Past Imperfect (15 page)

'Even if we accept this ridiculous story that you were poaching, you expect us to believe that you spent two hours calmly fishing while a young boy was savagely raped and assaulted not yards away - and you saw absolutely
nothing
.'

Machanaud looked pleadingly towards Dominic, clutching out for any possible support. Dominic looked away and back to his notes. Whatever misgivings Dominic might have with Poullain's interview tactics, it was the first golden rule: unless a two pronged assault had been previously agreed, the interview witness remained silent. He had already made his thoughts clear to Poullain about suspicion of Machanaud. Any comment about what arose in the interview itself would have to wait till later.

Machanaud was desperate, spluttering, 'The river bank dips down at points. The lane is partly obscured by trees and bushes. Somebody else could have come along without me seeing.'

'Yes, they could. But that same person couldn't possibly have stayed on the lane for all that time without the risk of someone coming along and seeing them. And yet if they hid in the only place possible - down by the riverbank - you would have seen them. But the real reason that you saw nobody else, is that there was only one person down by the river bank -
you.'

'No..
.no...'

'...And it was there that you chose as your hiding place, a place you know well from past visits, while you molested the boy. Concealed from anyone passing. Twice you sexually assaulted him; then later, to cover your tracks, afraid that he would talk, you picked up a rock and -'

'No!...'
Machanaud rose to his feet, slamming one hand on the table. His head had been shaking slowly, his low and repeated groans of 'no' finally rising to a crescendo.

Poullain let out a final exasperated breath, looking towards Dominic. 'Just take him away, I'm sick of hearing his lies.'

'What do you want me to do with him?'

'Put him in the holding cell for a few hours, let him cool his heels. Perhaps he'll remember something with a bit more sense. We'll decide then if we're going to hold him longer.'

The arrangement was that Duclos meet the man in front of the Fort St Nicolas in Marseille. From there, they could walk across Boulevard Charles Livon and into the Parc du Pharo to discuss their business. At dusk, the number of park strollers would be thinning out; it should be quite private.

The time and place had been arranged through Vacheret, and the man was known as Chapeau; obviously not his real name. Duclos had already waited ten minutes, gradually becoming more anxious, dwelling stronger on what he was waiting there for. Conscious suddenly of every small sound and movement around: the wind ruffling a flag on the fort, a stray cat tugging at a bag in a nearby bush, the shuffle of people approaching and walking by; uncomfortable if someone looked at him as they passed, catching his eye. For God's sake, hurry up. He couldn't take much more of this waiting.

While he was distracted for a moment by a coach that had pulled up in front, collecting a stream of tourists shepherded aboard by their guide - a man was suddenly at his side. He seemed to emerge from nowhere among the throng leaving the fort, and Duclos was slightly startled. He hadn't seen him approach.

'Your name is Alain?' the man enquired.

'Yes.'

'We have some business to discuss, I believe.'

Duclos merely nodded. It was obviously Chapeau. There was something familiar about him, but Duclos wasn't totally sure. 'Were you across the road a moment ago, looking over?'

'Yes I was.' Chapeau didn't offer to explain why, which unsettled Duclos further. They walked in silence towards the park. Duclos took the opportunity to study him closer. No more than thirty, skin quite dark, tight knit curly dark hair, heavy set and jowly; probably Corsican judging by the accent, Duclos guessed. One eye was slightly bloodshot and yellowed in the corner, as if he'd been hit close to it. Or perhaps it was a permanent ailment. The nickname intrigued Duclos; the man wasn't wearing a hat.

'What is it your friend wants done?' asked Chapeau.

At the mention of friend, Duclos was wary just how much had already been discussed. 'What did Vacheret tell you? Did he explain the problem and what needed to be done?'

'No. Just that you had a friend with a problem, nothing more. You know what Vacheret is like, afraid of his own shadow. Doesn't like to get involved.'

Duclos grimaced weakly. Good. He had spun a story to Vacharet of a married friend who played both sides getting into trouble with a rent boy and his pimp. The pimp was threatening blackmail by informing his friend's wife. Some muscle was required to warn him off. Duclos knew that Vacharet had
milieu
contacts and would be able to recommend someone. The pimp was streetwise, so it should also be someone with a reasonable reputation, perhaps a few hits to his credit, otherwise the warning would carry no weight. Thankfully, Vacharet had been worried about complicity, didn't want to know too many details.
'I'll just give you a number, the rest is up to you.'
For the same reason, Vacharet had obviously said little to Chapeau. Even if he had, Duclos would have covered by claiming that for obvious reasons he hadn't wanted Vacharet to know all the details. Now none of that was necessary, except to maintain the subterfuge that the boy who was laying in hospital in Aix-en-Provence was a rent boy, and that his friend was responsible for the attack.

'Why did your friend attack him in the first place? Chapeau asked.

'Blackmail. My friend is married; this is one of his little indulgences on the side that he tells me he's only done a few times and was trying to get over. But this time he got caught out - the boy was threatening to tell.'

'And your friend didn't finish the boy off?'

'No.'

Chapeau pondered over this information. 'So now he's afraid the boy will wake up and tell?'

Duclos nodded. They'd walked almost two hundred metres into the park. A few evening strollers passed, staccato breaks in a conversation they were both being careful to keep out of anyone else's earshot. At times, the pauses were unsettling; Chapeau left long gaps after people had passed.

'Why the hospital at Aix?' Chapeau asked.

'They were driving out of Marseille into the country, and they got into an argument. It just happened that Aix was the nearest town - so the boy was taken to the main hospital on Avenue Tamaris.'

'What's the boy's name?'

'Javi. But it's just a nickname. I don't think he knows the boy's real name.'

'And has he known him long?'

'I don't think so. Just a few months, at most.'

Another silence. Something didn't add up, thought Chapeau. Though he thought he knew what was wrong. As usual, Vacheret had been tight lipped, except on one simple question: how was this Alain known to him? A client. For the girls or boys? Boys! And now Alain was talking about problems with a rent boy and a friend. It could be just a case of all gay boys together, but it was too much of a coincidence for comfort. Chapeau was sure the friend was pure invention - it was this Alain himself who had the problem with the boy and now wanted him killed. But there was no point in confronting him and possibly frightening off a good paying client. More fun to see, if pushed, if he still clung to the story. 'Your friend likes fucking young boys, does he? What's wrong - can't he get it up for his wife anymore?'

'I don't know, you'd have to ask him yourself.' The irritation in Duclos' voice was barely concealed. He bit back, hoping to pique Chapeau a little. 'How did you get the nickname? I don't see a hat.'

'No that's true, you don't.' Chapeau smiled wryly, as if he was about to elaborate then suddenly decided against it. They walked in silence for a second. Chapeau let out a long breath. 'Hospitals are risky. It's going to cost extra - seven thousand francs.'

Duclos went pale. Even at what Vacheret had estimated, 5,000 - 6,000 francs, it had been a fortune: over half a year's salary and a third of his savings. Now it was going to cost more. 'I'm not sure if my friend can afford that. He was expecting it to be less.'

'There's people around in a hospital, more risk of being seen, some sort of diversion will probably have to be created. I'll have to visit at least once beforehand to work out what that diversion might be. It's not worth doing under seven thousand.'

'But the boy's half dead already. All you have to do is sneak in and cut off his life support, or put a hand over his mouth. My friend even knows the room he's in and the layout.'

Chapeau's brow furrowed. 'So your friend has actually been there?'

Duclos faltered, looking away for a second as a young couple passed. The memories of the day before came flooding back. He'd known from the outset that it would be hard to skirt around the issue; it was vital to pass on detailed information so that Chapeau didn't start phoning the hospital. The only way his imaginary friend would know that information was if he'd actually been in the room. 'Yes - at first he thought be might be able to deal with the problem himself.'

'How close did he get?'

Heartbeats. The nightmare was still vivid. The sound of his own heartbeat and pulse almost in time with the bleep from the life support machine. Stepping closer... reaching out.
Sounds in the corridor. A moment's pause as he went to put his hand over the boy's mouth. Voices outside getting closer, more prominent.
'...He was actually inside the room when he got disturbed.'

Chapeau's tone was slightly incredulous. 'What? Your friend gets a second chance at it - and still he can't manage to finish the boy off?'

Fighting to control the trembling as his hand closed in, feeling for a second the boy's shallow breath on his palm. Warm vapour, cool against his sweat. Indecision. Then quickly retracted... sudden panic as he heard voices almost upon him...
'I told you, he was disturbed. What else could he do?' Duclos stammered.

'I don't know. You tell me.' Chapeau half smiled. 'Sounds to me as if your friend's a bit of a gutless shit.'

Duclos didn't answer, turned away, biting at his lip. Coming out of the room, the worst part had been realizing that the people outside had already passed; he could have stayed a moment longer. He even thought for a moment of going back inside - but his nerve had gone. He had been close,
so close.

Chapeau savoured his discomfort for a moment before commenting more philosophically, 'Still, I suppose if it wasn't for friends like that, there'd be no need for people like me. Shall we conclude matters?'

It took another ten minutes for them to run through the other details: room number, position and floor, best timing, payment arrangements. Chapeau took the point of the urgency of the situation; at any moment the boy could wake up. He would try and make a reconnaissance of the hospital, work out a diversion and hopefully execute the plan all in the same day: tomorrow.

They were coming to a point in the park where both the marina and the old harbour could be viewed: a succession of white masts speared the skyline, stretching back towards the town. Again it reminded Duclos that this was his holiday; he should have been out sailing on the Vallon's Jonquet '42, the wind in his hair, then afterwards grilled sea bream or swordfish washed down with a glass of chilled white wine in a cafe overlooking the old harbour. Instead he was negotiating murder and being taunted by this Neanderthal prick, who was also going to take almost half his savings for the privilege. But hopefully the whole sad saga would soon be over. That was what he was paying for. The thought of the freedom ahead, of not having to go through this nightmare again, made it all worthwhile. Means to an end. He took a deep, refreshing breath of the salty air of the harbour.

As they concluded, Duclos asked how the boy was going to be killed, but Chapeau said that he wouldn't know till after the first visit. Chapeau had given nothing away. Twenty minutes of conversation and Duclos knew nothing about the man; he was still the same shadowy figure as when they'd entered the park.

Chapeau asked if he was heading back towards the fort, but Duclos said he wanted to enjoy the last rays of sunset over the harbour. Truth was, he couldn't bear to stay in Chapeau's company a moment longer. The man made his skin crawl. Duclos found a bench near the apex of the harbour walk as Chapeau headed back. A part of him felt relieved at the action he'd taken, but yet another felt strangely uneasy.

Had Chapeau suspected him of lying? He'd kept everything as remote as possible: the friend, a disagreement with a rent boy, the nickname. It was unlikely Chapeau would tie anything in with the recent newspaper article, even if he had seen it. And with the depth of detail provided about the room's position and best timing, he doubted Chapeau would call the hospital. Surely it was unlikely that all his precautions would collapse? The thought of what Chapeau might do in response sent a shiver through his body.

Duclos looked away from the harbour view for a moment, watching Chapeau's figure as it receded into the distance, faintly silhouetted against the dying light. And for a while his strong will to believe he'd taken the right action fought hard against the fear of what new horrors he might have introduced.

Dominic was called to the teleprinter as soon as the message came through. It was from the gendarmerie in South Limoges, and read:

Your enquiry regarding Alain Lucien Duclos. Not at the Limoges address you supplied from vehicle registration. However, Monsieur Duclos is known to us. He is an Assistant Prosecutor attached to the main Cour d'Assises in Limoges. According to work colleagues, he is currently holidaying with friends at the Vallon estate near Cotignac, Provence. Trust this is helpful.

- Head of Station, Captain Rabellienne

Dominic ripped the message from the printer. The corridor and reception was busy, and he found Poullain in the back mess room having coffee with Harrault. He handed the message across and waited a moment as Poullain read it.