Past Imperfect (6 page)

'I don't know. I radioed in and was advised that a forensics team would be dispatched. Wasn’t given any names.'

Servan was at their side with the camera held limply, waiting for more directions. WO Levacher was looking thoughtfully towards the river.

'Have you brought the sticks?' Poullain asked.

'Yes'. It was Levacher who answered. He turned back to the 2CV to get them. They'd stopped for them at a hardware store on the way, but it was obvious they were still wondering what they were for.

Poullain pointed towards the wheat field. 'Levacher and Servan, start from three metres out from the blood patches and head out across the wheat field keeping two metres apart. Then at the end turn back and cover the next four metre stretch. Use the sticks to part the sheaves. We're looking for items of clothing, even small fragments of cloth or buttons and sweet wrappers. Any possible clues. And the weapon used in the attack - a heavy stick or iron bar, or perhaps a rock with tell tale blood stains.' Poullain pointed towards the river. 'Then take the bushes along the river bank. Also, look in the shallows. As I say,
don't
disturb the three metres around the blood stains. Leave that for forensics.'

Poullain surveyed the wheat field as Servan and Levacher headed out with their sticks. He shook his head slowly after a moment. 'Who on earth would do such a thing?' A rhetorical tone, so Dominic merely joined him for a second silently watching their progress tapping across the field like blind men.

'Who discovered the boy?' Dominic asked.

'The man from the farm behind, Marius Caurin. This track provides the only access to his farm. These fields are owned by his friend who is on an engineering contract in Orleans - that's why some of them are untended. Marius just plants the few extra fields he can cope with.'

A light breeze played across the field. As it shifted direction, they heard the sound of a car approaching. It was a large black Citreon C25 pulling in behind Poullain's car with three men inside. Probably the team from Marseille. Poullain greeted them, then introduced Dominic.

They walked towards the bloodstained area. Dominic stayed in the background as Poullain pointed and brought them up to date on events. He explained that the boy might be facing an operation in hospital at Aix en Provence, so would be studied by the medical examiner there. They could confer with him later. The main thing now was gaining information from what was left: blood group and some indication of timing for the attack. Were all the stains the same group as the boy, or were any different?

Dominic smiled to himself. In his fifteen years of policing in Bauriac, Poullain had only seen one murder, an almost predictable domestic crime of passion, and two manslaughters: one domestic, one bar fight. Yet he was handling this with all the casual aplomb of a Marseille veteran used to fishing bodies out of the harbour every day. No doubt driven by his fear of being upstaged from outside.

None of them were really prepared for this. He'd seen the shock on Servan's face when he'd leant over the boy to take the first photos. Servan had gone deathly white and looked sick. The other rookies had only managed to maintain some composure by keeping in the background. None of them had come close to the boy and studied his face the way he had. Seen the massive bruising and fractures, seen where his small face had been mashed half to a pulp, part of his skull only held in place by a bandage. This was Bauriac, and if they stayed their distance, perhaps they could still cling to the illusion that things like this just didn't happen in their area.

Even he'd found the sight of the young boy disturbing, despite having been directly involved in five murder cases in Marseille. Perhaps it was because the victim was so young; none of his previous cases had involved children.
Who on earth would do such a thing?
The one moment, staring silently across the wheat field, when Poullain had shown his true emotions. The rest of the time he'd been too busy sparring to try and prove he was in control.

One of the forensic team was walking to his car with a set of small clear polythene bags. Another was crouching, now examining further up the rough track. He looked over at Poullain.

'It's been too dry, and the track is too uneven and dusty. I doubt we'll get any decent imprints.'

Poullain nodded, and asked the team leader Dubrulle about progress. Dubrulle explained that they would probably be at least another thirty or forty minutes, then they would head over to Aix and see the medical examiner. 'It could be he'll have some information by tomorrow morning. Our first lab test results won't be ready till tomorrow afternoon.'

Servan and Levacher were half way back on their third sweep and Levacher had his jacket unbuttoned with the heat. Poullain's radio crackled with a sudden harsh, distorted voice. Poullain went over to it.

Dominic couldn't hear what was said. He saw Poullain look down thoughtfully after a moment. The conversation appeared quite staccato, apart from a stretch towards the end of the call when Poullain waved his arms in a struggle for emphasis and then checked his watch as he finished.

Poullain was pensive as he approached. 'A call's come in to the station from a woman saying her son's missing. It's the only call of that type they've received today. The boy said that he was going to a friend's house on his bike and should have been there for one-thirty. He never showed up. But it's only four-forty now, it could be too early to jump to conclusions. You know what kids are like. The boy could have gone to another friend's house or disappeared for sweets or to play somewhere else.'

'How old is her boy?'

'Ten. The age is right.'

On a bad month, the station might get three missing person alerts, sometimes two months would go by with none. Most were false alarms, but the timing and age of this one narrowed the odds. Dominic could sense Poullain delaying the inevitable. He recalled the incident of a young boy who'd died falling down a disused well the previous autumn. Facing the relatives with the news had unsettled Poullain for days. This time he would probably send someone else.

Dominic looked out thoughtfully across the field. 'What's her name?

'Monique Rosselot.'

FOUR

Monique Rosselot looked out onto the farm courtyard. From the kitchen, a mass of bougainvillaea covered the wall on one side. Christian had been only six when he'd helped his father, Jean-Luc, plant it; now it was a profusion of pink flowers.

Christian's bike rested on the corner of the wall just past the bougainvillaea. Jean-Luc had come back with it just twenty minutes before, having followed the path Christian normally took to Stephan's house. At first she'd felt relieved: the bike's brake was jammed. At least that might explain some of the delay, walking would have taken him far longer. But still he should have been there by the latest at 2.30 pm. It was now 5.45 pm. Where had he gone? Perhaps he'd stopped off in Taragnon for a drink or sweets, the walk would have tired him and made him hot and thirsty. Though still that would only account for another forty minutes or so. He must have met another friend in Taragnon, gone off to play somewhere else and lost track of time. It was all she could think of.

When Jean-Luc had come back with Christian's bike, their daughter Clarisse had asked, 'Is Christian lost somewhere?' Only four, she'd seen her parent's consternation and picked up on part of their conversation.

'No, it's all right. He's just late seeing his friend because his bike broke down.' Christian was so protective and caring of Clarisse; he was like a second father to her, sharing his own sage past experience of the pitfalls and problems of being five. But she was too young to be worrying along with them.

Monique bit her lip. It was over an hour since she'd called the police. The nearest phone was over a kilometre away, and in the intense heat the walk had been exhausting. On her return she'd felt sick and went into the bathroom, leaning over the sink. Despite her stomach still churning, in the end nothing came. She'd caught her reflection in the mirror as she looked up; she'd aged five years in the last hour. She felt physically and emotionally drained.
Where was he?
Why hadn't anyone called by? The waiting was killing her nerves. Jean-Luc had headed off on another search and probably wouldn't be back for forty minutes or an hour. She resolved finally that, despite the long walk, if she hadn't heard anything from the police within half an hour, she was going to put through another call.

In the end she was saved the trouble. Just ten minutes before planning to leave, the black Citreon 2CV pulled into their courtyard and two gendarmes got out.

It was almost 1 am. Louis' bar had been crowded, but the numbers were beginning to thin out. Louis had been dancing earlier with Valerié, but now she was talking with a friend in the corner while he put away some glasses and had a Pernod with Dominic at the bar. Dominic was out of uniform, in slacks and a short sleeved polo shirt, nursing a brandy.

'Who saw her?' Louis asked.

'Harrault and Servan. Poullain was going to send me at first, but there were too many notes to take from the afternoon, recording times and early findings from forensics and our own team. In the end he sent Servan to pick up Harrault. He's the most senior. Poullain thought if anyone he'd bring the right tone.'

'Where's Monique Rosselot now?'

'Probably still at the hospital. Harrault ran her and the father there and stayed with them the first hour, introduced them to the main doctors, got as much information as possible and tried to console them. The doctors were operating at midnight, the boy's probably still in there now. The father headed back with the daughter, but Monique said she would probably stay the night.'

'What are the boy's chances?'

'Not good. There's a lot of internal cranial bleeding and damage. If he lasts through the operation and the next twenty four hours, the doctors say his chances will increase. But brain damage is heavy and even if he survives, he could be severely disabled.'

Louis reached for the bottle and topped up his Pernod, swirling it briefly in its narrow glass before tipping it half back. 'God, this must be rough on her. Have you seen her before? She's quite a woman.'

'No, I don't think I know her. Harrault said that she was quite pretty.'

'Quite pretty. Huh! Let me tell you, Monique Rosselot is one of those rare beauties that you only see once in a while. In Bauriac, those once in a while's are even rarer. Even on the coast she'd stand out - I'm amazed you don't know her. When are you seeing her?’

'Sometime tomorrow. We haven't asked her any questions yet, it seemed inappropriate while she's still grappling with whether or not her son will live. I'll see her with Poullain tomorrow, we'll arrange it around the timing of her hospital visits. If she's at the hospital all day, then we'll go there.'

Louis raised his glass, taking another quick slug. '
Salut.
Let me know what you think when you've seen her. I warn you now, you'll be spoilt for other women.'

Dominic smiled. Louis the lecher. Louis the connoisseur of women. Three tables could be calling for service and Louis would stop to admire at leisure a beautiful woman passing. The fact that Monique Rosselot was married was immaterial, she was still there for the admiring. Harmless voyeurism. But Dominic wondered if Louis knowledge of Monique Rosselot went deeper than that. 'Do you know her well?'

'Not personally. She's been in a few times and we've spoken briefly once or twice, but that's all. She used to come in more when her boy was younger. But my barman, Joel, is quite friendly with the father Jean-Luc, and Valerié knows one their neighbours. And you know me, if there's a beautiful woman involved I'll spend half the day talking, I'm not choosy who I speak to. Probably why I spend so much time talking to you.' Louis paused for effect and chuckled. 'No, seriously, you know what Bauriac's like, people talk a lot, and they came here, what, seven or eight years ago - the boy was just a toddler. People are particularly curious about newcomers. Questions were thick and fast the first year they arrived.'

'Did many of them get answered?'

'A few. It seems she had her boy when she was under age, no more than fourteen or fifteen when he was conceived. Nobody knows exactly. Jean-Luc's family gave him a hard time, not only about being careless with an under age girl, but her background. Her mother's half Moroccan, half Corsican, and her father's French - but the Moroccan and Corsican blood is predominant in her features. His family's prejudice starts to show through. Cheap young Moroccan whore seduced their poor young boy, which is laughable seeing as he's ten years older than her. Don't they have prostitutes at the age of twelve on the street there? You know the type of comment. In the end they had a bellyful of it and moved. She was more resilient than him, I hear; she could have stayed and put up with it, but he insisted on moving. Cut himself off entirely from his family, had little or no contact with them. When the little girl was born, they just sent a photo, no invitations to the christening, nothing.'

'Where did they come from?'

'Beaune, not far from Dijon. But it was out of the frying pan and into the fire. What with the fact that they were newcomers and her dusky looks, she attracted more than her fair share of attention. You couldn't really call it prejudice, but it was curiousity so blatant it was almost rude. You know, the way you would expect a lost tribe to react upon seeing their first explorer. I was probably one of the darkest skinned people in Bauriac until she arrived, and I attracted a fair bit of attention in my time, let me tell you. It took a few years for Monique to be accepted here, for them to look beyond her colour and realize what a nice person she is. And by the time your mother and you arrived, they'd practically been numbed into acceptance.'

So this is what all this was about, thought Dominic. Why Louis had been so inquisitive about Monique Rosselot. It was all Bauriac newcomers together time. Battling against the odds of small town minds and prejudices. It was difficult enough being a newcomer without standing out as one and, true enough, when his parents had arrived four years ago, his mother had encountered a few raised eyebrows. Her lineage was part French Indonesian, part French, and Dominic's father had been pure French Alsace. By the time it reached Dominic, the Indonesian blood had left only a slight almond slant at the corner of his eyes, looking almost out of place with his proud gallic nose. Girls either found it endearing and mysterious, or they didn't like him at all. It might have caused some problems at the station too, but Dominic could never be sure; the fact that he was newly transferred and enjoyed Warrant Officer status so young were reasons enough for resentment.