'I don't know.' Marinella was thoughtful. Then suddenly she smiled. 'You should worry. If it's all a scam, at least your patient's not ill. Misguided by some inventive, headline seeking weirdo godparents, perhaps - but not psychologically disturbed.'
Lambourne grimaced meekly. 'Except one problem. I happen to believe the boy. And I'm fully committed to trying to help him through this problem.'
Marinella nodded slowly. 'For what it's worth - I believe him too. Despite how it might all end up looking to the sceptics.'
While the mood was right, Lambourne tried to buoy her spirits. Assured her that her concern about critics was both premature and probably unfounded. The weight of evidence both from his own sessions and the initial report from Dr Torrens. A lot of people to all be wrong. 'What did the Capels do - fake the accident and the coma as well?' The statistics would probably also stack up on her side. 'How many regressions have you experienced before where people have been murdered?'
'Only one. Victim of a carpetbaggers raid just after the American Civil war. No records. But I believe Donaldson has had one or two cases.'
'I bet if you check the records, you'll find that regressions involving murder reflect almost exactly its incidence in real life compared with other forms of death. One in five hundred, one in a thousand - whatever.'
Marinella knew that previous studies had shown that regressions accurately reflected real life: 51% women, 49% men, regardless of the sex of the subject, most from meagre or mundane backgrounds, very few rich or notable figures. She didn't recall any specific studies for murder victims.
'And most murders since the turn of the century would have hit the press, so it's not that unusual.' Lambourne raised an eyebrow. 'Have you ever heard of or read the East Kent Gazette. Or perhaps a Mexican newspaper?'
'No.'
'Well, the Capels would have had just about as much chance of seeing provincial newspapers from the South of France. And from thirty years ago - forget it!'
'But it might have also been in Le Monde, perhaps even smaller items in the British press. And then there's the possibility of books compiling various murder cases through the years.'
'For Le Monde you'll have to wait on news from Philippe. But the rest you could check yourself. There's a good library not far away on Chancery Lane. In a couple of hours, you could have done a full search.'
Marinella bit lightly at her lip. 'It's not just for them - it's also convincing myself. Building back the confidence and enthusiasm to continue.'
Lambourne wasn't sure whether he'd convinced her or not. When he went into his next session, she was still there: perhaps waiting for Philippe's call, perhaps still balancing everything out in her mind.
Though when he came out of the session, she was gone. Two hours later, just twenty minutes after Philippe had called and left a message, she phoned from the library.
'You were right - there's nothing in the British press. I've searched everything.' The enthusiasm was back in her voice. 'I'm just checking through books now. I'll know for sure in an hour or so.'
Lambourne gave her the message that Philippe had called and Marinella asked if he had mentioned Le Monde. 'No, he just left his number.'
'Okay, thanks. I'll call him.' She rang off abruptly.
Lambourne didn't see her again until early evening. She was in high spirits and brought him up to date quickly: Le Monde did have an entry, but it was only five lines on page twelve the day after the attack and mentioned only the boy's name and the village. No parents' names, no trimmings. 'The boy was alive apparently for five days after that and his later death didn't appear in Le Monde. Three articles in La Provencal, one large, two small. And nothing at all in the British press or books.'
'You look relieved.'
'I'm ecstatic. I'm also starving - let's go eat.'
Over dinner, David could hardly keep pace. This was the Marinella he remembered: confident, optimistic, energetic, eyes sparkling. He felt glad now that he'd calmed her earlier doubts. Though as she talked about the remaining steps ahead of finding the Rosselots or close past friends who could corroborate Eyran's account as Christian Rosselot, he felt the first pang of uncertainty.
Marinella was talking as if she was suddenly on an open freeway, had been lost for a while on some annoying side road, but now was full speed ahead, not an obstacle in sight. And he began to worry that he might have fired her up too much, that if she suddenly hit an obstacle and was deflated again, he'd feel partly responsible. Having rekindled her enthusiasm, if in a few sessions time he decided that continuing regressions were not in his patient's interests, it would seem heartless to suddenly pull the plug.
That enthusiasm carried Marinella through the next two days. The first stumbling block was that the Rosselots could no longer be traced in the area. One of the town hall clerks recommended Philippe to the Bauriac gendarmerie. 'They conducted much of the investigation and someone there might know.' Philippe could only find one person at the gendarmerie who remembered the investigation, Captain Levacher. While Levacher personally had no knowledge of the Rosselots or their current whereabouts, he had another number for someone who might be able to help. 'Dominic Fornier, he assisted in the investigation thirty years ago.' He had a number also for Captain Poullain who headed the investigation, but Levacher explained why he thought Dominic Fornier might be more useful. 'Here it is, National Police, Panier district, Marseille. 1974. That's the last number we have for him.'
Philippe phoned the number and they gave him another number for a division in West Marseille. The people in West Marseille were more circumspect and gave no information, merely asked his name, logged his call, and promised that someone would call back. Philippe didn't get the return call until the next morning, a girl named Therése giving him a number in Lyon. Philippe phoned to be informed: 'Chief Inspector Fornier is in a meeting right now. He'll be free probably about midday.'
Philippe brought Marinella up to date straightaway.
She checked her watch: 9.20am. France was an hour ahead, so Philippe planned to try again in almost two hours. 'Great. I'll be sitting by the phone waiting for news.'
Two more hours and they could hopefully piece together Christian Rosselot's life. But along with the excitement, she suddenly felt restless, ill at ease. The last days of research and Philippe's paper chase across France had obviously told on her nerves. Though as she tried to settle the rising butterflies in her stomach, it struck her that it might also be something else: the portent of possible failure was suddenly there once again. Only two hours away.
TWENTY-FIVE
8th December, 1978
'What is this - hit man of the year nomination list?'
'Close. It's the suspect list for the Bar du Telephone killings.' Duclos watched Brossard's expression keenly as he scanned down and saw his own name on the list. Hardly a flicker of recognition. 'You know what this means?'
'Yes, it means the police are going to waste their valuable time with nine suspects - and I'm one of them.'
'It also means that your life will be difficult for the next month or so. You'll be watched, perhaps brought in for questioning whenever it suits the police. Your life will be disrupted - and it will be bad for business. People won't go near you for a while with contracts.'
'Except one thing. I'm the only one on the list for whom the police have no firm identity. Just a vague photo-kit and an alias I once used. They won't know where to start.'
Duclos nodded. He knew the history. It was partly why he thought Brossard would be ideal. It had taken him almost a week to set up the meeting through François Vacharet. It was over three years since his last visit to Vacharet's, not long after the death of his father. Vacharet had been keen to offer him a new boy from Martinique, but Duclos had wanted to get straight down to business. He showed Vacharet the same list and asked him to pick out the ones he knew. Vacharet came up with three names. 'Forget Tomas Jaumard,' Duclos prompted.' He didn't explain why: that he'd had an association with Jaumard th
rough his father, Emile Vacharet. 'Of the other two, which would you recommend?'
The quick biography sounded ideal: early thirties, no arrests or convictions, master of disguises, little or nothing on police files except an identikit picture, description and modus operandi: Brossard invariably wore different wigs and glasses to change his appearance. The supposition was therefore that his normal hair style was short. Eugene Brossard was a false name from a door buzzer tag for a flat Brossard had vacated two days before a police raid. He was always one step ahead.
Duclos was sure the Brossard before him was also heavily disguised: thick blonde wig cut in Beatles style, rounded glasses with a mottled burgundy frame. He looked like a David Hockney caricature.
The only thing which had initially made Brossard uncomfortable was the tape recorder running. Duclos explained why: that any minute he was going to offer Brossard F100,000 to have someone killed. The reason for the hit was the blackmailing of a close friend. Duclos wanted to be sure that the blackmail wasn't repeated, so the tape would serve as an insurance policy - for both of them. 'Now that I've admitted a dark secret, it's your turn. Tell me about one of your hits.'
Brossard laughed at the suggestion at first, but Duclos was insistent. 'The tape will never go out of my possession; after all, it would incriminate me as much as you. What have you got to lose? If you don't want to do it, fine. Me and my hundred thousand will walk out of the room.'
Duclos listened as Brossard described in bland monotones the murder of a Chief Planning Regulator in Nice three years previous. Duclos remembered the case: a planning officer implicated in a milieu bribes scandal. The milieu got to him before the State Procureur. He couldn't help wondering why Brossard had chosen this particular story. Was it partly a warning not to misuse the tape? I've already killed one government official. Fuck with me and one more won't make that much difference.
Brossard stared coldly at Duclos. Duclos could hardly see his eyes behind the dark glasses except when he blinked. Duclos felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. He hadn't felt this uncomfortable in someone's presence since... since.
The memory of his palm sweating on the gun butt was still vivid, lifting it, so slowly... the birds suddenly alighting from a nearby tree, making Chapeau look up. He feared for a minute that Chapeau had seen the gun - had thrust it quickly back in his pocket. In the last seconds of their meeting, that fear had stayed with him, that Chapeau would suddenly wheel around, level his gun and fire. He stayed vigilant as Chapeau walked away, but the moment to take the initiative had gone. He said lamely that he wanted to stay in the lane for a bit more fresh air as Chapeau drove off. Truth was, he was shaking too much to be able to drive. Almost as soon as Chapeau had disappeared from view, he was physically sick. He couldn't face going through that again. It had taken him another eighteen months of suffering Chapeau's blackmail and insults even to be able to summon up the courage to arrange this meeting.
But despite the precautions, looking at Brossard's lips curled in a slight smile at his description of murder, his deeply hooded eyes blinking behind dark glasses - he couldn't help fearing that he might just be replacing one nightmare with another. The room they were in smelt of pine disinfectant fighting hard to disguise the odour of musky bed linen and bad plumbing. A seedy back street hotel which Vacharet had recommended where clients took hookers. 30 Francs to a cleaning lady for a room for an hour, no questions asked. She'd just raised an eyebrow and grunted at the sight of two men entering, one wearing a strange blonde wig. Duclos was eager to get out.
Brossard looked back at the list. 'So is the hundred thousand supposed to make me feel better about having my name on this list?'
'By the time you get the hundred thousand, hopefully your name won't be on the list. I'm paying Vacharet another fifty thousand to spread the right noises in the right places that you were in a friend's restaurant the night of the attack. It happened too early for you to be in one of his clubs. Within a few weeks it should spread on the milieu network and hopefully your name will come off the list.'
Brossard's eyes flickered. He was impressed. Client's plans were normally clumsy; most planning had to come from his own quarter to compensate. 'So who is it you want hit, and when?'
'That's another reason for the list. He's there, sixth name down. You probably know him: Tomas Jaumard.'
Brossard's eyes flickered more rapidly. Hopefully he'd disguised his initial flinch. Tomas Jaumard, alias Chapeau. One of the old reliable milieu die hards. It wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to have Jaumard killed. Of the last two hired guns sent, one died instantly with a bullet through the head, the other was shot in the stomach and groin and spent four hours with surgeons piecing together what was left of his manhood. Jaumard escaped from the fray with only a shoulder wound. ‘Jaumard is a high risk target. For that type of hit, it will cost more. It's not worth doing under F150,000.'
Duclos stared back. 'Is that because of allegiances, possibly upsetting others within the milieu.'
'No. I take work from the milieu strictly as an independent - I owe no allegiances on any side. It's because of the extra risk. Jaumard is one of the few men on this list I have some professional respect for. It will take more to set up.'
Duclos nodded. Strong allegiances with the milieu had been the one remaining area to concern him. Brossard asked where and when.
'Two months, give some time for your name to come off this list,' said Duclos. 'So you're not quite so hot. The where is up to you. Set it up the way you want.'
They made the final arrangements and set the time for their next meeting. By then Brossard would have the outline of a plan and Duclos would give him the first payment. Brossard left the room first and asked Duclos not to leave for at least a few minutes after. Duclos assumed it was part of Brossard's obsession with protecting his identity, but Brossard offered no explanation.
Walking down the corridor, Brossard thought: a total of F200,000 to drop Jaumard including the payment to Vacharet, and the client had hardly blinked. Almost twice what he'd been paid to hit the Nice city planner. Jaumard had obviously stepped on some important toes. Poor old Chapeau. A sly smile crossed Brossard's face after a moment. At least it was nice to know people in his profession were so highly valued. More than a City Planner. He could think of worse tombstone epitaphs.
Alone in the dank room, Duclos started to feel uncomfortable after only a minute. A sudden shiver of desolation that reminded him just how far he'd sunk to be rid of Chapeau. He packed up the tape recorder and left the room.
Marseille. 10th January, 1979
'We're jamming... we're jammin' till the jammin's through... wer' jammin'. To think that jammin' was a thing of the past... wer' jammin'. And I hope this jammin's goin' to last...'
The motorbike messenger bopped with the rhythm of the music on his walkman as he got off his bike, kicked it on its stand and entered the café. The package he was carrying was his arm’s length and half as wide. The café was almost an exact ten metre square. There were about fourteen or fifteen people inside, four at the bar and the rest scattered at tables. The messenger's eyes behind dark motorcycle goggles scanned the room quickly. He could see the two people he expected in the far corner, but didn't dwell - his attention shifted quickly to the approaching barman. He lifted out his earpiece.
'Monsieur Charot?'
The barman pulled a face and shrugged.
The messenger tilted the package and read from the label. 'Monsieur Charot. Thirty-eight, Rue Baussenque.'
Puzzlement from the barman. 'The address is right, but I don't know a Charot. Let me check with my wife.' The barman disappeared behind a bead curtain at the end of the bar.
Brossard put back the earpiece. Behind the motorcycle goggles, he let his eyes scan slowly across again. He was interested only in one position - the table in the corner with Chapeau and Marichel, the local pimp he'd paid to set things up. He wanted it to look like a casual surveillance. The bored messenger waiting to see if he
had the right address, head bobbing lightly to the rhythm on his walkman, fingers tapping on the package.
'... We all defend the right that your children must unite... life is worth much more than gold. Wer jammin'... jammin'...'
The barman was back by the bead curtain, now with his wife. The barman pointed, his wife shrugged and returned to the back. As the barman returned, in the corner of his eye Brossard could tell that Marichel was looking over briefly. Don't look! Brossard silently screamed. Just let me blend in, don't bring Chapeau's attention to me.
He'd made the arrangements with Marichel just the week before. Ten thousand francs to set up the meeting with Chapeau, act as if he was a go-between for a hit contract. Brossard had given Marichel all the details, had practically written the script for him. With a contract on offer, what better way to guarantee Chapeau's attention. But Marichel was probably watching for the timing of the package being opened, the moment he would have to suddenly jump aside.
Brossard swivelled back the earpiece until it rested on his neck. The barman was explaining that his wife didn't know the name either. Brossard pointed to the corner and asked if he could use the phone. 'Check back with my office to see what happened.'
The barman nodded, turned to the end of the bar by the door to serve another customer.
With the package under his arm, Brossard went towards the pay phone on the wall. It was almost directly opposite Chapeau and Marichel's table. He noticed Chapeau look up as he started across, but he couldn't tell if Chapeau's gaze had stayed with him as he approached the phone - couldn't risk turning or glancing back to see.
He started to worry: was there something in his disguise that didn't fit? Some small detail that Chapeau might have picked up on. He'd tried on several long curly wigs, but most were too bushy to fit comfortably under a crash helmet. Finally he found one that was slightly flatter on top with ringlet curls starting further down, spilling out of the base of the helmet and onto his shoulders. Just another rockin' messenger with some sounds to blot out the drone of city traffic.
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