it to his house.'

'And did you ever see Stephan again?'

'No… no.'

Marinella was about to tap out: 'Tell me more about that day. Did you meet someone else? What stopped you from reaching Stephan's house?' But Lambourne was looking across sharply, and even Eyran's simple 'No' had been nervous and hesitant, his breathing more rapid. She could almost feel Fornier at her shoulder, pushing, urging. But even if she got past the first question without Lambourne cutting in, any upset to Eyran's mood and she might get nothing more the rest of the session. Her last opportunity. She moved Eyran away, back to earlier, happier times when he'd played with Stephan.

Now she wrote: The wheat field is not just a symbol for Christian's separation from his parents, but also perhaps his best friend. Christian might see Eyran as a replacement for that best friend — the friend he never got to see that fateful day.

She'd tried to broach the subject of Fornier's quest at first gently, mentioning only that there might be a few more questions. But Lambourne looked immediately dismayed, mentioned that on the last tape Stuart Capel had complained about the pointed, angled questions making Eyran hesitant, almost defensive. 'I'd assured him that this last session would be far more open, allow Eyran freer range. What questions?' And she'd fluffed that they were nothing important: 'They'll wait.' With Lambourne and Stuart Capel concerned about even a few pointed questions, hoping to de-rail into a full murder investigation was hoplessly out of reach. At least she'd tried.

Shortly after the last session she'd been struck with another link: There was a river running close to where Christian Rosselot's body was found, and in one of Eyran's dreams the brook by Broadhurst Farm featured, expanding into a large lake. Perhaps Christian believed somehow that if he'd have been able to cross that river, he would have escaped his attacker and avoided his fate. And in Eyran's dream the lake symbolized separation from his parents. But it is obviously Christian's separation which has the strongest connection with water.

The debate with Lambourne over whose sense of separation was stronger — Christian's or Eyran's, past or present — was irrelevant. The links were all there. The Freud-devotees and conventionalists were going to love it. Object loss symbols were classic.

And if they started to wriggle and defend, she had more than enough information with which to bury them: Dr Torrens initial recommendation to therapy, his earlier EEGs recording brain wave disturbance, Lambourne's sessions — his concern about dominance of the secondary character and schizophrenia — then finally Eyran speaking in French under hypnosis and her being called in. Over sixty pages of notes and files even before the three tapes and forty-six pages of transcript from her own sessions — now fully corroborated by a French Chief Inspector and his wife. Not some fringe new-wave religion nutcases who name their children Rainbow or Stardust.

It was going to be a good paper, one of her strongest yet. Correction, it was going to be a great paper.

Marinella put on the headphones and flicked through the pop and comedy channels until she found some classical music: Offenbach's Barcarolle was playing.

When she got back to Lambourne's from shopping, she'd heard that Dominic Fornier had called. She felt guilty about not phoning him back. The image of him walking away from their meeting, the die-hard detective shouldering the doubt through all those years, now clinging to one last hope, had stuck in her mind. She reached tentatively for the phone just before leaving her hotel for the airport — then decided against it. She'd call him tomorrow. Not sure immediately if she was just delaying facing his disappointment, or hoping for better words of explanation to settle in the meantime.

Grieg's 'Morning'. Soothing, relaxing. Hopefully she'd doze off soon. To her side, Bob was flicking through the in-flight magazine. But the next tunes — Brahm's Hungarian Dance and Tchaikovsky's March Slav — broke her slightly out of her half slumber, roused her spirits. She found herself tapping the armrest to the rhythm of March Slav as she imagined the key points of her final paper being pounded home to the army of sceptics who had plagued her through the years.

Only when Mozart's Andante came on could she feel waves of calm and relaxation again descending, sleep once more in sight.

But at the start of the third stanza, the thought hit: Politician.

The man Fornier had suspected was now a prominent politician! An MEP. Murder case. Re-opened after thirty years. Implicating one of the country's leading politicians! If Fornier's suspicions were right, then it was going to be a big case. Enormous case! And one of the first ever proved through a past-life regression. The thoughts hit her in such quick-fire succession that it took her breath away.

She could see it all rolling out ahead: Oprah Winfrey was a given, she was already reading clippings from the New York Times and Washington Post in between make up for Maury Povich and Larry King: 'I understand that in France this case is as big as O.J. Simpson. But the added factor of core evidence coming from a past life regression has literally split the French legal establishment in two.'

The case was already great, but now within her grasp was the opportunity to make it phenomenal. If Fornier's hunch was correct and she played it right, it could dominate the American media throughout the trial. Eight months, a year? It would do more to aid the acceptance of PLR than anything previously conceived. The thoughts and images hit like so many cluster bombs: speeches, increased department funding, books, chat shows… Newsweek…

Breathless as they pounded home, suspended belief batting helplessly against the audaciousness, the ridiculous magnitude of it all — a laugh suddenly burst free. A laugh that quickly lost its hesitance and became more raucous.

Bob was looking over and mouthing something. She pulled off her headphones.

'Is that the Bill Cosby?' he asked. Funny, isn't he?'

'Yeah. But not half as funny as Mozart.'

He looked puzzled and quickly buried his face back into the flight magazine. Should keep him quiet for a while, she thought.

Marinella put back the headphones and sunk back into the Mozart, slowly closing her eyes. Even if it turned out not to be the politician Fornier suspected, proving the guilt or innocence of the person already charged would still grab a few good headlines, be something of a first. She had to at least try. She'd forever punish herself over the possibly lost opportunity if she didn't. It was probably best to phone Fornier after she'd spoken with Lambourne and Stuart Capel; she'd already raised his hopes once and let him down.

It wasn't going to be easy. All the obstacles with Lambourne and Capel that had made her finally step back from a hard push with Fornier's proposal, still held true. She would need to be convincing.