Past Imperfect (61 page)

A Sorbonne law lecturer who advised the Procureur's office on unorthodox cases had raised some useful points from relevant trials in America, but still the bottom line was that psychic and PLR testimony could only successfully be presented in France as background and texture. 'Without at least some hard evidence from the living rather than the dead, I don't see any foundation on which to build.'

With the last coin lead now gone, their last hope of prosecuting Duclos for murder went with it.

But at least from what Fornier had mentioned, there appeared to be strong hope in one area: Justin Eynard, a Paris red light club owner. If nothing else, their chances of prosecuting Duclos for child molestation looked bright. Some silver edging. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. No doubt by eleven or eleven-thirty, Fornier would have a result, would phone him and then the fax would start whirring with Eynard's statement. At least he could start moving things positively on one front.

Justin Eynard lay back on the bed while the girl undid his shirt buttons. She smiled up at him lasciviously. A sunshine smile with a hint of mischief. Juanita from Santa Domingo was all he knew. An enticing mixture of negro and Spanish: dark café au lait skin tone and large brown eyes. Exquisite.

She watched his every emotion as she kissed slowly down his chest and stomach with each fresh button undone. Sampling the merchandise: executive benefit of running a hookers' bar. Eynard insisted in testing out all new girls, judge their fighting weight for clients.

Eynard tensed as she went lower. A few slow licks, and then she took him fully into her mouth. Eynard gasped.
God
, she was good. She wore a white satin evening dress slit to the thigh which contrasted wonderfully with her skin tone. As she sucked and rubbed him into her mouth with one hand, the other reached back and pulled aside the bottom of her skirt to expose her bottom. She arched it higher. Underneath she wore a peach coloured tanga. Two coffee ice cream scoops separated by a peach slice.

Eynard watched in the mirror to one side as she deftly pulled the tanga aside and started rubbing herself in time with the motions of her mouth. Her fingernails were long and turquoise varnished with star bursts, and intermittently she would slip a finger inside herself.

Eynard was in heaven. His breath started to come in short bursts and, sensing his growing excitement, with one last loving lick the girl rolled away. Peeling off her dress, she bent away from Eynard to accentuate her bottom, then resumed playing with herself while sliding one finger in and out of her mouth in time. Eynard groaned in anticipation.

Slowly she peeled down the tanga, stepped out and leaned back over Eynard. Her breasts were firm and cantaloupe sized with large brown nipples the size of cookies. Coffee ice cream and chocolate cookies. All Eynard could think of.

With a few more licks to resume acquaintance, Juanita swung one leg across and slowly sank down on Eynard. She reached back and grasped him gently by the balls, as if to push him firmer inside. As she started to get into the rhythm of the motions, she closed her eyes in abandon, sucking on the little finger of her other hand.

Eynard felt his excitement mounting, a raw tingle rising from the back of his heels.
Jesus,
this girl knew what she was doing. His clients were in for a rare treat. He reached out a hand and stroked her breasts, tweaked one nipple.

She writhed slowly and determinedly, picking up the pace gradually. Control. A virtuoso performance. Eynard felt his senses floating, the tingle rising higher.

'Close your eyes. I haff big treat.' The Spanish came through in her accent. A pleasant lilt.

Eynard smiled and closed his eyes obediently. He felt her finger slide into his mouth, teasing his tongue. And then the other hand was behind him again, gently stroking, urging him into her with each thrust.

So good...
good
.

Eynard felt something slide in beside her finger, cool and longer... plastic or metal? The finger slipped out.
Oh god
, a vibrator, he should have told her he wasn't into that sort of thing.

His eyes snapped open, and he went to shift his head away from the object... but a hand clamped tight on his forehead. The object suddenly came into focus: the silencered barrel of a gun. The girl's arms were still on his chest. Someone was behind him! Panic seized Eynard. Fear and the repellent feel of the gun metal against his tongue made him almost gag. The girl lifted off and moved away. He was already half limp, the excitement gone.

Eynard looked longingly towards her back as she headed for the bathroom, knowing in that moment it was probably the last girl he would see.

'It's done.'

'I see. Fine. I made the transfer as arranged.'

Brossard had already checked but didn't pass any comment.

Another call box, another conversation with no names or details. Duclos could imagine Brossard at the other end in a similar call box in Paris. They hadn't even met this time to set everything up. Just a voice on the line. He wondered what Brossard looked like now? Then realized he hadn't even known what Brossard looked like then, fifteen years ago in his blonde wig and thick rimmed glasses.

Duclos had called Eynard's bar only days before to set up a weekend in Paris and one of the barmen apologized that Justin was a bit pressured lately but that he should try again later. 'Anything serious?' Duclos had asked. 'No, just some stupid mix up with the police over some child porno videos.' Duclos knew as soon as Bonoit mentioned the police hunting for background on pimps that Eynard might be a problem.

But if the police kept digging for something on himself and under age boys, eventually they were bound to find something. Next time he might have to be more inventive.

Wheat. Shorter than Dominic remembered. Spring: over the next month or so it would no doubt grow alarmingly before being harvested.

Thirty one years since he'd stood in the same field: the day of the reconstruction. The wind had been high then, the wheat shifting wildly, unkempt and hardly harvested from one season to the next. Now it was neatly trimmed and cared for, a half metre short from its full harvesting height. And today there was no wind, the air still, a thin grey cloud layer with some diffused sunlight filtering through.

Stillness. Sterile. The crime scene washed clean by the shifting seasons and years, the many different families who'd owned the farm since. No trace left. Only distant images struggling to replay in Dominic's mind.

Originally Dominic had intended just to stay in Vidauban. A half hour after hearing the news about Eynard, he'd gone to the nearest bar for a quick brandy. He'd called Guidier on his mobile from the bar: 'I'll be gone the rest of the day. I'll phone in for any messages early evening. Anything urgent, get me on my mobile.'

Time to think, clear his thoughts. He would spend probably a day or two down at Vidauban. He needed the rest, had hardly slept all week. He was exhausted.

Arriving at the farmhouse, he'd headed straight for the bedroom and lay flat on the bed. Solitude. Gerome was working, probably wouldn't be back until six or seven. Monique was at the flat in Lyon, no doubt thought he was still at work. He would phone later to tell her he was staying overnight. Perhaps he would take Gerome to a local bar: help drown his sorrows.

But he'd been unable to sleep, had stared blankly up at the ceiling with too many thoughts jumbling. Coin leads all gone. Eynard gone. Nothing left. But that conclusion wouldn't settle, just didn't feel right. Monique's words from a few days before: 'There must be something,
something.
' Some small detail that perhaps he'd overlooked from the hours of tapes and transcripts from Eyran Capel. He felt angry this time; could feel it coursing through his veins, driving him on.

Though it wasn't until two hours later, after lunch and a chain of discarded notes headed
Coin? Truck? Restaurant? Lane?
- questions with few answers - that something useful finally came:
bottled water!
He'd been in the shower when the thought hit, the water swilling around him as he stood stock still for a moment...
Some other water running... spilling on the ground......
Duclos had just come from a restaurant, he didn't need to go down to the river where Machanaud might have seen him!

Dominic decided to head out to Taragnon and the field. He stood where he thought Duclos must have been after the final assault on Christian: a few paces into the wheat, his car parked just behind. Dominic summoned up the picture in his mind: Duclos’ clothes are off, perhaps on the car seat or draped over the open boot. The bloodied rock is in his hand, his body splattered with blood. He knows he can't stay on the lane long for risk of someone passing.

Back to the car... Dominic walked the few paces, his feet crunching on the wheat... takes out the bottled water, swills down. Dominic imagined the heat of the day, a heat haze perhaps rising off the field.

Then dabs dry with...
with?
A cloth or towel from his car, or Christian's shirt? Perhaps that explained why Christian's shirt had been missing. Whichever, Duclos had obviously dumped it along with the rock somewhere.

And then the coin? Had Duclos discovered the coin? Was that why none of the garage workers or the Caugines had seen it? And if so, had he thrown it away immediately or later with the rock and Christian's shirt? Or had he been stupid enough to hang on to it as a memento. A trophy. Dominic shook his head and smiled wryly. A sudden image of a dawn raid on Duclos’ house - the coin found in a drawer under his underwear and silk cravats, Corbeix slapping his shoulder in congratulations - bringing home how much he was reaching.

Dominic crossed the lane and headed down the river bank. The river was grey, silent, reflecting the mood of the sky above. No glints reflecting from the rocks and shale; Dominic could hardly even make out the bottom.

Then he was back looking past Molet's shoulder at some leaves drifting past. The first realization that Machanaud's case was slipping away. Three decades melted away in an instant.

Dominic looked down the river to where Machanaud had stood that day, then up the bank to where Duclos had parked his car.
Fourteen years in prison?
An afternoon's poaching, a few fish for Machanaud's supper. Dominic shook his head.

He decided to backtrack on everything else. He timed it to the restaurant: four minutes. It was now a hardware store. Dominic stayed in the car park, closed his eyes and imagined Duclos playing for time inside, making sure he was seen for his alibi, selecting from the menu and eating at leisure, sipping at his wine. Christian in the darkness of the boot, probably only yards from where he was now, trapped and afraid. Dreaming about his father and the farm... wondering if he was going to be harmed. Dominic shuddered.

The two women come out of the restaurant. Christian hears their voices, kicks back. But a truck passes at that moment, drowns out the sound. Their car doors open, close, they start driving away. Duclos settles his bill, asks for a bottle of water to go.

Dominic drove out, headed back towards where Christian's bike had been left. A Citreön passed, followed soon after by a Mercedes van. Christian's truck superimposed: MARSEILLE, V-A-R-N and LA PONTEI...? There was a small industrial park called La Ponteille in Marseilles, but they hadn't looked hard. A driver recalling a young boy in a passing sports car thirty years later? Desperately reaching again.

Where the bike had been was now planted with vines, only two rows of peach trees remained at the back of the field. Perhaps if only forensics had checked here as well, Dominic reflected. No semen had been found in examining Christian, only ruptured vessels indicated a sexual assault. Duclos had obviously pulled out to ejaculate. Nothing was found by the wheat field, but what would have been the chances here? Christian's bike had by then been found and moved - Dominic wasn't even sure if he was standing in the right spot now.
Between what might have been and what had come to pass...
Dominic sighed. Probably they wouldn't have found anything.

He headed towards Bauriac. On the edge of town the tanneries were closed and derelict. A sign announced the development of industrial units to be completed
April, 1997
. No more acrid fumes...
Stinging his eyes as he drove out to see Monique, to tell her...

Dominic stopped in the square and looked across at Louis' old bar. Louis. Dead now these past seven years. He'd married and had three children with Valerié and sold the bar almost twenty years ago. Bought a small hotel on the coast near Mandelieu. Dominic had holidayed there
en famille
quite a few summers, spent days out fishing and reminiscing on Louis' speedboat. Gerome had struck up a friendship with Louis' youngest, Xavier, and they still kept in touch. Valerié still ran the hotel, though they'd only been down to see her twice since Louis' death.

Dominic got out and walked across to the bar. He realized he hadn't been inside since Louis sold it, had hardly been back to Taragnon or Bauriac in all those years. Too painful. Even when they'd bought the farmhouse in Vidauban and might pass through on the way to Aix, Dominic would make sure to choose an alternate route.

Black and chrome: black velvet chairs, black smoked glass table tops with chrome trim. The bar counter was black and had three thick chrome strips facing. It was almost empty, with just a few stragglers at the bar and one table. The new owner obviously went for the evening cocktail crowd. Or perhaps this is what teenagers and bikers liked nowadays.

Dominic ordered a brandy. No juke-box. A powerful sound system played Brian Adams' 'Run to You.' Some French rap followed. The barman was young, slim and had a ponytail. As far removed from Louis as you could get. Dominic smiled. He drained his glass and ordered another brandy. Suddenly the alcohol felt good, cut through the images: Louis dancing with Valerié to the juke-box, him driving out to tell Monique,
tell her that
... the lorry flashing past, Christian trapped in the car boot,
the coin
... Duclos raising his wine glass,
gloating
. Dominic gripped his glass tight.