Madness. A boy under hypnosis mentioning a coin from over thirty years ago, an old woman remembering the name of a garage... and half of Interpol Division II's computer team had been tied up for two days.
Hundreds of computer records searched. Nine names and matching identity numbers of the workers in a Limoges garage from thirty years ago. Four traced. Three dead. Two left to find. Any casual workers not on the 1964 garage pay-roll list would be virtually impossible to track down.
Of the four so far traced two were still in Limoges, one in Narbonne and one in Rouen, not on the phone. Dominic decided to head to Rouen while Lepoille continued his search. With the train he could stay in touch, plus call directly any new traces which came in.
Dominic dialled the number again in Limoges: Serge Roudele. It answered. Dominic introduced himself and confirmed with Roudele that he worked in the Mirabeau garage in 1964.
'Yes, I did... why?
'It concerns an Alfa Romeo. An Alfa Romeo Giulietta Sprint.' The other two workers Dominic had spoken to earlier hadn't remembered the car. Among the hundreds of cars seen by a garage worker over the years, how to throw a spotlight on this one car? 'Now I know that you probably saw a lot of cars, but maybe not so many Alfa Romeos. This was the coupe version, quite a classic. Dark green.'
Brief silence, then: 'No, sorry. I don't seem to remember it.'
'Owner was a young lawyer, Alain Duclos. Went on to become your local MP, RPR party.'
'I'm afraid I was just on the works floor, I didn't deal with the owners. I hardly knew whose car was whose.'
'... Quite a distinctive car.'
'Sorry - we dealt with so many classics and sports cars. They were a strong line for the garage, so I saw a lot of them. I just can't place it.'
As with the others, thought Dominic. But still he asked about the coin. One car among so many might be hard to place, but it wasn't every day that a rare coin was found in a car boot. 'An Italian twenty lire. Silver. Quite large. It would probably have fallen down and been concealed by the spare wheel.'
A pause. A long pause. The sound of a dog barking somewhere in the distance. 'I'm sorry, inspector. I really can't remember anything like that at all.'
'Or do you remember anyone else in the garage finding such a coin - any talk about it at all?'
'No... nothing, I'm afraid.'
'Well - if you do happen to recall anything later, give me a call.' Dominic gave his mobile number. 'It would help us enormously in a very important murder case. There's no possible recrimination against anyone who might have taken the coin, and there's even a small reward: 5,000 francs. About double what the coin is worth on today's market.'
The script was practically the same each time: setting the scene; the car; the coin; the seriousness of the case; the assurance of no recriminations in case of worries about a theft charge; the reward as incentive.
Dominic left a marked silence in hope of response, but Roudele merely repeated that unfortunately he didn't remember anything. Dominic thanked him and rang off.
Madness. Hopeless. Thirty five minutes left to Paris. Hurtling across France on a futile paper chase, pursuing a few fragments of memories from decades ago. One more lead to check and two more names to chase. But despite the odds against them finding anything after all these years, Dominic felt this strange sense of control: of him connected to Lepoille and Interpol's central computer room while speeding towards their next lead at over 300kmph, of Lepoille in turn linked to networks of computers the length and breadth of the country, searching, sorting, feeding the information back to him. A web of control so wide and powerful it would somehow defeat the odds stacked against them. Modern France. Tracking down the clues to Christian Rosselot's murder in a way that was impossible thirty years ago.
Though just over an hour later, sitting in a Rouen café and sipping hot chocolate with a calvados chaser, watching through the rain for Guy Léveque to return to his house, one again it felt like good old detective work. How it used to be.
'Pardon. Sorry.'
At the sight of her boss with two other men in the cubicle, the girl pulled the curtain closed again and went to the next cubicle with her client.
'Okay, so what have we got?' asked Sauquière. 'My client names this Alain Duclos. Says that he comes to Perseus 2000 regularly and asks for young boys. What does my client get in return?'
Deleauvre looked between Sauquière and Eynard. Eynard with his pony-tail and ridiculous purple satin shirt over his Buddha-like figure, Sauquière with his Armani blazer, furtive, darting eyes and greased back hair. It was difficult to decide who looked seedier. The start of the meeting had been difficult, until Sauquière realized the cards Deleauvre was holding: a clear testimony from Ricauve implicating Eynard in supplying boys for a child pornographer. Sauquière suddenly showed interest in the benefits of his client in turn rolling over and naming somebody else. Deleauvre sighed. 'He's still going to have to do some time. But we'll make sure it's only two rather than what he'd face normally, four or five. With remission, he'll be out in fifteen months.'
'And the clubs?'
'Perseus will probably have to close for six months.'
Sauquière threw his hands up. 'That's ludicrous. It's hardly worth cutting a deal.'
Deleauvre smiled tightly. The closure had hit a sore spot: the threat of Eynard's income squeezed, fat retainers being reduced. They argued the toss for a while, three months, one month, and then Deleauvre thought on an angle: Gay activists? Closing Perseus could be sensitive. 'If the claim arises that this whole thing has been engineered just to close down one of the main gay night spots, it could become politically awkward. Something the judge would be eager to avoid... given pressure from the right quarter.'
Fifteen minutes later the foundation of the deal was decided: eighteen months to two years maximum for Eynard, Perseus stays open or, at worst, a one month closure purely as a gesture. Current 'house' for young boys to close; if they wanted to open up discreetly elsewhere, then Deleauvre didn't want to know. But no supply of boys for paedophile magazines and videos.
Sauquière looked at his diary. 'I can't do tomorrow, busy day in court.'
They arranged for ten o’clock the following morning. Session room at the police station, taped interview, sample statement to be pre-prepared. 'You check it over, then your client gives a statement along those lines in his own words. Everybody's happy.' Deleauvre smiled, and they all shook hands.
Eynard had hardly spoken throughout. Sauquière had him well trained: a few words at the beginning, then later a brief confirmation that his term would be in an open prison. 'I've heard they're practically like hotels. I can still run my business from there. Catch up on my Rabelais.'
Deleauvre weaved back through the bar and the girls plying their trade. Some wore silver satin shorts and black see through halter tops, others nothing but a tanga. One caught his eye as he passed, dipped one finger in her champagne glass, pulled her halter to one side to expose a breast, and teased the droplet around one nipple provocatively. She smiled. She was beautiful and very sensuous: a young Denuevre. Tempting. He smiled in return as if to say 'next time' and made his way out into the street.
Outside in Pigalle, a half smile lingered on Deleauvre's face as he took out his mobile. Fornier would be pleased: they had Duclos' head on a platter.
Dominic was scanning the ground as the voice broke through... Tails you lose... and he looked up to see Duclos standing there. They were on the path by the wheat field. But it wasn't a young Duclos, it was Duclos from the last press photo he'd seen.
Duclos had the coin in his hand. He opened his palm for a second, allowing Dominic a tantalizing glimpse of it. Duclos smiled. Dominic made a desperate lunge for it, but Duclos closed his palm tight and swivelled around quickly... you lose, Fornier! In the same motion, throwing the coin high and wide...
Dominic watched it sailing high over the bushes and trees bordering the lane... realizing in sudden panic that if he didn't follow it, see w
here it fell, he wouldn't be able to find it later. He started running, following its path, bursting through bushes and foliage, feeling them lash across as he frantically ran down the river bank incline. 'Please, God... don't let it reach the river.' If it fell there, they would never find it. Lost forever among the glint of rocks or beneath the river bed mud.
The coin sailed high ahead of him as he thrashed frantically through the bushes... you lose... you lose... Breathless as he ran, a feeling of desolation as the coin soared almost out of sight... Monsieur, coffee?... a feeling that he couldn't possibly catch up with it before it fell. He wouldn't see where it fell, wouldn't be able to...
'...Monsieur, coffee?'
Dominic woke up. A female attendant was pouring a cup for the man across the aisle. Dominic rubbed his eyes, caught her attention and nodded. 'Yes, please.'
He eased the stiffness from his back as he sat up straight. The past few days activity and tension, the late nights with Lepoille, were catching up with him. He felt permanently tired. The coffee cut through his dry throat, cleared his thoughts.
Perhaps that was how it happened. Duclos saw the coin and threw it straight into the woods, or went to the edge of the bank so that it would reach the river. Or disposed of it later, dumped it along with Christian's shirt and the bloodied rock.
Only one lead left now. One hope remaining out of the original nine. Lepoille had phoned with another name while he waited in the Rouen café for Leveque’s return home. He'd called straightaway. Nothing. Leveque had been equally as hopeless, hardly even remembered the garage, let alone the car or the coin.
Portions of the five conversations spun randomly though his mind. The man on the second call had commented: 'A coin, you say... now that's interesting...' Dominic's pulse had raced, only for the man to continue with a story about his nephew being a keen coin collector. 'I think he has one of that type in his collection. Bought it not long ago...'
Dominic shook his head. Nearly all of them had appeared more alert at the mention of the coin: 'Was it valuable?'... 'What type did you say?'... 'Was it from a robbery?' Cars they expected to be asked about, they'd handled little else for decades... but a coin linked to a murder enquiry? Something different from their daily grind. He had been so sure that one of them, just one of them would have... Roudele! The thought crashed in abruptly. The pause. The long pause when he'd asked Roudele about the coin and a dog had been barking in the distance. Roudele hadn't asked any questions about the coin, showed no curiosity. Almost as if in that moment it had all come back to him, he knew exactly what Dominic was talking about. He didn't need to ask.
The thought settled. But then it could have been anything. A distraction: someone walking in the room, something interesting on the TV, Roudele wondering why the dog was barking outside. Perhaps he should have visited each one personally, read their expressions, the look in their eyes.
A distraction, or did Roudele know something? Dominic closed his eyes momentarily, sighing. Nothing underlined stronger how little hope he placed in the remaining lead: a woman. Probably a secretary or receptionist. Certainly she wouldn't have worked on the car herself, the only hope was if she'd logged or recorded something found from one of the mechanics. Perhaps one of the three now dead. But what were the chances of her knowing something which nobody else in the garage had shared?
Dominic rested back, tried to get back to sleep. Catch another hour before they arrived at Lyon. He was exhausted.
When his mobile rang twenty minutes later, he was still drifting on the edge, thoughts revolving preventing him falling fully under. He reached for it expectantly.
It was Deleauvre. 'We've got Duclos. Eynard's going to name him!'
The excitement suffused slowly; he was still half asleep. So tired. 'That's great. When's it happening?'
'Day after tomorrow. First thing in the morning.' Deleauvre summarized the deal with Sauquière.
'Will any children come forward in support?'
'No, too sensitive. A lot of them are illegals or runaways. It's complicated.'
Eighteen months, two years, thought Dominic. The maximum of four or five could only be gained with a child testifying and the claim of abuse. Poor consolation for murder, but at least Duclos' career would be ruined. 'Oh, how the mighty fall,' he commented, smiling. He thanked Deleauvre for his help, and they arranged to speak again straight after Eynard's statement.
Putting down his mobile, Dominic caught his own reflection in the train window: eyes dark circled, haunted. The face of a man that looked like he'd been chasing the same case for thirty years. But intermittently electric sparks from the train cut through the darkness outside and his reflection. How the investigation felt: hurtling through darkness with just a few flashes of hope.
Serge Roudele remembered the coin straightaway. He'd forgotten it had been an Alfa Romeo coupé, hadn't read where Fornier's questions were heading early in the conversation.
At the time, he'd been left his father's coin collection, but wasn't conversant himself with rarity and values. The coin had simply looked nice and could have had the potential to be rare. But when he'd checked, it hadn't been that valuable. Even when he'd sold it along with the rest of his father's collection just over ten years ago, he doubted it had garnered more than five or six hundred francs.
And at today's rate? The offer of 5,000 Francs was probably nearly four times its worth. Inspector Fornier was obviously valuing it at almost mint condition. His first thought had been theft - but would the police really pursue someone over thirty years for a coin of such value? And then Fornier had mentioned murder, and he'd felt his blood run cold. He'd been eager to get off the line, let his thoughts clear.
Reward. No recriminations. But did they want the coin itself back, or just to know that he'd seen it? What would they think when they realized he'd sold it? And could he really believe Fornier's assurance of no recriminations. He remembered seeing a programme once about a police unit in America luring bail jumpers with letters promising lottery prizes. Part of a policeman's job was to trick, outwit criminals. How else would they get people to come forward without some enticement?
The reward was tempting, he could do with the money. But would he be walking straight into a trap? His greed in taking the coin in the first place had caused this problem now, he reminded himself. A second bite at the same cherry was probably tempting fate.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Strasbourg, April, 1995
Alain Duclos’ hands shook as he addressed the EU assembly. The medical debate of the decade, and he was central rapporteur. It all rested now on this final stage of the debate: the case of John Moore and the ruling of the California Supreme Court.
The vote taken today was vitally important. The earlier call had come at the worst possible time: 'There's been a few questions with your name arising. Somebody's curious...' Bonoit, a young Limoges Prosecutor now with the Paris Procureur's office. Bonoit initially called Duclos' Brussel's office, mentioned it was delicate. Duclos had phoned him back ten minutes later from a call box.
Reports were before each Minister, and Duclos summarized the key points. The University of California Medical Centre had developed a unique cell line from a cancerous spleen removed from John Moore, filed for patent, then sold that development with resultant rights expected to yield over $1 billion from the pharmaceutical industry. 'Mr Moore subsequently sued, claiming ownership of the body part from which the cell line had been developed, but lost the case. The main premise of that ruling was that as soon as the organ left Mr Moore's body it ceased to become his property, and so was patentable.'
'I understand though that in a first action taken by Mr Moore, a court ruled in his favour?'
Duclos looked at the bank of translators beyond the MEP’s semi-circle: PDS, Italy. 'Yes - but this was overruled by the California Supreme Court. Another factor which weighed was the many years of genetic research taken to develop the cell line. A case of 'added value' uniqueness, if you will.'
'.
...It's not directly my office - but because of the offbeat nature, it's being bounced around a few departments: questions about past cases involving psychics. Something to do with an original investigation back in 1963, apparently...'
Another voice rose. German 'Green' party: 'That "uniqueness" I believe was quite evident when Mr Moore's spleen was first removed. Mr Moore's argument is not only that he contributed the larger part of that uniqueness, but that he was not even consulted. That this was developed without his permission, and he was - as he described in his own words - 'essence raped.' His body part had ceased to become his own and was suddenly an industry commodity.'
Low mumbling: mixture of support and protest. The Green Party had invited Mr Moore to speak at a Brussels press conference during conciliation, Duclos recalled. If he couldn't get justice in America, then he could at least make history by influencing the future of European patent legislature. But every possible interest group - medical ethics, body and science rights, earth friendship, mainstream and fringe religious groups - had also come out strongly in support. Ownership of body parts was an emotive issue.
As the debates and arguments for and against flowed, Duclos rode the waves. His rôle as rapporteur was to take an impartial stance, merely present the facts and the varying arguments clearly. Though he knew already what he wanted: rejection. At first a daunting if not seemingly impossible task. The EU Commission had already strongly backed a patents directive. The bill should sail through. If it didn't, it would be the first time a bill approved by the Commission at the plenary session was rejected by the Parliament. The whole conciliation process could be brought into question.
He’d pressed Bonoit for more information about the renewed investigation, but Bonoit knew little else; he promised to dig some more and Duclos should call him back in a couple of days. The waiting to know was killing Duclos, and now the tension of the current debate. Incredible that the years of blackmail had brought him to this: swinging a key debate. But with the size of the coup, this one was as much for himself as for Jaumard. His retirement fund.
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