Past Imperfect

THIRTY-FOUR

Limoges, June 1985

A boy. Betina had gone ahead with the scan.

Duclos focused his attention back as the windscreen wiper swung across. The rain had been heavy earlier, but now it was just light drizzle. The wipers were on intermittent. The lights had turned green, but the car ahead was slow in moving off.

Charity function, the fourth already this year. Annoying but necessary. Betina was beside him in a satin blue evening dress which hid her five month pregnancy well until she sat down. Baby blue.

It would be all right, he told himself. Any worries were years ahead. While the boy was a baby, he would be Betina's responsibility, something to keep her occupied. She would be busy with nappies and feeding, and he could use the excuse of the baby waking and crying to sleep in the second bedroom. Away from the occasional night time grabs that increasingly made his skin crawl. The pregnancy had been marvellous. She hadn't touched him in all of the five months. The first eighteen months would probably be just like an extended pregnancy.

Then when he was a toddler, she would be busy knitting mittens and running after him to make sure he didn't fall down the stairs or stick his fingers in the electricity sockets. Father would retire to his study with the excuse of a heavy evening workload and lock the door. Solitude. The whole sad saga might not be so bad, might actually provide some good opportunities for him to keep his distance from Betina.

Traffic was moving faster along Rue Montmailler. Duclos picked up speed, keeping up.

It wouldn't be until his son was older, at least six or seven, that he might be reminded of other boys and events he'd rather not think about, the secret life he'd been so careful to keep away from home. He never went with boys while in Limoges and tried as much as possible not to even think about them. It was only on his trips away, to Paris or Marseille, that he indulged himself. Everything kept away, in thought and in deed, from his own doorstep.

Under his own roof? A questioning or quizzical look… and he would wonder if his son somehow knew. He would flash back on the various times he'd seen the boy changing or dressing from the bath or shower, and wonder if on any of those occasions his gaze had lingered a second longer than it should, unconsciously sparked off the boy's suspicion. And if he had been guilty of that, he would torture himself whether it was because in that moment he'd been reminded of someone else or some past pleasurable instant. Because surely he would never look at his own son in that way, surely…

The brake lights loomed suddenly ahead, blurred through the raindrops on the windshield. A moment suspended — and then he braked. The wheels locked and the car started skidding…

He remembered most about the incident looking back at it. He wasn't hurt badly, just a bump on the head which had given him a few moments blackout. Betina's side of the car had received the brunt of the smash. And as he rode with her in the ambulance, in the moments she drifted back to consciousness, she gripped his hand, muttering, 'My baby… my baby. Please…' The bottom of her silk dress was soaked in blood and one of the medics had cut through it with scissors, swabbing away the excess blood and feeling her stomach concernedly.

The final moment of the accident replayed in his mind, and he kept wondering: why had he been so late in braking, and why at the last moment did he swing to one side — let Betina's side catch the main impact? Pre-occupation, the delay in detaching from his thoughts partly answered the first, and some dumb throwback reflex from being used to driving alone, the second.

But even in that moment, as his guilt was at its zenith and he clutched his wife's hand and she clung in turn to the life inside her, part of him — some small part nesting the rest of the dark secrets and shadows of his life — was already coming around to recognizing the real reason. He pushed the thought away and clutched tighter at his wife's hand.

Tired, so tired. The afternoons were usually worse than the mornings. Henri Corbeix was still in his office, the light on the past half hour as dusk approached. Sitting in the same position for so long making notes, his back felt stiff. He straightened up, paced to one side to ease it. But even with that effort his legs trembled uncertainly with the fresh weight.

He looked ruefully towards his office cabinet. He hadn't played racquetball for more than two years. He'd battled on a year after the diagnosis before it had finally become too much. At first, he'd felt it just on stretching for the low balls — the ones almost beyond reach he had always previously been able to get. But soon his legs started to twinge and spasm on even the easy shots, and he would be breathless and exhausted after the first fifteen minutes. He gave up before it became embarrassing for his opponents.

The only thing he'd managed to keep up were the weekend summer outings on their boat moored at les Leques. A day's fishing. Bread, Brie and pate. A bottle of wine and some soft drinks in the polystyrene cooler for the girls. Maybe head across the bay to Ile Verte.

But this summer, even that he feared might be out of the question. The last time out, he'd felt the twinges and muscle spasms come on increasingly, particularly if the sea was choppy. He'd hardly been able to brace his legs against the repetitive pounding, a staccato reminder of how the disease had ravished his body. Bit by bit attacking his muscle tissue and nerves until finally the simplest action tired him. Moving around a courtroom. A period of concentration and making notes.

MS. Multiple Sclerosis. The drugs to treat it were crammed in his bottom drawer: steroids, Baclofen, Oxybutin, Methylprenistolne. There was no cure, but they would 'help him cope. Ease the muscle spasms when they struck,' according to the doctor. Some days were better than others. He wondered why he still hid the drugs under papers in his bottom drawer. Habit from the first period of knowing he had the condition. But now half of his department knew and had done so for almost the past year. Soon after he'd announced his staged retirement: full time up until the coming August recess in order to clear his current caseload, then he would step down as Chief Prosecutor and work mornings only for a year in an advisory capacity to his successor, Herve Galimbert, at present his assistant. Then he would retire completely, unless his illness went into remission.

Unlikely. The past few months had been the worst. He'd feel exhausted immediately upon waking up, then would gain a burst of energy from his steroids which might, if he was lucky, last through till late afternoon. But if he had a heavy day or courtroom appearances, he would start to flag earlier.

Often when he came home from a day's work his youngest Chantelle, only seven, would jump up in his arms and he'd hardly have the strength to carry her more than a few feet. The anguish of his disease would hit him strongest in those moments. He was denying them. His other three daughters he'd been able to happily lift and swing around at leisure. He would become increasingly a burden, until finally there was nothing left but to sit quietly in the corner and occasionally rub his cramped legs while his daughters asked him if he wanted another coffee or something else to read. His anger and defiance rose up strongly. They were going out on the boat this year if it killed him!

Corbeix sat down and looked at his notes. The next session was tomorrow morning, final session Thursday. Notary arranged to travel with Fornier to London.

He hadn't told Fornier about his illness and that he wouldn't be able to pursue any trial cases beyond August. No point. Whatever stage the case was at then, he would merely hand over to Galimbert who was perfectly capable. Fornier had enough on his plate with trying to track down paedophile leads and find tangible clues from the remaining two sessions, without having to worry about a change of prosecutor halfway through.

Corbeix looked at his calendar: three weeks left in April. August. Even if something came up quickly and he was able to file charges within a month, they would be lucky to be through the first four or five instruction hearings by then.

Going back through his notes and Fornier's files, the enormity of the case struck him. Leading politician. Murder. A landmark procedural case — the first of its kind in France based on such unorthodox evidence. It would make the Tapie scandal look like a parking ticket.

But it was all so tenuous, out of reach. Too many obstacles, too many contingencies — which was probably another reason why he hadn't mentioned anything to Fornier. He doubted that Fornier would even cross the first hurdle. There wouldn't be a case to prosecute. Yet a corner of his mind — where he also contemplated what he would do if he won the lottery or woke up one morning with his illness suddenly gone — realized that if Fornier defied all odds and found something, it would certainly be the biggest case of his career. A fitting curtain bow. It would be tempting to see it all the way through.

Corbeix shook his head. He would file and put it in motion, set it on the right track, then hand over to Galimbert in August, as he'd originally planned. He didn't have the energy left for glory.

Session 12.

The tape rolled silently. The sound of Marinella Calvan tapping on the computer keys and then Phillipe's voice in French. With five of them in the room looking on expectantly at the lone figure of Eyran Capel on the couch, the atmosphere was tense. Or perhaps it was because Dominic knew this was their last chance.

'Did you go into the local village with your parents often?'

'Yes, but mostly at the weekend. Hardly ever in the week when I was at school.'

'What sort of places did you go in the village with your parents?'

'Mostly the shops with my mother… sometimes we would stop at a cafe for a drink. And there was a farm provision store four kilometres beyond Bauriac where I would sometimes go with my father. At the back they…'

Dominic tuned it out. Marinella had mentioned the first moments were normally general background to settle Christian into the mood. Dominic looked back at the transcript from the last session and his own notes in the margin:

'…When you finally came out of the darkness of the car boot and your eyes adjusted to the light, what did you see?'

'The field… the wheat field and the lane by the river.'

'Anything else. Was there anyone that you could see there apart from yourself and the man who'd taken you there in his car?'

'No… there was nobody?'

'Tell me what you heard there? Could you hear anything out of place?'

'No… not really. Just the river running in the distance… the sound of the wind through the trees.'

'Think hard. Was there anything else? Even the smallest sound at any time while you were in the wheat field?'

'Some other water running… spilling on the ground…'

'Anything else?'

'…Some bells, faint, in the distance… but the light was fading. And another light… reaching out… but I couldn't feel my hand… the pain.. the…'

(Garbled and incoherent here. Words mostly unintelligible. Eyran moved on).

Dominic had scribbled in the margin: Church bells?Sound of water: how far away? He brought his attention back as he heard Marinella mention church. She'd moved deftly from other places Christian regularly visited in the village to church visits.

'…And while you were there with your parents, either before or afterwards, do you remember the sound of the church bells ringing?'

'Yes… sometimes. Usually before we went they were ringing.'

'Can you fix that sound in your mind and remember it clearly now?' Muted 'yes' from Eyran. 'And going back again now, back to when you had come out of the darkness of the car boot and into the light — you mentioned the sound of a bell ringing. Was it the same sound you remember from the church, or something else?'

'No… it was different. Not so distant… and higher pitched, a tinkling sound.'

Goats bells! Dominic remembered Machanaud in his statement leaving at that moment because a farmer was moving his goats into the adjoining field. The same farmer had probably disturbed Duclos, and Christian was obviously still conscious in those final few moments. Dominic was suddenly hit with a thought. He scribbled a hasty note and passed it to Marinella Calvan.

She was halfway through tapping out a fresh question, but realized it would be difficult to later backtrack to his. She back-deleted and typed: 'About that same time, did you hear the man's car starting up or moving?'

'No… I don't remember that… I didn't hear anything else… I…th.. there was nothing.'

So Christian had blacked out between the farmer approaching and Duclos moving his car. A minute or two at most. Dominic had noticed Lambourne look over sharply as he'd passed Marinella the note. Lambourne had appeared uncomfortable at the introduction of the notary, Fenouillet, who made periodic notes while observing the inter-play between Marinella, Philippe and Eyran Capel. Dominic had claimed a desire to file some of the transcripts along with other official papers about the murder; for that, notary authentication was necessary. It was the closest Marinella felt they could come to the truth. Fenouillet didn't speak sufficient English for Lambourne to question him directly, and thankfully Philippe had kept in the background.

'Before that, you recalled clearly the sound of water running and splashing. Not the river running, but something else. How far away was that sound? Could you tell what it was?'

'It was quite close… only a few yards. Water spilling from something onto the ground.'

'Was the sound coming from where the man with the car was standing?'

'Yes… I think so.'

Memories of Perrimond claiming Machanaud had washed down the blood from his apron front with a bucket of water from the river. But where had Duclos got water from? He hadn't left the boy long enough to go down to the river and back.

Silence. Marinella flicking a page forward in some notes before tapping out again. 'After those moments in the wheat field, do you have any recall of incidents with your parents?'

'No… can't remember… rememm.' Muted mumbling that faded away. Eyran's eyelids pulsed and he strained slightly, as if images were there but he couldn't see them clearly.

'And do you think that's why the wheat field has come to symbolize separation from your parents. Why you keep returning to it in your thoughts?'

'No, no… it's not that.. not…' The pulsing settled, images clearing. 'It's just that when I try to think beyond it, I can't… can't.'

Marinella pressed while she felt the advantage. The first gambit had perhaps been too hopeful: getting Christian to admit the influence of the wheat field on Eyran's dreams. 'And your friend. Did the field become a symbol of separation from him too?'

'No… I used to play there with Stephan that's all. It reminded me of that. That was all I thought of when I saw the wheat field. Playing… us playing there together.'

'Do you go back to the wheat field in your thoughts to play with Stephan?'

'No… no more.' Eyran swallowed slowly.

'And since? How do you feel about it now? What do you feel when you think about the wheat field?'

'I don't know… somm.' Eyran looked away slightly. Nerve muscles tensed at his temples. Christian's thoughts clawing up through three decades of darkness, fighting to surface. 'Something warm… bright… but I can't feel the warmth… can't feel…' Eyran's head started shaking slowly from side to side. 'I…thh… there was nothing after… only a faint light beyond the darkness… but I can't feel… can't feee…'

Dominic noticed Lambourne sit forward sharply. Marinella had told him about Lambourne threatening to end the sessions if Eyran looked in danger of verging into a catatonic state, and she had already come close a few times. Now again she was walking the tightrope.

'Let's go back… back. Break away!' Marinella could sense Lambourne's hand hovering on the desk beside her, about to reach out for the keyboard. She didn't dare look around, kept her eyes fixed between Eyran and the keyboard.

Marinella had explained that the field was central to Eyran's therapy, and how she had hoped to leap from there to a vital element Dominic had related from Corbeix: getting Christian to admit that the man with the car, Duclos, had killed him. 'If not, the defence could wriggle out by claiming culpability only for the sexual assaults. That the boy was left unharmed after that.' But as Marinella had warned Dominic initially, it was the hardest possible thing to get the boy to admit. And now any possible opportunities to make the leap had probably gone.

'I understand that those memories are unpleasant, that you don't wish to recall them. But beneath that — beneath the detail that I know is painful for you — you know that something bad happened to you that day. You know that, don't you?'

Eyran's brows knitted. A slight swallow. 'Yes…I.'

'And you know that somehow the man in the car was responsible. Why you weren't able to see your friend that day. You know that the man hit you and stopped you from going.' Marinella knew the word 'kill' would produce another rush reaction. 'Do you remember the man hitting you?'

Dominic tensed as he realized she was going for it after all; he'd felt sure she would move Eyran on to another memory. He saw Lambourne look incredulously between her and the computer as Eyran's brow knitted harder.

'If it wasn't the man with the car,' Marinella pressed. '…If it was someone else — then tell us. Was it someone else who hit you?'

Eyran's head started shaking again. Small beads of sweat popped on his forehead. 'No… no… it was him.'

Lambourne's voice came almost immediately. 'I can't believe you did that!'

Eyran's head tilted, his brow creasing again. He looked suddenly perplexed.

Marinella tapped out on the screen: 'And I can't believe you did that either! Broke the one-voice rule.'

Philippe looked up from the screen and shrugged, smiling. She'd forgotten to put it in brackets, but he knew not to translate.

Marinella continued tapping: 'We've already got the problem of non-acceptance with two children. Let's not add another to the list: that you can't accept I might be right.'

Lambourne's expression was thunderous. He looked frustratedly between the screen and her. This was great, she thought. Argument by computer. Except that Lambourne couldn't answer because she was hugging the keyboard, and he couldn't risk speaking again. Just the sort of argument she liked.

Dread gripped Dominic as he expected Lambourne to suddenly stop the session. Quickly overrode his brief amusement and admiration at Calvan's feistiness. Philippe was still beaming, and Fenouillet had merely paused in his note-taking, had no idea what was going on. But finally Lambourne just shook his head and waved one hand dismissively, as if the whole argument was suddenly unworthy. Though some last fleeting shadow in Lambourne's eye, the way he looked quickly between Marinella, himself and Fenouillet, made Dominic suspect Lambourne might already be thinking: so many questions around the murder, and was a notary really necessary for just a filing?

'Going back to where you left your bike. The field and the farm track — did you hear anything there. Tell me what you heard?'

'There was nothing, really. Just the wind slightly.'

'Anything else. Are there any sounds in the background? Anything you can hear at all?'

Dominic noted the change from past to present tense: Are there? After the last session, Marinella told him about a special New York based FBI unit which specialized in hypnotizing crime witnesses to gain more accurate descriptions. The present tense put the witness directly back in the scene. Detail was usually far more accurate and in depth. Marinella had used the same technique in the last session with Eyran, but the results had been disappointing. Apart from the segment with the water running and the bells ringing, they'd gained little of value. She'd asked Christian if he remembered any shops they'd passed in the man's car; if he saw anyone on the way to where his bike was; if he saw anyone in the field or on the track by his bike; if any other vehicles passed apart from the Marseille truck. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He'd banged his desk and kicked filing cabinets in frustration reading the transcript. Now she was asking if he heard anything by his bike: again nothing. They were fast running out of areas to explore. Marinella went back to the Marseille truck, asking Christian to concentrate on the letters on the side. 'Are there any other letters or words you can see?'

'L-E. Le something. P-O-N…T…'

'Anything else?'

It was hopeless, thought Dominic. Fragments of words from a truck from over thirty years ago. Even if by some miracle they traced it — a driver flashing by just for a few seconds all those years back? What on earth would he remember? Goats bells? They'd interviewed the farmer shortly after Machanaud mentioned him, but he'd seen nothing; tree coverage was too thick by the river. What else was there: water splashing? A woman's voice in a car park. Pathetic!

Dominic looked anxiously at the clock: twenty minutes left. The letters had fizzled out with an E-I. Pontei: not even a full word. Marinella was flicking back in her notes, as if searching desperately where to head next — and in that moment the realization finally struck him, dissolved his anxiety and clinging expectation to a sinking hollowness. Concrete to jello: they weren't going to find anything! She'd exhausted all the main avenues and now was just scrambling around the edges at fragments. He could almost imagine Duclos smiling at them, gloating...

Marinella moved back to the subject of separation: this time other people Christian had felt separation from that day apart from his parents and his friend. Probably best, Dominic conceded dolefully; with no new clues forthcoming, at least she could satisfy the main aim of the therapy.

… Gloating as he sat in the restaurant sipping wine… as he untied and assaulted Christian for a second time… as he smashed down the rock repeatedly on Christian's skull, bludgeoning the life out of him. Dominic shook his head. The images were unbearably intense, because now they knew that Duclos had done it, but would have little choice but to sit back and watch him walk away. And Dominic would feel the same sense of loathing and disgust each time he saw Duclos' face in a newspaper, smiling, gloating… as he opened some new industrial park, smiling from a campaign rostrum, gloating at them that he'd got away with it… his arm coming down repeatedly to strike home his campaign points in the same way that he'd brought the rock down on Christian's head that day. And he would hardly be able to bear to look, knowing... knowing that…

'Grandpapa Andre?' The name cut abruptly into Dominic's thoughts. One name among Christian's recital of separation he hadn't heard before: father, mother, Clarisse… but not Grandpapa Andre.

Dominic read the full line on the computer screen: '…I remember thinking about Grandpapa Andre. I clung to the luck he gave me.'

Dominic scribbled a frantic note — What luck? Why? Where is he? — and handed it to Marinella Calvan.

She typed: 'What luck was it that Grandpapa Andre gave you?'

'It was a coin… a lucky coin.'

'And were you holding the coin when you thought about Grandpapa Andre?'

'Yes… I was gripping it tight in my hand before I fell asleep. And then I realized suddenly when I awoke that it had dropped from my hand.'

'Where were you when it dropped?'

'In the boot of the man's car.'

'And were you able to find the coin?'

'No, it was dark… I felt around. But there was only the spare wheel… I couldn't feel it on the wheel or around the sides. I was still feeling for it when the boot opened… the light stung my eyes.'

'And when you realized you'd dropped the coin — did it make you fear that something bad might happen?'

'Yes… yes. In the darkness, it helped me. It was something I knew, a reminder of home. But then when it had gone…'

As Marinella returned to attachment and loss, Dominic touched her arm lightly, silently nodded his excuse, and left the room. Nothing else of interest was likely to come up and he couldn't bear waiting the ten minutes remaining to know. He went through Lambourne's reception and out into the street, dialling out on his mobile to Monique in Lyon.

On the third ring it answered, and he cut quickly through the preambles. 'A coin. A lucky coin that Christian's grandfather gave him. Do you remember it?'

'Yes… I do.' Hesitance; flustered by the sudden jump to a memory from thirty years ago. 'But why?'

'It's important. Something's come out of the sessions in London. I'll tell you later.' Sudden chill as he realized he wouldn't be able to delay any longer; that night he would have to tell her everything: his buried doubts, the car sighting, Machanaud, Jean-Luc's wasted suicide. 'What sort of coin was it?'

'An Italian twenty lire, silver. 1928.'

'Was it rare?'

'Fairly. Jean-Luc's father had brought it back from Italy years before. He gave it to Christian on his eighth birthday.'

Dominic was silent, thoughtful: if Duclos had seen the coin, he'd have thrown it away straightaway. But Christian hadn't been able to feel for it: what if it had dropped behind the spare wheel or some tools out of sight? A chance. Just a chance.

He confirmed that Monique hadn't found it later among any of Christian's things. 'With all the confusion — with the investigation and Christian in the hospital — it got forgotten. I didn't notice it was missing till months later. But it's obviously important now… very important. Why?'

And again he assured her that he'd tell her that night, diverted quickly to pleasantries before signing off. A generation of hiding the truth from his wife and still he was playing for time.

Lucky coin? Dominic reflected ruefully. The only luck might be, thirty-two years later, it finally bringing some justice and vindication for Christian Rosselot.