Past Imperfect

THIRTY-FIVE

Limoges, June, 1985

A miracle. Duclos looked at the pathetic figure of his new born son through two layers of glass: the first separating the observation room from intensive care, the second the glass of the incubator. Scrawny, hardly an adult's forearm in length and purplish blue — all that was keeping him alive was the oxygenated, sanitized air of the incubator and the mass of pipes feeding and monitoring.

A miracle that would probably only last a few hours, according to the doctors. His son would be lucky to make it through the night. Those few hours strongly etched in his memory: a glass case. How he would forever remember his son, timelessly preserved in a glass cabinet; a freak of nature, an exhibit.

Betina still hadn't come round from the anaesthetic. The only option left to save her and the baby had been caesarean inter-section. Horrifically rushed, the anaesthetist had hardly finished his countdown and response tests before the surgeon made his incision. Some monitors were still being attached as he cut.

Betina had begged and pleaded for her baby's life as they'd wheeled her frantically on a gurney towards the operating theatre. The attending emergency medic had gripped her hand and assured, 'Don't worry, you'll be okay.'

But entering surgery, the graver atmosphere and more concerned expressions made her panic that everything might not be okay. 'If there's a choice, save my baby first. Put his life before mine.'

'We try our best not to make choices,' the surgeon commented. '…Unless God forces our hand.'

Betina was still struggling with the significance of this, was about to press the surgeon for a clearer assurance when the anaesthetic bit.

She probably wouldn't awake for two or three hours yet, Duclos reflected. What was he going to tell her? 'He's alive, but he'll be dead soon. Doctors did their best. Shame.'

Or perhaps he would spend an hour's more bedside vigil with his son, then sneak away on the promise of returning a couple of hours later, but get delayed. Leave it to the doctors to tell Betina. Avoid the drama of seeing her in tears, in the same way he had avoided every other drama and confrontation with Betina through the years. Besides, they were more expert than him, were used to choosing the rights words in this sort of situation every day. He'd be hopeless. Worse still, if the boy died before Betina awoke, it was best if he wasn't there; he couldn't possibly face her given that circumstance. At least with a few hours of life remaining, she'd cling to some hope, some solace.

They'd even talked about a name: Joel. 'Hello Joel,' he murmured, and saw his breath mist the glass as he pressed his face closer. The frail figure, so pathetic and defenceless with all the tubes and monitors attached — reminded him in that moment of Christian Rosselot in the hospital… of him reaching out to stifle the last life from the boy. He shivered involuntarily. Had he really been so desperate? How could anyone… anyone? And in that moment, as his eyes welled uncontrollably, a tear trickling down, it hit him that it might just as well be his hand reaching across and stifling Joel. Realization that his turning the wheel at the last moment hadn't just been instinctive self-preservation; in part he'd responded to some dark inner fear, however irrational, of future complications he wouldn't be able to face.

Was that why he was crying now, he thought. Tears of remorse, the first he could remember, flowing freely because the sight of his son, an actual life rather than a shadow of shapes on a scan from his wife's womb — had reached out and gripped him hard. Or was it because he knew now with certainty that his son would die as he was now, would never grow beyond the pathetic, shrivelled form before him. The tears could be safely shed; all worries, whether real or ridiculously imagined in his own mind, were over.

It hardly mattered now. When all that remained was a few hours of life preserved in a glass case, what else was there but pity, sorrow? He was a politician. He knew the right emotion for every occasion.

Between his other work, Dominic's occasional glances towards the phone the past hour had become increasingly anxious. After his initial call to Lepoille, they'd spoken again an hour later, then nothing since. Almost half the day had gone now for Lepoille to find something. What had happened?

Seven months? Duclos had obviously been keen to dispose of the car. Unpleasant memories. The papers were strewn across his desk: faxed pages from an Alfa Romeo owners club in Paris: User's manual. Alfa Romeo Giulietta Sprint, 1961. Car registration for the next owner after Duclos: Maurice Caugine, an address in St Junien, thirty kilometres from Limoges.

Details of the car boot and position of the spare wheel and tool kit were on the seventh page faxed through. The spare wheel had eight oval holes around its perimeter, each one double the length of a large coin. Easily large enough for the 20 lire coin to have fallen through. He'd gained a photocopied picture and details of the coin from a collector's catalogue: Italian 20 lire. 1928. Silver. 15g. Emanuele III on head, Lictor hailing Roma on reverse. Edition minted between 1927 and 1934.

The spare wheel took up half the boot space. As Christian had described, space would have been cramped. Even curled in almost a foetal position, part of his body or at least his arms must have been pinned above the wheel. If he'd fallen asleep and dropped the coin, it could have easily have landed on top of the wheel and through one of the oval holes. Or at first had fallen on top of the wheel, then with the vibrations and movement of the car or Christian shifting position, found its way to one of the holes.

If the coin had fallen to the side of the wheel, Duclos would have spotted it easily and pocketed it or thrown it away. But if it had fallen through one of the holes… seven months? What were the chances of Duclos not changing his wheel in that time? Whoever had been the first to change the wheel would have seen the coin.

Maurice Caugine had kept the car for over three years. The chances of him not changing the wheel in that time were remote. Either he'd seen the coin or their only chance was probably gone.

Lepoille had called back within the hour: bad news. Maurice Caugine had died eight years ago. 'But it looks like he was survived by his wife. I'm trying to track her down now.'

Since that call three hours ago, nothing. Dominic's spirits had slumped at the news. Another hurdle: now they were dependant not only on Maurice Caugine having noticed the coin, but him having mentioned it to his wife. And forcefully enough for it to have stuck in her mind to recall thirty years later.

Corbeix had been initially enthused about the coin lead. 'Sounds rare enough to argue that it couldn't have got there any other way than the boy being in Duclos' boot that day — if you can find someone who saw it there. Let me know how it develops. Meanwhile I'll send a note to Malliene about the case.' They'd already discussed the procedural details: Dominic would provide a report every week or two weeks, as the case dictated, and would pass it to Malliene to add any comment before he signed it off. Purely a safeguard so that Malliene wasn't signing off anything he disagreed with. 'I'll ask him to contact you the next day or so to tie up the details.'

Corbeix finished by mentioning he was hoping for more information the next day or so on cases involving psychics from a specialist division of the Paris Procureur's office. Dominic was encouraged that the case was increasingly demanding Corbeix attention. But still it struck him that Corbeix hadn't even contacted Malliene until he heard about the coin lead, and the examining magistrate who signed off the rogatoire general Corbeix probably wouldn't call again until he was sure the case was prosecutable. There was still some way to go.

Dominic stared again at the phone. Having built up his own and Corbeix' hopes, it could all be over with a single call. Madame Caugine could have died as well, or gone abroad and was practically untraceable, or was senile or in a mental asylum. Couldn't remember anything from the day before, let alone thirty years ago. The possibilities spun through Dominic's mind.

Pierre Lepoille was on the home straight. He tapped in Jocelyn Caugine's identity card number. Hopefully the office where she cashed her pension would come up and her current address.

Tracking Maurice Caugine had been easy. His identity card number had been on the car registration papers, and from there Lepoille traced where he last drew his pension before dying: La Rochelle, not far from St Junien. But Madame Caugine had been a different matter. He had no record of her identity card number, nor even her first name. The few papers he found for Maurice Caugine didn't feature his wife's details. Tracking was therefore more tedious. He tried all Caugines drawing pension for that year in the area: two men, one woman. The woman was a different address and her husband had died twenty years ago. So Caugine's wife had probably moved out of the area after he died, but where?

He tried several general searches and combinations before giving up. Some areas brought up far too many Caugines for him to search effectively. Stumped for an immediate answer, he went back to some other urgent work he'd pushed aside when Dominic's enquiry came in. Almost another hour had passed before the thought hit him: credit cards! Not current, but any applied for within three years after she had moved. Most credit agencies had a stipulation of the previous address being noted where the current address was less than three years.

He searched 1989, entering Caugine and Dourennes, the name of their previous street in La Rochelle as key words. Bingo! Seven choices, mostly Paris, only one in La Rochelle. Jocelyn Caugine had applied for a store card in Arcachon, south of Bordeaux. Two more key strokes and he was able to call up her full details and identity card number. He checked her current cashing address for her pension in case she'd moved, then called Dominic.

It took Dominic over two hours to finally get Jocelyn Caugine on the phone. When he first called, he was informed by another woman with the same surname, Josette Caugine, presumably her daughter, that she was out shopping, 'Shouldn't be too long.' The murder case of the decade on hold while this little old lady picked up courgettes and cat food at the local Continentale, Dominic mused. He left his name purely as Fornier, no inspector. Didn't want to frighten her off. He'd call later.

The second call Jocelyn Caugine answered directly. This time Dominic introduced himself with his full title. She sounded quite alert, attentive, showed no hesitance with recall. Yes, she remembered the car quite well. 'We often used to drive in it from St Julien to La Rochelle, particularly at the weekends.' Then her voice wavered slightly, sounding concerned. 'We're not in some sort of trouble, are we?' The 'we' as if her husband was still there to partly shoulder responsibility.

'No, no… not at all. You or your husband have done nothing wrong. But it is nevertheless a very important investigation we're conducting, and any assistance you can offer could be vital.'

'I see. Certainly… in any way I can help.'

The perkiness was back in her voice. A little old lady helping out on a Maigret-style enquiry. Probably the most excitement she'd had all year. 'I want you to remember back, Madame Caugine. Back to when your husband had the car. Do you ever remember him mentioning finding a coin in the car?'

'A coin?'

Dominic let the silence ride a second. Her tone was mostly rhetorical, self-prompting. She was thinking. 'Yes, a silver coin from Italy.'

'From Italy, you say? Not some French money left there?' She queried. A quick mumbled 'no' from Dominic. 'Was it particularly valuable?'

'No, not particularly. But as I say, it's very significant to a case we're handling now.'

'I don't know… I don't seem to recall anything.'

Dominic could almost feel her at the other end grappling through the years, straining for memories out of reach. He sensed that she wanted to help. He prompted: 'It was quite a large silver coin. Twenty lire, 1928. Do you remember your husband finding anything unusual in the car boot?'

Brief silence as Madame Caugine thought deeper, then a sigh. 'I'm sorry. No… I just can't think of anything. I haven't been much help, have I?'

Dominic felt the first twinge of alarm. It was slipping away. But how likely was it that her husband hadn't changed a wheel in three years? He was sure that the memory could be drawn out if he hit the right chord. 'Your husband would have probably only seen the coin when he changed the car wheel. Do you remember him changing the wheel at any time?'

'Yes… yes. I do.' Faint hope returning to her voice.

'When was that?'

'We were on the way to Paris to see his brother. We got a flat tyre on the way there.'

'Did your husband mention seeing anything in the car boot when he took the new wheel out?'

'No…'

'Or over the next few hours or days?'

'No, not that I recall.'

'Was it in the daytime? Was the light good?' Dominic could almost hear the clinging desperation in his own voice.

'Yes — it was mid-afternoon.'

Dominic's mind spun desperately through the other options. 'And do you remember your husband mentioning changing a wheel while he was on his own?'

'Not that I remember. No… I'm sorry.'

'… Perhaps when he changed the wheel that second time, he might have mentioned something. Perhaps doing it before, seeing something unusual?'

'No… nothing I'm afraid. As I said, I really can't recall my husband mentioning anything like that.'

Her voice was once again flustered, now with just a hint of defence. Dominic felt guilty: an image of him pinning the old lady back with increasing interrogation. He eased off. 'I'm sorry, yes. You did mention it already.' Dominic looked up: people busy on the phone, keyboards clattering, someone scanning the new roster on the notice board. Dominic's gaze cannoned frantically around the squad room in search of inspiration for what he might say next. But there was nowhere left to go. He'd covered everything. 'Perhaps you might recall something later.' Stock phrase, his mind was still desperately panning in case there was something he'd overlooked. Nothing. Nothing. He left his number.

'If I do remember anything — I certainly will, inspector.'

Dominic thanked her and rang off. But he knew she probably wouldn't ring, was just being polite. She'd had perfect recall of the wheel being changed; if the coin had been mentioned, she would have remembered. Maurice Caugine hadn't seen the coin. It was all over.

Dominic stayed late just in case she called, packed up finally at almost 8 pm. But as he suspected, nothing. It was already dark as he headed out, the spring night air fresh. His shoulders were slumped in defeat, though in a way he also felt strangely relieved. The past two weeks had brought his nerves to the very edge. He'd hardly slept a full night since hearing the first tape. A nightmare of juggling psychiatrists, transcripts, police and court files with the ghosts of his family's past that he should have known at the outset was best left alone. He let out a deep breath, felt it all suddenly washing away from him. It was over. A stiff brandy, then he could mentally file it along with the other deep and bitter experiences through the years. His life could go back to how it was before Marinella Calvan had called.

The phone was ringing as Duclos walked in the house. No lights were on. He flicked on the hallway and lounge switches on the way to picking it up.

'Oh, it's you.' Jaumard. The disappointment came through in Duclos' voice. 'I was expecting a call from somebody else.'

'Anything important?'

'Yes — I'm waiting urgently on a call from the hospital. I don't have time to talk now.'

'What's happened?'

'It's my-' Duclos stopped himself. He didn't want to share the accident saga with Jaumard. Curtailed version: '-my wife. She's premature. There's been complications.'

'I didn't even know she was pregnant.'

'You wouldn't. It's none of your business.' Flat tone, impatient.

'Isss't a boy or a girl?'

Duclos cringed; he wished now he hadn't said anything. 'Boy.' He could pick up Jaumard's slurring. As usual he had downed a few stiff ones before phoning. 'I must go. Keep the line-'

'That's good. You like boys, don't you? Well, I hope mother and son are both fffine.'

Duclos' jaw set tight. Was this just standard drunken, oafish Jaumard, or some attempt at his brother's line in acid banter? He felt like leaping down the phone and battering out what few brains Jaumard had left. He should have had him killed years ago, taken him out the same way as his brother. Except that he was sure, brainless or not, Jaumard had taken a leaf out of his brother's book and left a similar insurance letter with a lawyer somewhere. 'Look, as I said. I don't have time to-'

'I know. Sssorry. I only called now because I'm shipping out in a few days.'

Always the same, thought Duclos. Jaumard would hit him for some money just before a voyage. The only compensation was that he wouldn't hear from him again for six months, a year. 'I see. Call me tomorrow night when you're sober. We'll make the arrangements then.'

'What's his name?'

'Eynard. Justin Eynard.'

The name meant nothing to Dominic. The world of Parisian vice was strange to him. His two years at Interpol in Paris had been devoted to international cases. Marseille would have been more familiar territory, but nothing had come up through Bennacer. Only this one lead now from Deleauvre in Paris.

'What's his background?'

'Started off with girlie bars, then later a couple of sex accessory and video shops with under the counter material, a lot of it paedophile magazines and videos. Then finally he opens up a gay disco. But a lot of the boys there are under age, fourteen, fifteen — sat in dark corner booths heavily made up so that you would hardly know. And if you approach the barman and comment that they 'look a bit old', he'll give you an address. Eyrnard would run a 'discreet' house nearby. He also started supplying some of his kids to paedophile porn makers.'

'So, what have we got on him?'

'We're close to nailing him through one of his men. A recent bust on a paedophile porn ring has led back to Eynard. Their contact, Ricauve, spends a lot of time in Eynard's disco. Says that he's not only seen Duclos there, but seen him go off with one of the barmen who normally escorts clients to their nearby 'house'. We're cutting a deal with Ricauve for information, so we should be able to land on Eynard like a ton of bricks. He's got a lot to lose, so we're pretty sure he'll roll over and finger Duclos.'

'Sounds encouraging.' Dominic could feel his enthusiasm returning. After the disappointment of the coin, some hope. Duclos gets away with murder, but they nail him for molesting under-age boys. Drag him through the system, ruin his career, anything from a two to four year sentence. It was something at least. 'Let me know how the Ricauve interview goes.'

Dominic signed off. Lepoille had also tried to pep him up, suggesting that it was worthwhile tracking down the car owner after Caugine. He'd get on it right away. Dominic wasn't hopeful. The coin not discovered until almost four years later? Escaping the notice of both Duclos and Caugine. Unlikely.

But the strongest encouragement had come from Monique the night before. 'If you really believe in this, so strongly in fact that it's haunted you for over thirty years — how can you give up now?'

Dominic's single brandy after work had turned into three. It took a while for Monique's comments to cut through his despondency. 'Perhaps I'm just tired,' he offered lamely.

Or was it their sudden reversal of roles from the night before which had thrown him. Except for his complicity over the car sighting, he'd told her everything — his doubts about Machanaud, his suspicion of Duclos, how he had just gone along with the investigative flow, Machanaud's long prison sentence. He hadn't mentioned anything through the years because it would have underlined that Jean-Luc's suicide had been in vain. Too painful. Besides, it was just a suspicion. Even when he saw the possibility of gaining fresh evidence through the sessions, the same reasons prevailed, and he was also sceptical that anything tangible would materialize. 'Again, there was no point in upsetting you if it was all to come to nothing.' Until the coin. The first moment he realized he had a chance of proving something against Duclos.

Shadows returning, shifting clouds in her eyes: doubt, disbelief, slow acceptance. Sensing her mood — that in a few short sentences he'd torn down so many of her long held beliefs about the crime and Jean-Luc's suicide, compacted now by doubts about the openness of their own relationship, the secrets harboured over so many years — he felt the need to be dramatic: 'It's almost as if Christian is guiding us through this other boy. Giving us the clues to track his killer.'

'Yes, uncanny Dominic. Uncanny.' She was silent for a long while. She asked a few mechanical questions about the procedure and the state of play, then went to bed soon after. Her mood was sullen, thoughtful; little indication of how she felt. He was sure it still hadn't fully hit her.

But when the night following his mood was grey and he felt the case was at a dead end, she threw it all back in his face: 'So Christian's voice is guiding you, as if it's all somehow ordained. Meant to be. But now you're telling me it's impossible. I've never accepted what happened, Dominic. But at least I've been able to come to terms with the justice, such as it was. Jean-Luc was never able to do even that. And suddenly everything that happened then is meant to be wrong. You've harboured the doubts for thirty years — but you tell me just the other day. Then the very next you tell me it's all over. You've hit a dead end. "The possibility of justice I mentioned the other day — forget it." No, Dominic. It's not going to end like that.'

Dominic stressed the legal complexities of the case, mostly stock lines repeated from Corbeix: that psychic evidence presented in court was virtually non-existent in France; without tangible evidence corroborated by a third party they were lost; despite the accuracy of the tapes and transcripts and Calvan's credentials, they just wouldn't stand up in court on their own.

Monique's eyes darted frantically as he spoke: 'But there must be something, something!'

To her this new situation was just one day old, he realized: she was invigorated by its freshness. To him it was the end of a thirty year trail. She had no idea how tired he felt. He told her of the few weak options remaining.

She'd knelt in front of him, her arms on his thighs, her eyes imploring him. 'If that's all that's left, Dominic, then grasp it with both hands. Chase the next car owner, however remote the possibility. And if you fail, go for whatever remains: try and prove Duclos' background with young boys, drag him through the courts, ruin his career. Do whatever you can. You've waited thirty years — don't give up now!'

First thing Dominic called Bennacer, Deleauvre and Lepoille. Things were starting to move again.

But just before four o’clock, Lepoille called with bad news: the car owner after Caugine was dead. 'He was a bachelor when he bought the car, didn't marry till much later, and his wife's dead now too. There's a sister he shared an address with for a while — though two years before he even bought the car. I don't think she'll be much use.'

Hardly any numbness this time; with the events of the day before, he'd already half accepted that all chances of prosecuting Duclos for murder were gone.

Two days later, Deleauvre called to tell him that their initial visit to pressure Eynard hadn't gone well. 'He was very cagey, defensive, didn't want to say anything without his lawyer present. We've arranged another 'unofficial' meeting in one of his clubs with his lawyer present. But getting him to roll over for a deal might not be as easy as we first thought. Depends how his lawyer reacts.'

Dominic had visions of even this last hope with Duclos slipping through his grasp.

Dominic's spirits were still at a low ebb three hours later when the call came through. The desk sergeant announced a woman and 'something about a coin'. Dominic's first thought was Lepoille tracking down the second owner's sister.

It was Jocelyn Caugine. 'Sorry to trouble you, inspector. But I did remember something. I don't know whether it's useful or not. My husband bought the car from a garage near Limoges — they apparently did some sort of trade-in with the previous owner. Perhaps they changed the wheel and saw the coin you mentioned.'

Dominic felt his spirits soar. 'Do you remember the name of the garage?'

'Something-beau. I can't remember exactly. But it's the only garage for quite a while: about four kilometres out of Limoges on the St Julien road. Left hand side as you approach Limoges.'

'Madame Caugine — you're marvellous. Marvellous!'

'Well — I just hope it's useful.' Slightly flustered by his enthusiasm.

Useful? Dominic smiled incredulously. He wanted to hug Jocelyn Caugine until her cheeks flushed purple.

Dominic ordered the biggest food hamper he could find — cognac, champagne, select cheeses and pates, truffles and chocolates — and had it messengered to Jocelyn Caugine with a note: From your favourite Inspector. Then he phoned Lepoille.