Past Imperfect

THIRTY-SEVEN

Strasbourg, April, 1995

Alain Duclos’ hands shook as he addressed the EU assembly. The medical debate of the decade, and he was central rapporteur. It all rested now on this final stage of the debate: the case of John Moore and the ruling of the California Supreme Court.

The vote taken today was vitally important. The earlier call had come at the worst possible time: 'There's been a few questions with your name arising. Somebody's curious…' Bonoit, a young Limoges Prosecutor now with the Paris Procureur's office. Bonoit initially called Duclos' Brussel's office, mentioned it was delicate. Duclos had phoned him back ten minutes later from a call box.

Reports were before each Minister, and Duclos summarized the key points. The University of California Medical Centre had developed a unique cell line from a cancerous spleen removed from John Moore, filed for patent, then sold that development with resultant rights expected to yield over $1 billion from the pharmaceutical industry. 'Mr Moore subsequently sued, claiming ownership of the body part from which the cell line had been developed, but lost the case. The main premise of that ruling was that as soon as the organ left Mr Moore's body it ceased to become his property, and so was patentable.'

'I understand though that in a first action taken by Mr Moore, a court ruled in his favour?'

Duclos looked at the bank of translators beyond the MEP’s semi-circle: PDS, Italy. 'Yes — but this was overruled by the California Supreme Court. Another factor which weighed was the many years of genetic research taken to develop the cell line. A case of 'added value' uniqueness, if you will.'

'….It's not directly my office — but because of the offbeat nature, it's being bounced around a few departments: questions about past cases involving psychics. Something to do with an original investigation back in 1963, apparently…'

Another voice rose. German 'Green' party: 'That "uniqueness" I believe was quite evident when Mr Moore's spleen was first removed. Mr Moore's argument is not only that he contributed the larger part of that uniqueness, but that he was not even consulted. That this was developed without his permission, and he was — as he described in his own words — 'essence raped.' His body part had ceased to become his own and was suddenly an industry commodity.'

Low mumbling: mixture of support and protest. The Green Party had invited Mr Moore to speak at a Brussels press conference during conciliation, Duclos recalled. If he couldn't get justice in America, then he could at least make history by influencing the future of European patent legislature. But every possible interest group — medical ethics, body and science rights, earth friendship, mainstream and fringe religious groups — had also come out strongly in support. Ownership of body parts was an emotive issue.

As the debates and arguments for and against flowed, Duclos rode the waves. His role as rapporteur was to take an impartial stance, merely present the facts and the varying arguments clearly. Though he knew already what he wanted: rejection. At first a daunting if not seemingly impossible task. The EU Commission had already strongly backed a patents directive. The bill should sail through. If it didn't, it would be the first time a bill approved by the Commission at the plenary session was rejected by the Parliament. The whole conciliation process could be brought into question.

He’d pressed Bonoit for more information about the renewed investigation, but Bonoit knew little else; he promised to dig some more and Duclos should call him back in a couple of days. The waiting to know was killing Duclos, and now the tension of the current debate. Incredible that the years of blackmail had brought him to this: swinging a key debate. But with the size of the coup, this one was as much for himself as for Jaumard. His retirement fund.

No trace of concern hopefully showed now in his face, his hands pressed firm on his folder to control their trembling. Enigmatic geniality as he tackled the various questions. The strength of the Greens argument had laid a useful card in his hand.

Closing his presentation, Duclos provided a distilled summary of the arguments aired: a man whose cell line he claims is in itself unique. A laboratory claiming its three years of cell line development was the largest contributor to that uniqueness. 'But at what stage does research and industry expertise give the new claimant predominant rights?' Duclos paused for emphasis. 'Yes, research and industry does need due protection in order to flourish. And the ruling in America should provide strong pre-eminent guidance to the assembly in that respect. But the many controversial issues raised by that decision need also to be taken into account. With the main question now: can the assembly rest easy with such a ruling in Europe and discard the arguments against, based purely on the fact that industry requires due protection for its research? Furtherance of science or furtherance of the rights of the individual. Thank you.'

Duclos closed his folder. He was sweating profusely. Hopefully he'd struck the right tone without being too obvious, but he couldn't be sure. Reactions looked mixed. Nothing left now but to wait for the votes to come in.

Metz, April, 1995

Duclos never felt comfortable calling Marchand from either Strasbourg or Brussels, so invariably he would stop at a call box half way in between. He found one on a quiet road eight kilometres beyond Metz. Marchand answered almost immediately.

'What progress?' Duclos asked.

'The transfer was made three days ago. It should be in the account now.'

'Did you see the press coverage?'

'Yes, very encouraging. They were very pleased.'

To anyone listening in, a totally non-descript conversation, Duclos reflected. No names, no subject discussed. Only the two of them knew the gaps to be filled in: the EU Parliament had rejected the bio-technology patents directive. The Commission and industry lobby groups had cried 'outrage', and had started talking about tabling a new directive. But the present directive had already been five years in preparation; a new one, even if successful, could take up to three years.

A remarkable coup. Better even than they'd anticipated. They'd agreed a month's grace after the decision to let the dust settle, then the transfer would be made. Additional transfers would then follow for each successive year without a successfully approved bio-technology patents directive.

'Looks like we might be in for a good run on this one. Anything from two to four years,' Marchand commented.

'Let's hope so. I'll probably do some Christmas shopping in Geneva this year.'

'Yes, certainly. It would be nice to see you again.'

Probably not, thought Duclos. At their one meeting, he'd sensed that Marchand hadn't liked him, nor had he particularly liked Marchand. A Swiss based rather than Brussels lobbyist — to Duclos, Marchand typified the breed of self serving industry lawyers and lobbyists who constantly snapped at his and other politician's heels. In return lobbyists were often resentful that politicians hadn't dealt with their client's 'issue' effectively, labelling them incompetent at every turn. But the pecking order was always clear: politicians looking down, disdainfully; lobbyists looking up, resentfully.

Except that Duclos had broken from the mould, was a corrupt politician. One of the few Marchand felt he could look down upon. The air of mutual disdain could have been cut with a knife. The only common ground arose from the money they were both gaining though their association. Strange how money of that size created its own inertia, Duclos reflected: cut across most social divides.

Duclos shook off an involuntary shiver. Telephone boxes. The third in as many days. More information at last from Bonoit.

'Who's leading the enquiry?' Duclos asked anxiously.

'Corbeix. Aix-en-Provence based Chief Prosecutor.'

The name meant nothing to Duclos. 'What stage is the enquiry at?'

'As far as I know, just initial rogatoire generale.'

'Who's heading it?'

'There's two names: Malliene and Fornier. They've also been doing a lot of digging with pimps and gay establishments in Paris and Marseille for some reason.'

Duclos sensed the unspoken questions. 'Strange,' he commented. He felt his skin prickle. Fornier? The name rang a bell from somewhere, but he couldn't remember from where.

'What's going on, Alain? Bonoit sounded suddenly concerned. 'You know, I shouldn't even be phoning you like this. It's just that, well, in the past…'

'I know, and I appreciate it.' Was Bonoit fishing or seeking assurance? Duclos had given Bonoit strong support during his fledgling years with the Limoges prosecutor's office. Eagerness for Bonoit not to see his mentor's image shattered, or repayment of favours? 'It's nothing. I was questioned for something several years ago and cleared. They found and charged the real culprit. Sounds a bit like a political witch hunt to me — old enemies coming out of the woodwork. Probably this bio-tech dispute. Seems to have upset a lot of people. I'm not exactly flavour of the month right now.'

Bonoit muttered an agreement which hardly registered. Everything suddenly gelled for Duclos. Paris! His pulse started racing. He couldn't wait to get off the line and make another call.

He quickly thanked Bonoit, and Bonoit promised to call again if anything more came up. Duclos leafed through the back of his address book for the number. It took him a while to find it, he hadn't called the number for almost fifteen years. The digits were jumbled and out of sequence, with each set of two in reverse. A number from the past he had long forgotten and didn't think he would ever have to call again: a Marseille back street bar which would pass a message to Eugene Brossard.

Corbeix' body invariably told him it was time to go home an hour before twilight. As the effects of the steroids wore off, the cramps and muscle spasms returned to his legs. He'd been free from it for almost five days, then suddenly it had flared up again. About the time that Fornier had phoned to tell him all the coin leads had drawn a blank.

Fornier had put in a lot of work on the case. Fornier also seemed to be able to pull favours at short notice, getting half of an Interpol department to back up his frantic nationwide search. Nine people from thirty years ago traced in just three days. Corbeix was impressed. But despite Fornier's effort and ingenuity, in the end, nothing. To have lived with the case for so long, to get so close and then see it slip away. Cruel fate. Corbeix felt for Fornier.

Raking through what meagre hopes remained, Fornier had asked him if he'd uncovered anything useful on past French cases involving psychics. He didn't have the heart to tell Fornier he'd hit a similar dead end, said that he was still waiting on news. While five days of probing various departments in the Paris prosecutors office had uncovered eight cases with relatives or the press involving psychics, some of which had been entered in police files, none of it ever made it into trial evidence. The consensus was that even if a prosecutor believed he could convince a final jury with such evidence, the examining magistrate was a different matter. Most dropped it for fear of jeopardizing the case through instruction.

A Sorbonne law lecturer who advised the Procureur's office on unorthodox cases had raised some useful points from relevant trials in America, but still the bottom line was that psychic and PLR testimony could only successfully be presented in France as background and texture. 'Without at least some hard evidence from the living rather than the dead, I don't see any foundation on which to build.'

With the last coin lead now gone, their last hope of prosecuting Duclos for murder went with it.

But at least from what Fornier had mentioned, there appeared to be strong hope in one area: Justin Eynard, a Paris red light club owner. If nothing else, their chances of prosecuting Duclos for child molestation looked bright. Some silver edging. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. No doubt by eleven or eleven-thirty, Fornier would have a result, would phone him and then the fax would start whirring with Eynard's statement. At least he could start moving things positively on one front.

Justin Eynard lay back on the bed while the girl undid his shirt buttons. She smiled up at him lasciviously. A sunshine smile with a hint of mischief. Juanita from Santa Domingo was all he knew. An enticing mixture of negro and Spanish: dark cafe au lait skin tone and large brown eyes. Exquisite.

She watched his every emotion as she kissed slowly down his chest and stomach with each fresh button undone. Sampling the merchandise: executive benefit of running a hookers' bar. Eynard insisted in testing out all new girls, judge their fighting weight for clients.

Eynard tensed as she went lower. A few slow licks, and then she took him fully into her mouth. Eynard gasped. God, she was good. She wore a white satin evening dress slit to the thigh which contrasted wonderfully with her skin tone. As she sucked and rubbed him into her mouth with one hand, the other reached back and pulled aside the bottom of her skirt to expose her bottom. She arched it higher. Underneath she wore a peach coloured tanga. Two coffee ice cream scoops separated by a peach slice.

Eynard watched in the mirror to one side as she deftly pulled the tanga aside and started rubbing herself in time with the motions of her mouth. Her fingernails were long and turquoise varnished with star bursts, and intermittently she would slip a finger inside herself.

Eynard was in heaven. His breath started to come in short bursts and, sensing his growing excitement, with one last loving lick the girl rolled away. Peeling off her dress, she bent away from Eynard to accentuate her bottom, then resumed playing with herself while sliding one finger in and out of her mouth in time. Eynard groaned in anticipation.

Slowly she peeled down the tanga, stepped out and leaned back over Eynard. Her breasts were firm and cantaloupe sized with large brown nipples the size of cookies. Coffee ice cream and chocolate cookies. All Eynard could think of.

With a few more licks to resume acquaintance, Juanita swung one leg across and slowly sank down on Eynard. She reached back and grasped him gently by the balls, as if to push him firmer inside. As she started to get into the rhythm of the motions, she closed her eyes in abandon, sucking on the little finger of her other hand.

Eynard felt his excitement mounting, a raw tingle rising from the back of his heels. Jesus, this girl knew what she was doing. His clients were in for a rare treat. He reached out a hand and stroked her breasts, tweaked one nipple.

She writhed slowly and determinedly, picking up the pace gradually. Control. A virtuoso performance. Eynard felt his senses floating, the tingle rising higher.

'Close your eyes. I haff big treat.' The Spanish came through in her accent. A pleasant lilt.

Eynard smiled and closed his eyes obediently. He felt her finger slide into his mouth, teasing his tongue. And then the other hand was behind him again, gently stroking, urging him into her with each thrust.

So good… good.

Eynard felt something slide in beside her finger, cool and longer… plastic or metal? The finger slipped out. Oh god, a vibrator, he should have told her he wasn't into that sort of thing.

His eyes snapped open, and he went to shift his head away from the object… but a hand clamped tight on his forehead. The object suddenly came into focus: the silencered barrel of a gun. The girl's arms were still on his chest. Someone was behind him! Panic seized Eynard. Fear and the repellent feel of the gun metal against his tongue made him almost gag. The girl lifted off and moved away. He was already half limp, the excitement gone.

Eynard looked longingly towards her back as she headed for the bathroom, knowing in that moment it was probably the last girl he would see.

'It's done.'

'I see. Fine. I made the transfer as arranged.'

Brossard had already checked but didn't pass any comment.

Another call box, another conversation with no names or details. Duclos could imagine Brossard at the other end in a similar call box in Paris. They hadn't even met this time to set everything up. Just a voice on the line. He wondered what Brossard looked like now? Then realized he hadn't even known what Brossard looked like then, fifteen years ago in his blonde wig and thick rimmed glasses.

Duclos had called Eynard's bar only days before to set up a weekend in Paris and one of the barmen apologized that Justin was a bit pressured lately but that he should try again later. 'Anything serious?' Duclos had asked. 'No, just some stupid mix up with the police over some child porno videos.' Duclos knew as soon as Bonoit mentioned the police hunting for background on pimps that Eynard might be a problem.

But if the police kept digging for something on himself and under age boys, eventually they were bound to find something. Next time he might have to be more inventive.

Wheat. Shorter than Dominic remembered. Spring: over the next month or so it would no doubt grow alarmingly before being harvested.

Thirty one years since he'd stood in the same field: the day of the reconstruction. The wind had been high then, the wheat shifting wildly, unkempt and hardly harvested from one season to the next. Now it was neatly trimmed and cared for, a half metre short from its full harvesting height. And today there was no wind, the air still, a thin grey cloud layer with some diffused sunlight filtering through.

Stillness. Sterile. The crime scene washed clean by the shifting seasons and years, the many different families who'd owned the farm since. No trace left. Only distant images struggling to replay in Dominic's mind.

Originally Dominic had intended just to stay in Vidauban. A half hour after hearing the news about Eynard, he'd gone to the nearest bar for a quick brandy. He'd called Guidier on his mobile from the bar: 'I'll be gone the rest of the day. I'll phone in for any messages early evening. Anything urgent, get me on my mobile.'

Time to think, clear his thoughts. He would spend probably a day or two down at Vidauban. He needed the rest, had hardly slept all week. He was exhausted.

Arriving at the farmhouse, he'd headed straight for the bedroom and lay flat on the bed. Solitude. Gerome was working, probably wouldn't be back until six or seven. Monique was at the flat in Lyon, no doubt thought he was still at work. He would phone later to tell her he was staying overnight. Perhaps he would take Gerome to a local bar: help drown his sorrows.

But he'd been unable to sleep, had stared blankly up at the ceiling with too many thoughts jumbling. Coin leads all gone. Eynard gone. Nothing left. But that conclusion wouldn't settle, just didn't feel right. Monique's words from a few days before: 'There must be something, something.' Some small detail that perhaps he'd overlooked from the hours of tapes and transcripts from Eyran Capel. He felt angry this time; could feel it coursing through his veins, driving him on.

Though it wasn't until two hours later, after lunch and a chain of discarded notes headed Coin? Truck? Restaurant? Lane? — questions with few answers — that something useful finally came: bottled water! He'd been in the shower when the thought hit, the water swilling around him as he stood stock still for a moment… Some other water running… spilling on the ground…… Duclos had just come from a restaurant, he didn't need to go down to the river where Machanaud might have seen him!

Dominic decided to head out to Taragnon and the field. He stood where he thought Duclos must have been after the final assault on Christian: a few paces into the wheat, his car parked just behind. Dominic summoned up the picture in his mind: Duclos’ clothes are off, perhaps on the car seat or draped over the open boot. The bloodied rock is in his hand, his body splattered with blood. He knows he can't stay on the lane long for risk of someone passing.

Back to the car… Dominic walked the few paces, his feet crunching on the wheat… takes out the bottled water, swills down. Dominic imagined the heat of the day, a heat haze perhaps rising off the field.

Then dabs dry with… with? A cloth or towel from his car, or Christian's shirt? Perhaps that explained why Christian's shirt had been missing. Whichever, Duclos had obviously dumped it along with the rock somewhere.

And then the coin? Had Duclos discovered the coin? Was that why none of the garage workers or the Caugines had seen it? And if so, had he thrown it away immediately or later with the rock and Christian's shirt? Or had he been stupid enough to hang on to it as a memento. A trophy. Dominic shook his head and smiled wryly. A sudden image of a dawn raid on Duclos’ house — the coin found in a drawer under his underwear and silk cravats, Corbeix slapping his shoulder in congratulations — bringing home how much he was reaching.

Dominic crossed the lane and headed down the river bank. The river was grey, silent, reflecting the mood of the sky above. No glints reflecting from the rocks and shale; Dominic could hardly even make out the bottom.

Then he was back looking past Molet's shoulder at some leaves drifting past. The first realization that Machanaud's case was slipping away. Three decades melted away in an instant.

Dominic looked down the river to where Machanaud had stood that day, then up the bank to where Duclos had parked his car. Fourteen years in prison? An afternoon's poaching, a few fish for Machanaud's supper. Dominic shook his head.

He decided to backtrack on everything else. He timed it to the restaurant: four minutes. It was now a hardware store. Dominic stayed in the car park, closed his eyes and imagined Duclos playing for time inside, making sure he was seen for his alibi, selecting from the menu and eating at leisure, sipping at his wine. Christian in the darkness of the boot, probably only yards from where he was now, trapped and afraid. Dreaming about his father and the farm… wondering if he was going to be harmed. Dominic shuddered.

The two women come out of the restaurant. Christian hears their voices, kicks back. But a truck passes at that moment, drowns out the sound. Their car doors open, close, they start driving away. Duclos settles his bill, asks for a bottle of water to go.

Dominic drove out, headed back towards where Christian's bike had been left. A Citreon passed, followed soon after by a Mercedes van. Christian's truck superimposed: MARSEILLE, V-A-R-N and LA PONTEI…? There was a small industrial park called La Ponteille in Marseilles, but they hadn't looked hard. A driver recalling a young boy in a passing sports car thirty years later? Desperately reaching again.

Where the bike had been was now planted with vines, only two rows of peach trees remained at the back of the field. Perhaps if only forensics had checked here as well, Dominic reflected. No semen had been found in examining Christian, only ruptured vessels indicated a sexual assault. Duclos had obviously pulled out to ejaculate. Nothing was found by the wheat field, but what would have been the chances here? Christian's bike had by then been found and moved — Dominic wasn't even sure if he was standing in the right spot now. Between what might have been and what had come to pass… Dominic sighed. Probably they wouldn't have found anything.

He headed towards Bauriac. On the edge of town the tanneries were closed and derelict. A sign announced the development of industrial units to be completed April, 1997. No more acrid fumes… Stinging his eyes as he drove out to see Monique, to tell her…

Dominic stopped in the square and looked across at Louis' old bar. Louis. Dead now these past seven years. He'd married and had three children with Valerie and sold the bar almost twenty years ago. Bought a small hotel on the coast near Mandelieu. Dominic had holidayed there en famille quite a few summers, spent days out fishing and reminiscing on Louis' speedboat. Gerome had struck up a friendship with Louis' youngest, Xavier, and they still kept in touch. Valerie still ran the hotel, though they'd only been down to see her twice since Louis' death.

Dominic got out and walked across to the bar. He realized he hadn't been inside since Louis sold it, had hardly been back to Taragnon or Bauriac in all those years. Too painful. Even when they'd bought the farmhouse in Vidauban and might pass through on the way to Aix, Dominic would make sure to choose an alternate route.

Black and chrome: black velvet chairs, black smoked glass table tops with chrome trim. The bar counter was black and had three thick chrome strips facing. It was almost empty, with just a few stragglers at the bar and one table. The new owner obviously went for the evening cocktail crowd. Or perhaps this is what teenagers and bikers liked nowadays.

Dominic ordered a brandy. No juke-box. A powerful sound system played Brian Adams' 'Run to You.' Some French rap followed. The barman was young, slim and had a ponytail. As far removed from Louis as you could get. Dominic smiled. He drained his glass and ordered another brandy. Suddenly the alcohol felt good, cut through the images: Louis dancing with Valerie to the juke-box, him driving out to tell Monique, tell her that… the lorry flashing past, Christian trapped in the car boot, the coin… Duclos raising his wine glass, gloating. Dominic gripped his glass tight.

He knocked it back sharply, ordered again. Some heavy rock followed. Dominic headed for the bathroom to escape. The images were too vivid, too harsh. He wished now he hadn't come back. He splashed some water on his face to freshen up. Catching his reflection in the mirror as he straightened, suddenly it struck him: he hadn't returned just to hunt clues, but for himself. To relive the memories, then bury them once and for all. At heart he knew it was all futile, hopeless. No startling revelations would be sparked off just by him being there again. Duclos had outwitted them all thirty years ago, and he'd done it again now. Had somehow got to Eynard before them. It was over. Over! Even if they did find something, Duclos would no doubt beat them to it yet again, would…

'Ca va, Monsieur? Is everything okay?'

Dominic focused past his shoulder. An old man turning from the urinal was looking on concernedly. Images of Machanaud raising his eau de vie: 'How's the investigation going?'

'Fine, just fine,' Dominic muttered. Suddenly he had to get out. He paid the barman, knocked back his brandy and headed back to Vidauban. He slotted in a CD to drown out the heavy rock still ringing in his ears: 'Simply Red'. Gerome had introduced him. 'His generation's’ soul music. Years before he'd introduced Gerome to his own time-warped soul collection.

Dominic felt the music soothing him. The images and emotions started to settle. He should never have gone back… never. He banged the wheel in annoyance. Nothing ever felt good… because nothing ever could. I'll keep holding on…keep holding on… As the words and rhythm flowed through him, mouthing silently to some of the verses, he wondered whether he'd chosen it because it was one of his favourites, or because subconsciously it just seemed to…

He bit at his lip. Tears welling suddenly gave him the answer. And the rest of the emotions and images he'd been fighting back, bubbling like raw acid beneath the surface, suddenly broke free: Monique in the hospital with the candle burning, him calling at her door and saying that Christian was dead, dead. The gendarme's tapping through the wheat field, Jean-Luc's solitary figure at the back of the field. Louis smiling, pouring him another brandy, winking as a pretty girl passed. His mother smiling in the fading light at the beauty of the garden and the tangerine tree. All gone now, all gone. Old friends, loved ones, the endless chain of work colleagues long buried with heart attacks or liver failure. Even the memories now dull and faded with the years.

All that was left now was a voice. The lost and lonely voice of a small boy murdered over thirty years ago.

The welling tears stung his eyes, and Dominic thought stupidly: 'I'm too old too cry. Seen too much, buried too many friends. Too many.' But the long years of holding back the memories, of fighting back the tears, biting at his lip with each friend lost, each funeral — had built a veritable tidal wall. And as his last defences were stripped away, the barricades suddenly broken by that lone pathetic voice, by the week's activities and now the sudden recall and memories — the rest flooded in a rush behind, the wave crashing down relentlessly. His whole body was suddenly racked with sobbing.

The road ahead blurred as his eyes watered, a pastel abstract. He had to pull over to the side of the road and stop.

He cried at the injustice, cried for the lost years, cried for the loved ones and friends long since buried and forgotten, cried and cried and cried until his whole body started to tremble; a ridiculous, pathetic shaking that gradually struck him as amusing as much as sad and distressing. And he found himself half laughing between the sobs as it continued, as he glanced up and noticed a young man passing look towards him concernedly.

He wiped his eyes hurriedly as he fought to recover, regain his composure.

For the rest of the drive to Vidauban, he felt strangely relaxed, calm. As if the sudden catharsis had washed away all the past bitter memories along with his false hopes and the frustrations of the past week. It was in the past. It was gone. How could he have ever deluded himself that he could solve some past problem with something now, thirty years on? That barrier was probably never even meant to have been crossed.

His life put in order, everything at last in perspective — when Dominic hit his bed back at Vidauban, the wave of exhaustion of the past days finally caught up with him. He fell into a deep sleep almost immediately. Though some faint memories still replayed: the tinkling of goats’ bells from the next field, the church bells announcing the service for Christian Rosselot…

All that broke through his subconscious from his mobile ringing in his jacket pocket.

At the other end, Serge Roudele counted off the third ring. He decided to wait three more rings before giving up. Ever superstitious, if it didn't answer by then he would read that as a clear message that he wasn't meant to make contact, confirming his first assumption about Fornier's call: it was a trick. He wouldn't call again.