Past Imperfect (52 page)

Like two conspirational children playing hide and seek, hunting cloak and dagger style through the shadows of memories from thirty years ago. Excited by their little secret as much as the adventure. Unable to tell the adults who would say that they knew better and stop their little game.

The night before he'd had a clear opportunity to tell Monique - but still he put it off. If nothing was uncovered by Calvan or if it merely supported Machanaud's guilt, there was no point. If. If. If.

To support the theory Calvan had sold, he should be absent from the first sessions. Perhaps he could turn up at the third or fourth. They'd discuss it later. Meanwhile she'd fax transcripts through and would readily admit to doing so to Lambourne and Stuart Capel on the pretext of authentication and gaining 'advice on questions for future sessions.' How to guide Christian in the right direction. If Dominic then showed up for later sessions it wouldn't seem strange; would follow more naturally that he had by then 'stumbled' on information which might help the investigation.

But the forced detachment, his purposely being kept away from the activities in London, only made him more anxious. His nerve ends bristling because something was happening in a small room four hundred miles away over which he had no control. Christian's frail voice at that moment telling them the secrets of over thirty years ago and he wouldn't know for an hour. Or they would be close to finding out when Christian suddenly headed off at a tangent, and if he was there he could whisper sharply in Calvan's ear.
'No, no... take him back! Ask him this!'

The squad room was hectic: phones ringing, people calling across the room, typewriters clattering. Dominic had shut his door to concentrate on the normal morning's mountain of papers that required his quick attention: final approval of files to go to the
procureur's
office, an enquiry from St Etienne over a pattern of regional car thefts, medical report on a rape case. The noise of the squad room was muffled beyond his door, but still Dominic couldn't concentrate. The most he'd manage was a half page before his thoughts once again drifted, wondering what was happening at that moment in London. And he would glance back at the fax machine: frustration because it symbolized his detachment and impotence at that moment, yet also hope. It was his
only
link with what was happening.

In the two days since Marinella Calvan's call, he'd received even more papers from Lepoille on cases involving psychics to add to Monday's package. He'd hardly looked at them. The last days he'd been through a ridiculous see-saw of hope and disappointment without putting himself through it again to no avail. Verfraigne from the Lyon
procureur's
office had called and given him the prosecution pecking order in Aix en Provence together with some names. He'd written them down, but hadn't called anyone. The list was tucked into the front of Lepoille's top file at the edge of his desk.

A stack of papers and thirty years of doubt waiting on one fax.

Session 9.

'Did you play much by the river with Stephan?'

'Yes, quite a bit.'

'What sort of games did you play - did you ever swim in it?'

'No. It was too cold. But we used to play on the river bank.'

River bank
. Where the police thought the boy was probably held between the sexual assaults. The memories from before open, carefree, not yet linked in Christian's mind. Only minutes before he'd mentioned the field close by. Marinella knew from her last session that Stephan was one of his closest friends. It seemed as good a place to start as any.

The first ten minutes of the session had been with Lambourne taking Eyran back before she took over. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Lambourne seemed to be taking longer than normal. Showing his resentment in the only way left to him.

She'd started with other times he'd played with Stephan, their favourite places and games, introducing a general, relaxed mood. Christian was free to ramble, no constraints. But ever so slowly she circled in like a cat stalking its prey. The trick was that hopefully Christian was never aware of it. Already she'd struck out once and missed her target. Thinking that she'd asked enough general questions, she'd asked what happened the day he headed off to see Stephan but never made it. 'Did you meet up with someone else? What happened?'

Again Christian mentioned a searing bright light after a period of darkness, knowing in that moment that he was close to Stephan's house as he recognized the field - but as recall of the attack flooded back, he quickly became incoherent. Eyran's head lolled, his breathing becoming laboured. She'd sensed Lambourne about to reach over to the keyboard as she broke Christian hastily away.

She circled more warily now. River bank? She didn't want to pounce too early this time. 'What sort of games did you play on the river bank?'

'We used to build a dam. There was a small stream higher up that flowed down from the hillside and into the river. In the summer it was usually dried up, but in the spring it used to flow in quite fast.'

'How did you and Stephan make the dam?'

'We would get sticks and leaves and pack them in with mud. Stephan would bring a spade with him so that we could dig a hollow. One day we dug an enormous hole to one side, then diverted the stream into it by blocking the way with sticks and leaves.' A fond memory, speech animated, excited. Eyran's eyes glistened. 'The water built up and built up, until finally it started overflowing. It was incredible... almost like a small lake.'

Marinella remembered a segment from one of Lambourne's earlier taped sessions:
'The pond seemed suddenly to be much larger - like a huge black lake.'
She shot a meaningful glance at Lambourne. His face remained bland. Reluctance to admit any breakthrough, or perhaps he simply hadn't picked up on the connection.

'...We would leave a narrow passage leading out, then block it with sticks and mud. Then, when it was full and almost overflowing, we would break the dam and run down alongside the sudden torrent until it hit the river.' A pause, excitement ebbing slightly. Eyran's expression more thoughtful. 'My mother didn't like me playing there. I would come back too muddy and dirty.'

Marinella let the moment settle. 'Did you ever play lower down the river bank?'

'Only a few times.'

'Were you often lower down the river bank on your own? For instance, when you cut across the fields and had to cross the bridge there?'

'Yes, sometimes.'

Gently. Gently. 'And at any time, did you meet anyone else there - at the lower part of the river?'

'No... no, I don't think so.' Eyran's brow creased. 'I don't remember.'

'The day you left to meet Stephan but never made it. The day your bike broke down. Did you meet someone lower down the river that day?'

'No... I didn't meet anyone there. I didn't cross the river there... I... I... there was...' Eyran broke off, swallowing hastily. He looked for a moment as if he was about to say more, but then the thought was lost.

Strike two. Marinella could almost feel Lambourne gloating behind her. When he'd discovered she'd gone behind his back, they'd had their worst argument yet. She said a lot of things she immediately regretted: too staid, limited PLT experience, merely clinging to what he knew for safety's sake, not for the patient. Confirming his conventional status or perhaps his Englishness, Lambourne had been far less personal, kept mainly to patient/counsel ethics: it was his patient, he should have been consulted first, made the main decision. It had been wrong of her to contact Stuart Capel directly to sell her theory.

Fait accompli. The argument about what was already done predictably headed nowhere. She quickly put Lambourne on the spot by asking pointedly where he planned the sessions to head next, then - in the face of a faltering and hesitant reply - rammed in with her own solution. 'If I'm wrong, what have you lost? Two weeks. After that, you've got the patient back to explore what you like.' She wasn't doing this for her health: she already had what she wanted, more than enough to compile a paper. And she'd just been away from her son for a week. 'I need another two weeks away like a hole in the head. I'm only doing this because I strongly believe it will work.'

Gradual teetering with each blow. Lambourne was stuck for an answer. But it was a reluctant submission with a cautionary note. He was still far from convinced about her theory. 'One foot-fault, one hint that you're getting close to an area that might adversely affect my patient - and I'll stop the sessions.'

She could feel Lambourne hovering now. Gloating that he hadn't even needed to intervene. She'd made her own foot fault. The session wasn't heading where she wanted. He'd been right, she'd been wrong.

She suddenly felt the pressure of the small room closing in on her. Lambourne's gloating, Fornier waiting in a squad room in the middle of France for her fax, the ridiculous chess game of secrets they were both playing, Philippe waiting expectantly to translate her next question, her own ambitions... now slipping away again by the second.

She'd followed Dominic's cue to go back to when Christian first met someone, before the boy sensed any danger. But all she'd discovered was that Dominic was right: it probably wasn't Machanaud, unless Christian met him later. Christian hadn't met anyone by the river. But if not there, where?

'When your bike broke down, did you cut across the fields behind the village? Where did you go?'

'I hid my bike in some long grass, then I headed down towards the road.'

'Then where?'

'I started walking along the road towards the village.'

Fornier had mentioned that nobody in the village had seen the boy. 'Did you reach the village. Did you see or meet anyone there?'

'No... a car stopped. A man offered me a lift.'

Marinella controlled her hands from shaking on the keys. The information had in the end come up suddenly, like a mugger in a dark alley. She quickly hid her surprise. Lambourne wouldn't expect the information in itself to be particularly alarming; it was only her, what she knew it would signify to Fornier.

'What sort of car was he driving?'

'It was a sports car. A green sports car.'

'What make was it?'

'I don't remember. The man told me... but I forgot.'

Marinella's hands paused on the keys. Perhaps she would return later. The information was there somewhere. 'And what did the man look like?'

'He was quite thin with dark hair.'

'Was he young or old?' Marinella noted Eyran's brow creasing as Philippe translated. Remembering that to a ten year old everyone seems old, she added: 'Was he younger or older than your father?'

'Younger. At least five years younger.'

'What happened then? Did you drive through the village?'

'No. He offered to drive me back to where the bike had broken down. I told him it was all right - but he insisted. He stopped at the side, turned, and started driving back.'

As Christian described heading back along the road, then them turning into the rough farm track which led to his bike, Marinella tried to imagine herself in the car alongside him. This young boy from over thirty years ago who had less than an hour to live.
What did he see or notice that might now help?
Faint beads of sweat had broken out on Eyran's top lip. She could sense his nervousness. She asked him what the car was like inside.

'The dashboard was wood, and there was hardly any back seat - just a narrow bench.'

'As you went up the lane, did you see anyone else - even in the distance?'

'No... the field was empty. I pointed where to stop... my bike was... was hidden in the long grass.'

Tension was thick in the small room. Eyran's breathing was laboured, his eyes flickering slightly. Anticipation and fear of what lay ahead starting to grip him harder.

She feared that at any second Lambourne would reach forward and stop her. Knew that if she pushed too hard, pushed Eyran over the edge into a catatonic state - it could be the last session. But the desire to know what happened next was too compelling. Like an incurable gambler, she couldn't resist one last bet, one last question. 'When you reached the bike - what happened?'

'The brake was jammed on the wheel. The man tried to free it - then suddenly he reached out and touched me... then he... he... gripped me... me haaarrd... pulling... I... th.. theerrr'

Marinella could see Christian's panic descending like an express elevator - and went to break him away before Lambourne intervened. But Christian's expression suddenly changed, settling slightly.

'...Theerre was... something... something from before... before we turned into the lane. A truck passed us.'

It took Marinella a second to catch up with the sudden leap. 'Did the driver see you?'

'I don't know... I'm not sure.'

'What did the truck look like? What did it say on the side?'

'It was grey, very long. It had MARSEILLE on the side... and the letters V-A-R... N.'

'Anything else? Can you see anything else?'

'No, just Marseille.... Marseille. I remember going there once with my father. We went to the harbour and watched the fish being landed... the fishermen with their nets...'

Marinella lost Christian at that moment. A day out in Marseille with his father. Bright coloured fishing boats. Bouillabaisse in a harbourside café. A pleasant, rambling story: happy memories again. She was happy of a break in mood from the clawing tension - but frustrated minutes later when, letting the story run its course, she wasn't able to get Christian back again to the lane. The thread had gone.

Quite a move. Christian had shifted to where he knew she would be keen for more information, jumped back a question - then deftly skipped to where he felt more comfortable. His influence over the direction of questions was stronger than she'd given him credit for.

Though twenty minutes later when she faxed the transcript to Dominic Fornier, as pleased as she was with the information gained, it struck her that between weaving around threatening chasms of panic and Christian shifting scenes to suit - it might be the only information they would get.