Past Imperfect

by John Matthews

  'Pick up anything interesting?'

  'There's a cheese shop and delicatessen I always visit, on Rue Clemenceau. While there I picked up a few other bits and pieces, some olives and pistachios, some aged brandy to take back for my uncle.'

  Poullain nodded and smiled. 'Once again, thank you, Monsieur Duclos. And sorry for the intrusion.'

  Started with an apology and finished with one, thought Dominic. No surprise tactics, no ambush; the nature of their enquiry explained clearly. Quite a contrast to the tactics used with Machanaud. The only thing Poullain had pushed for was trying to get Duclos to say he'd left the restaurant half an hour earlier. The vital half hour in which the boy was attacked. Perhaps Poullain was going to wait until they'd checked some of the details from Duclos, then hit him harder on a second interview.

  They were led out to the main hallway by Duclos, then the servant re-appeared from the adjoining drawing room and took over.

  Duclos went into the drawing room and watched through the window as they crossed the gravel driveway. Overall, he'd been quite convincing, he thought. Controlled his nerves well. Poullain had been easy to handle, had accepted his account of events readily, was almost apologetic; a true system man, obviously daunted by the association with Vallon. The younger one had looked more surly and doubting, but had stayed silently in the background. A junior with no real power, he would present no problem. There was only one thing left to worry about, but hopefully Chapeau would be visiting the hospital soon, if he hadn't already done so. Screaming, pistoning crescendo, hot white light stabbing his mind as he brought the rock down repeatedly... the tinkle of goat's bells from the next field barely breaking through his frenzy and the gentle sough of wind through the trees...

  A slow exhalation of breath; sudden relief and letting loose the overflow of built up tension. But deep in his stomach the butterfly contortions he'd been fighting to control the past hour finally got the better of him. He headed for the bathroom to be sick.

  Chapeau visited the hospital twice within three hours before a plan started to formulate, the time in between filled in with a leisurely lunch and an afternoon stroll along Aix's Cours Mirabeau.

  The hat he wore was a non-descript brown trilby; a habit acquired from a spell working as a bouncer in a Marseille night club, Borsalino's, where he had to wear a bright, wide brimmed trilby. The hat was a distraction, it covered his tight knit curly hair and could be tilted to shade his discoloured eye; it could only be noticed up close, but it was a strong distinguishing feature. He always wore a hat while working, never when not.

  On the first visit, he'd walked along the second floor corridor twice, then sat on a bench at its end for a while, watching the movements of people back and forth. From viewing a hospital porter a few doors down from 4A exit laden with towels, he guessed it was a store room. He didn't notice the porter open or lock the door, so Chapeau waited for a quiet moment when the corridor was empty, then went to check: eight foot long by three foot wide, one side was stacked with linen, towels, cotton swabs, a bucket with mop in the corner, floor cleaner and bleach. No uniforms.

  The room gave him an idea, the rest of it slotting into place over lunch. He would have to get a uniform, lighter fluid and a syringe. He returned to walk the corridor again, re-checking positions between the store room and 4A, distance from the fire alarm and the main wards. Then he sat down on the bench again, one last run through of the plan in his mind.

  He looked up; the door to room 4A had clicked open. He watched a woman walk out, long dark hair in ringlets, pale beige dress.

  As she lifted her eyes towards him, he leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees while he contemplated his shoes. All she would see was an apparently concerned trilby, waiting for news from one of the nearby rooms. As she went from view, he headed for the stairs and made his exit.

  When they'd gone through best timing, Alain had mentioned that his friend had seen a woman visiting the room - probably a girlfriend or relative of the boy's pimp. Quite a beauty, thought Chapeau; at least partly Arab, but dressed simply and understated, not the gold hoop earrings, heavy make up and high heels of a pimp's girlfriend. So, she was just a 'friend', though probably her main role was as caretaker and guardian for his various boys, as many as twelve or fifteen under the same roof, a surrogate 'aunty'. With pimps mostly male, women invariably took care of the domestics: cooking, cleaning, shopping.

  Over the next few hours he visited three shops in Marseille specializing in hotel and industrial uniforms before finding one close to that of the porters at the hospital. Lighter fluid he picked up at a nearby tobacco shop, the syringe at a pharmacy.

  Now, sitting at a Panier bar, he sipped at a brandy and ran through again the projected sequence in his mind.

  The only thing still to decide was whether he went back that night or waited till the next morning.

  Dominic headed out straight after their meeting with Pierre Bouteille, with Poullain suddenly eager to progress the next stage: alibi verification for all possible suspects, not just Machanaud.

  He made it to the garage near Le Muy by 7.54pm, then made the deduction from the time he passed Café Font du Roux: 68 minutes. That meant that if Duclos had left the café at just after three, he would have been at the garage by 4.08 - 4.10 pm.

  The garage attendant remembered Duclos car, not only because of the rarity of Giulietta Sprints, but because Duclos had asked for an oil change and whether he might make it to Juan-les-Pins by four thirty. 'Impossible. I told him it would take at least forty minutes - he'd be lucky to make it by four fifty. So it must have been about five past four then.'

  Dominic asked if he'd noticed anything unusual, any bloodstains or clothing in disarray - but no on each. Dominic headed off on his bike for Juan-les-Pins.

  The attendant was right. The road was winding for part of the route and it took him 48 minutes. He parked close to the sea front and walked along the promenade, past the pavement artists and makeshift souvenir stands. The promenade was raised so that he was looking over the rooftops of the bars and restaurants tucked in below at beach level.

  As Dominic came to the third set of steps leading down, he saw the sign for the Rififi to the left. Part bar, part restaurant, at nearly 9 o'clock it was busy with diners. The evening air was still hot, so stepping off the bike he'd taken off his leather jacket. Underneath was his white epaulette shirt, and he put his gendarme cap back on. A waiter asked how he could help or did Monsieur wish to dine?

  Dominic explained the purpose of his visit and was shown to the bar to await the owner, a short, stocky man with bushy grey hair in his early fifties who introduced himself as Pierre Malgarin. He looked slightly flustered at the interruption during the busy dining period.

  Dominic explained the background and confirmed that Malgarin knew the Vallons. 'Apparently, they dined here about what, twelve days ago or so?'

  'About that, yes.'

  'Claude Vallon, the son, had a friend with him - an Alain Duclos. Mid twenties, slim, black hair. Did he come in here about six days ago on his own? It would have been late afternoon, about five o'clock.'

  'I don't know. I'm not usually here then, I come in lunch times and evenings. But possibly my head waiter will know.' Malgarin beckoned the waiter who had shown Dominic to the bar. As Malgarin repeated the question, the waiter nodded.

  'Young friend of the Vallons. Yes, I remember him coming in for about half an hour or so five or six days ago.'

  'Do you remember what time it was?'

  'Not really. Just that it was well after lunch time, because we'd cleared up by then. But for all I remember, it could have been any time between four and six-thirty. Maybe Gilbert will know.' He leant across and involved the barman in the conversation, but the barman shrugged.

  'I don't remember exactly. Only what he drank - Campari and lemon. And he asked me if I'd seen a girl: long dark hair, Italian looking, early twenties. She was wearing an orange bikini when he'd seen her on the beach the day before. We
get so many girls, I told him, it was hard to place one just like that. I couldn't remember her.'

  'Did he call into the bar the day before when he saw the girl for the first time?'

  'No. Or at least I don't remember seeing him. Perhaps he saw her from the promenade or from one of the adjoining bars.'

  'Anything unusual about his dress or his manner?'

  'No. Not really. Just that he seemed bothered that he might not see her.'

  Dominic couldn't think of any more immediate questions. In the conversation lull, the waiter excused himself. The owner asked, 'Has that been useful? Would you like to stay for a quick drink - on the house?'

  Dominic was about to decline, then ordered a beer on an afterthought and offered his thanks. Perhaps one of them might remember something else while he waited. He was close to the end of the bar, with only three lines of tables between there and the beach edge. Two sets of large glass windows had been drawn back so that the front of the bar was mostly open onto the beach.

  Dominic sipped at his beer. The sound of gently lapping surf wafted in above the babble of voices and clatter of cutlery. Deep into the bay, Dominic could see the lights of four or five fishing boats; and behind him, from an open air restaurant with a live group by the town square, drifted 'Quando caliente el sol...'

  A sordid investigation with a young boy sexually assaulted and battered? It seemed a million miles from this. Could Duclos really have battered the boy half to death, then come down here and calmly sipped at Campari and lemon while looking for this girl, if she existed? Where had he seen her from the day before? It struck Dominic as a rather convenient underlining of heterosexuality. And if Duclos had been so worried he might miss her, why stop for an oil change and to confirm the time? What was more important: that the attendant remembered him, or to get to see the girl on time?

  But despite the inconsistencies, time would be the deciding factor. And there simply was not enough of it for Duclos to have committed the crime. Even at excessive speeds, he might have had ten or fifteen spare minutes at most. The minimum estimate covering both attacks was forty minutes. Given the background of his debates with Poullain over Machanaud, even mentioning the inconsistencies would be seen by Poullain as obstructive and pointless unless something new came up about Duclos' timing. Dominic wished now he hadn't made the trip; he felt deflated. He had set out in hope of deflecting Poullain's one track case against Machanaud, and instead would be returning with information which would help to further seal his fate.

  Chapeau poured the lighter fluid generously on the cotton sheet, then bundled it into the corner with some other sheets and thick towels.

  He listened for a second to sounds outside on the corridor: nothing audible. It was important that nobody saw him come out of the small store room. Once the sheets were lit, there was no turning back, he would have to exit immediately. The small room would fill with smoke in seconds.

  He lit the sheet and stepped back hastily as the flames leapt. He watched for only a second to ensure the sheets beneath had caught - then exited. The corridor was empty, and he headed past room 4A towards where the corridor angled off at an L, at the end of which was the fire alarm. A few paces past 4A he heard footsteps close to the top of the stairs. He'd been lucky; two seconds more and he'd have been trapped inside the store room. But it was important also that he wasn't seen rushing away from the store room, and he picked up pace - only just making it behind the angle of the L before they reached the top of the stairs.

  The corridor ahead was twenty-five yards long with two doors at its end, three on its right flank and one on the left past a window. The fire alarm was close to the end, just before the two final doors.

  Suddenly, the middle of the three doors on his right opened. A doctor stepped out.

  Merde! From the sound of their footsteps, the people who had come up the stairs were also heading in his direction, just about to turn into the corridor. But there were no cries of alarm, obviously the smoke hadn't yet started seeping through the door.

  Noticing Chapeau hesitate and look around as if he was lost for a moment, the doctor asked, 'Looking for someone?'

  'Dr Durrand,’ Chapeau answered, hastily recalling a name he'd seen on the resident doctors list by the reception. Chapeau fought to control his agitation, appear calm.

  'You won't find him up here, I don't think. First floor, optimology.'

  The two people, an elderly couple heading for a door at the end, passed them. His porter's uniform shouldn't raise suspicions; it was an almost exact match. Optimology? His mind spun, panning frantically for options. His eyes fixed on the number of the furthest door. 'I've just come from optimology, and they said I might find him in 6C.'

  'What's the patient's name?'

  'They didn't say.'

  The doctor shrugged. 'There's nobody in 6C right now. New patient isn't coming in till tonight, and the old patient was moved back to the general ward yesterday.'

  'Okay. I'll try there.' Chapeau headed back the way he'd come. Pacing, calming his breath. He silently cursed: crucial seconds had been lost, and the doctor might later remember him. Behind him, at the end of the corridor, the couple had already disappeared. Calming. The sound of the doctor's footsteps receded beyond his own rapid, shallow breaths. But ahead now, at the angle of the L, he could see the first trails of smoke drifting across, misty grey suffused with stark sunlight from the window. And he begged that the doctor didn't turn around suddenly and see it. He listened intently to the sounds of the doctor’s fading footsteps between his own, a faint shuffle, a door opening... slowly closing. All too slowly.

  Chapeau let out a long breath as it finally shut, then ran the last few steps towards the smoke. A nurse had come out from the general ward at the far end, looking equally startled as she noticed the smoke. Chapeau lifted one arm in acknowledgement and ran back towards the alarm. Halfway along, he heard the plaintive cry of 'Fire!...' from the nurse.

  He took the small brass hammer on a chain at the side of the alarm and swung it sharply, smashing the glass and releasing the alarm button.

  The bell was deafening, echoing from the stark walls and floor. Chapeau ran back swiftly towards the smoke and room 4A. He heard a door open behind him, some muttering, a sudden startled voice - but he didn't look back. As he turned the L and came back into the main corridor, five or six people had come out of their rooms.

  'Is it another fire drill?' someone asked.

  Faint babble of replies, more startled voices rising above, the final realization - as the build up of smoke became evident - that this was the real thing. Sudden mobilization, more people starting to spill out of the rooms, most of them from the large general ward at the end. Some were now heading for the stairs and the five or six quickly grew to over twenty. Panic, confusion.

  Chapeau suddenly felt more secure among the milling crowd; hardly anyone was paying him any attention. He took the syringe from his pocket. The needle was already attached, and he slipped off the plastic protection cap. Room 4A was only a few yards to one side. He tucked the syringe neatly up inside his sleeve, and reached out for the door.

  A quick intake of breath, but he felt confident. His adrenaline was racing because of the fire and activity around, not nerves. The scenario was perfect. It would all be over within a minute.

  It didn't strike him as odd that he'd seen nobody run from 4A until he opened the door wide. No nurse or doctor, nobody in attendance. A split second elation that he'd been lucky and chosen a totally un-guarded moment before realizing - as he looked through the glass screen - that there was no boy either.

  'Shit... Shiiit!' He stood transfixed, staring at the empty space. Around him, pandemonium was building. He was the only person on the second floor not in motion. A steady stream was now heading for the stairs, and a medic with a fire extinguisher was spraying the inside of the store room while a porter rushed for another extinguisher.

  It took a moment for Chapeau to break himself out of his trance and ask som
eone passing where the boy had gone. He'd stopped three nurses before finding someone who knew. 'He was taken into the operating theatre over an hour ago.'

  'Thanks.' Chapeau merged with the throng heading down the stairs. The porter had joined the medic with a second fire extinguisher. They would probably have the fire out within a few minutes.

  In the first floor operating theatre, the alarm bell rang ominously in the background. The Chief Surgeon, Dr Trichot, asked one of the nurses to find out what was wrong.

  She came back in after a moment. 'Fire on the second floor, apparently.'

  'Is it confined to there?'

  'I don't know, I didn't ask.'

  Trichot nodded for his assisting nurse to dab his forehead, and silently cursed. 'Let's assume that there's no immediate danger, or at least someone will come running in when there is, and continue. Please!'

  The assisting nurse took the scalpel from him as he held it out tersely. She thrust a self-retaining retractor into the same hand.

  The boy, Christian Rosselot, had been on the operating table over thirty minutes now, but they'd lost vital time getting X-rays and angiograms and preparing for anaesthetic. In that time, the temporal skull section by the boy's ear had bulged alarmingly with an active clot.

  But two nights ago he'd operated on the boy for a similar clot in the parietal lobe, snatched him within minutes from the jaws of death - and he was determined not to be defeated now. Fire or no fire. The clanging bell was enfuriating, grating at his nerves. It couldn't have come at a worse time. He needed all his concentration at this point. Implements were placed in his hand and taken back without him looking up, the last an electric burr drill. Its high pitched drone lowered as Trichot cut into the bone of the skull.