Marinella had explained that the field was central to Eyran's therapy, and how she had hoped to leap from there to a vital element Dominic had related from Corbeix: getting Christian to admit that the man with the car, Duclos, had killed him. 'If not, the defence could wriggle out by claiming culpability only for the sexual assaults. That the boy was left unharmed after that.' But as Marinella had warned Dominic initially, it was the hardest possible thing to get the boy to admit. And now any possible opportunities to make the leap had probably gone.
'I understand that those memories are unpleasant, that you don't wish to recall them. But beneath that - beneath the detail that I know is painful for you - you know that something bad happened to you that day. You know that, don't you?'
Eyran's brows knitted. A slight swallow. 'Yes...I.'
'And you know that somehow the man in the car was responsible. Why you weren't able to see your friend that day. You know that the man hit you and stopped you from going.' Marinella knew the word 'kill' would produce another rush reaction. 'Do you remember the man hitting you?'
Dominic tensed as he realized she was going for it after all; he'd felt sure she would move Eyran on to another memory. He saw Lambourne look incredulously between her and the computer as Eyran's brow knitted harder.
'If it wasn't the man with the car,' Marinella pressed. '...If it was someone else - then tell us. Was it someone else who hit you?'
Eyran's head started shaking again. Small beads of sweat popped on his forehead. 'No... no... it was him.'
Lambourne's voice came almost immediately. 'I can't believe you did that!'
Eyran's head tilted, his brow creasing again. He looked suddenly perplexed.
Marinella tapped out on the screen: 'And I can't believe you did that either! Broke the one-voice rule.'
Philippe looked up from the screen and shrugged, smiling. She'd forgotten to put it in brackets, but he knew not to translate.
Marinella continued tapping: 'We've already got the problem of non-acceptance with two children. Let's not add another to the list: that you can't accept I might be right.'
Lambourne's expression was thunderous. He looked frustratedly between the screen and her. This was great, she thought. Argument by computer. Except that Lambourne couldn't answer because she was hugging the keyboard, and he couldn't risk speaking again. Just the sort of argument she liked.
Dread gripped Dominic as he expected Lambourne to suddenly stop the session. Quickly overrode his brief amusement and admiration at Calvan's feistiness. Philippe was still beaming, and Fenouillet had merely paused in his note-taking, had no idea what was going on. But finally Lambourne just shook his head and waved one hand dismissively, as if the whole argument was suddenly unworthy. Though some last fleeting shadow in Lambourne's eye, the way he looked quickly between Marinella, himself and Fenouillet, made Dominic suspect Lambourne might already be thinking: so many questions around the murder, and was a notary really necessary for just a filing?
'Going back to where you left your bike. The field and the farm track - did you hear anything there. Tell me what you heard?'
'There was nothing, really. Just the wind slightly.'
'Anything else. Are there any sounds in the background? Anything you can hear at all?'
Dominic noted the change from past to present tense: Are there? After the last session, Marinella told him about a special New York based FBI unit which specialized in hypnotizing crime witnesses to gain more accurate descriptions. The present tense put the witness directly back in the scene. Detail was usually far more accurate and in depth. Marinella had used the same technique in the last session with Eyran, but the results had been disappointing. Apart from the segment with the water running and the bells ringing, they'd gained little of value. She'd asked Christian if he remembered any shops they'd passed in the man's car; if he saw anyone on the way to where his bike was; if he saw anyone in the field or on the track by his bike; if any other vehicles passed apart from the Marseille truck. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
He'd banged his desk and kicked filing cabinets in frustration reading the transcript. Now she was asking if he heard anything by his bike: again nothing. They were fast running out of areas to explore. Marinella went back to the Marseille truck, asking Christian to concentrate on the letters on the side. 'Are there any other letters or words you can see?'
'L-E. Le something. P-O-N...T...'
'Anything else?'
It was hopeless, thought Dominic. Fragments of words from a truck from over thirty years ago. Even if by some miracle they traced it - a driver flashing by just for a few seconds all those years back? What on earth would he remember? Goats bells? They'd interviewed the farmer shortly after Machanaud mentioned him, but he'd seen nothing; tree coverage was too thick by the river. What else was there: water splashing? A woman's voice in a car park. Pathetic!
Dominic looked anxiously at the clock: twenty minutes left. The letters had fizzled out with an E-I. Pontei: not even a full word. Marinella was flicking back in her notes, as if searching desperately where to head next - and in that moment the realization finally struck him, dissolved his anxiety and clinging expectation to a sinking hollowness. Concrete to jello: they weren't going to find anything! She'd exhausted all the main avenues and now was just scrambling around the edges at fragments. He could almost imagine Duclos smiling at them, gloating...
Marinella moved back to the subject of separation: this time other people Christian had felt separation from that day apart from his parents and his friend. Probably best, Dominic conceded dolefully; with no new clues forthcoming, at least she could satisfy the main aim of the therapy.
... Gloating as he sat in the restaurant sipping wine... as he untied and assaulted Christian for a second time... as he smashed down the rock repeatedly on Christian's skull, bludgeoning the life out of him. Dominic shook his head. The images were unbearably intense, because now they knew that Duclos had done it, but would have little choice but to sit back and watch him walk away. And Dominic would feel the same sense of loathing and disgust each time he saw Duclos' face in a newspaper, smiling, gloating... as he opened some new industrial park, smiling from a campaign rostrum, gloating at them that he'd got away with it... his arm coming down repeatedly to strike home his campaign points in the same way that he'd brought the rock down on Christian's head that day. And he would hardly be able to bear to look, knowing... knowing that...
'Grandpapa André?' The name cut abruptly into Dominic's thoughts. One name among Christian's recital of separation he hadn't heard before: father, mother, Clarisse... but not Grandpapa André.
Dominic read the full line on the computer screen: '...I remember thinking about Grandpapa André. I clung to the luck he gave me.'
Dominic scribbled a frantic note - What luck? Why? Where is he? - and handed it to Marinella Calvan.
She typed: 'What luck was it that Grandpapa André gave you?'
'It was a coin... a lucky coin.'
'And were you holding the coin when you thought about Grandpapa André?'
'Yes... I was gripping it tight in my hand before I fell asleep. And then I realized suddenly when I awoke that it had dropped from my hand.'
'Where were you when it dropped?'
'In the boot of the man's car.'
'And were you able to find the coin?'
'No, it was dark... I felt around. But there was only the spare wheel... I couldn't feel it on the wheel or around the sides. I was still feeling for it when the boot opened... the light stung my eyes.'
'And when you realized you'd dropped the coin - did it make you fear that something bad might happen?'
'Yes... yes. In the darkness, it helped me. It was something I knew, a reminder of home. But then when it had gone...'
As Marinella returned to attachment and loss, Dominic touched her arm lightly, silently nodded his excuse, and left the room. Nothing else of interest was likely to come up and he couldn't bear waiting the ten minutes remaining to know.
He went through Lambourne's reception and out into the street, dialling out on his mobile to Monique in Lyon.
On the third ring it answered, and he cut quickly through the preambles. 'A coin. A lucky coin that Christian's grandfather gave him. Do you remember it?'
'Yes... I do.' Hesitance; flustered by the sudden jump to a memory from thirty years ago. 'But why?'
'It's important. Something's come out of the sessions in London. I'll tell you later.' Sudden chill as he realized he wouldn't be able to delay any longer; that night he would have to tell her everything: his buried doubts, the car sighting, Machanaud, Jean-Luc's wasted suicide. 'What sort of coin was it?'
'An Italian twenty lire, silver. 1928.'
'Was it rare?'
'Fairly. Jean-Luc's father had brought it back from Italy years before. He gave it to Christian on his eighth birthday.'
Dominic was silent, thoughtful: if Duclos had seen the coin, he'd have thrown it away straightaway. But Christian hadn't been able to feel for it: what if it had dropped behind the spare wheel or some tools out of sight? A chance. Just a chance.
He confirmed that Monique hadn't found it later among any of Christian's things. 'With all the confusion - with the investigation and Christian in the hospital - it got forgotten. I didn't notice it was missing till months later. But it's obviously important now... very important. Why?'
And again he assured her that he'd tell her that night, diverted quickly to pleasantries before signing off. A generation of hiding the truth from his wife and still he was playing for time.
Lucky coin? Dominic reflected ruefully. The only luck might be, thirty-two years later, it finally bringing some justice and vindication for Christian Rosselot.
THIRTY-FIVE
Limoges, June, 1985
A miracle. Duclos looked at the pathetic figure of his new born son through two layers of glass: the first separating the observation room from intensive care, the second the glass of the incubator. Scrawny, hardly an adult's forearm in length and purplish blue - all that was keeping him alive was the oxygenated, sanitized air of the incubator and the mass of pipes feeding and monitoring.
A miracle that would probably only last a few hours, according to the doctors. His son would be lucky to make it through the night. Those few hours strongly etched in his memory: a glass case. How he would forever remember his son, timelessly preserved in a glass cabinet; a freak of nature, an exhibit.
Betina still hadn't come round from the anaesthetic. The only option left to save her and the baby had been caesarean inter-section. Horrifically rushed, the anaesthetist had hardly finished his countdown and response tests before the surgeon made his incision. Some monitors were still being attached as he cut.
Betina had begged and pleaded for her baby's life as they'd wheeled her frantically on a gurney towards the operating theatre. The attending emergency medic had gripped her hand and assured, 'Don't worry, you'll be okay.'
But entering surgery, the graver atmosphere and more concerned expressions made her panic that everything might not be okay. 'If there's a choice, save my baby first. Put his life before mine.'
'We try our best not to make choices,' the surgeon commented. '...Unless God forces our hand.'
Betina was still struggling with the significance of this, was about to press the surgeon for a clearer assurance when the anaesthetic bit.
She probably wouldn't awake for two or three hours yet, Duclos reflected. What was he going to tell her? 'He's alive, but he'll be dead soon. Doctors did their best. Shame.'
Or perhaps he would spend an hour's more bedside vigil with his son, then sneak away on the promise of returning a couple of hours later, but get delayed. Leave it to the doctors to tell Betina. Avoid the drama of seeing her in tears, in the same way he had avoided every other drama and confrontation with Betina through the years. Besides, they were more expert than him, were used to choosing the rights words in this sort of situation every day. He'd be hopeless. Worse still, if the boy died before Betina awoke, it was best if he wasn't there; he couldn't possibly face her given that circumstance. At least with a few hours of life remaining, she'd cling to some hope, some solace.
They'd even talked about a name: Joël. 'Hello Joël,' he murmured, and saw his breath mist the glass as he pressed his face closer. The frail figure, so pathetic and defenceless with all the tubes and monitors attached - reminded him in that moment of Christian Rosselot in the hospital... of him reaching out to stifle the last life from the boy. He shivered involuntarily. Had he really been so desperate? How could anyone... anyone? And in that moment, as his eyes welled uncontrollably, a tear trickling down, it hit him that it might just as well be his hand reaching across and stifling Joël. Realization that his turning the wheel at the last moment hadn't just been instinctive self-preservation; in part he'd responded to some dark inner fear, however irrational, of future complications he wouldn't be able to face.
Was that why he was crying now, he thought. Tears of remorse, the first he could remember, flowing freely because the sight of his son, an actual life rather than a shadow of shapes on a scan from his wife's womb - had reached out and gripped him hard. Or was it because he knew now with certainty that his son would die as he was now, would never grow beyond the pathetic, shrivelled form before him. The tears could be safely shed; all worries, whether real or ridiculously imagined in his own mind, were over.
It hardly mattered now. When all that remained was a few hours of life preserved in a glass case, what else was there but pity, sorrow? He was a politician. He knew the right emotion for every occasion.
Between his other work, Dominic's occasional glances towards the phone the past hour had become increasingly anxious. After his initial call to Lepoille, they'd spoken again an hour later, then nothing since. Almost half the day had gone now for Lepoille to find something. What had happened?
Seven months? Duclos had obviously been keen to dispose of the car. Unpleasant memories. The papers were strewn across his desk: faxed pages from an Alfa Romeo owners club in Paris: User's manual. Alfa Romeo Giulietta Sprint, 1961. Car registration for the next owner after Duclos: Maurice Caugine, an address in St Junien, thirty kilometres from Limoges.
Details of the car boot and position of the spare wheel and tool kit were on the seventh page faxed through. The spare wheel had eight oval holes around its perimeter, each one double the length of a large coin. Easily large enough for the 20 lire coin to have fallen through. He'd gained a photocopied picture and details of the coin from a collector's catalogue: Italian 20 lire. 1928. Silver. 15g. Emanuele III on head, Lictor hailing Roma on reverse. Edition minted between 1927 and 1934.
The spare wheel took up half the boot space. As Christian had described, space would have been cramped. Even curled in almost a foetal position, part of his body or at least his arms must have been pinned above the wheel. If he'd fallen asleep and dropped the coin, it could have easily have landed on top of the wheel and through one of the oval holes. Or at first had fallen on top of the wheel, then with the vibrations and movement of the car or Christian shifting position, found its way to one of the holes.
If the coin had fallen to the side of the wheel, Duclos would have spotted it easily and pocketed it or thrown it away. But if it had fallen through one of the holes... seven months? What were the chances of Duclos not changing his wheel in that time? Whoever had been the first to change the wheel would have seen the coin.
Maurice Caugine had kept the car for over three years. The chances of him not changing the wheel in that time were remote. Either he'd seen the coin or their only chance was probably gone.
Lepoille had called back within the hour: bad news. Maurice Caugine had died eight years ago. 'But it looks like he was survived by his wife. I'm trying to track her down now.'
Since that call three hours ago, nothing. Dominic's spirits had slumped at the news. Another hurdle: now they were dependant not only on Maurice Caugine having noticed the coin, but him having mentioned it to
his wife. And forcefully enough for it to have stuck in her mind to recall thirty years later.
Corbeix had been initially enthused about the coin lead. 'Sounds rare enough to argue that it couldn't have got there any other way than the boy being in Duclos' boot that day - if you can find someone who saw it there. Let me know how it develops. Meanwhile I'll send a note to Malliené about the case.' They'd already discussed the procedural details: Dominic would provide a report every week or two weeks, as the case dictated, and would pass it to Malliené to add any comment before he signed it off. Purely a safeguard so that Malliené wasn't signing off anything he disagreed with. 'I'll ask him to contact you the next day or so to tie up the details.'
Corbeix finished by mentioning he was hoping for more information the next day or so on cases involving psychics from a specialist division of the Paris Procureur's office. Dominic was encouraged that the case was increasingly demanding Corbeix attention. But still it struck him that Corbeix hadn't even contacted Malliené until he heard about the coin lead, and the examining magistrate who signed off the rogatoire general Corbeix probably wouldn't call again until he was sure the case was prosecutable. There was still some way to go.
Dominic stared again at the phone. Having built up his own and Corbeix' hopes, it could all be over with a single call. Madame Caugine could have died as well, or gone abroad and was practically untraceable, or was senile or in a mental asylum. Couldn't remember anything from the day before, let alone thirty years ago. The possibilities spun through Dominic's mind.
Pierre Lepoille was on the home straight. He tapped in Jocelyn Caugine's identity card number. Hopefully the office where she cashed her pension would come up and her current address.
Tracking Maurice Caugine had been easy. His identity card number had been on the car registration papers, and from there Lepoille traced where he last drew his pension before dying: La Rochelle, not far from St Junien. But Madame Caugine had been a different matter. He had no record of her identity card number, nor even her first name. The few papers he found for Maurice Caugine didn't feature his wife's details. Tracking was therefore more tedious. He tried all Caugines drawing pension for that year in the area: two men, one woman. The woman was a different address and her husband had died twenty years ago. So Caugine's wife had probably moved out of the area after he died, but where?
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