Past Imperfect

THIRTY-THREE

Limoges, May 1985

Large eyes, full of passion, willing him on. Light hazel with grey flecks. The edges of the dream were less distinct, hazy, but the sensations burned through strongly. Alain Duclos was excited.

The boy was quite young, not yet twelve. It was the boy he'd been with on his last trip to Paris. He couldn't remember his name, only that he was a half Haitian, half French mulatto.

He could see the faint sheen of sweat on the boy's cream brown skin, but the main excitement of the dream was that it was all so tactile — he could feel the sweat, feel its warm moistness as he slid back and forth and the boy looked back at him. Feel the smooth contours of the boy's body, the lean plane of his back, one thumb sliding slowly up the ridge of his spine. Then spreading slowly, out and around the stomach as he leant forward, feeling the warmth of the body tight against him… moving the hands slowly up the boy's rib cage and onto his chest… until he felt… felt something… something was wrong! The chest was too developed, too soft and fleshy. He recoiled suddenly in horror. The boy had breasts!

The boy's smile turned slowly to a leer, and as Duclos looked closer through the haze of the dream, he could see that the hair was not dark and wavy but short and blonde. It was Betina. She'd tricked him!

She slowly pouted and blew him a kiss, but he felt suddenly repulsed. Sweat that smelt now like acid and roses, its stickiness against his skin, her attempt at a look of burning passion little more than leering stupidity… she made him sick. A sour bile rose in his stomach, a sense of utter disgust, and he mouthed 'You tricked me!' as he went to push her away.

But suddenly she was below him and holding tight, looking up with big liquid eyes staring straight through him, not saying anything but silently pleading: 'I want you… I want you. Give me a child!' Gripping tight with her arms and legs wrapped solidly around his back, pulling him closer into an embrace, her tongue darting out and moistening her lips… he couldn't get away. The stickiness of her skin clung all around him, the grip of her arms and legs like some slithering, repulsive reptile… the musty, acrid smell of her sweat, the darting snake's tongue — and he started protesting, screaming: '…No… no… You tricked me! Let me go… let me go… let me…'

Duclos sat up in bed with a jolt, his eyes slowly adjusting in the dark. The sweat felt suddenly cold on his skin. He looked over. Betina was still asleep, he hadn't disturbed her.

I want a child. The first time she'd mentioned it had been almost three years ago. She would be thirty-six next birthday; if they didn't have one or two children by the time she was forty, by then it might be too late. Two? He was still struggling with the unthinkable of one. She'd mis-read his look, fought to be re-assuring. 'I know it hasn't been easy for you with me at times… and mostly my fault because of my past problem. But this is important to me. I'll make an effort, I promise.'

A nightmare come true. He was sick with flu for over two weeks. Probably psychosomatic. But then he had to become more inventive: headaches, allergies, sprained muscles, sudden business trips, stress and overwork… the chain of excuses became laughable, pathetic. She wore him ragged, he virtually broke out in a cold sweat each time she smiled at him approaching bedtime.

But between the various excuses and trips away, miraculously he managed to succumb to sex no more than once every eight to ten weeks. Even then he would fail the occasional performance halfway through, claiming that he was too tense or that he could sense she was nervous, was perhaps trying too hard. At most there would be three or four occasions a year where she could possibly conceive.

But it was probably the worst possible time for the problem to have arisen. The calls from Marc Jaumard had started only ten months before her drastic bid to have a child. Five years with no calls; then one out of nowhere. Duclos could hardly believe it. Only months after Chapeau's death, he'd erased thoughts of any possible repercussions from his mind; felt confident he was free of the problem once and for all. All those years with no blackmail, the first years of happiness with Betina, and now both problems were plaguing him at the same time. Duclos shook his head. It was like some ridiculous cruel joke.

Marc Jaumard didn't have the same abrasive, taunting style of his brother, but on several occasions he'd been drunk, as if he needed Dutch courage before making the call. Duclos didn't want Jaumard calling his office, so gave him his home number. Often the calls would come through at night, probably after Jaumard had staggered out of some bar, and with him having to subdue his voice and often leaving for an impromptu meeting, Betina had become suspicious.

During one of their failed lovemaking sessions, she'd rolled over furiously and asked him if he was having an affair — who was it that kept phoning? The thought of him in bed with the unkempt, overweight Jaumard, invariably Pernod-breathed, made him laugh out loud. One time when Jaumard woke them up with a 2am call and Betina was staring at him accusingly, he'd thrust the phone out angrily: 'See for yourself. It's just some drunken asshole.'

A second's silence from the other end as Jaumard got over the surprise, then slurringly Jaumard apologized for phoning so late. 'It's jussst… jusst some business with your husband.'

He'd thought the jealousy, her concern that he might be having an affair, could have partly been behind her new amorousness — but removing that worry had made little difference. She was as relentless as ever. Finally, eight months later, she became pregnant. All his efforts had been to no avail. She was now in her fourth month.

The first moment she told him, a cold chill had crept up his spine. His reaction perplexed him at first. He should have been relieved. The ordeal was over. No more bedtime demands. She finally had what she wanted. What had worried him more? His loathing of their having sex or her getting pregnant?

But months later, when she suggested a scan to check that the baby was healthy, he found himself about to protest the idea — before realizing he had no good, rational grounds against a scan. Except one. In that moment, the root of his worry suddenly hit him. He was afraid to know it might be a boy! A girl, fine, and even a boy in those early years. But as it became older, started to remind him of the boys he sneaked off to see in Paris and Marseille, he would feel unsettled. His own son. Those big, innocent eyes staring straight through him… somehow sensing his awful secret. He could hardly think of a worse nightmare.

Dominic spoke to Corbeix late Friday. Corbeix had been busy in court most of the day, apologized that as yet he'd only had half an hour to skim through the letter and the files sent. 'It looks intriguing. But give me the weekend to look through it in more detail. Let's speak Monday.'

Shortly after sending everything to Corbeix, the questions started turning in Dominic's mind: What happened immediately after Christian was by his bike with Duclos? According to the original medical report, the first sexual assault. But where had Duclos kept Christian afterwards, between the two attacks? Tied up somewhere near his bike, or did Duclos take him straight to where he was finally found, perhaps hidden in the woods somewhere upstream from Machanaud? Whichever, the cafe in between had obviously been to create an alibi. It never occurred to them that Christian might have been tied up and left alone for all that time, it was always assumed that his attacker had stayed with him throughout, wouldn't risk leaving him to be found by someone else. If the boy had been discovered, his attacker could have returned straight into the arms of a gendarme welcoming party. Duclos had taken quite a risk.

'… But I didn't realize it till I came out of the darkness. The field…'

Darkness mentioned again. A period of darkness between the first and second attacks. Probably a blindfold. He'd discussed it on the phone with Marinella Calvan late Thursday, linking details from the transcript with what was known from the original investigation. Guide points for the next session.

Green sports car? Christian hadn't said that it was an Alfa Romeo. It could be argued that there were other green sports cars in the area at the time. Already he found himself pre-proposing the points that Corbeix might raise.

By mid-afternoon Monday with no call from Corbeix, other concerns sprang to mind: Perhaps Corbeix was staunch RPR and wouldn't dream of going near the case? He phoned Verfraigne and, at the end of a conversation about Corbeix' overall strength and track record as a prosecutor, asked casually about his political leaning. 'He's a socialist, I think.'

Surely he'd made allowances for the tenuous nature of the case in his opening letter? He was just seeking guidance at this stage, what they should be looking for in the remaining sessions, what might help turn the case from something purely tentative, exploratory, into something prosecutable. Surely Corbeix wouldn't just cast it aside at this first stage, surely…

Corbeix' call came through finally at just after five o’clock, suggesting a meeting for eleven-thirty the next day. Dominic remembered that at that time Marinella Calvan would be in the midst of the second session, and suggested a delay until two-thirty or three. 'By then, I could bring another transcript with me which might throw more light on the case.'

Corbeix agreed to three o'clock. No indication either way as to what he thought, reflected Dominic. It had taken him a moment to recognize Corbeix' voice. Husky, slightly breathless, it was almost a different voice to that on Friday. Corbeix had kept things short and seemed eager to get off the line.

When the transcript arrived the next day, the period between the two attacks, the darkness was no longer a mystery: '…just a spare wheel. Space was very tight. I was curled up around it… I could hardly move.' Dominic's hands were trembling by the time he finished reading. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, fighting to settle his nerves. Forcibly tried to return some calm and rationality before he left to see Corbeix.

Dominic had photo-copied the transcript. He followed down in his copy as Corbeix read his:

'…Let's move on to after when you were by the bike. You mentioned a period of darkness. Why was it dark?'

'I was in the boot of the car… the man's car.'

'The same man with you by the bike?'

'Yes.'

'Was there anything else in the boot with you — any bags or luggage? Anything that you could see or feel?'

'No… just a spare wheel. Space was very tight. I was curled up around it… I could hardly move.'

'Were you tied up?'

'Yes… my hands and my feet. And a cloth around my mouth.'

'Could you move at all?'

'Just a little… backwards with my legs. But I only tried once — when we'd stopped and I heard some voices outside. I kicked against the side of the car.'

'Do you think they heard you?'

'No. After a second I heard a car door shut and the sound of a car starting and driving away.'

'Was it a woman or a man you heard?'

'Two women.'

'And while you were stopped, did you hear anything else?'

'Only traffic passing. Some other cars pulling up and leaving… but most were more distant. No other voices.'

'Going back before — before you stopped. Could you hear anything? Could you tell which way you were heading?'

'No… not really. After a moment I could tell that we were passing some buildings — but I wasn't sure if it was Taragnon or Bauriac. I couldn't tell which way we'd headed.'

'When you stopped — how long did it seem you were there for?'

'At least half an hour… I'm not sure. I became tired. It was very hot inside there. At one point I fell asleep. I was thinking about my father as I fell asleep… I started dreaming about him.'

'What did you dream?'

'I dreamt that I was in my camp at the farm, and my father was in the courtyard at the bottom of the field. I leapt up to surprise him and started waving… but he couldn't see me.'

'Were you upset that he couldn't see you?'

'Yes, I started running towards him, waving more frantically and shouting… but still he didn't see me. And finally he just turned and walked back towards the house. I felt that he'd deserted me. I kept thinking — why doesn't my father come out and find me… why doesn't he… he…'

'Was the camp somewhere you used to play often?'

'Yes… it was one of my favourite hideaways.'

'And did you ever take your friends there?'

'Only Stephan once. But there was another place we used to go together. A camp we made in a tree hollow not far from where he lived… we would…'

Christian went off at a tangent describing his hideaway games with Stephan, which linked in turn to recall of other times Christian had hidden: the roof eaves at the farm, a stock cupboard at school. Marinella Calvan wasn't able to get him back to the car boot to discover what happened next.

The early part of the session had been general detail to settle Christian into the mood, then Calvan had tried to continue from where Christian had left off last time: sitting by his bike with Duclos touching him. Christian's responses were mostly garbled, incoherent — and two aborted attempts later Calvan changed tack abruptly to after the bike, honing in on the period of darkness. As Corbeix came to that part, Dominic noticed him flinch slightly, his mood discernibly darker and more intense.

Dominic had felt his blood run cold at the thought of Christian tied like a trussed chicken in the cramped darkness of the car boot while Duclos sat in the restaurant and sipped at a glass of chilled Chablis. Was it just for an alibi, or was Duclos calmly deciding, while he sipped at his wine, what he was going to do next with the boy? Kill him, or perhaps a bit more buggery beforehand? Perhaps he should choose his dessert first and then decide. Bastard!

Despite conscious effort to calm himself the past two hours, Dominic knew his reaction might still be volatile if Corbeix started to propose soft options.

Corbeix rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked up. 'In your initial letter you mentioned that Duclos' main alibi was him being seen in the restaurant. How long was he there?'

'An hour, an hour and a quarter perhaps.'

'So in total the boy could have been in the car boot as much as an hour and a half?'

'Yes.'

As Corbeix went back to reading, for the first time Dominic glanced around the room: trophy for racquetball, Toulon, 1988; three more trophies with inscriptions too small for him to read. Harbourside photo with Corbeix, his wife and two young girls, presumably his daughters, smiling proudly beside a speedboat that hardly looked big enough to carry them all. Family photo with Corbeix, wife and four young girls ranging from seven or eight to early teens. Corbeix the sportsman and family man.

Late forties, Corbeix was a few inches smaller than Dominic, broad and quite lean, a squat bullish figure. 'A powerful presence in court,' according to Verfraigne. 'Relentless' if he strongly believed in a case. He had thick wavy black hair swept back and piercing dark brown eyes, his eyelids deeply hooded. Eyes that seemed to tire slightly with the reading, or perhaps simply more sullen and grave as Duclos' actions sank home.

Computer replacing the old black typewriter; air-conditioning instead of a fan; beige carpet over the tile floor. Minitel and fax. Apart from that the Palais de Justice offices were much as they were thirty years before.

It seemed somehow surreal that all those years had passed since he sat in a similar office with Perrimond, Poullain and Naugier. A young gendarme merely washed along on the tide of events. This time he had the chance to make his mark. But despite that, he couldn't help reflecting ironically if today might not be that different. He would still be a passenger aboard the direction Corbeix chose.

When Corbeix had finished reading the transcript, he spent the first fifteen minutes going back between the two transcripts and Dominic's original letter and files sent, mostly clarifying points with Dominic from the original investigation: timing of the attack, forensics, Duclos' reported movements before and after, and the prosecution path and trial procedure pursued with Machanaud. Finally returning to the current information and how it tied in.

When the file had initially arrived with Corbeix, he'd started reading the attached transcript as if it was from a new witness, before realizing it was meant to be the victim's voice gained through a past life regression on a psychiatrist's couch. He'd almost sent the file straight back with a note: 'You must be joking!' But then he read beyond the first page of the covering letter from Fornier and started through the attached files: Calvan and Lambourne's credentials, medical and psychiatric evaluations, past authenticated PLR cases, past investigations involving evidence from psychics. Struck not so much by the credibility they strived to lend the transcript, but the strong plea he sensed behind. Fornier had gone to a lot of trouble to prove this case was prosecutable. More effort than most investigators went to from the slough of mediocre police paperwork which crossed his desk. And then he saw why: Fornier had married the victim's mother. The first hurdle to be tackled.

Not sure how to broach the subject tactfully, Corbeix went through the thought processes very much as they'd hit him. 'Someone else's name should be on the file as leading the investigation. If your name's there, it could be argued there's personal bias. Your judgement has been coloured.' Corbeix suggested a name: Gerard Malliene, an Aix based Inspector. Fornier didn't know him. Corbeix quickly salved Fornier's look of concern. 'It would still be very much your investigation. It's just a name to head the files. It's his jurisdiction and he's detached from any personal involvement. You'll be named in an advisory capacity for input from the original investigation. In reality, the investigation will run the other way around: you'll lead, Malliene will lend an impartial voice, advise where he can.'

Initially put out by the suggestion, Dominic understood Corbeix' rationale. At least it meant Corbeix had been thinking seriously about the case. 'So you think there's a chance of launching this case successfully?'

Corbeix held one hand up. 'That's not what I'm saying. There's grounds for an investigation, no more. Enough to re-open the case for a rogatoire general which I'll get an examining magistrate to sign off first thing tomorrow. But a case for prosecution is another matter. We don't have nearly enough yet, and I'm still waiting on some outside input.' Corbeix glanced towards the files Dominic had sent. 'One of them is the prosecutor mentioned in the petit Gregoire case you sent through. The other a legal expert at the Sorbonne, apparently strong on 'procedural structure for the unorthodox’.'

A weekend of notes and two twenty minute phone conversations earlier that day and the prospects looked dismal. Psychics were used, but their testimonies rarely featured in case preparation. In the Yorkshire Ripper case the suspect had already been interviewed and eliminated, but a psychic later described his truck and the police returned to question him. Final trial papers were prepared on other evidence uncovered and subsequently a confession. The psychic's lead didn't feature. The cases with le petit Gregoire, Stanley Holliday and Son of Sam were similar. Final prosecution relied almost exclusively on other evidence or a final confession. As Corbeix delivered his stark summary, Dominic's expression clouded.

Corbeix grimaced apologetically. 'It's almost as if investigators are afraid to mention the involvement of psychics in court. I suppose going to a psychic is a sort of admission of defeat for them: all our normal investigative skills and channels have failed, so now we're coming to you. Investigators are reluctant to admit that. Or perhaps they're advised of the difficulty of convincing a jury by a prosecutor like myself.'

'But in the case of Therese Basta…' Dominic tried to recall the name from his file notes a few days back. 'I thought there was quite a lot of psychic evidence presented in court.'

'Teresita Basa. Joseph Chua recalling details of her murder through voices in his dreams. Yes, nearly all of his evidence was presented in court — but the first hearing resulted in a hung jury. If it hadn't been for the killer's confession and a change of plea to guilty, the case probably wouldn't have been successfully prosecuted.’ Corbeix observed Dominic look down and to one side, as if searching for a thought just out of reach. 'I noticed a lot of your files were from Interpol General Reference.' Corbeix knew that only Central reference carried official police and court records. General was from outside, mostly newspapers, independent reports or extra-curricula police notes. Corbeix patted the files. 'Newspapers are often keen to report on cases involving psychics. Good copy. In cases with no other leads, the police will also admit to speaking with psychics. But preparing for the trial, the psychics invariably get forgotten.'

'What about the Manson/Bugliosi case?' Dominic asked.

'Different. More thought transference and influence than pure psychic evidence, and even then still a very difficult case to prove. A landmark case at the time. The case was built mainly on the premise of one person strongly influencing others — which is quite widely accepted. Whereas what we have here — past lives and re-incarnation — is not. There's never been a case like this before.'

'There has, apparently — two. Both in India.' Dominic relished the brief surprise on Corbeix' face. One small victory swimming against the increasing tide of defeat. ‘Marinella Calvan will get more information from her colleague Dr Donaldson and let me know tomorrow.'

'Yes… yes. I'd be interested. But I'm not sure how much it will help us.' Corbeix shrugged. 'India. In a way it underlines my last point. There, re-incarnation is accepted — here it is not.'

Initially Dominic thought Corbeix was hopeful; there was a case to answer. Now it seemed all the avenues were blocked. They were almost back to where he'd been at the outset: thinking that approaching a prosecutor was pointless.

'Many of the cases you've mentioned appear to have succeeded through the police re-questioning suspects and gaining confessions,’ Dominic commented. ‘With this new evidence we might be able confront Duclos from the perspective that we know how he did it, know that he sat in the restaurant with the child in the car boot between the two attacks. The position is surely now far stronger to achieve that.' Tone too venturesome, tenuous, thought Dominic. Sounded how he felt: clutching at straws.

'It helps. But in most of those cases, there was usually some other hard evidence in place before the police pressured for a confession. That's what we're missing. And in the case of Duclos, a wily politician and past prosecutor, we'd be lucky to get past his hot-shot lawyer who'd first review how we got all of this marvellous information. Even if we were lucky enough to get Duclos in for questioning, he'd either say nothing or deny; either way he'd know we couldn't pursue with what we had.'

Dominic gripped tight at the transcript in his hand. To get this far and let everything slip? An image of Duclos raising his glass, gloating. A sense of loss, of despair that what before seemed so close within grasp was now slipping away. A cold sinking pall that jarred against his nerves, against every precept of true justice — however much he should have been hardened the past thirty-five years to the fact that the law and justice were so often at odds. However much he realized Corbeix was probably right.

At Fornier's crestfallen look, Corbeix felt the need to buoy his spirits. 'Hopefully in the next day or so we might get some useful input from the people I've been in touch with,' Corbeix said. Concerned that Fornier's personal links and absorption with the case might lead to false expectancies, he'd accentuated the negative so there were no illusions about the enormous obstacles faced. But now he feared he might have painted too dark a picture. 'I prepared this earlier — key points which I thought would help strengthen the case. Some are essential, others merely desirable.'

Dominic took the single sheet from Corbeix and read:

1. Psychic evidence. Little or no presentation of it in trial papers or court. Strong angle required beyond purely authentication of PLR. 2. Fresh clues or tangible evidence, uncovered from the sessions, that clearly ties Duclos in with the boy and can be corroborated independently. Perhaps someone who saw the boy in Duclos car. 3. Duclos' background with young boys. Duclos is apparently married. A claim that he has no history with young boys, yet this one day, totally out of the blue, he sexually molests and kills this particular young boy, would not appear credible to an examining magistrate or jury. 4. Authentication of sessions taking place in London. A French notary would have to sit in on one of the sessions, confirm that in his view it was real and was conducted correctly, within whatever guidelines prevail for hypnotic psycho-therapy. In other words, not faked.

Corbeix was leaning over, pointing. 'The first point we've mostly covered. The last is essential if we want to present any of the tapes or transcripts in court. I'll arrange it. When are the final two sessions?'

'Next Tuesday and then Thursday.'

'Tuesday's too tight. I'll lay it on for Thursday, phone you tomorrow with the details.' Corbeix made a quick note on a pad. 'But the main key to the case will rest with points two and three. If you manage to get some background on Duclos and young children, then we might have a chance of pressuring him in an interview situation, as you suggested earlier. It's unlikely he'll confess to murder faced purely with child molestation — but even if we get him on just that, he's facing up to five years. And even if he's finally cleared, with the surrounding publicity it will certainly mean the end of his political career.'

So they had a shot at destroying Duclos' career and possibly a few year's prison, if he could find something. Not the justice due, scant consolation, but a start. Minutes ago Corbeix had been a stone wall; now at least he was throwing down a lifeline, however thin.

'I'm sure you have your contacts to track down such things.' Corbeix opened his hands out. 'But our main hope rests with you finding some tangible clue in the remaining sessions. Something which can be corroborated. Then we might, just might be able to successfully prosecute for murder. Go the full course.'

'A tangible clue…' Dominic mimicked Corbeix blandly, as if saying it to himself would help. And then the ludicrousness hit him: thirty years? What earthly chance was there? Even if they were lucky enough to uncover something, half the people who could possibly corroborate were dead. But for the first time that afternoon Corbeix appeared hopeful, enthusiastic. So in the end — as they went through the final details and next contact times and concluded their meeting — Dominic rode aboard that wave. Pushed his doubts and sense of hopelessness to the back of his mind. Applied a singular focus and let it shine through all else — the daunting odds, the potential drawbacks and obstacles — until finally it was the only thing left in view: a tangible clue. And only two sessions left to find it.