'No... I didn't meet anyone there. I didn't cross the river there... I... I... there was...' Eyran broke off, swallowing hastily. He looked for a moment as if he was about to say more, but then the thought was lost.
Strike two. Marinella could almost feel Lambourne gloating behind her. When he'd discovered she'd gone behind his back, they'd had their worst argument yet. She said a lot of things she immediately regretted: too staid, limited PLT experience, merely clinging to what he knew for safety's sake, not for the patient. Confirming his conventional status or perhaps his Englishness, Lambourne had been far less personal, kept mainly to patient/counsel ethics: it was his patient, he should have been consulted first, made the main decision. It had been wrong of her to contact Stuart Capel directly to sell her theory.
Fait accompli. The argument about what was already done predictably headed nowhere. She quickly put Lambourne on the spot by asking pointedly where he planned the sessions to head next, then - in the face of a faltering and hesitant reply - rammed in with her own solution. 'If I'm wrong, what have you lost? Two weeks. After that, you've got the patient back to explore what you like.' She wasn't doing this for her health: she already had what she wanted, more than enough to compile a paper. And she'd just been away from her son for a week. 'I need another two weeks away like a hole in the head. I'm only doing this because I strongly believe it will work.'
Gradual teetering with each blow. Lambourne was stuck for an answer. But it was a reluctant submission with a cautionary note. He was still far from convinced about her theory. 'One foot-fault, one hint that you're getting close to an area that might adversely affect my patient - and I'll stop the sessions.'
She could feel Lambourne hovering now. Gloating that he hadn't even needed to intervene. She'd made her own foot fault. The session wasn't heading where she wanted. He'd been right, she'd been wrong.
She suddenly felt the pressure of the small room closing in on her. Lambourne's gloating, Fornier waiting in a squad room in the middle of France for her fax, the ridiculous chess game of secrets they were both playing, Philippe waiting expectantly to translate her next question, her own ambitions... now slipping away again by the second.
She'd followed Dominic's cue to go back to when Christian first met someone, before the boy sensed any danger. But all she'd discovered was that Dominic was right: it probably wasn't Machanaud, unless Christian met him later. Christian hadn't met anyone by the river. But if not there, where?
'When your bike broke down, did you cut across the fields behind the village? Where did you go?'
'I hid my bike in some long grass, then I headed down towards the road.'
'Then where?'
'I started walking along the road towards the village.'
Fornier had mentioned that nobody in the village had seen the boy. 'Did you reach the village. Did you see or meet anyone there?'
'No... a car stopped. A man offered me a lift.'
Marinella controlled her hands from shaking on the keys. The information had in the end come up suddenly, like a mugger in a dark alley. She quickly hid her surprise. Lambourne wouldn't expect the information in itself to be particularly alarming; it was only her, what she knew it would signify to Fornier.
'What sort of car was he driving?'
'It was a sports car. A green sports car.'
'What make was it?'
'I don't remember. The man told me... but I forgot.'
Marinella's hands paused on the keys. Perhaps she would return later. The information was there somewhere. 'And what did the man look like?'
'He was quite thin with dark hair.'
'Was he young or old?' Marinella noted Eyran's brow creasing as Philippe translated. Remembering that to a ten year old everyone seems old, she added: 'Was he younger or older than your father?'
'Younger. At least five years younger.'
'What happened then? Did you drive through the village?'
'No. He offered to drive me back to where the bike had broken down. I told him it was all right - but he insisted. He stopped at the side, turned, and started driving back.'
As Christian described heading back along the road, then them turning into the rough farm track which led to his bike, Marinella tried to imagine herself in the car alongside him. This young boy from over thirty years ago who had less than an hour to live. What did he see or notice that might now help? Faint beads of sweat had broken out on Eyran's top lip. She could sense his nervousness. She asked him what the car was like inside.
'The dashboard was wood, and there was hardly any back seat - just a narrow bench.'
'As you went up the lane, did you see anyone else - even in the distance?'
'No... the field was empty. I pointed where to stop... my bike was... was hidden in the long grass.'
Tension was thick in the small room. Eyran's breathing was laboured, his eyes flickering slightly. Anticipation and fear of what lay ahead starting to grip him harder.
She feared that at any second Lambourne would reach forward and stop her. Knew that if she pushed too hard, pushed Eyran over the edge into a catatonic state - it could be the last session. But the desire to know what happened next was too compelling. Like an incurable gambler, she couldn't resist one last bet, one last question. 'When you reached the bike - what happened?'
'The brake was jammed on the wheel. The man tried to free it - then suddenly he reached out and touched me... then he... he... gripped me... me haaarrd... pulling... I... th.. theerrr'
Marinella could see Christian's panic descending like an express elevator - and went to break him away before Lambourne intervened. But Christian's expression suddenly changed, settling slightly.
'...Theerre was... something... something from before... before we turned into the lane. A truck passed us.'
It took Marinella a second to catch up with the sudden leap. 'Did the driver see you?'
'I don't know... I'm not sure.'
'What did the truck look like? What did it say on the side?'
'It was grey, very long. It had MARSEILLE on the side... and the letters V-A-R... N.'
'Anything else? Can you see anything else?'
'No, just Marseille.... Marseille. I remember going there once with my father. We went to the harbour and watched the fish being landed... the fishermen with their nets...'
Marinella lost Christian at that moment. A day out in Marseille with his father. Bright coloured fishing boats. Bouillabaisse in a harbourside café. A pleasant, rambling story: happy memories again. She was happy of a break in mood from the clawing tension - but frustrated minutes later when, letting the story run its course, she wasn't able to get Christian back again to the lane. The thread had gone.
Quite a move. Christian had shifted to where he knew she would be keen for more information, jumped back a question - then deftly skipped to where he felt more comfortable. His influence over the direction of questions was stronger than she'd given him credit for.
Though twenty minutes later when she faxed the transcript to Dominic Fornier, as pleased as she was with the information gained, it struck her that between weaving around threatening chasms of panic and Christian shifting scenes to suit - it might be the only information they would get.
The transcript had arrived only minutes before and Dominic was scanning frantically down. A short hand-written note from Marinella Calvan was at the front: Breakthrough! You were right - it wasn't the poacher Machanaud. Or at least it doesn't sound like him. Hope it's helpful.
Dominic was eager to get to the part that revealed it wasn't Machanaud - but his attention was wavering. He could see Guidier standing by the door expectantly.
'It's just the report from St Etienne,' Guidier said. 'There's some urgency involved because they already have someone in custody. They've either got to file and charge him quickly or release him. They need the comparison report on car thefts back from us straightaway.'
'…The day your bike broke down. Did you meet someone lower down the river that da
y?'
'No... I didn't meet anyone there. I didn't cross the river there...'
Dominic looked up sharply. Only St Etienne, urgency and custody had registered. 'Yes, yes... I know. I'll deal with it. But I need ten minutes alone. Ten minutes!' Dominic made a pushing gesture with one hand. 'Shut the door behind you and make sure nobody else disturbs me. And no calls.'
Dominic looked straight back to the transcript, his mind screaming where? who? He hardly heard the click as Guidier shut the door, one finger tracing rapidly down the page... Christian walking down the road from where he left his bike - they'd been wrong, he hadn't cut across the fields - until a few lines later the words hit him like a hammer blow: Sports car. Green car. Slim, dark hair. Duclos! Duclos had picked up Christian before he even reached the village!
Dominic closed his eyes for a second. He'd always suspected, though now it struck him that it had never been more than that. He'd buried his suspicion, his doubt, in the instruction and trial process, in the witnesses who said they'd seen Duclos in the restaurant, in the general throng pushing towards Machanaud and away from Duclos. And the thirty years since had buried it still further. Amazing that any glimmer of doubt had survived, he thought sourly. Just enough to occupy his mind for a few minutes every decade. Pathetic. If he'd really believed, had been convinced of Duclos' guilt - then he wouldn't have been so shocked as he read the words, felt suddenly cold and desolate, his stomach sinking still further as he forced his eyes open again and read Christian's description of the car turning and heading back, the rough farm track and him pointing to where his bike was hidden among the long grass, Christian's growing panic as Duclos reached out and touched him...
Or was it his own guilt at staying silent suddenly hitting him? Machanaud's innocence and the long years he'd spent locked away. Until a moment ago that too had been no more than a nagging doubt.
V-A-R-N? Marseille-based truck? Nothing immediately sprung to mind. Dominic read the remaining page of the transcript, then went back, honing in on where Christian was with Duclos, re-reading individual lines for finer detail and small nuances. Then he went back to the beginning of the transcript and read it through for anything else he might have missed.
At length he looked up, rubbing his eyes. The elation that he had something that put Christian in Duclos' car, finally after all these years, rose slowly above the shock and emptiness, and he clung to that, forcing it home stronger, yes! Rapped one hand sharply against the desk, urging himself on. The possible start of a new case where before he had nothing. Something he could send a Prosecutor. He drew on that new energy over the next hours.
Immediately after dealing with the St Etienne enquiry, he tackled the mounting stack of papers from Lepoille at the corner of his desk - Manson, Hurkos, Joseph Chua, Geller, Berkowitz - sifting through the murky depths of murder cases involving psychics. Searching for the few key points that might entice a Prosecutor's interest. By late afternoon, he had finished his notes and put them into a five page covering letter to Henri Corbeix. After background of the original case and trial, much of the letter was exploratory, questioning. Seeking the best way forward, procedural process, what they should look for in the sessions remaining and requisite validation beyond Monique's confirmation and the credentials of Calvan and Lambourne. His reference notes to past cases involving psychics came at the end of the letter, and he attached the relevant files from Lepoille.
Despite the exploratory tone of the letter, it struck Dominic that his underlying aim had still shone through: convincing Corbeix that this most unlikely of cases stood some chance of successful prosecution.
THIRTY-THREE
Limoges, May 1985
Large eyes, full of passion, willing him on. Light hazel with grey flecks. The edges of the dream were less distinct, hazy, but the sensations burned through strongly. Alain Duclos was excited.
The boy was quite young, not yet twelve. It was the boy he'd been with on his last trip to Paris. He couldn't remember his name, only that he was a half Haitian, half French mulatto.
He could see the faint sheen of sweat on the boy's cream brown skin, but the main excitement of the dream was that it was all so tactile - he could feel the sweat, feel its warm moistness as he slid back and forth and the boy looked back at him. Feel the smooth contours of the boy's body, the lean plane of his back, one thumb sliding slowly up the ridge of his spine. Then spreading slowly, out and around the stomach as he leant forward, feeling the warmth of the body tight against him... moving the hands slowly up the boy's rib cage and onto his chest... until he felt... felt something... something was wrong! The chest was too developed, too soft and fleshy. He recoiled suddenly in horror. The boy had breasts!
The boy's smile turned slowly to a leer, and as Duclos looked closer through the haze of the dream, he could see that the hair was not dark and wavy but short and blonde. It was Betina. She'd tricked him!
She slowly pouted and blew him a kiss, but he felt suddenly repulsed. Sweat that smelt now like acid and roses, its stickiness against his skin, her attempt at a look of burning passion little more than leering stupidity... she made him sick. A sour bile rose in his stomach, a sense of utter disgust, and he mouthed 'You tricked me!' as he went to push her away.
But suddenly she was below him and holding tight, looking up with big liquid eyes staring straight through him, not saying anything but silently pleading: 'I want you... I want you. Give me a child!' Gripping tight with her arms and legs wrapped solidly around his back, pulling him closer into an embrace, her tongue darting out and moistening her lips... he couldn't get away. The stickiness of her skin clung all around him, the grip of her arms and legs like some slithering, repulsive reptile... the musty, acrid smell of her sweat, the darting snake's tongue - and he started protesting, screaming: '...No... no... You tricked me! Let me go... let me go... let me...'
Duclos sat up in bed with a jolt, his eyes slowly adjusting in the dark. The sweat felt suddenly cold on his skin. He looked over. Betina was still asleep, he hadn't disturbed her.
I want a child. The first time she'd mentioned it had been almost three years ago. She would be thirty-six next birthday; if they didn't have one or two children by the time she was forty, by then it might be too late. Two? He was still struggling with the unthinkable of one. She'd mis-read his look, fought to be re-assuring. 'I know it hasn't been easy for you with me at times... and mostly my fault because of my past problem. But this is important to me. I'll make an effort, I promise.'
A nightmare come true. He was sick with flu for over two weeks. Probably psychosomatic. But then he had to become more inventive: headaches, allergies, sprained muscles, sudden business trips, stress and overwork... the chain of excuses became laughable, pathetic. She wore him ragged, he virtually broke out in a cold sweat each time she smiled at him approaching bedtime.
But between the various excuses and trips away, miraculously he managed to succumb to sex no more than once every eight to ten weeks. Even then he would fail the occasional performance halfway through, claiming that he was too tense or that he could sense she was nervous, was perhaps trying too hard. At most there would be three or four occasions a year where she could possibly conceive.
But it was probably the worst possible time for the problem to have arisen. The calls from Marc Jaumard had started only ten months before her drastic bid to have a child. Five years with no calls; then one out of nowhere. Duclos could hardly believe it. Only months after Chapeau's death, he'd erased thoughts of any possible repercussions from his mind; felt confident he was free of the problem once and for all. All those years with no blackmail, the first years of happiness with Betina, and now both problems were plaguing him at the same time. Duclos shook his head. It was like some ridiculous cruel joke.
Marc Jaumard didn't have the same abrasive, taunting style of his brother, but on several occasions he'd been drunk, as if he needed Dutch courage before making the call. Duclos didn't want Jaumard calling his office, so gave him his home numbe
r. Often the calls would come through at night, probably after Jaumard had staggered out of some bar, and with him having to subdue his voice and often leaving for an impromptu meeting, Betina had become suspicious.
During one of their failed lovemaking sessions, she'd rolled over furiously and asked him if he was having an affair - who was it that kept phoning? The thought of him in bed with the unkempt, overweight Jaumard, invariably Pernod-breathed, made him laugh out loud. One time when Jaumard woke them up with a 2am call and Betina was staring at him accusingly, he'd thrust the phone out angrily: 'See for yourself. It's just some drunken asshole.'
A second's silence from the other end as Jaumard got over the surprise, then slurringly Jaumard apologized for phoning so late. 'It's jussst... jusst some business with your husband.'
He'd thought the jealousy, her concern that he might be having an affair, could have partly been behind her new amorousness - but removing that worry had made little difference. She was as relentless as ever. Finally, eight months later, she became pregnant. All his efforts had been to no avail. She was now in her fourth month.
The first moment she told him, a cold chill had crept up his spine. His reaction perplexed him at first. He should have been relieved. The ordeal was over. No more bedtime demands. She finally had what she wanted. What had worried him more? His loathing of their having sex or her getting pregnant?
But months later, when she suggested a scan to check that the baby was healthy, he found himself about to protest the idea - before realizing he had no good, rational grounds against a scan. Except one. In that moment, the root of his worry suddenly hit him. He was afraid to know it might be a boy! A girl, fine, and even a boy in those early years. But as it became older, started to remind him of the boys he sneaked off to see in Paris and Marseille, he would feel unsettled. His own son. Those big, innocent eyes staring straight through him... somehow sensing his awful secret. He could hardly think of a worse nightmare.
Past Imperfect Page 40
