Past Imperfect

THREE

Provence, August, 1963

Dominic Fornier sat in Cafe du Verdon and enjoyed his normal breakfast of coffee with hot bread and pate. The coffee was large, in a cup almost big enough to be a soup bowl, and he always kept one piece of bread without butter or pate just to dip in it. It was 3.40 pm. An unusual time for breakfast, but then he had been on all night duty in the police station and had woken less than an hour ago to return for the afternoon shift.

It was a regular ritual. The cafe owner Louis knew his order off by heart now, and had almost worked out his sequence of shifts. One large coffee with milk, third of a stick loaf sliced in half, one half plain, the other half with pate, coffee refill half way through.

The cafe overlooked the main square and fountain at Bauriac and the police station was only fifty yards to the right of the square on the road flanking the town hall. The town hall and Louis' cafe were the most imposing structures overlooking the square. Neo-classical, the town hall should have been far more imposing, but Louis had compensated by putting out striped blue canvass awnings and a row of tables with Martini umbrellas. Particularly busy in summer, it was only from Louis' pavement frontage that tourists could appreciate the town hall facade and the ornate fountain at the centre of Bauriac's square.

There were a few tourists there that afternoon. Dominic could spot them a mile away. Shorts, leather strap sandals and cameras. Always cameras. Louis grunted his way past Dominic's table as he served some of them. The front doors to the cafe were wide open and from the juke box inside came the strains of Stevie Wonder's 'fingertips'. Louis gave a mock bump and grind to it on his way back into the cafe and twirled his tray in one hand. Dominic smiled. It had been his one contribution to Louis juke box: decent music. Stax, Tamla, the Drifters on RCA, Sam Cooke, Ben E King, Booker T, and now a new artist called Stevie Wonder. All of it American soul brought in through his uncle's export business in Marseille, and practically none of it available in France for at least two to three months. Sometimes never. It was improving now, but when he'd first started getting records through his uncle in the late 50s, only a selected few American soul releases made it to French shores.

None of the tourists on Louis terrace, unless they were American, would have heard Stevie Wonder's new record yet. They seemed oblivious as they sipped their teas and cokes or ambled off for photos in front of the fountain or town hall. They hadn't come to France to listen to American soul. The records were there just for the benefit of himself and Louis and the growing number of discerning late nighters. A welcome escape from the syrupy tones of Sacha Distel, Serge Gainsbourg, the Singing Nun and the endless pop rock which filled the French charts and, since Louis had installed the juke box, it drew an increasing crowd of young locals on their solexes and vespas with a sprinkling of 100 and 150cc bikes. Lightweight rockers. Mostly between the ages of fifteen and twenty-two, they came in heavier numbers on Friday and Saturday nights, nearly all of them locals. Louis' hunch about installing the juke box had worked.

Those over twenty-two mostly had larger bikes or cars and would head off to the clubs or discos in Aix, Draguignan or even Marseille or Toulon. But for local entertainment, apart from the town cinema and one other bar with music near Taragnon, Louis had the market cornered.

Bauriac's population was just over 14,000 and, even with the surrounding towns of Taragnon, Varages, Ponteves, St Martin and La Verdiere, which came under the administration of Bauriac's town hall and gendarmerie, overall area population was still under 35,000.

Dominic Fornier was one of eleven gendarmes stationed in Bauriac, and at twenty-six, was the youngest of two Senior Warrant Officers there, having transferred from Marseille just the year before. Head of Station and the four other area gendarmeries was Captain Tobias Poullain, thirty seven, locally born but now just biding time by tending provincial turf; advancement meant transfer to Aix en Provence or Marseille and a City Administrative position with a shot at Colonel, and Poullain hoped to make it there by forty. Station veteran was Lieutenant Eric Harrault, forty-nine.

Harrault's knowledge of past Bauriac cases and general procedures between the station and the local courts was absolute, and as a result he spent much of his time desk-bound. Without Harrault for reference or procedural advice, the station just didn't run smoothly.

Louis was at the side of his table. 'Coming by tonight?'

'I'm not sure. Depends how heavy my shift is. I might be too tired.'

'Too tired at your age.' Louis waved one arm dismissively. He nodded towards the boulangerie. 'Why don't you ask Odette? Valerie will probably be coming.'

'Maybe.' Odette was a fresh faced nineteen year old serving in the bakers whom Dominic had been dating the past four months. Nothing too serious. Dominic tried to restrict dates to no more than two a week, particularly with his other commitments at home. With him not finishing until midnight it would be too late in any case for a full date, though the sight of Louis fighting to win Valerie's affections was well worth a visit. 'I'll probably come by on my own for a quick brandy, keep you company at the bar.'

On Valerie's last visit, Louis had put on Sam Cooke's 'Another Saturday Night', which Dominic had brought him only a few weeks before. Coming out from behind the bar like a matador, Louis dramatically threw his shirt to one side. Now down to his vest, Louis felt that it showed off his physique, and with his dark and brooding Corsican features he saw himself as another Victor Mature. Dominic teased him that he looked more like Bluto. The wrong side of forty, too much of his own short order cooking had long ago rounded out most of his muscle definition. Louis’ bull like figure trying gracefully to imitate something between the jive and the tango with Valerie was a sight to behold.

'Should be a good crowd later tonight,' Louis commented.

Dominic nodded. Calling by when his shift finished at midnight was probably good timing. After 11pm the bikers normally thinned out and more young couples came in on their way back from the cinema. Cleopatra was showing for a second week. Louis was probably right, the turn out should be good. 'I'll only stay an hour though, then I should get home.'

Louis grimaced understandingly. Dominic not wanting to spend too much time away from his sick mother was by now almost common knowledge. Dominic's elder sister lived in Paris with her husband and only visited periodically, so Dominic had shouldered most of the responsibility. Diagnosed just over a year ago, less than two years after burying his father, his mother's cancer had been the main reason for his transfer from Marseille. Why he restricted his dates and tried not to stay out too late. Dominic knew that there wasn't much time left to spend with his mother.

Dominic was distracted. Servan, one of the young station Sergeants, was running across the square towards the cafe. Louis stared as well. The last time he'd seen a gendarme running was when the newly installed alarm had gone off by mistake at the jewellers around the corner. Something was wrong.

Servan was breathless as he approached Dominic's table. 'A young boy has been attacked out towards Taragnon. Poullain's just radioed in. He's on his way there now. He wants you to assist, and take myself, Levacher and another sergeant. We're to meet him there.'

'Where's Harrault?'

'He was with Poullain at Tourtin's farm when it happened. One of Tourtin's outbuildings was broken into last night. When Poullain got the call, he left Harrault taking the statement.'

'How old is the boy?

'Anything from nine to twelve years old. We still don't have any firm identification.'

'Is the attack bad? How badly is he hurt?' The surprise came through in Dominic's voice. This was Bauriac. They hardly ever faced anything more serious than a stolen tractor.

Servan was hesitant and looked away slightly. He either didn't know or didn't want to talk too openly in front of Louis. 'I think you should get the details from Poullain.'

The 2CV rattled along the rough track alongside the wheat field. The basic black gendarme squad car, it felt as if it was made from old tin cans and powered by a lawnmower engine and rubber bands. Dominic hated them with a vengeance. The track was on a slight incline, and with three passengers the engine whined in protest.

Servan pointed the way. 'I'm sure this is the right track, the river's to our right. About one hundred and fifty metres up, Poullain said.'

Rounding a curve, they could see the lane cordoned off with rope fifty metres ahead. Poullain's black Citreon C19 was parked one side with an ambulance behind.

Poullain was down to his shirt sleeves and his flat gendarme cap was off too. Beads of sweat massed on his receding hairline and he was in the midst of a heated argument with one of the ambulance medics as they parked the car. Poullain was not very tall, but he was quite stocky and in any confrontation fought to make a powerful presence with effusive and rapid arm movements. As they approached, he was almost hitting the medic repeatedly with the back of one hand to emphasize his case.

Poullain looked past Dominic and snapped at Servan. 'Did you bring the camera?'

Servan nodded hastily. 'As you asked.' And ran back the few paces to the car to get it.

Poullain was impatient and flustered. When Servan came back with the camera, an old Leica 35mm with a dented and chipped black frame, Poullain barked, 'Are you any good at taking pictures?' Servan shrugged as if to say 'okay'. 'Then take them yourself so that we can get rid of this prick.' Poullain looked disapprovingly at the medic, then down at the figure of the young boy on a stretcher at the medic's feet. The medic was holding an oxygen mask to the boy's face.

Poullain turned his back and let out a deep sigh as Servan moved around for best position and angle. Dominic was close behind and studied the boy's face as the shutter clicked away. The medics had obviously cleaned much of the blood from the face. But facial bruising and swelling was so intense that the bone structure looked distorted, and blood was still caked thick in his hair. A bandage was wrapped around part of the boy's skull and under his chin. A few paces to the side, Dominic could see a flattened area of wheat sheaves with dried blood patches. A large oval patch with two smaller patches and some spots and splashes radiating out. Dark brown against the bleached white sheaves. Dominic shuddered.

After five pictures, Poullain waved the medics away with a few curt words about making contact later, and directed Servan's attention to the blood patches, pointing out some suggested positions for two or three close ups that he would need. The medics loaded the boy aboard the ambulance and backed down the lane. Poullain looked up at Dominic.

'Sorry about that. First the medics say that they can't move the boy, he could choke on his own blood, and they spend time cleaning him up and putting a pipe down his throat. I say, fine, I need some pictures in any case. But as soon as they're finished, they want to move him. By this time I can see you approaching — but they don't want to wait. I end up arguing with them to gain one minute.' Poullain dabbed at his forehead with the back of one sleeve. 'Look, Fornier, I want you to assist in this. There's two reasons. First, there'll be an awful lot of paperwork and notes. Second, we're going to be talking with a lot of outside units, particularly from Marseille. A forensics team are on their way from Marseille now.'

'What about Harrault?' Dominic asked. Harrault's seniority would normally have guaranteed his role in assisting, particularly on a major case.

'Harrault will do what Harrault does best. He'll take our notes and reports and make sure the filing with the Aix Cour d’Assises runs smoothly. This will no doubt end up there, particularly if it becomes a murder case. The medics said that it's going to be a close call whether the boy lives. Harrault's going to spend half his time running reports between us and the examining magistrate and Public Prosecutor's office in Aix. I want you to assist and take notes, ensure the reports reach Harrault in good shape, and liaise and smooth out any problems with the boys from Marseille. I don't want us to lose control on this one.'

Dominic wondered what was more important. His good shorthand for taking notes or his three years with the Marseille force. Obviously Poullain was worried about getting upstaged by Marseille. The boy wasn't even at the hospital, might not last through the night, and already Poullain was more worried about the politics of the investigation. Afraid of losing a major local case that could boost his career.

'Who's coming from Marseille?' Dominic asked.

'I don't know. I radioed in and was advised that a forensics team would be dispatched. Wasn’t given any names.'

Servan was at their side with the camera held limply, waiting for more directions. WO Levacher was looking thoughtfully towards the river.

'Have you brought the sticks?' Poullain asked.

'Yes'. It was Levacher who answered. He turned back to the 2CV to get them. They'd stopped for them at a hardware store on the way, but it was obvious they were still wondering what they were for.

Poullain pointed towards the wheat field. 'Levacher and Servan, start from three metres out from the blood patches and head out across the wheat field keeping two metres apart. Then at the end turn back and cover the next four metre stretch. Use the sticks to part the sheaves. We're looking for items of clothing, even small fragments of cloth or buttons and sweet wrappers. Any possible clues. And the weapon used in the attack — a heavy stick or iron bar, or perhaps a rock with tell tale blood stains.' Poullain pointed towards the river. 'Then take the bushes along the river bank. Also, look in the shallows. As I say, don't disturb the three metres around the blood stains. Leave that for forensics.'

Poullain surveyed the wheat field as Servan and Levacher headed out with their sticks. He shook his head slowly after a moment. 'Who on earth would do such a thing?' A rhetorical tone, so Dominic merely joined him for a second silently watching their progress tapping across the field like blind men.

'Who discovered the boy?' Dominic asked.

'The man from the farm behind, Marius Caurin. This track provides the only access to his farm. These fields are owned by his friend who is on an engineering contract in Orleans — that's why some of them are untended. Marius just plants the few extra fields he can cope with.'

A light breeze played across the field. As it shifted direction, they heard the sound of a car approaching. It was a large black Citreon C25 pulling in behind Poullain's car with three men inside. Probably the team from Marseille. Poullain greeted them, then introduced Dominic.

They walked towards the bloodstained area. Dominic stayed in the background as Poullain pointed and brought them up to date on events. He explained that the boy might be facing an operation in hospital at Aix en Provence, so would be studied by the medical examiner there. They could confer with him later. The main thing now was gaining information from what was left: blood group and some indication of timing for the attack. Were all the stains the same group as the boy, or were any different?

Dominic smiled to himself. In his fifteen years of policing in Bauriac, Poullain had only seen one murder, an almost predictable domestic crime of passion, and two manslaughters: one domestic, one bar fight. Yet he was handling this with all the casual aplomb of a Marseille veteran used to fishing bodies out of the harbour every day. No doubt driven by his fear of being upstaged from outside.

None of them were really prepared for this. He'd seen the shock on Servan's face when he'd leant over the boy to take the first photos. Servan had gone deathly white and looked sick. The other rookies had only managed to maintain some composure by keeping in the background. None of them had come close to the boy and studied his face the way he had. Seen the massive bruising and fractures, seen where his small face had been mashed half to a pulp, part of his skull only held in place by a bandage. This was Bauriac, and if they stayed their distance, perhaps they could still cling to the illusion that things like this just didn't happen in their area.

Even he'd found the sight of the young boy disturbing, despite having been directly involved in five murder cases in Marseille. Perhaps it was because the victim was so young; none of his previous cases had involved children. Who on earth would do such a thing? The one moment, staring silently across the wheat field, when Poullain had shown his true emotions. The rest of the time he'd been too busy sparring to try and prove he was in control.

One of the forensic team was walking to his car with a set of small clear polythene bags. Another was crouching, now examining further up the rough track. He looked over at Poullain.

'It's been too dry, and the track is too uneven and dusty. I doubt we'll get any decent imprints.'

Poullain nodded, and asked the team leader Dubrulle about progress. Dubrulle explained that they would probably be at least another thirty or forty minutes, then they would head over to Aix and see the medical examiner. 'It could be he'll have some information by tomorrow morning. Our first lab test results won't be ready till tomorrow afternoon.'

Servan and Levacher were half way back on their third sweep and Levacher had his jacket unbuttoned with the heat. Poullain's radio crackled with a sudden harsh, distorted voice. Poullain went over to it.

Dominic couldn't hear what was said. He saw Poullain look down thoughtfully after a moment. The conversation appeared quite staccato, apart from a stretch towards the end of the call when Poullain waved his arms in a struggle for emphasis and then checked his watch as he finished.

Poullain was pensive as he approached. 'A call's come in to the station from a woman saying her son's missing. It's the only call of that type they've received today. The boy said that he was going to a friend's house on his bike and should have been there for one-thirty. He never showed up. But it's only four-forty now, it could be too early to jump to conclusions. You know what kids are like. The boy could have gone to another friend's house or disappeared for sweets or to play somewhere else.'

'How old is her boy?'

'Ten. The age is right.'

On a bad month, the station might get three missing person alerts, sometimes two months would go by with none. Most were false alarms, but the timing and age of this one narrowed the odds. Dominic could sense Poullain delaying the inevitable. He recalled the incident of a young boy who'd died falling down a disused well the previous autumn. Facing the relatives with the news had unsettled Poullain for days. This time he would probably send someone else.

Dominic looked out thoughtfully across the field. 'What's her name?

'Monique Rosselot.'