Past Imperfect

FORTY

'…When is it that you are due to testify in France?'

'Tuesday week.'

'I understand that the trial procedure is very different there, and in effect this will be one of a series of preliminary hearings.'

'Yes, apparently so. I'll be asked to provide the background of PLR to support the link between the two boys. And later, if the case goes to full trial, I'll be called to provide pretty much the same information in front of a jury…'

Lunch time at Boehmier amp; Kemp, Washington, DC. The only quiet time of the day. Jennifer McGill decided to have a quick sandwich and use the time to catch up on the morning's paperwork. CNN flickered on a 16" screen in the background, the sound on low.

A name on the TV suddenly struck a chord, but she couldn't remember from where. She looked up abruptly from the file she was reading and turned up the sound. Larry King was on with a Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio look-alike who she hadn't seen before.

'… Even the pre-trial run up is apparently turning into something of a media circus in France. Claims of political bias have been made, and of course then we have Alain Duclos' central involvement with a landmark bio-technology case. Given this intense spotlight, no doubt you will face quite hostile challenges regarding the tenuous nature of PLR in evidence: how will you answer these?'

'By keeping firmly to the evidence and the facts in hand. The sessions I was involved with alone produced almost ninety pages of transcript, and over sixty pages of notes and transcripts were prepared by an associate psychiatrist even before my arrival…'

And then the name hit: Calvan. It wasn't one of her cases, it was being handled by Gerry Sterner. But she remembered a researcher from Paris being on to Gerry just a few days back.

She picked up the phone and buzzed switchboard. 'Susan? Is Gerry still there?'

'I think he's in the library. I'll ring through.'

Seconds later Sterner's voice came on the line. 'Yeah.'

'Gerry. Jennifer here. Get to the nearest TV — fast! Your Calvan woman's on with Larry King.'

Garbled thanks as Sterner darted two doors along to the coffee room. Two secretaries were watching Pacific Drive.

He grabbed the remote. 'Sorry. Sorry. Emergency!'

Larry King's image flicked on in profile. Trademark red braces. '… to your knowledge have there been any previous incidences where PLR evidence has been presented in a murder case?'

'Two in India — though only one made it to full trial. But this is the first case of its type in a society which inherently rejects the concept of reincarnation and PLR. And so in that respect…'

Sterner rushed from the room, grabbed the first telephone in the adjoining office. His secretary was out to lunch, so he raised reception. 'Susan, can you get me Jean-Paul Thibault at Guirannet amp; Fachaud in France. They'll be winding down for the day there, so you'll have to be quick.'

Could it be… could it really be?

Monique had decided even after the second tape, yes, purely because she couldn't think of any other rational explanation. Nobody else but Christian could possibly have known such depth of detail. Though still that initial wall of resistance; berating Dominic that she might accept some vague psychic link, but not that it was Christian re-born.

But with the continuing sessions and tapes and then the trial, though never mentioning anything to Dominic, her view had slowly changed. At first just through attaching Christian's voice to the descriptions on tape… the many poignant memories flooding back. But then she'd become curious about Eyran Capel.

Initially only casual questions when Dominic talked about the progress of the sessions and the case: What does the boy look like? Is there a resemblance to Christian? Does he remember anything while awake? No on every count, no image or magic picture in her mind to cling to, nothing except the voice on tape. Playing them repeatedly, asking for each additional tape equally as casually, trying not to give away the mounting intensity of her curiosity.

She'd have asked to sit in on some sessions, but that too might hint of growing obsession — and Dominic had complained about the difficulties of personally attending, the secret game between him and Marinella Calvan. He'd only been able to swing one final session with himself and a notary.

Then only a few days ago, Dominic had mentioned Stuart and Eyran Capel travelling down for the next hearing — they'd agreed to meet up beforehand. She was sure in that moment she'd have said, 'I'd like to come,' if it wasn't for where they were meeting: the wheat field! The wheat field at Taragnon. Suddenly her curiosity and everything she'd pushed away for so long were in conflict. She couldn't go back there, she could never go back there.

And so she told herself it wasn't important, clung to Dominic's earlier words that he was just a fresh faced English boy, light brown hair, a few freckles across his nose, no resemblance to Christian, remembers nothing while awake…

What would she do? Stand next to this boy she didn't know and ask questions he couldn't answer… her heart and soul ripped apart again by the memories. Perhaps she was never meant to meet this boy. It was meant to stay a private thing. Just her alone with the tapes… alone with Christian's voice…

She focused sharply back over the top of her wine glass at Dominic. Dinner had been cleared away. He looked equally as thoughtful for a moment.

'Problems?' she asked.

'I don't know. Possibly. It didn't go well today. But we won't know the outcome for a few days yet.' When the doors to the hearing room finally swung open, Corbeix' expression had been thunderous. He explained to Dominic the grilling he'd been subjected to and what Thibault was demanding, breaking off briefly as they both watched Thibault pass. Barielle wanted to consult the greffier notes before ruling: counsels to be advised in four days.

'What might happen?'

Dominic sighed. 'It's bad. A mis-trial could be called — the whole case thrown out.'

Monique's eyes softened. She grimaced tautly and reached out and touched the back of his hand. 'I'm sorry, Dominic. You've put so much into this case. Fought so hard for it.' But beneath his hesitant smile in return, she could read the pain and anguish. It was little comfort. She gripped his hand tighter. 'Look — Dominic. If the case fails, you shouldn't feel bad about it because of me. We've had a great life together. You've given me two beautiful sons. You've made me very happy. Nobody could ask for more. I don't expect it of you to set the record straight on Christian as well.'

'Thanks.' Dominic squeezed her hand back. Though he knew it was probably just to make him feel better about possibly failing. Like him, she would no doubt like to see Duclos nailed to the side of the Arc de Triomphe for what he'd done to Christian.

'You don't need to do this for me. I got over the ghosts of Christian long ago.'

But he was doing it as much for himself, he thought. To set the record straight. Though she would probably now never know his guilt over Machanaud. She was right: they'd had a great life together. Shared everything. Except a few secrets. 'Does it bother you, everything coming back now. In any way awaken the ghosts?'

'Obviously a little.' Momentary flinch. She didn't want to admit how much it had obsessed her. He had enough worries and pressure. 'But we shouldn't let it rule our lives. If Duclos is meant to be convicted, then so be it. If not, the same applies. Whatever is meant to be is meant to be. Don't torture yourself trying to change it Dominic. Don't punish yourself. You've done everything you can on this case. If it's still not enough — then let it go. Nobody would blame you, think less of you. And certainly not me.'

As ever: soft, understanding. Her eyes too implored him, added depth to her words. Soulful brown eyes that had melted him the first day he saw her, had glimmered and sparkled at him across countless candle-lit tables through the years; at the birth of Yves and Gerome and the numerous birthdays and celebrations since. A good life. God, how he loved her.

But beyond the softness and compassion in her eyes, he could still see the pain. See the shadows that had haunted her with Christian through the decades. Shadows that belied her compassion, that screamed: get him, get him! Bring Christian justice. Don't let him get away.

Betina's voice drifted from the kitchen. 'I'm bringing in the cake now.'

Joel smiled. Duclos smiled awkwardly in return. They sat at opposite ends of the dining table. Distance between them. Always more acute when Betina wasn't present. As if she was the only link between them; they couldn't communicate effectively without her presence.

Betina came in with the cake and the atmosphere eased. White icing with blue piping: Happy Birthday, Joel.Ten candles.

A miracle. Five days skirting with death in an incubator, then remarkably Joel had started to gain strength. Another two months with worries about healthy bone formation, and Joel had never looked back.

Delayed congratulations from colleagues once Joel was out of danger. Cigars. 'You must be overjoyed!' 'Yes, yes, of course.' His best politician's smile. Inside he was too numbed to know what he really felt. At least Betina would be happy, had been the overriding thought. It would keep her occupied, away from him. Some advantages.

Blonde hair, mop style. Blue eyes. Joel looked like his mother, took after her in every way. He could see very little of himself in the boy.

Betina smiled appreciatively at the two of them above the cake. 'It's good to have you at home, Alain. Especially for occasions like this.'

'Yes, it's nice to be back.' Duclos forced a smile, but thought: stupid bitch. Gendarme posted at the front door, his life and future hanging in the balance. It was hardly the ideal homecoming. But he knew what she meant: between Brussels and Strasbourg, the various business trips and weekends sneaked away — also covered as business trips — he hardly spent any time at home. Often he would see them only two or three days in as many months. Duclos laughed inwardly at the irony: such was their relationship, their sham of a marriage, that it had taken a court order to get him to spend some time at home.

Birthdays? Despite Betina's comment, one of the few times he was actually present. He could only remember missing three of Joel's birthdays: two he'd forgotten and Betina had barely forgiven him, and another had clashed with a vital business trip. He'd left a present and phoned from Prague to wish Joel 'Happy Birthday'. A seven year old's sweet lost voice on the line: 'Thank you, pappa.' Probably hardly remembering from one month to the next what his father looked like. He was hardly there.

And when he was: distance. He could feel it in the boy's eyes whenever they settled on him. Perhaps he could expect no less with the time he spent away; or was it the strong bond Joel had with Betina making him feel like a stranger, an outsider to their activities? Outside their precious little circle. But in his darker moments, the boy's gaze would unnerve him. He would wonder if it wasn't just a questioning look because of his long absences, but more knowing: as if in that moment — as he'd feared through the long years — the boy had seen through to his soul and guessed his dark secret. But he'd been so careful, had consciously made an effort. He'd never looked at Joel in that way, never. The boy's blonde hair and fair skin had made it easier. Not the type he was attracted to. But apart from that, it was his son, his son! He would never, never…

'Are you okay?'

Yes, fine. Fine.' But he could feel his pulse racing, his hands clenched in fists beneath the table.

Betina's expression was contemplative, concerned. 'I know that all of this isn't easy for you. But you should try and relax for just a moment. You're at home now, with your family. Among people who care about you.'

He let out a long, slow breath. 'Yes, yes, you're right.' Tried to let the tension ease away, slowly unclenching his hands. Three more days to know if the case had been thrown out. If not, then their next chance was with Marinella Calvan. Thibault had phoned just the day before to tell him of some juicy new leads he was tracking on Calvan; was confident that he'd be able to crush her in grand style. Perhaps he shouldn't worry. If it wasn't all over with good news from Barielle in three days, then it certainly would be by the next hearing.

But that wasn't the only worry, he reminded himself: later that afternoon no doubt Jaumard would call again, and he'd have to spend time on the phone to Geneva to arrange a transfer. The court case; Jaumard; his name in every newspaper; a gendarme at his door; a clutch of newspaper reporters beyond, clicking and jostling at the first appearance. At times it felt like everything was closing in.

With the first headlines, he'd assured Betina that it was all ludicrously fabricated. None of it true. 'My lawyer will have the case thrown out in no time at all.' She hadn't asked, but he'd wanted to answer before any questions possibly came. Betina had accepted his answer without visible reservation, but he couldn't help wondering if a part of her suspected: the business trips, the long weekends away, his rarely sharing her bed. Just the pattern that would fit in with such a secret life.

Betina was lighting the candles and smiling. And Joel was smiling too, bright eyes above the gleam of the candles.

Eyes that knew. Duclos shook the thought away. As Betina had suggested: relax. He was among family. People who cared.

But through the years, how much had he cared? A son who felt at times like a stranger. A wife who he hardly slept with. Eyes that sparkled with warmth and understanding — and all he'd done was spend the long years trying to avoid them.

And now he had been welcomed back. Family. The tight family circle of Betina and Joel which he'd stood outside for so long. Self exclusion. He let the new feeling of welcome wash through him, bathed in its warmth as he watched Betina light the last candles. Betina smiling; Joel smiling. Family closeness and warmth he could hardly remember experiencing before. But slowly beyond, he began to see something else: all the other smiles through his weeks at home. Tight smiles, anxious smiles — tension so acute that at times it could be cut with a knife. Moments when it had flashed through his mind uncharitably that he'd be better off in prison than stuck at home with the two of them.

And the falseness beneath their smiles suddenly struck him, the thought resurged: they knew. They both knew. And here he was firmly embraced within their syrupy little family circle, surrounded by candles and sweet smiles. Trapped.

Sweet icing smiles, blue piping: Ten? Oh God, the same age Christian Rosselot had been when he'd died.

The candles glimmered. Joel's smiling face was above them, eyes wide as he pouted…

But all Duclos could see was the single candle burning in the hospital with Monique Rosselot's face in profile, Christian Rosselot's eyes pleading up at him, don't kill me… don't kill me!

And as his son blew out the candles, the rock came down… he saw himself smashing the life from Christian Rosselot, extinguishing the light. Feeling the small skull crush as the rock connected… spurts of blood warm on his chest. And then he was in the car with Betina, turning the wheel sharply… her piercing scream just before they hit the truck…

Duclos bit at his lip sharply and rushed from the room. He headed for the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

After a moment, Betina came in. She sat beside him on the bed, one arm across his shoulder in comfort.

Duclos looked down at the floor, found it hard to meet her eyes. 'If things go badly, it just hit me: this could be the last of Joel's birthdays I'll be here for, for a while,' he lied. Tears would have been fitting, but none came: dry well of emotions.

'I know. I know.' Betina soothed.

But he wondered at heart what she did know or suspect. Perhaps they were both lying.

Corbeix phoned Dominic's office within minutes of the ruling coming through from Barielle's office. 'We've got it. But by the skin of our teeth. Barielle has made a strong reprimand which will be entered into notes for full trial — may still be used by Thibault to rap us over the head then. But for the moment, we're still alive. Just. Though I'm sure if anything else comes up that even remotely smacks of the same, Barielle will throw the case out.'

'Well, hopeful news at least. Thanks.' Putting down the phone, Dominic wondered: Marinella Calvan? Thibault would no doubt give her a battering over PLR, but at least there should be no claims of bias. Calvan probably had little or no knowledge of French politics, nor cared.

Duclos picked up the phone after the first ring. He'd put down the phone from Thibault only minutes before: news of Barielle's ruling, strategy for Marinella Calvan at the next hearing. He thought Thibault might have forgotten something, was phoning back. But it was Georges Marchand from Switzerland.

After the preliminaries of ‘can we talk freely’ and ‘how are you coping’ — Marchand got to the purpose of his call.

'I had a call a few days back from my people. They're not happy about all the talk in the papers bringing up the bio-technology ruling. They're extremely uncomfortable about the linking of your case to that — and with obvious reason.'

'It's just a ruse by my lawyer. They shouldn't worry.'

'What's his aim?'

'The bio-technology ruling provides good background for his claim of political bias against me. Strong incentive for political enemies to start coming out of the woodwork. We almost got the case thrown out at the last hearing — but almost certainly it will be by the next. Then the whole thing will blow over quickly. Some new scandal will hit the headlines.'

Brief silence from the other end. 'A few days ago they were merely worried. But when news from today's Le Figaro reaches them, they're going to panic. Remember Lenatisse?'

'Yes.' Lenatisse was a French Socialist MP strongly outspoken about the bio-tech ruling, making caustic remarks about Duclos' handling favouring the Greens.

'… One journalist seems to be linking your lawyer's comments with those of Lenatisse. Have you seen it yet?'

'No, no. I haven't.' He didn't get the papers early, hardly ventured out with the gendarme and the press at the door. He waited till later in the day for Betina to bring the papers in with the shopping.

'I'll read it for you: "… Bold claims indeed from Counsellor Thibault of a political witchhunt against his client stemming from the bio-technology dispute. But this raises other more intriguing issues: in particular Minister Lenatisse's earlier comment, however flippantly made, that Alain Duclos might be in the pocket of the Greens. Because certainly, if Alain Duclos is finally found guilty of murder — then it doesn't take too extreme a stretch of the imagination to believe that he might also be a corrupt politician. Perhaps Minister Lenatisse's comments might have some substance after all."

'I see.' Duclos went cold. Yet another dimension to his problems. 'I can see why they're worried. At least it still only points to the Greens — your people would be the last to come under suspicion.' Then realized it had sounded offhand. 'But point taken. I'll mention to Thibault to layoff. No more mention of the bio-technology dispute. And, as I say — the whole thing should be quashed soon anyway.'

'Let's hope so.' Marchand wouldn't be surprised if the journalist too was playing an angle for some industry lobby group. At present, if Duclos was convicted of murder, the bio-technology ruling still stood. Only if a connection was successfully made to possible corruption could the debate be re-tabled. 'There was another reason for me making contact at this stage.' Marchand sighed. From his client's last call it was obviously a prime concern, but the words just didn't sit right; felt out of place with the relationship he'd so far established with Duclos. 'I know that your lawyer is confident of clearing you. But if anything should go wrong — if you should feel the need for additional help. Just call. It's just so that you know that if the worst comes to the worst, you have friends out there. People who will help you.'

'Yes, yes. Certainly. I'll remember that.'

Marchand rang off. Duclos had sounded suitably non-plussed by the gesture; probably its significance wouldn't hit him for a while. Or perhaps he was so confident his lawyer would clear him, he hadn't even considered other possibilities.

Not an entirely altruistic gesture by his client, Marchand realized. The last thing they wanted was a convicted Duclos, eager to make deals and turn state's evidence, sink some industry big fish by telling all about his years as a corrupt politician.