'Yes, I have. Quite a bit.' Molet merely looked at him expectantly. Lanquetin continued. 'The effects can vary, but the plate is no more than a drastic, emergency solution to hold together two parts of the cranium that could possibly shift. As such, they may be affected by cold or hot weather, or even sudden movement. Electrical and chemical imbalances can be sparked off.'
'What would be the affect of such imbalances?'
'It varies enormously. It could be nothing more than a mild headache, slightly irritable behaviour or anxiety. Or at the other extreme, quite irrational, even violent behaviour.'
'So it is quite conceivable, Doctor Lanquetin, that someone with a metal plate - given the right conditions - could suffer a temporary memory loss. Have absolutely no recall whatsoever.'
'Yes it is.'
Molet produced the X-rays Lanquetin had viewed earlier, and Lanquetin confirmed that it was quite an extensive implant and that indeed, given its proximity to the parietal lobe which controlled both some motor and behavioural functions, given the right conditions there could be adverse affects.
'Thank you, Doctor Lanquetin.'
Perrimond spent very little time cross-examining Lanquetin, his main thrust was an attempt to discredit Lanquetin's grasp of 'modern medicine' due to the fact that he had now retired. But the ploy partly backfired when Lanquetin reminded him that metal plate implants were not particularly akin to modern surgery, and indeed the practice was fast dying out.
The conclusion of medical testimony and the various incidental and character witnesses had taken up most of the morning. Only one witness was left to call, Machanaud's old colleague from the resistance, Vincent Arnaud. Molet realized that the closing arguments would probably now have to follow after lunch, there wouldn't be time before.
Arnaud's testimony transported them back to another age: 1943. He and Machanaud were both in their late twenties, colleagues in the resistance fighting the Germans near Tours. A rag-tag bunch with limited resources doing the best they could. Arnaud described the dynamite set one day so that they could stop and ambush an ammunition truck. But the dynamite was damp, it went off late and the truck veered off the road, striking Machanaud.
'And was it this that caused your colleague Gaston Machanaud to be hospitalized and have a metal plate inserted?'
'Yes it was. It was days before we even knew whether he'd live or not.'
Whatever was decided later, thought Molet, with Arnaud on the stand it was once again Machanaud's finest hour. Machanaud's eyes welled with emotion. Old colleagues, old memories. And confirmation at last for all his doubters and detractors that his day of glory, the story he had spun over so many bar counters, had not just been drunken ramblings. Perhaps now everyone would believe him.
The first fifteen minutes of Perrimond's closing arguments were predictable. How Machanaud was the only person present, his extensive lying when first questioned, the re-construction which had proved conclusively that he was within sight of not only where the boy crossed the river but also where the first attack had taken place, and the forensic evidence which had demonstrated that blood had been swilled away with water. 'Who else but Machanaud would have been equipped with not only waders and a plastic apron, but also a bucket of water for such an exercise?'
Perrimond swung around dramatically, surveying each juror in turn. 'Make no mistake, this was a very measured and deliberate act. Machanaud knew that if the boy was found on the lane and it looked like the assault took place there, then if by chance it was discovered he was down by the river that day - he could claim that it was somebody else that committed this atrocity.' Perrimond looked down thoughtfully, giving the jury due time for consideration. 'And lo and behold, when he is confronted with being by the river that day, this is exactly what he claims.'
Perrimond then started to pre-empt the arguments Molet might propose. 'You will probably hear from the defence that his client was just some poor misfortunate who happened to be in the same place on that dark day. That the first attack might have even taken place elsewhere and the child was transported to the lane for the second attack. But how?' Perrimond scanned the jury. 'Each car that passed up and down the lane while Machanaud was there was accounted for. One was in a restaurant for over an hour just beforehand with his car in full sight in the car park. A friend visiting spent all his time speaking with Marius Caurin, and Caurin himself when leaving was seen at various places in town.'
Perrimond looked imperiously at the bench. 'This was Taragnon, a small rural village, and it was lunch time. The streets were busy. The police spent painstaking weeks and months questioning, and with only one conclusion: Christian Rosselot did not pass through the town. Nor did he pass through from the farm behind, it was too far out of his way - and besides Marius Caurin would have seen him. So desparate are the defence, that they would have you believe anything. Anything but the facts.'
Perrimond shrugged and smiled caustically, then quickly became grave again. 'No, the boy crossed at only one point - the small bridge down river fully in sight of where the accused was fishing. It was there that their fatal meeting took place - and it was also there that the accused relentlessly assaulted the boy and left him for dead. A cold, merciless act perpetrated by only one person, who sits before you now - the accused, Gaston Machanaud.'
Perrimond finished by asking for the harshest possible sentence, that it was ridiculous to consider anything but a guilty verdict on premeditated murder, anything less would not be doing service to themselves, justice, or to the memory of the young boy '...Who can now only beg for justice silently from the grave. And trust that in your hearts and souls you will make the right judgement.'
Perrimond closed his eyes briefly and nodded as he sat down, as if concluding a prayer, and left the floor to Molet.
'No blood. No fibres. No semen. Not a single thing that links my client to the crime scene itself. I just want you to remember that when you sentence him to be hanged!' Molet surveyed the jury, audibly drawing breath. 'Except the fact that he was there. There at the time fishing, poaching - as he had been so many times in the past. And yes, the prosecution is right - I am going to suggest that someone else came along and committed this crime. Because that is exactly what happened.'
Molet paced to one side. 'A thorough police investigation that discounted all other possibilities? This is the same investigative team that could not even enter a change in car description accurately from one day to the next. That when confronted started clinging to the excuse that my client was drunk to hide their error. A vital change not even entered at instruction - that the examining magistrate openly admonished them over. Yet we are supposed to believe that they conducted a thorough investigation. One that eliminated all other possibilities. When they could not even pass a bit of vital evidence from one stage to the next when it was laid on a plate before them!'
'I think the police merely latched onto the first obvious target, my client, and have been constructing a case out of thin air ever since. One built on a single circumstance - that he was there. And not a single fact or piece of concrete evidence to support this circumstance. What are we all doing here? How could we all have been dragged this far on such a pitiful illusion? A harmless poacher and local drunkard who one day, suddenly, decides to molest and kill a young boy. No history of molesting young boys, no sexual predilections in that area whatsoever - yet we are supposed to believe that this day, this one day, all reason and normal instincts were suddenly thrown to the wind. Unbelievable! How did the prosecution even raise the audacity to try and get us to swallow such a ridiculous story.'
'So let us think afresh - what are we left with? Let us strip away all the ridiculous coincidences slotted into place by the police and the prosecution - and see what we are left with. A simple man with a long history of poaching and no history whatsoever of harming young boys. We ask him what he was doing that day? What do you think is the most likely explanation? That, as he claims, he was poaching, or the more ludicrous suggestion that then
starts to stretch all precepts of credible thinking - that he suddenly broke with past form and harmed this young boy. Because that, exactly that, is what is being suggested today.'
Molet waved one arm dramatically. 'Even what the prosecution are asking for here today and the evidence they are providing in support are at odds. On one hand, they want you to believe that this was a cold blooded, premeditated murder. On the other, they would have you believe - from the various witnesses they have produced - that the accused is mad half the time and drunk the rest. A complete oddball and misfit. A village idiot who can hardly premeditate his life from one day to the next. Let alone plan a murder like this - so meticulously in fact that the police and a whole team of forensics could not find a single trace of evidence.' Molet slowly shook his head. 'The two just don't go together. The only honesty you have seen here today was just before lunch: Gaston Machanaud's old resistance colleague and the army doctor. That is the real Gaston Machanaud. The resistance fighter who fought bravely for his country, suffered an horrific injury that still plagues him as a consequence, and is now just left with a few fond tales to tell in the local bars. This is the man that the prosecution wants you to hang. Pathetic!'
Molet drew a long and tired breath. 'Yet I had to fight with my client to bring them here today and to the earlier instruction - even though it was the only way to bring some honesty to this whole charade. Introduce the charge that, if anything at all, my client should be facing - manslaughter. Manslaughter due to diminished responsibility. It is outrageous that any other charge should have even been discussed today.’
Molet looked down; reluctant dismay. ‘But in doing so, I have partly turned my back on what I believe: that my client is innocent. That only one thing is true about the prosecution's claim - he was there. Nothing more. No blood. No semen. No fibres. No scheming individual who could successfully hide those elements. And no reasonable explanation from the prosecution of what he was doing there that afternoon - except the one he gave himself. That he was there fishing. As he had been so many afternoons before.'
Molet nodded in turn to the jury and the three judges and sat down.
The jury returned after almost two hours. Between the nine jurors and three judges the votes - counted painstakingly by the greffier and then passed to Griervaut to announce - were 7 to 5 not guilty of premeditated murder, 9 to 3 guilty of manslaughter.
Molet felt a twinge of disappointment at no aquittal, followed quickly by relief: it could have been worse. Much worse. But Machanaud looked destroyed. Molet knew from the earlier instruction when he fought with Machanaud over getting the lesser charge introduced, that Machanaud would probably never understand, or accept. Understandable for someone who was probably innocent. Despite his strong closing arguments, Molet knew how strongly the jury had been swayed by much of the prosecution's presentation and witnesses, and that without the mid-ground of the lesser charge they would probably have found Machanaud guilty of premeditated murder.
Because the charge for manslaughter partly hinged on diminished responsibility, Judge Griervaut raised the subject of medical and psychiatric assessment. Molet argued for private assessment, while Perrimond predictably argued for state assessment. After consultation with his two assessing judges, Griervaut cleared his throat summarily and looked up to pass final sentence: That Machanaud be detained in prison for no less than six years, and that he be treated and assessed twice each year by a state psychiatrist. 'At the end of that period, if not deemed to be mentally fit, he should be released to the care of a state psychiatric hospital where he would undergo suitable treatment until fit for release.'
At the outside Machanaud would do the full six with maybe another year in an institution, Molet considered. If things went well, he could get parole in four years and be cleared to leave immediately. What Molet hadn't noticed was the look that passed between Perrimond and one of the assessing judges when they were deliberating on the issue of state or private psychiatric assessment. All that struck him as odd was Perrimond's slight smile when the final judgement was passed down. A strange reaction to what surely must have been considered mostly a defeat by Perrimond.
TWENTY-ONE
Marinella Calvan was still adjusting after the long flight, and the wine had made her feel sleepy. She held one hand up to indicate half a glass more was enough as David Lambourne poured. 'Where did you find Philippe?' she asked.
'London School of Economics, just down the road. He's not an official translator - just a French student on a social sciences course. But his English is almost word perfect and he's all I could find at such short notice with a south of France background.'
'How old is he?'
'Twenty-four. He's from a small village in the Alpes-Maritimes: Peyroules.'
They'd spent just over an hour in Lambourne's office going over the case before retiring to a small bistro close by. They'd already agreed the only French spoken would be between the patient and the translator. One voice with questions. Marinella would tap them out to appear on a computer screen; Philippe would then pose the questions and tap out the answers in English on the same screen. The session for them would be a series of on-screen questions and answers in English. It was the only way to avoid distraction and confusion.
'Will his knowledge of patois from the fifties and sixties for that region be good enough?'
'It hasn't changed that much according to him. Especially in the inland villages.'
Marinella nodded and sipped her wine. Earlier they'd discussed what Lambourne had discovered through the Capels: Eyran's grades for French were average, there had been one or two holidays to France, but no school exchanges or long stays. Eyran's french was at 'La plume de ma tante' stage. She'd already gained the main background of the Capels, and now filled the gaps. Some details, such as how long they'd been married, Lambourne didn't know. The only thing to cause a chink of concern was Lambourne's flippant remark that the area where they lived, East Grinstead, was 'home to more fringe religious groups than any other part of the country.' When pressed, Lambourne assured her that 'they were normal. Lapsed Church of England.'
Still, she asked the obvious. 'Do you think they could have staged all this?' She knew that it was one of the first questions she'd be asked by sceptics. Advertising executive. Vivid imagination. From an area noted for fringe religions. In no time the media would have them taped as weirdoes from some obscure cult which not only believed in reincarnation, but that we all live concurrent lives in different dimensions.
'No, I don't think so. If anything, they were reluctant to enter Eyran into the sessions. Certainly Stuart Capel at least. He admitted that he should have taken Torrens' advice earlier and entered Eyran into counselling almost straightaway. He delayed hoping that Eyran might improve in his own time.'
'Torrens?' The name struck a faint chord, but Marinella couldn't recall from where.
'The doctor from California who operated on Eyran and treated him during his coma. He made an initial report recommending Eyran should have psychiatric counselling. Not only due to the loss of his parents, but assessment of impairment after the coma. The boy was under almost three weeks.'
'Have you got a copy of Torrens' report?'
'Yes.'
'Good, good. That will help enormously.' Couldn't be better. Counselling initially recommended by a Stateside doctor.
'Us or the boy?'
Marinella calmed her enthusiasm and bit her lip lightly at Lambourne's frown. 'I'm sorry. That probably sounded a bit callous.' Their aims were at odds, she realized. His was to cure the boy, hers was to prove an authentic regression. Only where the regression might help the main subject did they coincide. But grandstanding her own aims above his had been insensitive. She smiled. 'You know, Donaldson always warned me about playing to the gallery. That each time it would land me in trouble. But it's unbelievable what we have to put up with when we get things wrong.' She went on to explain how their critics, many of them from within the profession, sat on the sideline like
vultures waiting for them to footfault. 'One bad case, one falsehood we fail to uncover before them, and our credibility can be set back years. Suddenly everything we're doing is false. Questions at each corner, the threat of departmental budget cuts... "Why didn't you find that out before... Is your next case going to be like the so and so fiasco?" It's no wonder we become paranoid, lose sight of other objectives. I'm sorry.'
Lambourne nodded. He'd put her at ease earlier about their respective objectives by assuring that he couldn't continue with conventional therapy until a regression uncovered more about Jojo. But there was still a gap. To her this was just another research paper; to him, it was an extension of PLT: Eyran's current problems and obsessions partly stemming from his past as Jojo. But there was no point in underlining that gap, spoiling the mood of their association before it had started. 'If we can each get only thirty percent of what we initially hoped for out of this - then we'll at least be doing better than my normal sessions. Cheers.'
They spent a while talking about the structure of the next day's session, then the conversation became more general, the mood lighter.
'Anything notable come up since we last met?' he asked.
'You mean, like the conquistador boy?'
Lambourne looked down, toying with his dessert. He knew how frustrating the case had been for her, but why the reference now? Was it a warning shot: don't cut me short on this one, put me through that again. 'I was hoping you might have had something more fruitful.'
'Not really. Lot of conventional regressions, but only two with xenoglossy - both adults. But use of language wasn't exceptional, in both cases it could be argued that the subjects would have been able to learn the language used, especially at that level of proficiency.'
Beneath Lambourne's look of concern, she noticed a half smile. A smile that said: perhaps tomorrow will change your run of luck. He was obviously more hopeful than he'd made out. The early signs looked promising, she conceded; but her long years of battling with sceptics had made her fear the worst. Even if the first stages of authentication were satisfied, would the Capels agree to continuing sessions, and for how long would Lambourne remain convinced that their aims coincided?
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