'Is it likely he cut across?' asked Poullain.
Jean-Luc shrugged. 'It's a possibility. It's something he's done before. In any case, he would probably cut down and walk the last hundred metres of the village heading for Stephan's house. There's another track there.'
A hundred metres at the end of the village, Poullain considered. It was quiet, the main village establishments petering out. If the one or two shopkeepers there hadn't seen the boy, it proved nothing. Yet if the boy had walked through the entire village, past boulangeries, patisseries, the main square and cafés, without being seen - it would have been a different matter. He'd already assigned three men to call on village shops from early that morning, and had been hopeful of their findings. Now he wasn't so sure. Poullain couldn't even remember what shops there were in those last hundred metres. The disappointment showed on his face.
On a fresh page Dominic had been making a small diagram of Taragnon: the path from the Rosselots to the main road, the Maillots’ farm, and the track by the river. It was a simple triangular drawing, with distances in metres between Xs marking where the bike was left and the boy was found. While his pen hovered for Poullain to speak again, he took a quick scan of the kitchen: dried flowers, ornaments, flour and spice jars, a plate wall clock with Portofino in scrawly black loops below a background harbour scene, no photos. Little in the kitchen said anything about the Rosselot's lives. Though the kitchen was where the coffee was, Dominic couldn't help wondering if they hadn't been asked into the sitting room for another reason. The Rosselots didn't want too deep an intrusion into their lives.
'So finally you made the call to the police station just before 5pm, when it was clear that your son had not turned up the Maillots' farm and you had found the bike abandoned.' Monique muttered yes, and Jean-Luc merely nodded. Poullain glanced briefly at Dominic's crude diagram, as if for inspiration. He voiced his thoughts in staccato fashion as they came to him, as if he was at the same time refreshing his own memory. 'Your son was originally discovered at about three-fifteen by a neighbouring farmer, just half a kilometre from the Maillots farm. We arrived on the crime scene within forty minutes and received your call almost an hour later. We subsequently made some confirmations of identity, to be sure the boy was yours - and two officers were sent to you an hour and quarter after you called. We suspect - although we cannot be totally sure until all the medic reports are in - that your son was attacked within an hour of being discovered.' Poullain looked keenly between Monique and Jean-Luc as he related the sequence of events. This was the first time they were hearing this information, and he wanted to see their reactions.
Jean-Luc stared back blandly, and Monique looked mildly expectant, as if she sensed Poullain wanted to add something vital. Dominic noticed Poullain unclench one hand and wave it to one side. The difficult part was coming, and he was struggling for emphasis before the words were even formed. 'I want you to think about this for a moment before you answer. But are there any relatives, any cousins or uncles, or any friends or neighbours, that have shown a special interest in Christian? In a way that perhaps might be described as a bit over friendly or unusual.'
Poullain was doing this by the book, though Dominic. Most child molesters were found close to home with a relative or friend. Often the dividing line between a natural fondness for children and an 'unnatural' interest was impossible to determine.
Monique appeared nonplussed at first. Then finally it dawned on her what Poullain was aiming at and her face clouded. But as she spoke, her voice faltered, as if she was still struggling to comprehend. 'I don't think there's anyone we know like that.' She looked hastily towards Jean-Luc for support. '...But I don't understand. Why do you ask this?'
Poullain smoothed back his crown. Faint beads of perspiration had broken out on his forehead and
he looked uncomfortable. 'Believe me, I'm sorry to have to ask you this. But when I checked this morning with the medical examiner, we suspected already that unfortunately your son was sexually assaulted before he was beaten, and this was confirmed. We know only a little about the timing of the attack or the sexual assault, the full details will come out later from forensics and blood sampling. But we do know at this stage that a sexual assault took place.' Poullain exhaled slightly; a part sigh, part release of tension. 'I'm sorry to have to bring you this news.'
Monique's lip trembled as she stared at Poullain. It took a moment for what he'd said to sink in. Then she turned sharply away, got up and walked over to the window, her back to them. Her shoulders slumped and she cradled her head in one hand, shaking it slowly. Her jaw line tensed as she fought back the tears.
Jean-Luc stared at his wife's back for a moment, unsure whether to get up and comfort her. There was some awkwardness, some tension between them. In the end he stayed where he was and looked down at the table, smoothing it with one hand. His face was slightly flushed; a mixture of anger at Poullain's news and frustration. He wasn't there to save his son, and now he even felt too impotent to comfort his own wife.
Dominic noticed the muscle's tensing in Jean-Luc's neck and thick forearms as he struggled for fresh resolve. There was silence for a moment. The sound of cicadas from outside was broken only by the crackling of Poullain's radio.
Finally, Jean-Luc commented, 'As my wife said, I'm sure we don't know anyone like that. Christian is a very loving, trusting child - but we know nobody who has taken advantage of that trust, or would do so.'
Poullain grimaced understandingly. 'I'm sorry I had to ask. But as you appreciate, we have to explore every possibility.' As the radio crackled again, Poullain asked Dominic to answer it.
Dominic left the main door open as he crossed the courtyard to the car. It was Harrault from the gendarmerie. He brought Dominic up to date on progress. Three gendarmes had been out calling on shops in Taragnon from 8.30am, and the item appearing in the morning's La Provençal had also attracted some calls. Harrault felt that Poullain should know about one lead in particular. 'Madame Véillan from the charcuterie was driving out towards Ponteves yesterday and saw Gaston Machanaud on his moped, coming out of the lane where we found the boy. It looks like we might have struck gold quickly.'
Dominic knew Machanaud. He was a casual farm labourer who filled in with some local poaching. 'What time was this?
'Just after three. Madame Véillan aimed to be in Ponteves for three-fifteen, so she was quite sure of the time. About fifteen or twenty minutes before the boy was found.'
Dominic confirmed that they would be returning to the station before heading out to see the medical examiner, so they should have time to go through the call notes. Hanging up, he noticed Monique Rosselot still by the window. She had stopped crying and was staring at him resolutely. Large, soulful eyes which seemed to look right through him.
Alain Duclos left the Vallon estate early to buy a morning paper, deciding to head to Brignoles for his morning coffee. He wanted to look through the paper in private, not with Claude or his father looking over his shoulder.
He picked up a copy of La Provençal at a news kiosk close to the cafe, took a seat at one of five outside tables, and folded out the paper. He scanned the front page: Kruschev and the nuclear test ban treaty in Moscow; four dead in floods in Tournin; Marseille warehouse fire, two dead; French Navy aids 6,000 stranded cruise passengers. Nothing there. He felt a twinge of anxiety. A murder should have taken precedence over the warehouse fire - it should have been there. He flicked over the page, and was rapidly scanning page two, when the item caught his eye on page three: BOY SAVAGELY ATTACKED IN TARAGNON.
It was a sixth of a page entry describing the discovery of the boy by a local farm worker and the police questioning of people in the village. Two thirds of the way down, Duclos froze; he had to read the paragraph over again before it sunk in: The boy suffered severe head injuries and is now in hospital. The police and the family are awaiting news from doctors as to the extent of the injuries. The name of the hospital wasn't mentioned. Duclos felt numb and stared blankly at the same par
agraph, the text fading out of focus. He felt suddenly faint, an icy chill gripping him. The boy wasn't dead!
He'd found the lane only three minutes from the restaurant, his resolve re-building on the way. Everything had gone well, except in the final moments he'd been disturbed by the tinkling bells of a shepherd's goat flock being moved into the adjacent field. But he was sure he'd felt the skull crush, the blood spilling out. Another few seconds and he'd have been able to check the pulse in the neck or wrist. Check that...
'Monsieur. What can I get you?'
It took a moment for Duclos to detach himself from the paper and register the waiter's presence. His voice broke slightly as he answered. 'An orange juice, coffee with milk and a croissant.'
The waiter nodded and moved away. Duclos' hands shook as he closed the paper and folded it on the table. How could he have made such a mistake? The boy could have already identified his car; in no time the police could trace it back to Limoges. A few more phone calls and they would know he was on holiday and where he was staying. The police could be at the Vallon estate that same day, they might even be there on his return. He shivered involuntarily, his stomach churning with fear. Suddenly he felt very alone and vulnerable. He couldn't go back to the estate, and he would also have to change his car. Perhaps he would head for Monte Carlo and the Italian border, or the other direction, to Spain. Then what?
He wiped the sweat from his brow. He realized he wasn't thinking rationally. Closing his eyes, he fought to calm his nerves and think clearly. His own breathing seemed louder in the self imposed darkness, his heartbeat pounding a solid tattoo through his head along with the sounds of passing traffic; he had to concentrate to filter any clear thoughts through. A few minutes passed before the faint background shuffle and rattle of the tray of the waiter returning made him look up again. Some ideas had started forming.
As the waiter set down his breakfast, Duclos asked if he had a telephone.
'Yes, at the back of the cafe.' The waiter pointed.
The bar was narrow and busy, and Duclos had to edge and push past the workmen and truck drivers having early morning coffees with brandy and pernod chasers. The large directory on the shelf beneath the phone was the first thing Duclos reached for. He leafed through it rapidly. There were only two hospitals he could think of in Aix en Provence where it was likely the boy could have been taken, and one in Aubagne. The name of the second large hospital in Aix had momentarily escaped him, he had to call out to the barman to be reminded. Duclos took a pen from his shirt pocket and grabbed a serviette from the counter to write on as the barman mouthed the word above the noise of the bar: Montperrin.
Duclos noted the numbers from the directory of the three hospitals on the same serviette, then made his way back to the tables out front. He didn't want to call from the bar - too many people close by who could listen in. He took a quick sip of orange juice and coffee, put down enough money to cover the bill, and left. Turning the corner, he found a phone kiosk. He dialled the Montperrin first.
'I wondered if you could help me. I understand you have a young boy at your hospital by the name of Christian Rosselot. He would have been brought in just yesterday.'
'One moment.' Duclos could hear the flicking of paper. It went on a long time, as if the receptionist was checking twice. Finally, 'I'm sorry, I don't see anyone registered by that name.'
'Thank you,' Duclos called the second Aix-en-Provence hospitals.
'Centre Hospitalier.'
'I'm sorry to trouble you. I understand you have a young boy registered at the hospital, brought in yesterday. Christian Rosselot.'
'And who may I ask is enquiring?'
'He's a friend of my son Michel from school, Michel Bourdin. I wondered what room he might be staying in - we would like to send some flowers and perhaps visit.'
'Ne quittez pas. One moment.'
Duclos was nervous during the wait. He had no idea if she was suspicious or what instructions she was receiving the other end. It was a full minute before she returned.
'The boy is still in intensive care. But when he can be moved, he will be in one of the five private annexe rooms of Benat ward.'
'When will that be?'
'It could be tonight, tomorrow, or even two days or a week from now. He's still in a coma now and can't be moved. Until he's conscious, there are strict instructions in any case for no visitors but family. But if you still want to send some flowers, they'll be put in his room.'
'Yes. Thank you. That's a good idea.'
Duclos felt a twinge of relief as he hung up. But he knew it could be short lived. At any time the boy could regain consciousness and talk. He just couldn't sit back and let that happen.
SEVEN
The light of a single candle reflected against the glass. Monique Rosselot's concerned profile was caught in its glow, looking through the large glass partition towards her son in intensive care. The partition separated the small preparation and observation room, no more than eight foot square, from the main intensive care room. Monique Rosselot sat in one of three chairs close to the glass. She'd been allowed to bring in a candle, only one, and light it as part of her daily bedside vigil, two to three hours each visit.
The attending nurse had been gone for a full minute. Monique decided to go inside the intensive care room. There was no chair, so she knelt at Christian's side.
After a second of studying his features thoughtfully, she reached out and started tracing one finger gently down his face. Memories flooded back of the many times she had stroked his face, of him smiling back at her at bedtime, asking her to read him a story.
His skin had been warmer then, and it felt strange and somehow remote stroking his skin with no response. No smile. No bright eyes turning towards her. She had to be careful as she ran her finger down not to disturb any of the tubes feeding and monitoring. The story read, she would reach out and ruffle his hair. Only now, his head had been shaved clean, his skull marked out for the tests they'd made. Stitches marked a grotesque gash to one side.
Monique closed her eyes and gripped Christian's hand. But it felt even cooler than his face, and suddenly a pang of fear gripped her inside. Oh God, please... please don't let him die! Her eyes scrunched tight at the unthinkable, Christian's prone figure blurred through tears as they slowly opened again.
She tried to push from her mind what had been done to him, the cold hard details from the two visting gendarmes: the sexual assault... the repeated blows which had left him for dead. Her tears had mostly been in private - but then that had reflected how she'd felt almost throughout her vigil. Alone. Jean-Luc had merely absorbed himself more in his farmwork to cope. He'd only visited the hospital once with her.
Now, gripping Christian's small hand in hers, she wouldn't have wanted it any other way. She probably wouldn't have grabbed this moment of intimacy if Jean-Luc had been with her. She'd only done this once before - and then too had felt like a thief sneaking in and stealing something she shouldn't. Stealing a few minutes of intimacy with her son. Perhaps their last...
She shook her head. No! That wasn't going to happen! She would see Christian smile again... feel the warmth of his embrace. She gripped the small hand tighter, willing the message home. Willing Christian to awake.
The candle burning reminded her of birthdays, and she remembered then that it would be Christian's birthday soon - her mind flashing back to past birthdays with him smiling in the glow of the candles. Unwrapping presents expectantly. The Topo Gigio doll. A model car racetrack. His bicycle only last birthday. The house filled with joy and laughter. And suddenly she felt more assured: his coming birthday! Something close and real on which she could focus, could actually picture Christian's presence. 'It's your birthday soon, Christian,' she muttered. 'There'll be some great presents for you. I'll bake a cake. Bigger and better than you've ever seen before.' In her mind's eye, she could imagine Christian looking on with wide eyes and smiling at the oversized cake. And in that brief moment, she felt sure that Christ
ian would awaken, was able to ignore the coldness of the small hand in her grasp. 'We'll all be there...'
'Now let us see what we have here.' Dr Besnard, the Chief Medical Examiner, had a manila folder already opened in front of him, as if he'd been studying it before they entered. A duty nurse ushered Dominic and Poullain to upright seats opposite his large mahogany desk. Poullain knew Besnard from four previous cases, mostly car accidents.
'...Young boy, Christian Yves Rosselot. Ten years old. Eleven on the 4th September - just over two weeks from now. Admitted on 18th August at 4.38 pm.' Besnard flicked forward a page and then back again. In his early fifties, he was bald except for some long wisps of greying brown hair. He cradled his head for a moment, smoothing the wisps across as he looked up again. 'So. The medics recorded arriving on the scene at 4.03 pm. The boy was wearing shorts but no shirt, and he was laying face down, his back exposed. There was blood visible on his head and shoulder, quite thick, obviously from a wound to the head. Some smaller blood spots were noted on the boy's back - from the same wound - and also a blood trail, mostly coagulated, on the boy's inside thigh. This was obviously from a separate wound. The shorts were therefore cut with surgical scissors, and the blood flow was discovered to have come from the rectal passage. The wound was not active, there was no fresh blood, so their efforts were concentrated on the head wound.' Besnard looked up at Poullain periodically, marking off his position in the file with one finger as he glanced at Dominic, as if waiting for his notes to keep pace.
X-rays, complex fractures, haemotomas, somatosensory cortex. The pages of Dominic's notepad were already filled with notes from the surgeon who'd operated on Christian the night before. Medical notes in shorthand were a nightmare. Effectively only the conjoining words could be shortened. Poullain had arranged that Dominic take the notes, then wait on Poullain for the meeting with Besnard. But there had been a spare thirty minutes for Dominic in between.
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