Past Imperfect

THIRTY-TWO

Marseille, October 1983

Marc Jaurmard followed close behind Marcelle Gauthereau. If it was to happen at all, it would be inside, thought Jaumard. He would sign everything, Gauthereau and the notary would nod courteously, and then someone would slip from the shadows and slap down the summons. Stepping through the notary's door, he glanced back to check that Gauthereau didn't lock the door behind him. He'd also checked the brass plaque downstairs before following Gauthereau up the two flights: Patrice Roussel, Notarie.

Roussel was in his late fifties, wispy greying hair, thin, pinched features, and tight economical gestures. Polite nods, quick half smiles without showing teeth as he took details, the same meaningless smile as he handed Jaumard's identity card back.

It was taking far longer than Jaumard had expected. The door to the reception had been half open at the beginning, he'd been able to keep one eye on the receptionist, see if she made a move to lock the door. See if anyone else suddenly came in. But she'd shut the connecting door on her way out from dropping a file on Roussel's desk halfway through.

The blood pounded through Jaumard's head as the papers were passed back and forth between him and the notary. Another question, another line filled in. Another stamp and seal with the notary's elaborate signature on top. Jaumard found himself half looking at the closed door in between — expecting it to burst open at any second and the summons be served. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his trouser legs.

And suddenly the envelope was being passed across. Though maybe this was the summons, he thought with a jolt. He studied its front cautiously. Just his name and c/o of Patrice Roussel underneath. It certainly looked like his brother's handwriting. He hesitated — suddenly deciding against opening it in front of these two sets of prying eyes. He wanted to get out and away as fast as possible. Slipping it quickly into his back pocket, he stood up. 'Thank you, gentlemen.'

'I thought you might want to open it in my presence,' Gauthereau invited. 'In case there's something that needs my attention straightaway.'

'No…no. It's okay.' Jaumard backed away to the door. 'I'll call you if there's anything. Thank you.' He opened the door and was out, quick smile to the receptionist, another door, and he was on the stairs — taking them two and three at a time, bounding frantically down the last flight until he was out on the street.

Gauthereau stared bemusedly after Jaumard for a second before saying his own good-byes to Roussel. All those years of waiting, contact not made until a year after his last advert, and then all over in minutes. Gautherau's curiosity had grown over those years as to what was inside the envelope: a hidden stash, secret bank account, drugs routes, black book with key milieu contacts? Now he would probably never know.

Only once sixty yards clear, around the next corner, did Jaumard pause, let out a long deep breath as he rested his back against a wall. His nerves were still racing. He decided not to risk opening the envelope even there, and didn't do so until he was sequestered at the back of a small cafe almost half a mile away.

Apart from the barman only three people were in the cafe, the lunch time rush hadn't yet arrived. Jaumard felt safe from prying eyes as he opened the envelope. He had to read it twice before its significance really hit him. A smile slowly crossed his face. Quite a legacy his brother had left him. Alain Duclos. RPR Minister for Limoges. Child murder case from 1963. A hit contract that was never fulfilled. Incredible. The three page letter even suggested two possible courses of action. Though he thought he knew already which he would take.

Marinella Calvan had been on the phone for over ten minutes with Stuart Capel, and whatever hopes she'd had earlier in the call she felt suddenly slipping away.

Her thoughts had gelled over the weekend of how best to broach the subject. Telling the truth wouldn't work. Eyran's therapy diverted to aid a murder investigation just wouldn't be accepted. But if she kept close to what she at heart believed, that Christian's non-acceptance of separation was far stronger than Eyran's, she might succeed. The sincerity and enthusiasm would come through in her voice. It also did much to bury her initial apprehension on reflection over her motives. By the time she'd worked up the story in her mind, adding embellishment from her notes, it had become the lead chariot, helping the murder investigation was merely tagging along behind.

But despite the strong case she put forward now to Stuart Capel — Christian's almost total erasure of the last hour of his life, the symbols in Eyran's dreams of the lake and the wheat field having far stronger relevance in Christian's life than Eyran's, that before they could fully get to grips with Eyran's acceptance of loss and detachment, they first had to tackle Christian's — he wasn't convinced. He hadn't said no, only that he wanted to think it over, 'we should speak again tomorrow’. But she had the feeling that he was merely delaying so that he could let her down softly.

She needed to add support to her argument. 'This isn't just my view, but also that of my previous department head, Dr Donaldson. He's had more years of experience in this than myself and David Lambourne put together.' Donaldson might well support her view, but during their earlier meeting he had merely nodded thoughtfully and passed a few minor comments. She wouldn't know his full opinion for probably a few days when he'd had a chance to study her notes and transcripts in more detail.

Silence from the other end. Perhaps he was becoming swayed. She pushed the advantage. 'Look — it would just be for two weeks. Four sessions at the most. I think that should do it. Then Eyran would be back to conventional therapy with David Lambourne.'

'It was actually David Lambourne I wanted to speak to before I decided,' Stuart commented. 'Have you spoken to him already?'

'No, I haven't.' If she had phoned Lambourne, he'd have said no. If Stuart Capel now contacted him, put out by the fact that she'd gone behind his back, that 'no' would be even stronger. Lambourne had given her Stuart Capel's number after the last session purely for her to verify some of Eyran's personal details for her paper. Last ditch hope: brutal honesty. 'I didn't speak to him because I already know his point of view. He doesn't agree with my prognosis. That's why I called you directly. If you phone him, he'll only tell you the same.'

'I see.'

Swaying again, or perturbed by her slight of hand? At least the ball was back between them. The main excuse for delay had gone.

Stuart recalled the look that Lambourne had fired Calvan when she'd broached the subject after the last session; he'd thought then they'd previously had words. At least she was telling the truth about that. 'Since you seem to know already what Lambourne's objections are, why don't you tell me?'

'It's simple. He thinks the solution is with Eyran in the present, I think it's with Christian in the past. Difference is, I have a stronger case to back up my argument. David's direction was floundering when I arrived, and all we've discovered since is that the imaginary character is a real life. Nothing more. Where's David going to head from here? He doesn't even have the secondary character to explore any more — conventional Freud is out of the window, and his expertise with PLT is limited. He's at a dead end.'

'What if you're wrong?'

'There's always that possibility. But what is there to lose? Four sessions over two weeks and then I'm gone. David Lambourne has Eyran back to pursue whatever he wants to pursue. But if I'm right, it could be the breakthrough we've been looking for.' Hearing her own voice, its enthusiasm, she felt a sudden twinge of shame.

Two weeks? Stuart reflected. Eyran had already been in therapy five weeks and they were virtually back to square one. It didn't seem a lot to ask, and Calvan's arguments were convincing. But still he held strong reservations — partly his reluctance to accept this past character, partly the problems that might be caused with Lambourne — when another thought suddenly hit him: Amanda. If she learned he'd said no, she would probably seen it as just another prime example of him being obstructive, trying to be an armchair psychiatrist and map out what was best for Eyran despite expert advice to the contrary. 'Okay — I'll agree to the sessions. But just the four. That's it. And you'll have to phone Lambourne yourself and smooth the way with him. If he phones me afterwards, I'll confirm what we've agreed — but I don't want to get in the middle of any conflict between you.'

Stuart could tell by the brief pause at the other end that Marinella Calvan had been caught off guard by the sudden turn around.

'Yes… yes. Certainly. I'll call him.' One more obstacle to go. But Marinella was sure that Lambourne wouldn't roll over nearly so easily.

12.14pm in Lyon. The session in London would already have started.

When the call had finally come through on Tuesday, Dominic had practically given up on hearing from Marinella Calvan. He'd phoned Lambourne's office on Monday only to get an answerphone. He didn't leave a message.

Marinella had started by apologizing for the delay. She'd wanted to work out what she was going to say, develop a particular theory in her mind before approaching Lambourne or Stuart Capel. She explained the theory and the agreement that had resulted to Dominic.

Surprise suddenly tempered his enthusiasm. 'They don't know it's to aid a murder investigation?'

'No. They'd have never agreed. But I'd already been partly exploring this theory for the benefit of Eyran's therapy anyway. It was something I'd voiced previously to Dr Lambourne, and later discussed with my colleague Dr Donaldson. He agreed with my prognosis: the main key lies with Christian in the past, not with Eyran. As much I was keen to help you at the outset, I'm sure you can appreciate that ethically it would have been wrong to put your case before Eyran Capel's mental stability and health. It's just fortunate that in the end those aims coincide.'

Calvan went on to explain that if it got out that it was to aid a murder investigation, it would cause problems. Dr Lambourne, in particular, had been difficult to persuade; he would no doubt quickly claim the investigation had been the prime aim all along, and try and halt the sessions. Later, particularly if anything worthwhile was uncovered from the sessions, details of the murder investigation would obviously come out — though by then hopefully the sessions would either be over or far progressed. 'Even then it should be admitted to only as a by-product of these extra sessions rather than the main feast. That you only saw the possibility of a renewed investigation when you saw the first transcripts. That is, if anything is uncovered.'

If. If. If. Dominic stared at the fax machine in the corner. The arrangement was that she'd fax through the transcript straight after the session. Thirty years of waiting to know and now only an hour remained. While he understood the reasoning, the duplicity of his little agreement with Calvan somehow added to his nerves. Only the two of them knew. It was almost incestuous. In the same way that he was keeping the secret from his wife, she in turn was duping Lambourne and Capel. So many secrets. Something was bound to go wrong.

Like two conspirational children playing hide and seek, hunting cloak and dagger style through the shadows of memories from thirty years ago. Excited by their little secret as much as the adventure. Unable to tell the adults who would say that they knew better and stop their little game.

The night before he'd had a clear opportunity to tell Monique — but still he put it off. If nothing was uncovered by Calvan or if it merely supported Machanaud's guilt, there was no point. If. If. If.

To support the theory Calvan had sold, he should be absent from the first sessions. Perhaps he could turn up at the third or fourth. They'd discuss it later. Meanwhile she'd fax transcripts through and would readily admit to doing so to Lambourne and Stuart Capel on the pretext of authentication and gaining 'advice on questions for future sessions.' How to guide Christian in the right direction. If Dominic then showed up for later sessions it wouldn't seem strange; would follow more naturally that he had by then 'stumbled' on information which might help the investigation.

But the forced detachment, his purposely being kept away from the activities in London, only made him more anxious. His nerve ends bristling because something was happening in a small room four hundred miles away over which he had no control. Christian's frail voice at that moment telling them the secrets of over thirty years ago and he wouldn't know for an hour. Or they would be close to finding out when Christian suddenly headed off at a tangent, and if he was there he could whisper sharply in Calvan's ear. 'No, no… take him back! Ask him this!'

The squad room was hectic: phones ringing, people calling across the room, typewriters clattering. Dominic had shut his door to concentrate on the normal morning's mountain of papers that required his quick attention: final approval of files to go to the procureur's office, an enquiry from St Etienne over a pattern of regional car thefts, medical report on a rape case. The noise of the squad room was muffled beyond his door, but still Dominic couldn't concentrate. The most he'd manage was a half page before his thoughts once again drifted, wondering what was happening at that moment in London. And he would glance back at the fax machine: frustration because it symbolized his detachment and impotence at that moment, yet also hope. It was his only link with what was happening.

In the two days since Marinella Calvan's call, he'd received even more papers from Lepoille on cases involving psychics to add to Monday's package. He'd hardly looked at them. The last days he'd been through a ridiculous see-saw of hope and disappointment without putting himself through it again to no avail. Verfraigne from the Lyon procureur's office had called and given him the prosecution pecking order in Aix en Provence together with some names. He'd written them down, but hadn't called anyone. The list was tucked into the front of Lepoille's top file at the edge of his desk.

A stack of papers and thirty years of doubt waiting on one fax.

Session 9.

'Did you play much by the river with Stephan?'

'Yes, quite a bit.'

'What sort of games did you play — did you ever swim in it?'

'No. It was too cold. But we used to play on the river bank.'

River bank. Where the police thought the boy was probably held between the sexual assaults. The memories from before open, carefree, not yet linked in Christian's mind. Only minutes before he'd mentioned the field close by. Marinella knew from her last session that Stephan was one of his closest friends. It seemed as good a place to start as any.

The first ten minutes of the session had been with Lambourne taking Eyran back before she took over. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Lambourne seemed to be taking longer than normal. Showing his resentment in the only way left to him.

She'd started with other times he'd played with Stephan, their favourite places and games, introducing a general, relaxed mood. Christian was free to ramble, no constraints. But ever so slowly she circled in like a cat stalking its prey. The trick was that hopefully Christian was never aware of it. Already she'd struck out once and missed her target. Thinking that she'd asked enough general questions, she'd asked what happened the day he headed off to see Stephan but never made it. 'Did you meet up with someone else? What happened?'

Again Christian mentioned a searing bright light after a period of darkness, knowing in that moment that he was close to Stephan's house as he recognized the field — but as recall of the attack flooded back, he quickly became incoherent. Eyran's head lolled, his breathing becoming laboured. She'd sensed Lambourne about to reach over to the keyboard as she broke Christian hastily away.

She circled more warily now. River bank? She didn't want to pounce too early this time. 'What sort of games did you play on the river bank?'

'We used to build a dam. There was a small stream higher up that flowed down from the hillside and into the river. In the summer it was usually dried up, but in the spring it used to flow in quite fast.'

'How did you and Stephan make the dam?'

'We would get sticks and leaves and pack them in with mud. Stephan would bring a spade with him so that we could dig a hollow. One day we dug an enormous hole to one side, then diverted the stream into it by blocking the way with sticks and leaves.' A fond memory, speech animated, excited. Eyran's eyes glistened. 'The water built up and built up, until finally it started overflowing. It was incredible… almost like a small lake.'

Marinella remembered a segment from one of Lambourne's earlier taped sessions: 'The pond seemed suddenly to be much larger — like a huge black lake.' She shot a meaningful glance at Lambourne. His face remained bland. Reluctance to admit any breakthrough, or perhaps he simply hadn't picked up on the connection.

'…We would leave a narrow passage leading out, then block it with sticks and mud. Then, when it was full and almost overflowing, we would break the dam and run down alongside the sudden torrent until it hit the river.' A pause, excitement ebbing slightly. Eyran's expression more thoughtful. 'My mother didn't like me playing there. I would come back too muddy and dirty.'

Marinella let the moment settle. 'Did you ever play lower down the river bank?'

'Only a few times.'

'Were you often lower down the river bank on your own? For instance, when you cut across the fields and had to cross the bridge there?'

'Yes, sometimes.'

Gently. Gently. 'And at any time, did you meet anyone else there — at the lower part of the river?'

'No… no, I don't think so.' Eyran's brow creased. 'I don't remember.'

'The day you left to meet Stephan but never made it. The day your bike broke down. Did you meet someone lower down the river that day?'

'No… I didn't meet anyone there. I didn't cross the river there… I… I… there was…' Eyran broke off, swallowing hastily. He looked for a moment as if he was about to say more, but then the thought was lost.

Strike two. Marinella could almost feel Lambourne gloating behind her. When he'd discovered she'd gone behind his back, they'd had their worst argument yet. She said a lot of things she immediately regretted: too staid, limited PLT experience, merely clinging to what he knew for safety's sake, not for the patient. Confirming his conventional status or perhaps his Englishness, Lambourne had been far less personal, kept mainly to patient/counsel ethics: it was his patient, he should have been consulted first, made the main decision. It had been wrong of her to contact Stuart Capel directly to sell her theory.

Fait accompli. The argument about what was already done predictably headed nowhere. She quickly put Lambourne on the spot by asking pointedly where he planned the sessions to head next, then — in the face of a faltering and hesitant reply — rammed in with her own solution. 'If I'm wrong, what have you lost? Two weeks. After that, you've got the patient back to explore what you like.' She wasn't doing this for her health: she already had what she wanted, more than enough to compile a paper. And she'd just been away from her son for a week. 'I need another two weeks away like a hole in the head. I'm only doing this because I strongly believe it will work.'

Gradual teetering with each blow. Lambourne was stuck for an answer. But it was a reluctant submission with a cautionary note. He was still far from convinced about her theory. 'One foot-fault, one hint that you're getting close to an area that might adversely affect my patient — and I'll stop the sessions.'

She could feel Lambourne hovering now. Gloating that he hadn't even needed to intervene. She'd made her own foot fault. The session wasn't heading where she wanted. He'd been right, she'd been wrong.

She suddenly felt the pressure of the small room closing in on her. Lambourne's gloating, Fornier waiting in a squad room in the middle of France for her fax, the ridiculous chess game of secrets they were both playing, Philippe waiting expectantly to translate her next question, her own ambitions… now slipping away again by the second.

She'd followed Dominic's cue to go back to when Christian first met someone, before the boy sensed any danger. But all she'd discovered was that Dominic was right: it probably wasn't Machanaud, unless Christian met him later. Christian hadn't met anyone by the river. But if not there, where?

'When your bike broke down, did you cut across the fields behind the village? Where did you go?'

'I hid my bike in some long grass, then I headed down towards the road.'

'Then where?'

'I started walking along the road towards the village.'

Fornier had mentioned that nobody in the village had seen the boy. 'Did you reach the village. Did you see or meet anyone there?'

'No… a car stopped. A man offered me a lift.'

Marinella controlled her hands from shaking on the keys. The information had in the end come up suddenly, like a mugger in a dark alley. She quickly hid her surprise. Lambourne wouldn't expect the information in itself to be particularly alarming; it was only her, what she knew it would signify to Fornier.

'What sort of car was he driving?'

'It was a sports car. A green sports car.'

'What make was it?'

'I don't remember. The man told me… but I forgot.'

Marinella's hands paused on the keys. Perhaps she would return later. The information was there somewhere. 'And what did the man look like?'

'He was quite thin with dark hair.'

'Was he young or old?' Marinella noted Eyran's brow creasing as Philippe translated. Remembering that to a ten year old everyone seems old, she added: 'Was he younger or older than your father?'

'Younger. At least five years younger.'

'What happened then? Did you drive through the village?'

'No. He offered to drive me back to where the bike had broken down. I told him it was all right — but he insisted. He stopped at the side, turned, and started driving back.'

As Christian described heading back along the road, then them turning into the rough farm track which led to his bike, Marinella tried to imagine herself in the car alongside him. This young boy from over thirty years ago who had less than an hour to live. What did he see or notice that might now help? Faint beads of sweat had broken out on Eyran's top lip. She could sense his nervousness. She asked him what the car was like inside.

'The dashboard was wood, and there was hardly any back seat — just a narrow bench.'

'As you went up the lane, did you see anyone else — even in the distance?'

'No… the field was empty. I pointed where to stop… my bike was… was hidden in the long grass.'

Tension was thick in the small room. Eyran's breathing was laboured, his eyes flickering slightly. Anticipation and fear of what lay ahead starting to grip him harder.

She feared that at any second Lambourne would reach forward and stop her. Knew that if she pushed too hard, pushed Eyran over the edge into a catatonic state — it could be the last session. But the desire to know what happened next was too compelling. Like an incurable gambler, she couldn't resist one last bet, one last question. 'When you reached the bike — what happened?'

'The brake was jammed on the wheel. The man tried to free it — then suddenly he reached out and touched me… then he… he… gripped me… me haaarrd… pulling… I… th.. theerrr'

Marinella could see Christian's panic descending like an express elevator — and went to break him away before Lambourne intervened. But Christian's expression suddenly changed, settling slightly.

'…Theerre was… something… something from before… before we turned into the lane. A truck passed us.'

It took Marinella a second to catch up with the sudden leap. 'Did the driver see you?'

'I don't know… I'm not sure.'

'What did the truck look like? What did it say on the side?'

'It was grey, very long. It had MARSEILLE on the side… and the letters V-A-R… N.'

'Anything else? Can you see anything else?'

'No, just Marseille…. Marseille. I remember going there once with my father. We went to the harbour and watched the fish being landed… the fishermen with their nets…'

Marinella lost Christian at that moment. A day out in Marseille with his father. Bright coloured fishing boats. Bouillabaisse in a harbourside cafe. A pleasant, rambling story: happy memories again. She was happy of a break in mood from the clawing tension — but frustrated minutes later when, letting the story run its course, she wasn't able to get Christian back again to the lane. The thread had gone.

Quite a move. Christian had shifted to where he knew she would be keen for more information, jumped back a question — then deftly skipped to where he felt more comfortable. His influence over the direction of questions was stronger than she'd given him credit for.

Though twenty minutes later when she faxed the transcript to Dominic Fornier, as pleased as she was with the information gained, it struck her that between weaving around threatening chasms of panic and Christian shifting scenes to suit — it might be the only information they would get.

The transcript had arrived only minutes before and Dominic was scanning frantically down. A short hand-written note from Marinella Calvan was at the front: Breakthrough! You were right — it wasn't the poacher Machanaud. Or at least it doesn't sound like him. Hope it's helpful.

Dominic was eager to get to the part that revealed it wasn't Machanaud — but his attention was wavering. He could see Guidier standing by the door expectantly.

'It's just the report from St Etienne,' Guidier said. 'There's some urgency involved because they already have someone in custody. They've either got to file and charge him quickly or release him. They need the comparison report on car thefts back from us straightaway.'

'…The day your bike broke down. Did you meet someone lower down the river that day?'

'No… I didn't meet anyone there. I didn't cross the river there…'

Dominic looked up sharply. Only St Etienne, urgency and custody had registered. 'Yes, yes… I know. I'll deal with it. But I need ten minutes alone. Ten minutes!' Dominic made a pushing gesture with one hand. 'Shut the door behind you and make sure nobody else disturbs me. And no calls.'

Dominic looked straight back to the transcript, his mind screaming where? who? He hardly heard the click as Guidier shut the door, one finger tracing rapidly down the page… Christian walking down the road from where he left his bike — they'd been wrong, he hadn't cut across the fields — until a few lines later the words hit him like a hammer blow: Sports car. Green car. Slim, dark hair. Duclos! Duclos had picked up Christian before he even reached the village!

Dominic closed his eyes for a second. He'd always suspected, though now it struck him that it had never been more than that. He'd buried his suspicion, his doubt, in the instruction and trial process, in the witnesses who said they'd seen Duclos in the restaurant, in the general throng pushing towards Machanaud and away from Duclos. And the thirty years since had buried it still further. Amazing that any glimmer of doubt had survived, he thought sourly. Just enough to occupy his mind for a few minutes every decade. Pathetic. If he'd really believed, had been convinced of Duclos' guilt — then he wouldn't have been so shocked as he read the words, felt suddenly cold and desolate, his stomach sinking still further as he forced his eyes open again and read Christian's description of the car turning and heading back, the rough farm track and him pointing to where his bike was hidden among the long grass, Christian's growing panic as Duclos reached out and touched him…

Or was it his own guilt at staying silent suddenly hitting him? Machanaud's innocence and the long years he'd spent locked away. Until a moment ago that too had been no more than a nagging doubt.

V-A-R-N? Marseille-based truck? Nothing immediately sprung to mind. Dominic read the remaining page of the transcript, then went back, honing in on where Christian was with Duclos, re-reading individual lines for finer detail and small nuances. Then he went back to the beginning of the transcript and read it through for anything else he might have missed.

At length he looked up, rubbing his eyes. The elation that he had something that put Christian in Duclos' car, finally after all these years, rose slowly above the shock and emptiness, and he clung to that, forcing it home stronger, yes! Rapped one hand sharply against the desk, urging himself on. The possible start of a new case where before he had nothing. Something he could send a Prosecutor. He drew on that new energy over the next hours.

Immediately after dealing with the St Etienne enquiry, he tackled the mounting stack of papers from Lepoille at the corner of his desk — Manson, Hurkos, Joseph Chua, Geller, Berkowitz — sifting through the murky depths of murder cases involving psychics. Searching for the few key points that might entice a Prosecutor's interest. By late afternoon, he had finished his notes and put them into a five page covering letter to Henri Corbeix. After background of the original case and trial, much of the letter was exploratory, questioning. Seeking the best way forward, procedural process, what they should look for in the sessions remaining and requisite validation beyond Monique's confirmation and the credentials of Calvan and Lambourne. His reference notes to past cases involving psychics came at the end of the letter, and he attached the relevant files from Lepoille.

Despite the exploratory tone of the letter, it struck Dominic that his underlying aim had still shone through: convincing Corbeix that this most unlikely of cases stood some chance of successful prosecution.