Past Imperfect (50 page)

She wondered whether his tension was connected with the tape and transcript she'd read and his trip to London. Analysts, past-life regressionists, voices from the past, and now messages on their answerphone about psychics. Possibly it was all as strange to him as to her.

With the first tape, she'd pushed whatever emotions she might have had away, harboured doubts and used the mechanical exercise of preparing the questions both as a shield and to throw it back quickly in the lap of whoever sent it: analysts, hoaxers, or whatever they were.

But with the transcript, she'd found herself wrestling with a fast changing range of emotions: disbelief, anger, outrage that it might be a hoax, rereading segments over and over and searching for fault or possible invention, not
wanting
to believe - before final acceptance; an acceptance that cut through her and chilled her to the bone. It was Christian's voice. There was no doubt. She didn't know how or why, or even pretend to comprehend. But it was him. She did her duty; after three attempts to express her thoughts in a few lines without rambling or being too sentimental, she had faxed the short note back to London.

There had been no tears, then. They hadn't come till the next morning when she read back through the transcript. The first time she'd read it purely clinically, objectively:
is this Christian's voice?
As if she was an expert character or voice analyst. But the second time, she actually attached Christian's voice, recalled its soft tones, its joy and vibrance, so open and innocent:
'...It was made of shell, in the shape of an old galleon. The light inside made the shell almost luminescent and direct light would also shine through the portholes. It was beautiful.'
And in that moment, she recalled Christian's face clearly, full of joy as Jean-Luc paid the rest of the money and the shop-keeper took the galleon down from the shelf and handed it to Christian. And all the other moments of him smiling suddenly flooded back: looking up at her with pride with one of his first drawings from school, her sewing the arm back on his Topo Gigio doll and his kiss of thanks, him asking for a story as she tucked him in bed, bright green eyes sparkling up at her
.
The soft touch of his small hands against her cheek. All gone now.
Gone
. Gone for so many years. So many.

The tears convulsed her in a sudden tidal wave, heavy racking sobs that shook her whole body uncontrollably. And she'd rocked slightly with their rhythm, muttering
so many
at intervals, as if it was a mantra that would finally return some control, some normality. Sudden grief rising up and mugging her after so many years felt strange to her. She hadn't cried for Christian for fourteen years, since Gerome's tenth birthday party, when she'd suddenly recalled a similar party for Christian, his last. But that didn't help, the recalled shame of not having grieved for so many years merely added poignancy.

Perhaps to cover her tears and confusion, she'd prepared one of Dominic's favourite dishes when he arrived. There. See. Everything's fine. Normal.

She didn't say much on the drive, not wishing to bring up the subject in case her emotions and the tears welled up again. She'd read the transcript and identified the voice. She'd sent her fax back to London. She'd cried. It was over.

But then she became aware that Dominic wasn't saying much either and he seemed tense and anxious, was driving faster than normal. Now, this morning, sipping his coffee, she could feel the same tension.

'Did something happen in London? You seem anxious, as if you're waiting on some news.'

'Just tired.' Dominic forced a smile. 'And now having to face catching up on work. You know what it's like whenever I go away. Things back up.'

'I thought it might have been something to do with the tapes and transcripts. That they'd somehow upset you.'

Dominic looked back at her. The stark morning light caught the lines of pain etched in her face. Lines he'd hoped had mellowed years ago and wouldn't return. She was still incredibly beautiful, a dusky Sophia Loren with just a fleck of salt in her dark pepper hair. And if he smiled, she would smile in return, and he could look upon them as laughter lines... the pain and sad memories would suddenly melt away. But he sensed she was speaking more for how she felt than for him: the tapes and transcripts had upset her. He reached one hand out and touched hers.

'Of course I was upset by them. But it was more concern for the effect they might have on you.'

'I cried a bit. But I'm okay now.' She forced a smile, felt the eyes welling slightly again. She'd planned not to mention her crying; some quick sympathy and a smile from Dominic and suddenly the words were out. He had that effect on her.

'Are you sure?'

She just nodded, looked down and sipped at her coffee.

Dominic wondered whether he'd done the right thing coming down to Vidauban for the weekend. It had seemed a good idea to get away, both for him and Monique. But now, having left his number with half the world, hoping to just sit back and relax while the calls flooded back in, he felt suddenly cut off, restless. Four hours to wait before Lepoille made contact, five or six for anything from Calvan. He could start on Guidier's file to kill the time, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to apply his mind effectively. He was too pre-occupied.

And for Monique, he wondered whether Vidauban might be too nostalgic coming straight after her reading the transcript. The thought hadn't hit him until the night before as he turned into the driveway, as the farmhouse and its small courtyard were caught in the headlamps.

When they'd bought it six years ago, time enough seemed to have passed from Christian and Taragnon for it not to be a reminder. Just a nostalgic link with an area they loved. It had also looked different to the Taragnon farmhouse - the front façade was flat. But three years ago he'd added a small office that jutted out into the courtyard, and from that moment it held a far stronger resemblance. Except that instead of the blank wall of the side of Jean-Luc's garage, a large window looked from his office onto the courtyard. And rather than looking out across open fields, a small rockery garden sloped up to a few pine trees and a half stone wall twenty metres away, separating them from the property next door. The only open fields were beyond the garden the other side of the house.

After breakfast, Dominic retired to his office for lack of anything else to do. He shuffled some papers and files and glanced through the first pages of Guidier's file without it really grabbing his attention. Just after ten o'clock, Gerome appeared on the patio for breakfast and Dominic came back out to say hello. Work was fine. Jaqueline was fine, Gerome grimaced. She hadn't come over because he was heading off to see a friend in Montpelier. He would be staying overnight in Montpelier and would see them about midday the next day. 'A couple of hours work on the computer and then I'm off.'

Computer
. Dominic thought again of Lepoille. Three hours before he was in his office.

Dominic finally got into Guidier's file: motorbike mugging spree. Two youths on a bike averaging twelve muggings a week over seven months had caused practically a mini crime wave. When they were finally apprehended, reported drive-by muggings dropped to no more than five a month.

When the phone rang at 1.10pm, he was fully immersed in the report, it broke his attention abruptly. It was Lepoille. His enthusiasm was infectious, but Dominic found it hard to take it all in just over the phone: several cases in America tracked down through psychics, many of them notable: 'Son of Sam' killings, the Boston Strangler, the case of Mona Tinsley, Manson/Bugliosi: proving psychic influence over others to commit a murder. Some departments even had regulars they went to when everything else failed: Gerard Croiset and Peter Hurkos were the names that came up the most. But very little so far in France - 'Except relatives in the Petit Gregoire case contacting a psychic early on to discover if the boy was dead or just missing. The police here hardly ever seem to involve psychics, just relatives or sometimes the press. And rarely does it feature in official police filing or trial evidence. I'm tracking down a couple of leads in Paris, I'll know more on Monday. There's a stack of Interpol print-outs and e-mails on my desk. Some arrived late yesterday, but most of it came through this morning. I'll bike it over to you Monday.'

'Great. I'll look forward to going through it.' Hopefully in the reading something would leap out; nothing immediately had from Lepoille's quick fire descriptions. 'And thanks for the help, Pierre.'

Though six hours later, when there was still no call from Marinella Calvan, Dominic's excitement had dissipated, doubt set in again. Though this time, unlike before, it was set in concrete. Midday now in Virginia, his urgent messages left with Lambourne. She wasn't going to call. Perhaps she'd even been by the phone when he'd called Lambourne, signalling to make an excuse. When the package arrived from Lepoille, he'd probably just throw it straight in the bin. He'd been foolish to build up his hopes.

Marinella Calvan was on a United Airlines 19.50 flight back to Virginia. In the next seat was an overweight and over-friendly sales manager named Bob returning to Richmond, who she’d finally managed to extricate herself from with a few curt smiles to get back into the file on her lap.

She made notes on a fresh sheet of paper as she scanned back through the transcripts. Depth of detail had been remarkable. They effectively knew everything about Christian Rosselot's life: where he lived, went to school, daily and weekly habits, and a variety of rich recollections, some of which only the boy himself could have possibly known.

The last session she’d used mostly to fill in any gaps. But at one point she’d sat up sharply, her skin bristling as Christian talked about his best friend Stephan. ‘He also went to my school, but he lived on the far side of the village. It was Stephan I was going to see the day I became lost in the wheat field... I never made it to his house.'

'And did you ever see Stephan again?'

'No... no.'

Marinella was about to tap out:
'Tell me more about that day. Did you meet someone else? What stopped you from reaching Stephan's house?'
But Lambourne was looking across sharply, and even Eyran's simple 'No' had been nervous and hesitant, his breathing more rapid. She could almost feel Fornier at her shoulder, pushing, urging. But even if she got past the first question without Lambourne cutting in, any upset to Eyran's mood and she might get nothing more the rest of the session. Her last opportunity. She moved Eyran away, back to earlier, happier times when he'd played with Stephan.

Now she wrote:
The wheat field is not just a symbol for Christian's separation from his parents, but also perhaps his best friend. Christian might see Eyran as a replacement for that best friend - the friend he never got to see that fateful day.

She'd tried to broach the subject of Fornier's quest at first gently, mentioning only that there might be a few more questions. But Lambourne looked immediately dismayed, mentioned that on the last tape Stuart Capel had complained about the pointed, angled questions making Eyran hesitant, almost defensive. 'I'd assured him that this last session would be far more open, allow Eyran freer range. What questions?' And she'd fluffed that they were nothing important: 'They'll wait.' With Lambourne and Stuart Capel concerned about even a few pointed questions, hoping to de-rail into a full murder investigation was hoplessly out of reach. At least she'd tried.

Shortly after the last session she'd been struck with another link:
There was a river running close to where Christian Rosselot's body was found, and in one of Eyran's dreams the brook by Broadhurst Farm featured, expanding into a large lake. Perhaps Christian believed somehow that if he'd have been able to cross that river, he would have escaped his attacker and avoided his fate. And in Eyran's dream the lake symbolized separation from his parents. But it is obviously Christian's separation which has the strongest connection with water.

The debate with Lambourne over whose sense of separation was stronger - Christian's or Eyran's, past or present - was irrelevant. The links were all there. The Freud-devotees and conventionalists were going to love it. Object loss symbols were classic.

And if they started to wriggle and defend, she had more than enough information with which to bury them: Dr Torrens initial recommendation to therapy, his earlier EEGs recording brain wave disturbance, Lambourne's sessions - his concern about dominance of the secondary character and schizophrenia - then finally Eyran speaking in French under hypnosis and her being called in. Over sixty pages of notes and files even before the three tapes and forty-six pages of transcript from her own sessions - now fully corroborated by a French Chief Inspector and his wife. Not some fringe new-wave religion nutcases who name their children Rainbow or Stardust.

It was going to be a good paper, one of her strongest yet. Correction, it was going to be a
great
paper.

Marinella put on the headphones and flicked through the pop and comedy channels until she found some classical music: Offenbach's
Barcarolle
was playing.

When she got back to Lambourne's from shopping, she'd heard that Dominic Fornier had called. She felt guilty about not phoning him back. The image of him walking away from their meeting, the die-hard detective shouldering the doubt through all those years, now clinging to one last hope, had stuck in her mind. She reached tentatively for the phone just before leaving her hotel for the airport - then decided against it. She'd call him tomorrow. Not sure immediately if she was just delaying facing his disappointment, or hoping for better words of explanation to settle in the meantime.

Grieg's '
Morning'
. Soothing, relaxing. Hopefully she'd doze off soon. To her side, Bob was flicking through the in-flight magazine. But the next tunes - Brahm's
Hungarian Dance
and Tchaikovsky's
March Slav
- broke her slightly out of her half slumber, roused her spirits. She found herself tapping the armrest to the rhythm of
March Slav
as she imagined the key points of her final paper being pounded home to the army of sceptics who had plagued her through the years.