Lambourne was pleased with progress so far. Eyran was quite bright and more open and communicative than he'd at first feared. His recall of detail in the dreams strong under hypnosis. But Stuart was right: the smiles were rare. Apart from the dreams, perhaps the only outward sign that Eyran was deeply disturbed.
But the dreams were becoming more of a refuge where Eyran could believe his parents were alive. Jojo was also becoming bolder - in two recent dreams introducing Eyran's father again to maintain the illusion. Lambourne was convinced it was only a matter of time before Jojo crossed over. Eyran would awake one day to find Jojo's voice still with him. From there, his own core character - and everyone in the outside world telling him his parents were dead - would regress, and Jojo would gain dominance.
The only way was to confront Jojo now, drag him from the dark recesses of Eyran's dreams and strip him bare, let Eyran face the truth, accept: his parents were dead. Only then would he be able to start mourning, adjust to whatever his new life held without them.
But it wouldn't be easy, Lambourne reflected. His nerves were still rattled from the session just past. Like Faust with the devil, he could find himself trading all the way through: a truth for a nightmare.
TWELVE
The news that Christian Rosselot had died reached the Bauriac gendarmerie mid-morning.
The call came from Dr Besnard, the Chief Medical Examiner at the hospital. Poullain wasn't there at the time, so Harrault took the message. Dr Trichot had fought hard to save the boy, but oedema from an active clot caused unforeseen complications. After more than two hours in the operating theatre and three attempts to re-start the boy's heart, all procedures were finally terminated at 10.52am, and the boy pronounced dead. 'Could you please try and make arrangements to inform his mother straight away, as she normally plans a hospital visit for the afternoon. Thank you. And I'm so sorry to have to bring this news.'
Harrault was in the small room directly behind the main entrance desk. He fell silent as he put down the phone. It was a moment before he got up and looked for Fornier who, as the main assisting investigator, was the first person he felt should know. Fornier was in the general administration office typing. In the same room was Levacher and a secretary.
After confirming some details of the call, Dominic looked down thoughtfully at his typewriter. He exhaled audibly; suddenly his body lacked any strength to punch the black metal keys. Levacher mumbled the obvious about how awful it was, then after a brief pause asked who was going to tell the family. When no answers came, everyone wrapped in their own thoughts, he added, 'I suppose we'll have to wait for Poullain to decide.'
And the secretary, who had stopped typing at the same time, felt she had her emotions under control until the silence and constrained atmosphere suddenly got the better of her and, shielding part of her face, she hurriedly left the room.
Hushed voices in the corridor, questions, muted surprise then finally, again, silence. The pall spread through the small gendarmerie as if by osmosis; whispers of death seeping through the cream plaster walls.
Within five minutes, the full complement of nine gendarmes and two secretaries on duty knew. From there, it started spreading through the town. A young sergeant went out to buy some cigarettes; there were two other people in the shop at the time who heard that 'the Rosselot boy had died'. One of the shopper's next calls was the boulangerie, where five more heard the news. It ricocheted through the main town shops.
Echoes of death which, by the time Dominic had fired up a Solex and started heading out towards Taragnon and the Rosselots, had already changed the atmosphere in the town centre. Or was he just imagining it? A nod of acknowledgement from Marc Tauvel re-stacking his front display of vegetables, but then a look that lingered slightly. Madame Houillon following his progress around the square, staring; she was over-inquisitive at the best of times, but now her head was slightly bowed, as if he was a passing hearse. Respect for the dead.
Dominic felt that he couldn't wait any longer before heading out. Poullain was expected back soon, but that could be an hour or more, by which time Monique Rosselot could have started her way to the hospital. Or worse still, by the way the news was spreading through the village, her hearing it clumsily from a neighbour or tradesman calling by. 'My condolences, I'm so sorry to hear.' Hear what?
Dominic didn't want it to happen that way; after a quick consultation with Harrault, they'd jointly agreed to break protocol by not waiting for Poullain, and Harrault signed out a Solex. Twenty five minutes had passed since the call from the hospital.
Nothing in his past had prepared him for this. All those years stuck in back radio and communications rooms both in the Legion and the Marseille gendarmerie, he'd had so little 'people' contact. Between the code and call signature manuals, the gun range and procedural guides for arrest, filing and administration, there had been no special training on consoling grieving relatives. How should he phrase it? How would he even start?
On the edge of town, Dominic passed the tannery and leather workshops tucked into a hillside rock outcrop where the road was cut away. Dyes and acids for stripping and treating the skins were heavy in the air; piquant sauce for the smells of death.
Dominic's eyes watered slightly; he wasn't sure whether they were sensitive with emotions or it was a combination of the fumes and the wind rush on the bike. Eighty yards past, he was clear of the fumes and the smells of the fields took over: ripening vines, lemons, almonds and olives, grass and wheat burnished almost white by the sun. He breathed deeply, but still his eyes watered.
Images flashed before him - the dark brown blood patches against the wheat, the boy being carried to the ambulance, the gendarmes tapping through the field with their canes, Monique Rosselot opening the door to him on that first visit, and the single candle in her daily bedside vigil of begging and praying to God to spare her son. How could he possibly bring her this news? The well of his emotions finally ebbed, a gentle catharsis washing through him without warning, his body trembling against the vibrations of the bike. He bit at his lip and swallowed back the sobs at the back of his throat; no sound emanated, his steadily watering eyes and his trembling body the only release valves.
His reaction confused him. He'd witnessed murder before, battle hardened by his years in Marseille. Was it the age of the boy, or Monique Rosselot's strongly displayed devotion for her son bringing him closer to her emotions, too close: her saddened face in half shadow reflected in the glass against the candle light, tears streaming down her cheeks as he told her that her son was dead. Dead! 'No! Oh God, no!' As he uttered the words breathlessly, what lay ahead of him suddenly seemed impossibly daunting: one simple sentence, destroying Monique Rosselot's life, tearing down any remaining vestige of hope. His grip on the throttle relaxed, the bike slowing slightly, apprehension gripping him full force. His conflict was absolute: he knew he had to go. He cared too much to risk her hearing casually from someone else passing. But he dreaded having to utter the words himself.
And so he switched off part of his mind driving the last few miles. Cared for her? He hardly knew her. Pushed the thoughts back as he turned his Solex bike into the Rosselot's driveway, parked, dismounted. Words shaped in his mind, almost on the edge of his lips, all of them sounding so inept, inadequate. The messenger? Was that what worried him, being the messenger? Always being remembered as the man who brought the news that her son had died.
As he approached the door, he noticed the boy's bike still against the garage wall, waiting in expectation. His mouth was dry. He took a last deep breath to calm his nerves as he reached for the door knocker and flipped it down twice.
But it did little good. His nerves built to a crescendo, blood pounding through his head as the door opened and she stood there, her young daughter Clarisse in the shadows behind.
He fumbled, the words seeming to catch in his throat, but from the quickly distraught look that came back from her, she seemed to already half know, perhaps from his expression and awkwardness,
and he only managed to say, 'I'm sorry, I have bad news. I wanted to make sure I caught you before you headed for the hospital…' before she started pleading.
'No, no, no, no, no... No!' A repetitive and steadily rising mantra to hopefully drive the inevitable away, her eyes imploring him as she slowly collapsed to her knees and, her body finally giving way to convulsive sobbing, she let out a single wailing cry.
The cry, painful and desperate, pierced the still morning air, echoing from the walls of the small courtyard and rising up the gentle slope of the fields beyond. Jean-Luc Rosselot had been working in the west field out of sight of the courtyard for over an hour, digging to find the leak in an irrigation pipe. He didn't see or hear the Solex approaching; the cry was the first thing he heard. He dropped his spade and started running the fifty yards that would bring him in sight of the courtyard. Halfway, another wailing cry arose; a gap, then another.
And already he feared what was the cause before he'd thrashed his way through the last of the dried grass in the almond orchard and the courtyard came into view. It was like a frozen tableau: the gendarme trying to stand proud with his wife on her knees before him, one hand clutching out and almost touching his ankles. As another cry of anguish drifted up across the field, he saw the gendarme reach out towards her shoulder as if to re-assure, but the hand hovered just above without connecting.
Each of them stood alone, grief unshared; though Jean-Luc felt even more distanced and awkward, looking on. He tried not to accept what the tableau told him, force it from his mind in search of other explanations; but in the end the imagery was too strong, left nothing to interpretation. His son was dead.
His first instinct was to rush towards his wife, comfort her - but after a few paces he stopped. His legs felt weak and he was strangely dizzy, the field seeming to tilt slowly away from him, the light oddly dim in hues of dull grey. And suddenly it seemed ridiculous for him to bound down the hillside, waving, even if his legs still had the strength to carry him, and so he resigned himself and slowly sank down, gave way to the buckle in his knees until he was sitting.
They hadn't seen him; they were faced away and he was still too distant. And so he watched from a distance through the grey haze, through eyes stinging with tears, watched his life and all he loved, all that he had prayed these past days for God to save, slowly slip away with the tilt of the grey field into nothingness.
The death intensified the investigation and the mood in Taragnon and the surrounding villages. Questions and speculation peppered much of village conversation. Part nervous reaction, there were few other escape valves. New snippets of information about possible suspects and excitement at an impending apprehension replaced their normal daily routines and pleasures. In a village where local gossip and drama was a large part of the daily fare, this indeed was a lavish banquet. But in the lulls, moods were dark and sullen, silent. It was either feast or famine.
The first main change in the case came in a call from Pierre Bouteille notifying Poullain that he had passed over his file to Alexandre Perrimond, Aix Chief Prosecutor. 'The main reason is workload. With this now a murder investigation, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to devote the time it deserves. I've brought Perrimond up to date on everything. No doubt he'll make contact soon.'
The morning after, 'La Provencal' carried the news in a three column band at the bottom of its front page, carrying over onto page two. It was the most complete story they'd carried yet of the Rosselot case, going over the initial assault, its impact on the small village of Taragnon, and police progress. The police were quoted as having a few possible suspects and how they hoped to 'conclude the investigation and press charges within the week.' Poullain had spent almost twenty minutes on the phone the previous afternoon with the reporter. The end of the article went back over other notable child disappearances and murders in Provence over the past decade, mostly from the Marseille and Nice area, underlining the rareness of such incidents in inland villages.
Perrimond made his mark on the case early. Within an hour of being on morning duty, Poullain received a call from his office in Aix. 'I see from this item in the paper that you have a few possible suspects. That is news to me. From the information I was passed by my assistant, Pierre Bouteille, I understood there only to be one.'
'It is still only one. The other suspect mentioned to Prosecutor Bouteille, a certain Alain Duclos, was fully interviewed and later my assistant Fornier checked his details. He's a non-runner. We're still left only with the main suspect in the file, Machanaud.'
'Bouteille might handle things differently, but I like to be informed before having to read it in the newspapers.' The phone was put down abruptly.
'Headline chaser,' Poullain muttered after hanging up. The call put Poullain in a bad mood for the rest of the day. He pressed and niggled at Dominic about small details in their final report, making him re-type it twice before he was satisfied. Most of it went over Dominic's head. He typed mechanically, the words little more than a blur. He was still pre-occupied with how the Rosselots were coping.
Most of the news had come from Louis, whose girlfriend Valerié was friendly with the Rosselot's neighbours, the Fiévets. They were the Rosselot's closest friends in Taragnon. Clarisse Rosselot had stayed with the Fiévets during Monique's daily hospital vigils so that Jean-Luc's farm work wasn't too heavily disrupted.
Monique Rosselot had hardly left the farm since receiving the news, asking the Fiévets to get whatever shopping and essentials were needed. Jean-Luc had meanwhile buried himself back in his farm work, was out in the fields much of the day. The one time she'd left the house was to use the Fiévets' phone when she'd finally summoned up courage to call her mother in Beaune to break the tragic news. The mother was going to travel down to console her the next day, a day before the funeral. But, according to Valerié, at the same time Jean-Luc was talking about visiting his parents straight after the funeral; he'd had no contact whatsoever with them in twelve years, but just couldn't break news like this to them over the phone. He had to see them. Monique had complained to the Fiévets that while she understood Jean-Luc's reasoning, the timing was bad; she felt as if she was being deserted when she needed him most.
Louis' message was clear: she was coping, but except for her mother and some neighbourly support from the Fiévets, she was coping alone.
Dominic sipped thoughtfully at a beer Louis had poured for him. The first day back at the bar after having seen the Rosselots, Louis had teased and pressed him until he'd finally admitted, yes, she's very pretty. Now the bonhomie had gone, replaced by sullen camaraderie; trying to understand, through pieces of second hand information, the grief and pain of someone they hardly knew. Dominic wasn't even sure what drove his curiosity: pity for Monique Rosselot, or to assuage his guilt at having brought her the news?
Late that afternoon, Dominic had his worst argument yet with Poullain over Machanaud. The emotions of the day before, the relentless funnelling of evidence now aimed at Machanaud, the words he'd blindly typed that morning - as the mist of his pre-occupation with Monique Rosselot lifted - all converged; and it dawned on him that they were delivering little more than a death warrant for Machanaud. He once again raised doubts about Machanaud.
'But you were the one who drove out and actually gained corroboration of Duclos' movements that afternoon,' Poullain defended. 'We know he was in the restaurant when the boy was attacked, and he had little or no time spare after he left. It's all in the report - and half of the facts you gained yourself.'
'I know. But some of his alibis fall into place too conveniently, almost planned, and something about Duclos makes me uncomfortable. Also, I'm not convinced about Machanaud. Even if Machanaud was accused of raping a woman, I would be doubtful - but a young boy! We have nothing on him in the past more serious than some poaching and drunken and disorderly.'
'And you're saying that Duclos is the type?'
'Possibly. Let's face it, we know nothing about him. At least with Machanaud, we have som
ething to go by on past form. And based on that, it just doesn't sit right with me.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right, we don't know much about him. When they telexed through from Limoges and told us he was an assistant in the Prosecutor's office, they forgot to mention that, oh, by the way our friendly local assistant prosecutor has a history with buggering young boys. Hope that is useful, but as you appreciate we like to keep that sort of thing quiet with public officials. Maybe that will follow in their next communication.' Poullain smiled cynically. 'You think that Duclos looks the type, don't you?'
Dominic ignored the barb for the second time. 'No, it's more than that, I mean why stop for oil when you're in a rush to see a particular girl and you're worried about being late. Why spend over an hour in a café when time is tight?'
'He probably only remembered the girl and hoped to see her on a whim when he left the restaurant, or perhaps not even until he was at the garage, which is why he asked about timing. There was no specific meeting arranged, as he told us he just hoped she might still be on the beach that time of day. I don't see anything suspicious.'
'I don't know, it's almost as if he wanted people to remember him visiting at specific times that day. And the girl was just thrown in to underline heterosexuality. Some of the facts are just too convenient the way that-'
'But they are the facts, and you seem to be ignoring that,' Poullain cut in. 'Or perhaps you can give us your alternative dissertation on how to prosecute, based on type and looks. He's a bit of a pretty boy, a bit soft and erudite in manner - he looks the type who would bugger young boys. So let's sweep aside all the facts for a moment, especially the fact that he was in a restaurant when the attack happened, and aim for him. Perhaps you could explain your thinking to Perrimond. He works with assistant prosecutors all day, he might be able to spot the type quickly. Marvellous! Why didn't we consult you earlier, Fornier.'
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