Past Imperfect

SEVENTEEN

The warrant holding Machanaud was an initial detention order signed off by Perrimond for four days, the maximum any suspect could be held without an official arraignment before an Examining Magistrate.

On the fourth day, Machanaud was transported from his cell in Bauriac for a ten o’clock hearing at the Palais de Justice in Aix. Frederic Naugier was presiding, though informally dressed in a dark grey suit; his red robes would appear at later hearings. Perrimond was to one side of the room, Briant as police escort behind Machanaud, and a greffier, court clerk, sat alongside Naugier.

A young duty lawyer was dragged from the floor below to brief Machanaud on what would await him in the proceedings. During a thirty-eight minute hearing, Machanaud provided his main details for the court file, Naugier read the charges against him, and decision on bail was held over to the next hearing in ten days, by which time a state lawyer would have been appointed through the Bar Council.

At the close of the proceedings, summarily Naugier signed off a four month detention order. In that time, he had to complete the instruction process and pass the case to full trial. On murder cases, it was not uncommon for him to sign off two or three such orders. Peuch had already made it clear to Machanaud that bail was unlikely given the combination of the charge and his transient background. Whether found guilty or not at the final trial, unless dramatic new evidence came up during the instruction, Machanaud was going to spend much of the next year in prison.

Dominic had bought a TV for his mother four months previous. They were expensive, a luxury item, but it was something to keep her company, especially during his long evening shifts.

He remembered the first time he saw 'Perry Mason'. French national programming was poor, and slicker American productions predominated. The popular courtroom drama however took time to catch on in France, mainly because the proceedings depicted were alien, bore no semblance to the justice system familiar to the French.

The quick changing drama of different witnesses, surprises, change of pleas and sudden admissions would in France be spread over several months of the instruction process. Witnesses were grouped and called in different sessions, and testimony from the victim's family, the police, forensics and expert witnesses such as psychiatrists were heard in continuing separate sessions. With usually no more than two instruction hearings in any one month, the process was long and arduous, and complex cases could drag on seven to ten months before presentation to full trial.

But by that time, evidence and testimony had been boiled down to just the essential facts necessary for a jury and three judges to deliberate. Witnesses could be recalled, but their answers were now no more than distillations of their previous testimony during instruction. No rambling, no surprises, no dramatics or sudden about turn admissions. Just the core evidence the prosecution and defence wished showcased for the jury. As a result even murder trials lasted only a day or two.

Dominic had followed the early stages of Machanaud's instruction hearings. After a second hearing at which bail was refused, two weeks later Naugier summoned the Rosselots. Apart from confirming vital details about the last time they saw Christian, what he was wearing and who he had headed out to see that afternoon, Naugier had to formally ask them if they wished to press charges against the suspect held. Almost redundant, since if they had answered 'no', the State would have continued with the prosecution regardless — but it had to be recorded. Jean-Luc responded 'Of course' while Monique just nodded.

The next hearing almost a month later was to clarify police and forensic findings at the initial crime scene. Dominic was concerned the subject of Machanaud's car sighting might be raised, but the hearings were strictly structured: Naugier conducted all questioning directly and any questions proposed by the defence and prosecution had to be presented to Naugier two weeks in advance, with a full schedule of topics to be raised then made available to both sides two days before the hearing. Perrimond had gone rigorously through the schedule with Poullain and Dominic. There was nothing about the car sighting.

Though in two or three hearings time, Dominic knew that they would start to cover Machanaud's later hearings and statements, and the subject could come up. He was dreading it: having to face Machanaud and his council and change his story for Naugier.

Four days after the call from Houillon in Marseille, he'd decided to throw in the towel and told Pouillain that he wouldn't be proceeding with a complaint. Poullain wasted no time in sequestering him and Briant into his back office, closing ranks tightly by ensuring their stories matched. Poullain suggested that they both admit the meetings, but modify the details discussed. 'From what I understand, Machanaud was drunk on both occasions. I'd be surprised if he remembers exactly what was said.'

Dominic agreed numbly along with Briant, but part of him remained uncertain. Hopefully the subject just wouldn't come up.

From what he heard about Machanaud's lawyer over the following weeks, that hope began to fade. Only twenty-six, Leonard Molet had been in full practice just over three years and divided his time between a private firm and state aid cases. Machanaud had shown alarm at their first meeting that this would be Molet's first murder trial, without fully appreciating how much worse his representation could have been: most state aid lawyers were inexperienced stagiaires still in pupilage, with invariably little or no courtroom experience. Over the weeks, Molet showed his paces and gained Machanaud's confidence, making Perrimond and Naugier at the same time sit up and take notice. Unlike the usual state aid fodder, he gained preliminary notes on time, saw his client regularly, and rebutted with sensible defence-angled questions for Naugier to pose at instruction. The case was going to be tightly contested.

While reading from his notes in testimony about the initial crime scene, Dominic felt Molet staring at him intently at one point, felt uncomfortable that Molet was perhaps measuring him for a later confrontation. Later, towards the end of Poullain's testimony, Naugier cut in, admitting his confusion at the various positions of Machanaud supposedly fishing, the lane and the wheat field, and where the boy was finally found. Naugier had already gone over the details twice without being fully satisfied, and suggested that everything be re-examined at the scene itself. Perrimond and Molet showed scant surprise. Examining Magistrates often visited crime scenes to question suspects and witnesses. The theory was that suspects found it harder to reconstruct an invented story at the scene itself. Discrepancies started to show.

Looking at his diary, Naugier saw that the next instruction in sixteen days was for witnesses who had sighted Machanaud on the day of the attack; at that hearing, he would notify both Perrimond and Molet of the date set for a reconstruction.

Facing Molet had unsettled Dominic. He felt somehow vulnerable, that his guilt about covering up showed. He thought seriously about going back on his agreement with Poullain. His mother's condition had worsened the week before and she'd gone in for more tests: if the prognosis was bad, she might only make it another few months. The instruction covering the police statements and later car references wouldn't be for at least six weeks. If he filed the complaint a few days before the hearing and only then warned Poullain of his upcoming change in testimony, it could take them almost two months to manipulate his transfer. Longer if… Dominic stopped himself sharply, shaking his head, could hardly believe that he was actually weighing the timing of his mother's death just so that he could come clean and salvage his own guilt.

In the days after giving in to Poullain, he was haunted by images of Machanaud. In one dream Machanaud was alone in the wheat field, calling out as Dominic turned his back and walked away. 'You're deserting me just like the others… Why?' But as he turned and looked back at Machanaud, only then did he notice one of Machanaud's hands covered with blood, could see where it had run down his arm, the bloodied rock discarded at his feet… and he awoke in a cold sweat, catching at his breath. Even in his dreams he was trying to assuage his concern, convince himself that Machanaud was guilty, he was doing the right thing. But it was little consolation knowing that he was merely joining Poullain and the rabble, and Machanaud's plea about desertion lingered stronger than any other image.

The session with witnesses went smoothly, mostly repetitions of their earlier police statements. Confronted by Naugier with the various witness statements, Machanaud admitted that he'd lied in his own statements only because he thought the police questioning was aimed at his poaching that day. Naugier didn't pursue the mention of cars or go deeper into Machanaud's police statements: one he would tackle at the reconstruction, the other at the session following. Naugier summarized the proceedings and looked at his diary. The next hearing was the reconstruction to take place at Brieulle's farm: present should be the suspect, defence and prosecution, and all relevant police and medics who attended at the original scene. Date set was in nineteen days time, 22nd November.

Chapeau tried the main Palais de Justice number in Limoges again. When he'd phoned two hours earlier, he was told that 'Monsieur Duclos was in a meeting, but should be free at twelve.' He'd left his name as Emile Vacheret, but no number. He would call back. Originally, he had planned to call closer to the final trial date, but during those months Duclos' memory could have started to fade.

The second time he was put straight through. 'Monsieur Vacharet, yes. One moment. Ne quittez pas.'

Then Duclos' voice in hushed tones. 'Emile… why on earth are you phoning me here are work, you know that…'

'Be quiet,' Chapeau cut in. 'I used Vacheret's name to get through.'

'Who is this? I don't understand.' Duclos spluttered. But it was a stock reaction; suddenly he did know who it was and understood fully. 'Why are you phoning me? How did you get this number? I'm quite sure Emile wouldn't be so stupid as to give it to you.'

Chapeau chuckled. 'No, you're right. But your wallet was a treasure chest of information.' Silence from the other end: only the background clatter of typewriters came through to Chapeau for a few seconds.

'It was you the other month,' Duclos hissed.

God, this was fun. Chapeau wasn't sure what was more joyous: the outrage in Duclos' voice or the sudden flashback of the incident itself. 'Ah, you guessed. And I wanted so much for it to stay a surprise.'

'Look, I just can't talk here.' Duclos voice was muted, edgy. 'I'll phone you straight back from outside. Give me a number.'

Chapeau looked down at the number on the dial and read it out. 'Five minutes, no more. Or I'll be phoning your office back again.' He hung up.

Duclos made a quick excuse to his secretary about seeing a client on the third floor, he wouldn't be longer than twenty minutes. He headed out along the long corridor, then skipped down instead of up. By the time he reached the main Palais de Justice steps, he was practically at a run.

Chapeau picked up the phone on the second ring. Less than three minutes: impressive. Duclos was even keener than he thought.

'Okay, what do you want?' Duclos' voice came breathlessly.

Obviously no patience left for preamble or politeness, thought Chapeau. What was the world coming to? 'Luckily for you, it looks like they're nailing some poor local poacher for what you did to that young boy.' Chapeau listened intently over the static on the line for Duclos' reaction.

A short intake of breath. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Chapeau had no time for fencing. 'Look, I know all about the boy in Taragnon. I saw the whole story in the papers. And I know that there's no friend. It was you — you attacked him, and that was why you wanted me to finish him off in the hospital. You were afraid he'd awaken and identify you.'

'You're wrong. It was for my friend. And I know nothing about Taragnon — my friend told me the boy was from Marseille.'

Chapeau read the bluff, could pick up on the tremor at the back of Duclos' voice. If there was any slight doubt remaining, now he was certain. There was no friend: Duclos had killed the boy. But he would have to push hard to get Duclos to admit it. 'Come on, Duclos. You've got a weakness for the young boys, you're a regular customer at Vacharet's. You want me to believe that this friend of yours has got exactly the same problem. And you drive straight through Taragnon on your way from the Vallon Estate to Aix.'

'So does my friend. Whether you believe me or not doesn't really concern me.' Flatter, calmer voice now. 'You seem to be forgetting along the way that the boy was still alive in the hospital. You're the one who killed him. You can't tell your little theory to anyone without incriminating yourself.'

Chapeau allowed Duclos his glorious moment's gloating before dropping the bombshell. 'That's the beauty of it — I never touched the boy. When I got to his room, he was already in emergency, they were fighting to save his life. I was annoyed at first that I'd missed him; and then it struck me that if the boy died that night, you'd have no way of knowing I hadn't made the hit. So I decided to claim the kill and stiff you for the money anyway. I don't think I've ever had so much fun.' Chapeau sniggered. 'Except that is for beating the shit out of you a week later.'

Longer, deeper silence this time. Chapeau could almost feel the waves of panic at the other end. Duclos' mind racing whether to continue denying, question or retreat. A slow exhalation. 'Why should I believe you now?'

It was a weak protest, more grudging acceptance than doubt. 'You don't have to. Why don't I call the police and tell them about you hiring me to kill the boy, let them work out if the boy died on the operating table or not. After all, they have access to all the hospital records. And then when they turn up to arrest you, you can tell them all about your little friend. As an accomplice, and seeing as the murder you hired me for never took place, you'd probably only get a few years.'

'No, no. Don't do that.'

Chapeau savoured the panic in Duclos' voice before commenting, 'So whether it's you or your friend, at least we've established one thing. You don't want me to go to the police.'

Duclos was slow to answer, his voice subdued, barely audible. 'No.'

'That's a shame, because I had such a strong urge to do my citizen's duty this time. The story of that poor poacher in the paper really touched me. So unfair. You know, I probably have a lot more in common with someone like that than… than someone like yourself, Monsieur Prosecutor. It would almost feel like I'm betraying one of my own. I think it would take quite a lot to persuade me to do something like that.'

'What do you want?' Duclos had no energy left to spar with Chapeau. As it dawned on him that Chapeau was probably telling the truth about not killing the boy and he realized how vulnerable he was, a sinking sensation gripped his stomach. In the past weeks of work, he'd finally started to free his thoughts from the nightmare of Taragnon, but now it was back with him full force. Bleak years of the incident re-kindled with each demand from Chapeau stretched out ahead. He felt physically sick.

Chapeau paused for breath; like a lion circling his prey, now he had Duclos exactly where he wanted him, ready for the kill. But it was too soon. Besides, only a couple of months had passed since he'd probably cleaned Duclos out. 'I don't know yet. I'll have to think about that one. I'll probably call you again when the date for the final trial for this fellow has been set. There'll still be time then for them to haul someone else in for questioning and acquit him if they get new information.'

'When will that be?' Flat monotone, defeated, washed along on whatever Chapeau suggested. It had taken him almost a month to fully get over the injuries from the beating in the Marseille alley; he was still haunted by the image of the cold steel barrel sliding against his cheek, sure in that moment he was going to die. Duclos shuddered; now once again he felt powerless and afraid.

'Two months — maybe as much as four or five. You know probably better than me how slow the wheels of justice turn in France. Why don't I send you regular press clippings, keep you up to date.'

'No, no, it's okay.' The thought of regular reminders through the post made Duclos' blood run cold. Surely Chapeau wasn't serious? 'Just phone me when you're ready.'

'I will. In the meantime I suggest you're a good boy and start saving up for when I call. Have you got a piggy bank?'

'You bastard. You slimy fucking bastard!'

'Oh, I do love it when you're angry. It gets me so excited.' Chapeau blew an exaggerated kiss close to the mouthpiece and hung up.