Past Imperfect

EIGHTEEN

Voices from the rooms, running feet in the courtyard, a ball bouncing, laughter, crying. Christian biting back the tears after being stung by a bee, Jean-Luc running down the field with Christian on his shoulders and her worrying about them falling, Christian at six holding up his favourite puppet doll, Topo Gigio: he'd left it in the courtyard and some chickens had pecked the stuffing out and an arm was almost falling off. She'd re-stuffed it and sewn the arm that night, tucked it back in alongside him while he was asleep. Christian running out of the surf at Le Lavandou, helping Jean-Luc by measuring the boules for a local village game, Christian blowing out the candles on his tenth birthday party.

Fragments of memories, some old pictures on the shelves and in albums, Christian's old clothes and toys. All that was left.

Monique had promised herself each time that the next day she'd clear them away… the next day. Each time she looked at his room — with each toy and item of clothing in exactly the same place he'd left them that afternoon — it was easy in that moment to believe that he was simply away, a school trip or summer camp, and soon would return.

But as the images flooded back — the police drawing up in the courtyard that first day, her candle-light vigil in the hospital, the young gendarme at her door saying he was sorry… so sorry — a cold steel hand of reality reached deep inside her and ripped out her emotions, her very soul, stripped bare every fibre and nerve ending until her pain was rendered down to no more than pitiful numbness, a grey void… whispers in the first empty dawn after his death… 'Oh Christian… Christian'. Knowing in that moment that there would be no more answer, no kisses like soft butterflies on her cheek, no more embraces and feeling the warmth of his body…. clinging now only to the memory, hugging the top cover of his bed around her and rocking gently as her emotions flooded over and once again her body sank into uncontrollable sobbing.

Most of her crying had been alone, sitting in Christian's room. Now it had come to symbolize catharsis, the only place in the house where she felt comfortable venting her grief. The rest of the house was for cooking, cleaning, sewing, all the day to day mechanical chores to help push her grief into the background. When she cried, it was just her and Christian, alone. A last vestige of intimacy.

Only once had she been caught, just over a month after Christian's death; Clarisse had been at the door, half hiding behind the door frame, perplexed. Monique had quickly stifled her tears and rushed to comfort her, feeling guilty.

Clarisse was probably suffering even more than her; at only five, struggling to truly grasp what had happened, let alone come to terms with it. Asking questions about where Christian was now, would he be happy, was it nice in heaven? Drawing pictures of Christian sitting among floating clouds, his Topo Gigio doll at one side, his favourite tree from the garden — an old spreading carob which he used to climb — the other. Clarisse's idea of Christian's heaven.

All they had was each other for consolation, Jean-Luc had been distant, remote. When they'd lost Christian, they'd lost most of Jean-Luc as well. She had shared her affections equally between the children, but Jean-Luc had always shown more affection for Christian, and now it was more marked. It was as if he was saying: 'I've lost what I care about most in this family, there's little for me here now.'

Long, bland stares straight through them at the dining table. Little or no interest in any of their activities; whenever any personal involvement threatened to come close, he would make an excuse about cleaning tools or the tractor and head out to the garage. And when his emotions became too much and Monique tried to hug and console him, he'd shrug her off. During the summer evenings he stayed out late in the fields, but as the evenings drew in he'd make an excuse and head for a local bar. It was as if he could no longer bear to be in their company; or perhaps it was the house itself, reminders of Christian.

Many a time when he was working in the fields, she would look up from the kitchen window and see him sitting on the stone wall at the ridge of the field, staring emptily into space. She would busy herself with chores for a while, and sometimes as much as forty minutes later he would still be in the same position when she looked out.

The Fievets next door had been helpful and supportive, but they weren't close enough for her to share her innermost thoughts about Christian's death or the worry of Jean-Luc's increasing emotional distance from her and Clarisse. The town had rallied well behind her, she'd been particularly touched by the memorial service — but at some point afterwards she felt unable to face another village shopkeeper, another sympathetic face and heartfelt condolence. For over a month after the service, she had hardly ventured out, the Fievets did her shopping.

Outside the church, Captain Pouillain had approached and said that someone was in custody, 'a local vagabond. Justice would soon be done.' A satisfied, firm statement, as if he felt assured the news would salve her pain. She'd hardly remembered him from the first interview; the only gendarme she recognized from the line in the church was the one who had called to tell her Christian was dead. He stayed in the background, gendarme cap in hand. Most of it outside the church had been sympathy at arm's length — pats on the shoulder, heads hung in sorrow, muttered condolences with eyes downcast, trite offers of help from people she hardly knew. She'd grimaced afterwards at the irony: it had taken the death of her son to make her feel truly accepted in the village.

Apart from the week when her mother had visited, there had been nobody to share her grief — until she looked up and saw Clarisse at the doorway. So for the past long weeks she'd shared small stories, comforts and hugs with her daughter, fighting to come to terms with the unacceptable partly through the innocent eyes of a five year old — fill the sickening void with whatever vestiges of love and affection remained in her house.

The only thing Jean-Luc had shown any interest in was the trial, seeing justice done. While she'd been still too blind with tears and numb to react to Poullain's statement outside the church, Jean-Luc had nodded enthusiastically, asking several questions before they'd parted. For the first time since Christian's death, he appeared animated, drawing hard on each word for comfort, solace. Each week he phoned the police station and was brought up to date on the latest stages of the instruction. 'Next week, they're all going out to the scene of the crime to re-enact it,' he commented one morning at breakfast, but she'd hardly been listening.

Jean-Luc mentioned it again the morning of the re-enactment, and only then did she pay attention: two mentions, and again a rare show of eagerness — it must be important. Heading out, he said that he would be working in the west pasture. But half an hour later the rising wind made her think about how exposed the west field was, and when she looked to see if Jean-Luc might have moved to the more sheltered fields at the back, she noticed the car was gone.

As the wind rose, it bent the wheat at an angle. But not evenly: one swathe would be cut sharply at an angle while another remained upright, the path of the wind undulating, weaving patterns through the field like rolling golden surf. The morning air was cool, the wind gusting intermittently, and patches of brief sunshine broke through between the shifting grey clouds, bathing them momentarily in light and warmth.

Dominic looked thoughtfully at the figures ahead as the light shifted. The shadow of a large cloud floated down the bordering hillside like a giant valkyrie until it hung over them, bathing them in grey, matching the intensity of their mood. Thirteen men in a lonely windswept field, linked only by the death of a ten year old boy. With the shifting light, the wheat sheaves undulating with each pulse of the wind, it was almost as if the field was protesting, trying to evade them and keep its secrets.

The figures huddled close together to be heard. Naugier was going over information with the attending medics, forensics and Poullain, in no particular order. Servan, Levacher and Harrault were just behind closest to Dominic. A greffier constantly at Naugier's side made notes in shorthand.

Machanaud stood beyond handcuffed to an Aix prison warden. His turn would come next. Perrimond was to one side of Naugier, Molet the other by the greffier. Dominic noticed Machanaud glancing towards the riverbank, his eyes bleary and distant. Perhaps stung by the wind, or was he still in a daze with it all, hardly believing that he was back in the same spot three months later charged with murder, pleading for his life. He'd had a lot of time to contemplate his story. Naugier looked up at Machanaud sharply at intervals as he went over the forensic details.

Naugier then clarifed with Machanaud which part of the river he was at that day, and directed Servan to remain standing where the attack took place. Everyone else was then directed down to the riverside.

'Two hours? And in all of that time, did you see or meet a young boy?'

Naugier's question cut through the air crisply. The assembled group stood silent, expectant. Naugier had spent the first minutes by the river confirming that Machanaud had been fishing, what he caught, and the time he was there — ten past one to just after three — before coming to the key question.

'No,' Machanaud said, with stronger emphasis than his previous answers. Even the furthest in the group heard his denial.

Naugier looked pointedly in both directions. 'Did you see or meet anyone in that time?' Foliage further down the riverbank was thin, the view virtually clear; most of the foliage and trees were clustered along the bank's ridge bordering the farm track.

'No.'

Following Naugier's gaze towards the flat bridge a hundred yards downstream, Molet suddenly picked up on the significance. The small bridge connecting the neighbouring farm to Breuille's wheat field was in the police report as 'where we think the boy crossed', mainly because there were no sightings of him walking through the village itself. But he hadn't realized it would be so visible.

Naugier pointed. 'You are aware that is the only connecting bridge for some distance. Can you see it clearly from here?'

Molet prayed for Machanaud to suddenly plead short-sightedness, but his 'Yes' came crisply.

'And you saw nobody crossing that bridge throughout your time here that afternoon?'

'No.'

Naugier looked thoughtfully in the other direction, upstream; then he slowly scanned up the river bank towards the path, as if he was following an imaginary line towards where the attack had taken place. 'Monsieur Machanaud. Can you see the gendarme we left standing on the path?'

'No. I can't see him.'

'And the afternoon you were fishing — did you see or hear anything from the position where the gendarme is now standing?'

'No.'

Naugier nodded. This made sense. The river bank dipped down sharply. The only part of the lane visible was lower down as it sloped towards the road. 'Now let us return to your sighting of vehicles passing that afternoon, starting with the first vehicle. What time would that have been?'

'Maybe forty minutes after I arrived.'

'What sort of car was that?'

'I didn't see. I only heard the noise and the direction it was travelling — up towards Caurin's farm.'

Caurin? Naugier flicked back a few pages in his file for the reference. Marius Caurin owned the farm behind and was the first to discover the boy. He'd been quickly eliminated: his tractor had been seen by at least three people going through Taragnon at the time of the assault, and Machanaud too had mentioned his tractor leaving in his first statement. 'The same Caurin whose tractor you saw heading down the track. What time would that have been?'

'Perhaps forty or fifty minutes before I left.'

Naugier ran through with Machanaud the remaining car sightings and timings, then flicked forward to some blank pages in his file and started writing: First car: up at 1.45–50. Second car: down at 2.15 (not heard by Machanaud). Third car: Caurin's tractor, down at 2.25. Fourth car: up at 2.45–50 (heard by Machanaud). Fifth car: down at 3.00, just minutes before Machanaud leaves himself (heard and seen by Machanaud). 3.03–05: Machanaud leaves on his solex, is sighted by… Naugier looked up towards Poullain. 'What is the name of the woman who saw Machanaud leaving?'

'Madame Veillan.'

Naugier wrote in the name, and added: 3.16–18: Caurin returns to his farm and discovers boy.Estimated duration of attack:40–60 minutes. Time of attack: 1.30-3.00. So certainly Caurin's tractor had passed while the attack was in progress, but possibly the first and second cars as well. He took out and lit a Gitane and blew out the first fumes hesitantly. With the various cars passing, if indeed there was someone else there that afternoon, they couldn't possibly have stayed on the lane. The final attack must have been a few minutes at most; any longer exposure in that position would have been too risky. For the rest of the time, they must have…

Machanaud's voice cut in. 'But it wasn't till later that I remembered that final car clearly. It was an Alfa Romeo.'

It took a second for Naugier to detach from his previous thoughts. He noticed Molet glaring at Machanaud; probably he had pre-warned his client about making uninvited comments during instruction. 'From your statement, I thought that it was a Citroen you saw?'

Molet stepped in before Machanaud put his foot completely in his mouth. 'It was — on my clients original statement. But later he went into the police station and advised of the change, which from checking I believe has never been recorded. He also later mentioned the same revised sighting to a gendarme in a local Taragnon bar. We expected this to be covered at a later instruction, at which stage my questions would have been put forward for you to pose to the gendarmes in question.'

'A bit late for that, isn't it,' Naugier barked. 'Your client seems to have brought the subject up himself.'

Molet duly nodded and looked down. One of the great inadequacies of the instruction process was that the examining magistrate could freely divert, while the lawyers were restricted by the schedule provided two days in advance of each hearing. Diversions were unchartered territory, to be avoided at all costs. The only consolation was that it also worked against the prosecution: Perrimond looked equally as uncomfortable.

Dominic's heart was in his mouth at the sudden change in questioning. He'd resigned himself to prepare for the later instruction and tie his answers in with Poullain's. But now with rising panic he realized that Naugier could turn on him at any second and he wouldn't know what to say.

Naugier turned towards Poullain. ‘I understand, Captain Poullain, you were the officer who took the original statement regarding the Citreon. To your knowledge was this at any later stage changed?'

Poullain fleetingly caught Perrimond's and Dominic's eye, but hid his concern quickly. 'Yes… I believe so.' He nodded back in the direction of Briant. 'A few days after his initial statement, Machanaud came into the station and saw one of my officers, Sergeant Briant, and he-'

Perrimond interrupted. 'Sir, I along with the defence council would like to protest. This was something scheduled to go into in more depth at a later meeting. We are therefore — as with Monsieur Molet — totally unprepared with any questions that could add valuable light. I see neither the prosecution or defence case benefiting.'

'That isn't quite how I feel,' Molet countered. 'I see my client benefiting from pursuit of this line of questioning. It's just that I feel he would benefit more with prepared questions, as is his right.'

Naugier held up one hand sharply. 'Gentlemen — in case you both need reminding. I, and I alone, will decide the benefit of any line of questioning at this or any future instruction hearing at which you are both present. You may still prepare your questions regarding this subject and propose them at a later date, as originally planned. But this now is for my curiosity.' Naugier pulled hard on his Gitane. 'Captain Poullain — I suggest you finish your answer.'

'Monsieur Molet was correct to mention inconsistencies, because that is exactly why no record was made of the change in statement.' Poullain was more confident, firm. The few seconds interruption had allowed him to gather his composure. 'Machanaud came into the gendarmerie a few days after his initial statement. It was late in the evening and he was very drunk. He advised that he now remembered more clearly the car that passed — it was an Alfa Romeo sports. An open top sports. In checking, there were no other sightings of such a car, but in any case we were about to ask Machanaud in to make his statement official when a day or so later he met one of my other men in a local bar. This time he said that it was an Alfa Romeo coupe that he saw.'

Molet exhaled audibly. He could see already where it was heading; his worst fears at the issue being tackled early were being realized.

Naugier gave him a sharp look, warning off any possible interruption, and turned back to Poullain. 'Well, surely one or the other should have been entered.'

'Possibly. But with Machanaud changing his description to an Alfa coupe, we started to have doubts. We had already fully investigated the driver of such a car and eliminated him from our enquiry. He was in a local restaurant at the time of the attack — at least three waiters saw him.' Poullain waved one arm. 'With us asking about the Alfa coupe in the village, there was a lot of local talk. It looked as if Machanaud had simply changed his description to suit. And because the car in question had been eliminated, we thought such a change in statement could only further incriminate Machanaud. He'd been drinking on both occasions — so we decided as much for his benefit to stick with the original statement. That was the one we trusted most, free from corruption by village gossip.'

Molet shook his head, lifting his eyes skyward as if for divine help. 'So now we are supposed to believe that all of this was done for my client's benefit. Ridiculous! My client's later description of the car was consistent on both occasions. I went over this with him several times.'

'Nice to know you are so certain, monsieur Molet.' Naugier raised a sharp eyebrow. 'Especially when it appears your client was probably drunk.' He turned to Machanaud. 'How much had you drunk the night you went into the gendarmerie to change your statement?'

'I don't know exactly… perhaps a few eau de vies, some beers.'

'A few…some? Try to be more precise,' Naugier pressed. 'Did you have more than normal?'

'Yes… yes, probably. I met with a friend I hadn't seen since we worked together in the Spring.'

Naugier looked between Poullain and Molet, as if pressing home a final seal of understanding. Machanaud was a known drunkard and bar slouch. A 'few more than normal' meant that he was ratted. 'Hopefully this has cleared up this misunderstanding. You may, as I mentioned earlier, Monsieur Molet, pursue this line of questioning at a later instruction when we go back over previous statements. And Captain Poullain, I would suggest that in future you put everything in files you present to me — and let me decide whether or not they should be disregarded.'

The noise of the trees swaying in the breeze seemed much louder in the silence following. Poullain muttered 'I understand', while Molet merely nodded and contemplated some dried leaves floating past.

That was it, thought Dominic. He felt a sudden wave of relief wash over him. Weeks of worry, and in the end hardly any blood had been shed. The fact that the file entry had been buried equally to avoid local hierarchal awkwardness had never even surfaced, and now looked unlikely to at any later date. Dominic had panicked halfway through that Naugier would suddenly wheel around on him. Only now were the knots in his stomach easing. A low sigh escaped, lost among the wind rush through the trees.

And as quickly Dominic was swept with guilt. How could he be relieved at just avoiding some awkward questions, when what he had witnessed had probably quashed one of Machanaud's last chances of salvation? He followed Molet's contemplative gaze towards the river: some sunshine broke briefly through the trees, flickering off its surface. Glimmers of hope, fading just as quickly as the clouds again rolled across. He had built up a wariness and fear of Molet, and now found himself empathizing with him.

Naugier drew on the last inch of his Gitane and stubbed it out. He looked upstream again, his thoughts returning to where someone might have hidden… if there was someone else? No possible refuge on the lane with the cars passing, no other area of flattened or disturbed wheat — so where? The view along for the most part looked clear, but he needed a marker to be able to judge distance. Picking out Levacher, he asked him to go up to where his colleague stood. 'Then walk in a straight line until you are halfway down the river bank.'

As Levacher walked up the river bank, forty yards beyond, Dominic thought he saw a figure peering through the bushes bordering the lane. He was sure it wasn't Servan, he hadn't noticed a gendarme's uniform… but just as quickly the figure was gone.

Levacher re-appeared after a moment. Naugier waved one arm, directing Levacher until he stood halfway down the bank. 'Can you see the gendarme now standing on the river bank?'

Slight pause from Machanaud, then, 'Yes.'

Naugier waved back, shouting, 'Go twenty yards further along and stop.' He asked the same question of Machanaud with Levacher in two more positions further back and received a 'yes' on each one. There were few obstacles along the river bank, the bushes low and sparse.

Naugier instructed the greffier. 'Let the record show that the suspect could see a figure clearly along the river bank up to sixty yards past a point running parallel with where the attack took place.'

Molet looked down and slowly closed his eyes, recalling one of the key greffier entries from the last instruction: '...no other area of flattened or disturbed wheat was discovered other than that where the boy was finally found. Due to the risk of exposure of that position, directly beside the lane where cars passed, it has been concluded by the police and attending forensics that the first attack probably took place at some point down the river bank, obscured from the lane.'

Now the two entries would be linked in the jury's mind and would effectively seal his client's fate.

He had started the morning with some optimism, but bit by bit it had evaporated. First the car discrepancies dismissed out of hand, now the image of Levacher standing in clear sight of all present. Levacher could have moved another twenty yards back and still been visible. The image had burned home strongly. His client was now on record that he was in clear view of where they thought the boy had crossed the river and where it was presumed the first attack took place. Any hopes he'd harboured of seeding strong doubts about Machanaud's guilt had gone in that moment. Molet knew now that it would take nothing short of a miracle to save his client from being condemned.

As they made their way back up the river bank and onto the lane, Dominic noticed a figure in the distance towards Brieulle's farm. It took him a moment, squinting against the sting of the strong wind, to recognize that it was Jean-Luc Rosselot. A sad and lonely figure among the shifting blanket of wheat, watching them play out, like markers on a draught board, the scenes that led to his son's death.