Authors: John Matthews
'Do you want me to make initial enquiries?' Dominic asked.
Poullain was hesitant as he lifted his attention from the message. 'No, no - it's okay. I think I'd better phone first - then we'll probably go out there together.' It looked like a waste of time, a complete mis-match, thought Poullain. An Assistant Prosecutor staying with one of the area's largest landowners and more highly regarded citizens: Marcel Vallon. It would need personal kid glove treatment; Vallon was good friends with the Mayor, they played golf together and belonged to the same Masonic lodge. Poullain looked at his watch. They had a meeting about the Rosselot case scheduled for late afternoon with Bouteille, the Prosecutor in Aix en Provence. 'If we can see this Duclos late morning or lunch time, since we have to pass through here again on our way to Aix, do you think you could have the notes typed up and put in some semblance of order before tomorrow's meeting?'
'Yes, I think so.' Dominic faltered only for a second; another lunch time with a rushed sandwich.
'Good. Let's plan for then. I'll phone within half an hour. Anything new from Machanaud?'
'No, not really. Apart from the car sighting he mentioned. As you requested, we got him to sign the forms and hand over his identity card, then let him go just before eleven last night.'
Without sufficient evidence to hold Machanaud, it was all they'd been able to do: a standard
'local police to be notified if moving'
form, and holding his identity card. Without it, new housing, jobs or any form of social registration for Machanaud would be practically impossible.
Poullain had already half discounted the car sighting. It had been so vague: a dark car, perhaps blue or dark grey, sloping at the back, possibly a Citrëon DS. When pressed, Machanaud admitted he'd only caught a quick flash of it between the bushes - but what he was sure of was that it had left only minutes before him. How convenient? Machanaud knew that if he didn't come up with another possible scapegoat things were looking grim for him, and after a couple of hours alone in the jail cell, he came up with one.
Quelle surprise.
Poullain glanced again at the brief message. It looked like it would come to nothing, but you never knew. If nothing else, it would at least demonstrate they were being thorough and exploring all options. A bit of dressing for when they laid Machanaud's head on a plate for Bouteille and Naugier.
TEN
The car tyres of the Citreön DS19 crunched on the gravel driveway. The front of the building was an imposing but flat three story Provençal masse, its line broken only by frequent window boxes and a long terrace at one end running above the garage. A row of neatly manicured cypress firs framed the semi-circular sweep of the driveway, with two smaller trees in large pots each side of the entrance.
Vallon's servant came out to greet them and showed them through the house, along a wide main hallway then into a narrower corridor towards the door at its end: the library. Marcel Vallon was nowhere to be seen. He'd ascertained on the phone with Poullain that his presence wouldn't be required. While Poullain had assured him that it was nothing too serious, something just to help with their other enquiries, Vallon had made it patently clear their visit was an intrusion, a favour granted only by his good nature. Don't take advantage, was the silent undertone. Poullain was therefore already nervous about the visit, complaining on the drive over that it would be a waste of time, would serve no purpose other than to upset Vallon. He'd probably get a call from the Mayor in a day or so.
While they waited in the library, Dominic could sense Poullain's unease returning. Poullain had taken one of three seats by a low round coffee table, while Dominic sat at a small drop leaf desk by the window. A room four metres long and three wide, two walls were lined with books, the atmosphere austere, stuffy. This was old Provence, old money and power. A gentle reminder. They waited almost five minutes before Duclos walked into the room.
A taut smile upon introduction to Poullain, a brief nod towards Dominic. He was only slightly taller than Poullain, and slim, Dominic noted: short dark black hair swept neatly across, a rounded, almost baby face, eyes so dark green they were almost black. Some women liked that sort of soft, innocent look, thought Dominic; someone to mother. But he couldn't help thinking that some men liked it too.
Poullain started with the niceties of thanking Duclos for seeing them at such short notice and apologizing for the intrusion; it was just a general enquiry regarding visitors to Taragnon five days ago, on the eighteenth. A young boy had been attacked then. No attempt at subterfuge, Dominic noted; no trap for Duclos by drawing him out before mentioning the main purpose of their visit.
'We are as a result talking to anyone in the area at the time for information. Your car was seen at the Café Font-du-Roux during lunch time that day. I wondered, Monsieur Duclos, do you remember your movements then, last Thursday, particularly before and after your visit to the Font-du-Roux?'
A moment's thought from Duclos, a slow blink. 'Well, I remember stopping at the café. I'd been to Aix-en-Provence for the morning and was on my way back. What exactly did you want to know?'
'Let's start with the time you arrived at the café, if you remember.'
Duclos looked down, feigning deep thought. A hundred times over he'd worked out his timing and what he'd say if questioned; but coming straight out with it would seem unnatural, pre-prepared. How much hesitance was normal to recall something that happened five days ago? 'It would have been quite late in the lunch period, one thirty, maybe quarter to two. I remember stopping because I knew I wouldn't make it back for normal lunch time here at the estate, and the chef Maurice can be quite strict. He doesn't like preparing separately for late-comers.' Duclos forced a smile. 'Yes, it would have been about then.'
'And did you stay long?'
'Maybe an hour or so. Service was a bit slow when I arrived, they were quite busy. And I had coffee and brandy to finish.'
'So, you left at what - half past two or so?'
'No, it was closer to three when I asked for the bill. I remember looking at my watch then, because I'd planned to head to Juan les Pins for the afternoon and started to get a bit anxious about being too late. Perhaps five minutes to settle the bill, so about three when I left.'
'Had you arranged to meet someone in Juan les Pins?'
'Nothing particular planned. But I'd seen someone on the beach the day before that I hoped to bump into again. A girl. So I wanted to be there more or less at the same time.'
Poullain looked towards Dominic. 'For our notes, then: you arrived at Café Font-du-Roux at a quarter to two and left at three. More or less.'
'Yes, I suppose it must have been closer to a quarter-to when I arrived. I don't think I stayed as long as an hour and a half.'
A moment's silence. The sound of Dominic's pen scratching on paper. Some distant splashing from the swimming pool in the rear garden and courtyard, which Dominic could just see at an angle if he looked through the window at his side.
Duclos' heart pounded. The timing was etched on his mind:
arrived at 1.38, left at 2.51, three minutes drive to the farm lane, eight minutes off the road with the boy, heading off again at 3.02.
Hopefully he'd buried the eleven minutes without them noticing. Surely the barman wouldn't remember the
exact
time he left? He fought to control his nerves; it was vital he appeared calm.
'And after the café, did you head straight for Juan les Pins?' Poullain asked.
'Yes.'
'Did you stop anywhere or see anyone on the way?'
'No.' A moment's afterthought: 'Oh, except I stopped off at a garage near Le Muy, filled up with petrol, had an oil check.'
Speeds of 110-140 kmph nearly all the way to hopefully bury the eight minutes he'd been off the road with the boy.
'Do you remember the name of the garage?'
'No. It was a few kilometres before Le Muy, on the right.' It was the only garage for fifteen kilometres, thought Duclos; they were bound to find it if they bothered to check.
'And what time did you get to Juan les Pins?'
'About a quarter to five, maybe five. I don't remember exactly.' Duclos felt small beads of sweat pop on his forehead, but then it was quite hot in the room.
Pulse racing, palms clammy as he'd stopped by a bin in a deserted alley at the back of town, pushing deep inside the rock and the boy's shirt wrapped in a large rag from the car.
'In Juan les Pins, did you go anywhere in particular, perhaps meet the girl you'd hoped to?'
'No, she didn't show. But the café I went to on the beach is one I've been to a few times before. Claude Vallon and I had lunch there just a week ago. The owner knows us.'
If the garage didn't remember him stopping, he was sure at least the café owner would
. Inside his nerves were racing, but it was hopefully going well: pauses at the right juncture, the afterthought of the garage, remembering the timing of leaving the Taragnon café but guessing at the arrival time: accurate details, but not too glib too quickly. Though now he sensed, as the questions became more direct and personal, that perhaps he was being too compliant. 'But what has my visit to Juan les Pins got to do with this? I thought you were interested in events around Taragnon and the Font-du-Roux?'
Quick retreat and apology from Poullain. 'Yes, yes - I'm sorry. We just need to ascertain people's general movements. We're quite happy to accept that you were not in Taragnon later on. So, earlier, on the way
into
Taragnon, did you see or meet anyone?'
A barely perceptible flinch from Duclos. Poullain didn't notice it, only Dominic; though it could have been the sudden jump in timing and mood, from hours after the event to before, defensive to offensive. 'Such as this young boy? No, I'm afraid not,' said Duclos.
The final masterstroke to throw forensics: inserting a finger in the boy's rectum and working it brusquely around. Hopefully interpreted as a second attack.
'There were people walking about in the main street of Taragnon, but I don't remember anyone in particular.'
'You stopped nowhere in or near Taragnon except the café?'
'No.'
The bottle taken from the café. Stripping down to his underpants before striking the boy with the rock. Then washing down with the bottled water and dressing again
.
No bloodstains.
Poullain waited for Dominic's note taking to catch up with them, using the gap to collect his thoughts. Then he re-capped on a few points, mainly clarifying times. At one point, he asked Dominic, 'What time do you have noted for the time that Monsieur Duclos arrived at Juan les Pins?'
'Five or a quarter to.' Dominic was sure Poullain remembered the time; normally statement re-caps were purely to see if the suspect said something different second time around.
'And the time you stopped at the garage, Monsieur Duclos?' asked Poullain. 'I don't believe we covered that before.'
Duclos shrugged slightly. 'I don't know, what is it? Just over halfway there. About four o'clock, I suppose.'
Poullain nodded slowly, as if still pre-occupied with all the prior information. Then he suddenly went off at a tangent. 'Do you visit your friends here, the Vallons very often?'
'At least once a year. Nearly always in the summer months. Claude Vallon and I went to the same university, Bordeaux.' A slight frown from Duclos. 'Why do you ask?'
Poullain shook his head hastily. 'No particular reason. It's just that your car was reported in response to our request for any strangers to the area - when in fact it appears you're almost an honorary local.' Poullain grimaced weakly. He could hardly admit that he wanted to know the strength of association between Duclos and the Vallons in case of later problems with his own Mayor. He sighed faintly, bracing his hands on his thighs with an audible slap. 'Well, I think that's just about it, Monsieur Duclos. Thank you for your time.' Poullain stood up, nodded curtly, and shook hands with Duclos. Heading for the door, he turned. 'Oh, I forgot. One thing I meant to ask. You mentioned that when you went through Taragnon, you were on your way from Aix-en-Provence. What time did you leave there?'
Duclos' hammering nerves had settled slightly with the questioning trailing off, but his keen prosecutor's nose made him suddenly alert again. The throw away question; he'd seen them so often catch defendant's out.
The boy's stark green eyes struggling to look back at him as he pushed his face flat down to the earth, raising one arm with the rock...
'Twelve-fifteenish, I suppose. It was just a quick shopping trip. I was there probably no more than an hour and a half.'
'Pick up anything interesting?'
'There's a cheese shop and delicatessen I always visit, on Rue Clemenceau. While there I picked up a few other bits and pieces, some olives and pistachios, some aged brandy to take back for my uncle.'
Poullain nodded and smiled. 'Once again, thank you, Monsieur Duclos. And sorry for the intrusion.'
Started with an apology and finished with one, thought Dominic. No surprise tactics, no ambush; the nature of their enquiry explained clearly. Quite a contrast to the tactics used with Machanaud. The only thing Poullain had pushed for was trying to get Duclos to say he'd left the restaurant half an hour earlier. The vital half hour in which the boy was attacked. Perhaps Poullain was going to wait until they'd checked some of the details from Duclos, then hit him harder on a second interview.
They were led out to the main hallway by Duclos, then the servant re-appeared from the adjoining drawing room and took over.
Duclos went into the drawing room and watched through the window as they crossed the gravel driveway. Overall, he'd been quite convincing, he thought. Controlled his nerves well. Poullain had been easy to handle, had accepted his account of events readily, was almost apologetic; a true system man, obviously daunted by the association with Vallon. The younger one had looked more surly and doubting, but had stayed silently in the background. A junior with no real power, he would present no problem. There was only one thing left to worry about, but hopefully Chapeau would be visiting the hospital soon, if he hadn't already done so.
Screaming, pistoning crescendo, hot white light stabbing his mind as he brought the rock down repeatedly... the tinkle of goat's bells from the next field barely breaking through his frenzy and the gentle sough of wind through the trees...