He tried several general searches and combinations before giving up. Some areas brought up far too many Caugines for him to search effectively. Stumped for an immediate answer, he went back to some other urgent work he'd pushed aside when Dominic's enquiry came in. Almost another hour had passed before the thought hit him: credit cards! Not current, but any applied for within three years after she had moved. Most credit agencies had a stipulation of the previous address being noted where the current address was less than three years.
He searched 1989, entering Caugine and Dourennes, the name of their previous street in La Rochelle as key words. Bingo! Seven choices, mostly Paris, only one in La Rochelle. Jocelyn Caugine had applied for a store card in Arcachon, south of Bordeaux. Two more key strokes and he was able to call up her full details and identity card number. He checked her current cashing address for her pension in case she'd moved, then called Dominic.
It took Dominic over two hours to finally get Jocelyn Caugine on the phone. When he first called, he was informed by another woman with the same surname, Josette Caugine, presumably her daughter, that she was out shopping, 'Shouldn't be too long.' The murder case of the decade on hold while this little old lady picked up courgettes and cat food at the local Continentale, Dominic mused. He left his name purely as Fornier, no inspector. Didn't want to frighten her off. He'd call later.
The second call Jocelyn Caugine answered directly. This time Dominic introduced himself with his full title. She sounded quite alert, attentive, showed no hesitance with recall. Yes, she remembered the car quite well. 'We often used to drive in it from St Julien to La Rochelle, particularly at the weekends.' Then her voice wavered slightly, sounding concerned. 'We're not in some sort of trouble, are we?' The 'we' as if her husband was still there to partly shoulder responsibility.
'No, no... not at all. You or your husband have done nothing wrong. But it is nevertheless a very important investigation we're conducting, and any assistance you can offer could be vital.'
'I see. Certainly... in any way I can help.'
The perkiness was back in her voice. A little old lady helping out on a Maigret-style enquiry. Probably the most excitement she'd had all year. 'I want you to remember back, Madame Caugine. Back to when your husband had the car. Do you ever remember him mentioning finding a coin in the car?'
'A coin?'
Dominic let the silence ride a second. Her tone was mostly rhetorical, self-prompting. She was thinking. 'Yes, a silver coin from Italy.'
'From Italy, you say? Not some French money left there?' She queried. A quick mumbled 'no' from Dominic. 'Was it particularly valuable?'
'No, not particularly. But as I say, it's very significant to a case we're handling now.'
'I don't know... I don't seem to recall anything.'
Dominic could almost feel her at the other end grappling through the years, straining for memories out of reach. He sensed that she wanted to help. He prompted: 'It was quite a large silver coin. Twenty lire, 1928. Do you remember your husband finding anything unusual in the car boot?'
Brief silence as Madame Caugine thought deeper, then a sigh. 'I'm sorry. No... I just can't think of anything. I haven't been much help, have I?'
Dominic felt the first twinge of alarm. It was slipping away. But how likely was it that her husband hadn't changed a wheel in three years? He was sure that the memory could be drawn out if he hit the right chord. 'Your husband would have probably only seen the coin when he changed the car wheel. Do you remember him changing the wheel at any time?'
'Yes... yes. I do.' Faint hope returning to her voice.
'When was that?'
'We were on the way to Paris to see his brother. We got a flat tyre on the way there.'
'Did your husband mention seeing anything in the car boot when he took the new wheel out?'
'No...'
'Or over the next few hours or days?'
'No, not that I recall.'
'Was it in the daytime? Was the light good?' Dominic could almost hear the clinging desperation in his own voice.
'Yes - it was mid-afternoon.'
Dominic's mind spun desperately through the other options. 'And do you remember your husband mentioning changing a wheel while he was on his own?'
'Not that I remember. No... I'm sorry.'
'... Perhaps when he changed the wheel that second time, he might have mentioned something. Perhaps doing it before, seeing something unusual?'
'No... nothing I'm afraid. As I said, I really can't recall my husband mentioning anything like that.'
Her voice was once again flustered, now with just a hint of defence. Dominic felt guilty: an image of him pinning the old lady back with increasing interrogation. He eased off. 'I'm sorry, yes. You did mention it already.' Dominic looked up: people busy on the phone, keyboards clattering, someone scanning the new roster on the notice board. Dominic's gaze cannoned frantically around the squad room in search of inspiration for what he might say next. But there was nowhere left to go. He'd covered everything. 'Perhaps you might recall something later.' Stock phrase, his mind was still desperately panning in case there was something he'd overlooked. Nothing. Nothing. He left his number.
'If I do remember anything - I certainly will, inspector.'
Dominic thanked her and rang off. But he knew she probably wouldn't ring, was just being polite. She'd had perfect recall of the wheel being changed; if the coin had been mentioned, she would have remembered. Maurice Caugine hadn't seen the coin. It was all over.
Dominic stayed late just in case she called, packed up finally at almost 8 pm. But as he suspected, nothing. It was already dark as he headed out, the spring night air fresh. His shoulders were slumped in defeat, though in a way he also felt strangely relieved. The past two weeks had brought his nerves to the very edge. He'd hardly slept a full night since hearing the first tape. A nightmare of juggling psychiatrists, transcripts, police and court files with the ghosts of his family's past that he should have known at the outset was best left alone. He let out a deep breath, felt it all suddenly washing away from him. It was over. A stiff brandy, then he could mentally file it along with the other deep and bitter experiences through the years. His life could go back to how it was before Marinella Calvan had called.
The phone was ringing as Duclos walked in the house. No lights were on. He flicked on the hallway and lounge switches on the way to picking it up.
'Oh, it's you.' Jaumard. The disappointment came through in Duclos' voice. 'I was expecting a call from somebody else.'
'Anything important?'
'Yes - I'm waiting urgently on a call from the hospital. I don't have time to talk now.'
'What's happened?'
'It's my-' Duclos stopped himself. He didn't want to share the accident saga with Jaumard. Curtailed version: '-my wife. She's premature. There's been complications.'
'I didn't even know she was pregnant.'
'You wouldn't. It's none of your business.' Flat tone, impatient.
'Isss't a boy or a girl?'
Duclos cringed; he wished now he hadn't said anything. 'Boy.' He could pick up Jaumard's slurring. As usual he had downed a few stiff ones before phoning. 'I must go. Keep the line-'
'That's good. You like boys, don't you? Well, I hope mother and son are both fffine.'
Duclos' jaw set tight. Was this just standard drunken, oafish Jaumard, or some attempt at his brother's line in acid banter? He felt like leaping down the phone and battering out what few brains Jaumard had left. He should have had him killed years ago, taken him out the same way as his brother. Except that he was sure, brainless or not, Jaumard had taken a leaf out of his brother's book and left a similar insurance letter with a lawyer somewhere. 'Look, as I said. I don't have time to-'
'I know. Sssorry. I only called now because I'm shipping out in a few days.'
Always the same, thought Duclos. Jaumard would hit him for some money just before a voyage. The only compensation was that he wouldn't hear from him again fo
r six months, a year. 'I see. Call me tomorrow night when you're sober. We'll make the arrangements then.'
'What's his name?'
'Eynard. Justin Eynard.'
The name meant nothing to Dominic. The world of Parisian vice was strange to him. His two years at Interpol in Paris had been devoted to international cases. Marseille would have been more familiar territory, but nothing had come up through Bennacer. Only this one lead now from Deleauvre in Paris.
'What's his background?'
'Started off with girlie bars, then later a couple of sex accessory and video shops with under the counter material, a lot of it paedophile magazines and videos. Then finally he opens up a gay disco. But a lot of the boys there are under age, fourteen, fifteen - sat in dark corner booths heavily made up so that you would hardly know. And if you approach the barman and comment that they 'look a bit old', he'll give you an address. Eyrnard would run a 'discreet' house nearby. He also started supplying some of his kids to paedophile porn makers.'
'So, what have we got on him?'
'We're close to nailing him through one of his men. A recent bust on a paedophile porn ring has led back to Eynard. Their contact, Ricauve, spends a lot of time in Eynard's disco. Says that he's not only seen Duclos there, but seen him go off with one of the barmen who normally escorts clients to their nearby 'house'. We're cutting a deal with Ricauve for information, so we should be able to land on Eynard like a ton of bricks. He's got a lot to lose, so we're pretty sure he'll roll over and finger Duclos.'
'Sounds encouraging.' Dominic could feel his enthusiasm returning. After the disappointment of the coin, some hope. Duclos gets away with murder, but they nail him for molesting under-age boys. Drag him through the system, ruin his career, anything from a two to four year sentence. It was something at least. 'Let me know how the Ricauve interview goes.'
Dominic signed off. Lepoille had also tried to pep him up, suggesting that it was worthwhile tracking down the car owner after Caugine. He'd get on it right away. Dominic wasn't hopeful. The coin not discovered until almost four years later? Escaping the notice of both Duclos and Caugine. Unlikely.
But the strongest encouragement had come from Monique the night before. 'If you really believe in this, so strongly in fact that it's haunted you for over thirty years - how can you give up now?'
Dominic's single brandy after work had turned into three. It took a while for Monique's comments to cut through his despondency. 'Perhaps I'm just tired,' he offered lamely.
Or was it their sudden reversal of roles from the night before which had thrown him. Except for his complicity over the car sighting, he'd told her everything - his doubts about Machanaud, his suspicion of Duclos, how he had just gone along with the investigative flow, Machanaud's long prison sentence. He hadn't mentioned anything through the years because it would have underlined that Jean-Luc's suicide had been in vain. Too painful. Besides, it was just a suspicion. Even when he saw the possibility of gaining fresh evidence through the sessions, the same reasons prevailed, and he was also sceptical that anything tangible would materialize. 'Again, there was no point in upsetting you if it was all to come to nothing.' Until the coin. The first moment he realized he had a chance of proving something against Duclos.
Shadows returning, shifting clouds in her eyes: doubt, disbelief, slow acceptance. Sensing her mood - that in a few short sentences he'd torn down so many of her long held beliefs about the crime and Jean-Luc's suicide, compacted now by doubts about the openness of their own relationship, the secrets harboured over so many years - he felt the need to be dramatic: 'It's almost as if Christian is guiding us through this other boy. Giving us the clues to track his killer.'
'Yes, uncanny Dominic. Uncanny.' She was silent for a long while. She asked a few mechanical questions about the procedure and the state of play, then went to bed soon after. Her mood was sullen, thoughtful; little indication of how she felt. He was sure it still hadn't fully hit her.
But when the night following his mood was grey and he felt the case was at a dead end, she threw it all back in his face: 'So Christian's voice is guiding you, as if it's all somehow ordained. Meant to be. But now you're telling me it's impossible. I've never accepted what happened, Dominic. But at least I've been able to come to terms with the justice, such as it was. Jean-Luc was never able to do even that. And suddenly everything that happened then is meant to be wrong. You've harboured the doubts for thirty years - but you tell me just the other day. Then the very next you tell me it's all over. You've hit a dead end. "The possibility of justice I mentioned the other day - forget it." No, Dominic. It's not going to end like that.'
Dominic stressed the legal complexities of the case, mostly stock lines repeated from Corbeix: that psychic evidence presented in court was virtually non-existent in France; without tangible evidence corroborated by a third party they were lost; despite the accuracy of the tapes and transcripts and Calvan's credentials, they just wouldn't stand up in court on their own.
Monique's eyes darted frantically as he spoke: 'But there must be something, something!'
To her this new situation was just one day old, he realized: she was invigorated by its freshness. To him it was the end of a thirty year trail. She had no idea how tired he felt. He told her of the few weak options remaining.
She'd knelt in front of him, her arms on his thighs, her eyes imploring him. 'If that's all that's left, Dominic, then grasp it with both hands. Chase the next car owner, however remote the possibility. And if you fail, go for whatever remains: try and prove Duclos' background with young boys, drag him through the courts, ruin his career. Do whatever you can. You've waited thirty years - don't give up now!'
First thing Dominic called Bennacer, Deleauvre and Lepoille. Things were starting to move again.
But just before four o’clock, Lepoille called with bad news: the car owner after Caugine was dead. 'He was a bachelor when he bought the car, didn't marry till much later, and his wife's dead now too. There's a sister he shared an address with for a while - though two years before he even bought the car. I don't think she'll be much use.'
Hardly any numbness this time; with the events of the day before, he'd already half accepted that all chances of prosecuting Duclos for murder were gone.
Two days later, Deleauvre called to tell him that their initial visit to pressure Eynard hadn't gone well. 'He was very cagey, defensive, didn't want to say anything without his lawyer present. We've arranged another 'unofficial' meeting in one of his clubs with his lawyer present. But getting him to roll over for a deal might not be as easy as we first thought. Depends how his lawyer reacts.'
Dominic had visions of even this last hope with Duclos slipping through his grasp.
Dominic's spirits were still at a low ebb three hours later when the call came through. The desk sergeant announced a woman and 'something about a coin'. Dominic's first thought was Lepoille tracking down the second owner's sister.
It was Jocelyn Caugine. 'Sorry to trouble you, inspector. But I did remember something. I don't know whether it's useful or not. My husband bought the car from a garage near Limoges - they apparently did some sort of trade-in with the previous owner. Perhaps they changed the wheel and saw the coin you mentioned.'
Dominic felt his spirits soar. 'Do you remember the name of the garage?'
'Something-beau. I can't remember exactly. But it's the only garage for quite a while: about four kilometres out of Limoges on the St Julien road. Left hand side as you approach Limoges.'
'Madame Caugine - you're marvellous. Marvellous!'
'Well - I just hope it's useful.' Slightly flustered by his enthusiasm.
Useful? Dominic smiled incredulously. He wanted to hug Jocelyn Caugine until her cheeks flushed purple.
Dominic ordered the biggest food hamper he could find - cognac, champagne, select cheeses and patés, truffles and chocolates - and had it messengered to Jocelyn Caugine with a note: From your favourite Inspector. Then he phoned Lepoille.
; THIRTY-SIX
The TGV train hurtled across the flat plain of the Sologne.
Three names left to trace. Dominic called Lepoille on his mobile. 'Anything yet?'
'Just bringing it up... here we are...' The sound of Lepoille's fingers on the keyboard. 'One more found so far. Still alive. Limoges address... and, yes, a telephone number.' Lepoille read it out, enunciating clearly so that Dominic could hear above the noise of the train. 'Nothing as yet on the other two I don't think...' Lepoille's voice drifted as he swung away, calling out across the room, some mumbled background conversation, faint echoing clatter of the computer room imposing...
...The room where Dominic had spent so much time the past two days: late evenings, endless chains of coffees in plastic cups, looking expectantly over Lepoille's shoulder while he waited for the next Internet or ASF link, instructions bouncing across the room as quick as the key strokes between Lepoille and his two team helpers, and then finally the names and telephone numbers...
Lepoille was back. '... Nothing yet. Found a relative on one, but nothing more. We'll phone as soon as we get something. What time will you get there?'
Dominic calculated: just over an hour more to Paris, then the connection to Rouen. 'About six o'clock.' He could have shaved fifty minutes by flying, but it was vital he maintain contact by phone throughout.
Dominic called the new number straight after signing off from Lepoille. It was engaged.
Past Imperfect Page 44
