Past Imperfect (29 page)

The session with witnesses went smoothly, mostly repetitions of their earlier police statements. Confronted by Naugier with the various witness statements, Machanaud admitted that he'd lied in his own statements only because he thought the police questioning was aimed at his poaching that day. Naugier didn't pursue the mention of cars or go deeper into Machanaud's police statements: one he would tackle at the reconstruction, the other at the session following. Naugier summarized the proceedings and looked at his diary. The next hearing was the reconstruction to take place at Brieulle's farm: present should be the suspect, defence and prosecution, and all relevant police and medics who attended at the original scene. Date set was in nineteen days time, 22nd November.

Chapeau tried the main Palais de Justice number in Limoges again. When he'd phoned two hours earlier, he was told that 'Monsieur Duclos was in a meeting, but should be free at twelve.' He'd left his name as Emile Vacheret, but no number. He would call back. Originally, he had planned to call closer to the final trial date, but during those months Duclos' memory could have started to fade.

The second time he was put straight through. 'Monsieur Vacharet, yes. One moment.
Ne quittez pas.'

Then Duclos' voice in hushed tones. 'Emile... why on earth are you phoning me here are work, you know that...'

'Be quiet,' Chapeau cut in. 'I used Vacheret's name to get through.'

'Who is this? I don't understand.' Duclos spluttered. But it was a stock reaction; suddenly he did know who it was and understood fully. 'Why are you phoning me? How did you get this number? I'm quite sure Emile wouldn't be so stupid as to give it to you.'

Chapeau chuckled. 'No, you're right. But your wallet was a treasure chest of information.' Silence from the other end: only the background clatter of typewriters came through to Chapeau for a few seconds.

'It was
you
the other month,' Duclos hissed.

God, this was fun. Chapeau wasn't sure what was more joyous: the outrage in Duclos' voice or the sudden flashback of the incident itself. 'Ah, you guessed. And I wanted so much for it to stay a surprise.'

'Look, I just can't talk here.' Duclos voice was muted, edgy. 'I'll phone you straight back from outside. Give me a number.'

Chapeau looked down at the number on the dial and read it out. 'Five minutes, no more. Or I'll be phoning your office back again.' He hung up.

Duclos made a quick excuse to his secretary about seeing a client on the third floor, he wouldn't be longer than twenty minutes. He headed out along the long corridor, then skipped down instead of up. By the time he reached the main Palais de Justice steps, he was practically at a run.

Chapeau picked up the phone on the second ring. Less than three minutes: impressive. Duclos was even keener than he thought.

'Okay, what do you want?' Duclos' voice came breathlessly.

Obviously no patience left for preamble or politeness, thought Chapeau. What was the world coming to? 'Luckily for you, it looks like they're nailing some poor local poacher for what you did to that young boy.' Chapeau listened intently over the static on the line for Duclos' reaction.

A short intake of breath. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Chapeau had no time for fencing. 'Look, I know all about the boy in Taragnon. I saw the whole story in the papers. And I know that there's no friend. It was you -
you
attacked him, and that was why you wanted me to finish him off in the hospital. You were afraid he'd awaken and identify you.'

'You're wrong. It was for my friend. And I know nothing about Taragnon – my friend told me the boy was from Marseille.'

Chapeau read the bluff, could pick up on the tremor at the back of Duclos' voice. If there was any slight doubt remaining, now he was certain. There was no friend: Duclos had killed the boy. But he would have to push hard to get Duclos to admit it. 'Come on, Duclos. You've got a weakness for the young boys, you're a regular customer at Vacharet's. You want me to believe that this
friend
of yours has got exactly the same problem. And you drive straight through Taragnon on your way from the Vallon Estate to Aix.'

'So does my friend. Whether you believe me or not doesn't really concern me.' Flatter, calmer voice now. 'You seem to be forgetting along the way that the boy was still alive in the hospital. You're the one who killed him. You can't tell your little theory to anyone without incriminating yourself.'

Chapeau allowed Duclos his glorious moment's gloating before dropping the bombshell. 'That's the beauty of it - I never touched the boy. When I got to his room, he was already in emergency, they were fighting to save his life. I was annoyed at first that I'd missed him; and then it struck me that if the boy died that night, you'd have no way of knowing I hadn't made the hit. So I decided to claim the kill and stiff you for the money anyway. I don't think I've ever had so much fun.' Chapeau sniggered. 'Except that is for beating the shit out of you a week later.'

Longer, deeper silence this time. Chapeau could almost feel the waves of panic at the other end. Duclos' mind racing whether to continue denying, question or retreat. A slow exhalation. 'Why should I believe you now?'

It was a weak protest, more grudging acceptance than doubt. 'You don't have to. Why don't I call the police and tell them about you hiring me to kill the boy, let them work out if the boy died on the operating table or not. After all, they have access to all the hospital records. And then when they turn up to arrest you, you can tell them all about your little friend. As an accomplice, and seeing as the murder you hired me for never took place, you'd probably only get a few years.'

'No,
no
. Don't do that.'

Chapeau savoured the panic in Duclos' voice before commenting, 'So whether it's you or your friend, at least we've established one thing. You don't want me to go to the police.'

Duclos was slow to answer, his voice subdued, barely audible. 'No.'

'That's a shame, because I had such a strong urge to do my citizen's duty this time. The story of that poor poacher in the paper really touched me. So unfair. You know, I probably have a lot more in common with someone like that than... than someone like yourself,
Monsieur Prosecutor
. It would almost feel like I'm betraying one of my own. I think it would take quite a lot to persuade me to do something like that.'

'What do you want?' Duclos had no energy left to spar with Chapeau. As it dawned on him that Chapeau was probably telling the truth about not killing the boy and he realized how vulnerable he was, a sinking sensation gripped his stomach. In the past weeks of work, he'd finally started to free his thoughts from the nightmare of Taragnon, but now it was back with him full force. Bleak years of the incident re-kindled with each demand from Chapeau stretched out ahead. He felt physically sick.

Chapeau paused for breath; like a lion circling his prey, now he had Duclos exactly where he wanted him, ready for the kill. But it was too soon. Besides, only a couple of months had passed since he'd probably cleaned Duclos out. 'I don't know yet. I'll have to think about that one. I'll probably call you again when the date for the final trial for this fellow has been set. There'll still be time then for them to haul someone else in for questioning and acquit him if they get new information.'

'When will that be?' Flat monotone, defeated, washed along on whatever Chapeau suggested. It had taken him almost a month to fully get over the injuries from the beating in the Marseille alley; he was still haunted by the image of the cold steel barrel sliding against his cheek, sure in that moment he was going to die. Duclos shuddered; now once again he felt powerless and afraid.

'Two months - maybe as much as four or five. You know probably better than me how slow the wheels of justice turn in France. Why don't I send you regular press clippings, keep you up to date.'

'No, no, it's okay.' The thought of regular reminders through the post made Duclos' blood run cold. Surely Chapeau wasn't serious? 'Just phone me when you're ready.'

'I will. In the meantime I suggest you're a good boy and start saving up for when I call. Have you got a piggy bank?'

'You bastard. You slimy
fucking
bastard!'

'Oh, I do love it when you're angry. It gets me
so
excited.' Chapeau blew an exaggerated kiss close to the mouthpiece and hung up.

EIGHTEEN

Voices from the rooms, running feet in the courtyard, a ball bouncing, laughter, crying. Christian biting back the tears after being stung by a bee, Jean-Luc running down the field with Christian on his shoulders and her worrying about them falling, Christian at six holding up his favourite puppet doll, Topo Gigio: he'd left it in the courtyard and some chickens had pecked the stuffing out and an arm was almost falling off. She'd re-stuffed it and sewn the arm that night, tucked it back in alongside him while he was asleep. Christian running out of the surf at Le Lavandou, helping Jean-Luc by measuring the boules for a local village game, Christian blowing out the candles on his tenth birthday party.

Fragments of memories, some old pictures on the shelves and in albums, Christian's old clothes and toys. All that was left.

Monique had promised herself each time that the next day she'd clear them away... the
next day
. Each time she looked at his room - with each toy and item of clothing in exactly the same place he'd left them that afternoon - it was easy in that moment to believe that he was simply away, a school trip or summer camp, and soon would return.

But as the images flooded back - the police drawing up in the courtyard that first day, her candle-light vigil in the hospital, the young gendarme at her door saying he was sorry...
so sorry
- a cold steel hand of reality reached deep inside her and ripped out her emotions, her very soul, stripped bare every fibre and nerve ending until her pain was rendered down to no more than pitiful numbness, a grey void... whispers in the first empty dawn after his death...
'Oh Christian... Christian'.
Knowing in that moment that there would be no more answer, no kisses like soft butterflies on her cheek, no more embraces and feeling the warmth of his body.... clinging now only to the memory, hugging the top cover of his bed around her and rocking gently as her emotions flooded over and once again her body sank into uncontrollable sobbing.

Most of her crying had been alone, sitting in Christian's room. Now it had come to symbolize catharsis, the only place in the house where she felt comfortable venting her grief. The rest of the house was for cooking, cleaning, sewing, all the day to day mechanical chores to help push her grief into the background. When she cried, it was just her and Christian, alone. A last vestige of intimacy.

Only once had she been caught, just over a month after Christian's death; Clarisse had been at the door, half hiding behind the door frame, perplexed. Monique had quickly stifled her tears and rushed to comfort her, feeling guilty.

Clarisse was probably suffering even more than her; at only five, struggling to truly grasp what had happened, let alone come to terms with it. Asking questions about where Christian was now, would he be happy, was it nice in heaven? Drawing pictures of Christian sitting among floating clouds, his Topo Gigio doll at one side, his favourite tree from the garden - an old spreading carob which he used to climb - the other. Clarisse's idea of Christian's heaven.

All they had was each other for consolation, Jean-Luc had been distant, remote. When they'd lost Christian, they'd lost most of Jean-Luc as well. She had shared her affections equally between the children, but Jean-Luc had always shown more affection for Christian, and now it was more marked. It was as if he was saying: '
I've lost what I care about most in this family, there's little for me here now.'

Long, bland stares straight through them at the dining table. Little or no interest in any of their activities; whenever any personal involvement threatened to come close, he would make an excuse about cleaning tools or the tractor and head out to the garage. And when his emotions became too much and Monique tried to hug and console him, he'd shrug her off. During the summer evenings he stayed out late in the fields, but as the evenings drew in he'd make an excuse and head for a local bar. It was as if he could no longer bear to be in their company; or perhaps it was the house itself, reminders of Christian.

Many a time when he was working in the fields, she would look up from the kitchen window and see him sitting on the stone wall at the ridge of the field, staring emptily into space. She would busy herself with chores for a while, and sometimes as much as forty minutes later he would still be in the same position when she looked out.

The Fiévets next door had been helpful and supportive, but they weren't close enough for her to share her innermost thoughts about Christian's death or the worry of Jean-Luc's increasing emotional distance from her and Clarisse. The town had rallied well behind her, she'd been particularly touched by the memorial service - but at some point afterwards she felt unable to face another village shopkeeper, another sympathetic face and heartfelt condolence. For over a month after the service, she had hardly ventured out, the Fiévets did her shopping.

Outside the church, Captain Pouillain had approached and said that someone was in custody, 'a local vagabond. Justice would soon be done.' A satisfied, firm statement, as if he felt assured the news would salve her pain. She'd hardly remembered him from the first interview; the only gendarme she recognized from the line in the church was the one who had called to tell her Christian was dead. He stayed in the background, gendarme cap in hand. Most of it outside the church had been sympathy at arm's length - pats on the shoulder, heads hung in sorrow, muttered condolences with eyes downcast, trite offers of help from people she hardly knew. She'd grimaced afterwards at the irony: it had taken the death of her son to make her feel truly accepted in the village.