Past Imperfect (59 page)

'Madame Caugine - you're marvellous.
Marvellous
!'

'Well - I just hope it's useful.' Slightly flustered by his enthusiasm.

Useful?
Dominic smiled incredulously. He wanted to hug Jocelyn Caugine until her cheeks flushed purple.

Dominic ordered the biggest food hamper he could find - cognac, champagne, select cheeses and patés, truffles and chocolates - and had it messengered to Jocelyn Caugine with a note:
From your favourite Inspector
. Then he phoned Lepoille.

THIRTY-SIX

The TGV train hurtled across the flat plain of the Sologne.

Three names left to trace. Dominic called Lepoille on his mobile. 'Anything yet?'

'Just bringing it up... here we are...' The sound of Lepoille's fingers on the keyboard. 'One more found so far. Still alive. Limoges address... and, yes, a telephone number.' Lepoille read it out, enunciating clearly so that Dominic could hear above the noise of the train. 'Nothing as yet on the other two I don't think...' Lepoille's voice drifted as he swung away, calling out across the room, some mumbled background conversation, faint echoing clatter of the computer room imposing...

...The room where Dominic had spent so much time the past two days: late evenings, endless chains of coffees in plastic cups, looking expectantly over Lepoille's shoulder while he waited for the next Internet or ASF link, instructions bouncing across the room as quick as the key strokes between Lepoille and his two team helpers, and then finally the names and telephone numbers...

Lepoille was back. '... Nothing yet. Found a relative on one, but nothing more. We'll phone as soon as we get something. What time will you get there?'

Dominic calculated: just over an hour more to Paris, then the connection to Rouen. 'About six o'clock.' He could have shaved fifty minutes by flying, but it was vital he maintain contact by phone throughout.

Dominic called the new number straight after signing off from Lepoille. It was engaged.

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 where 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.