Then he noticed with sudden panic that something else was wrong. Grandpapa Andre's coin was no longer in his hand. His right hand had relaxed slightly open and it had probably slipped from his grasp with the track's bumpiness. He started feeling for it in the dark. It was not on top of the wheel hub; the top of the hub was smooth metal, except for several small oval holes around its rim. They were too small to reach into, especially with his hands tied; if the coin had fallen through one of them, he wouldn't be able to retrieve it. He started feeling around the edge of the tyre.
The car had stopped without Christian noticing. He was still searching for the coin when the boot lid opened and the bright sunlight flooded in, blinding him.
THREE
Provence, August, 1963
Dominic Fornier sat in Cafe du Verdon and enjoyed his normal breakfast of coffee with hot bread and pate. The coffee was large, in a cup almost big enough to be a soup bowl, and he always kept one piece of bread without butter or pate just to dip in it. It was 3.40 pm. An unusual time for breakfast, but then he had been on all night duty in the police station and had woken less than an hour ago to return for the afternoon shift.
It was a regular ritual. The cafe owner Louis knew his order off by heart now, and had almost worked out his sequence of shifts. One large coffee with milk, third of a stick loaf sliced in half, one half plain, the other half with pate, coffee refill half way through.
The cafe overlooked the main square and fountain at Bauriac and the police station was only fifty yards to the right of the square on the road flanking the town hall. The town hall and Louis' cafe were the most imposing structures overlooking the square. Neo-classical, the town hall should have been far more imposing, but Louis had compensated by putting out striped blue canvass awnings and a row of tables with Martini umbrellas. Particularly busy in summer, it was only from Louis' pavement frontage that tourists could appreciate the town hall facade and the ornate fountain at the centre of Bauriac's square.
There were a few tourists there that afternoon. Dominic could spot them a mile away. Shorts, leather strap sandals and cameras. Always cameras. Louis grunted his way past Dominic's table as he served some of them. The front doors to the cafe were wide open and from the juke box inside came the strains of Stevie Wonder's 'fingertips'. Louis gave a mock bump and grind to it on his way back into the cafe and twirled his tray in one hand. Dominic smiled. It had been his one contribution to Louis juke box: decent music. Stax, Tamla, the Drifters on RCA, Sam Cooke, Ben E King, Booker T, and now a new artist called Stevie Wonder. All of it American soul brought in through his uncle's export business in Marseille, and practically none of it available in France for at least two to three months. Sometimes never. It was improving now, but when he'd first started getting records through his uncle in the late 50s, only a selected few American soul releases made it to French shores.
None of the tourists on Louis terrace, unless they were American, would have heard Stevie Wonder's new record yet. They seemed oblivious as they sipped their teas and cokes or ambled off for photos in front of the fountain or town hall. They hadn't come to France to listen to American soul. The records were there just for the benefit of himself and Louis and the growing number of discerning late nighters. A welcome escape from the syrupy tones of Sacha Distel, Serge Gainsbourg, the Singing Nun and the endless pop rock which filled the French charts and, since Louis had installed the juke box, it drew an increasing crowd of young locals on their solexes and vespas with a sprinkling of 100 and 150cc bikes. Lightweight rockers. Mostly between the ages of fifteen and twenty-two, they came in heavier numbers on Friday and Saturday nights, nearly all of them locals. Louis' hunch about installing the juke box had worked.
Those over twenty-two mostly had larger bikes or cars and would head off to the clubs or discos in Aix, Draguignan or even Marseille or Toulon. But for local entertainment, apart from the town cinema and one other bar with music near Taragnon, Louis had the market cornered.
Bauriac's population was just over 14,000 and, even with the surrounding towns of Taragnon, Varages, Ponteves, St Martin and La Verdiere, which came under the administration of Bauriac's town hall and gendarmerie, overall area population was still under 35,000.
Dominic Fornier was one of eleven gendarmes stationed in Bauriac, and at twenty-six, was the youngest of two Senior Warrant Officers there, having transferred from Marseille just the year before. Head of Station and the four other area gendarmeries was Captain Tobias Poullain, thirty seven, locally born but now just biding time by tending provincial turf; advancement meant transfer to Aix en Provence or Marseille and a City Administrative position with a shot at Colonel, and Poullain hoped to make it there by forty. Station veteran was Lieutenant Eric Harrault, forty-nine.
Harrault's knowledge of past Bauriac cases and general procedures between the station and the local courts was absolute, and as a result he spent much of his time desk-bound. Without Harrault for reference or procedural advice, the station just didn't run smoothly.
Louis was at the side of his table. 'Coming by tonight?'
'I'm not sure. Depends how heavy my shift is. I might be too tired.'
'Too tired at your age.' Louis waved one arm dismissively. He nodded towards the boulangerie. 'Why don't you ask Odette? Valerie will probably be coming.'
'Maybe.' Odette was a fresh faced nineteen year old serving in the bakers whom Dominic had been dating the past four months. Nothing too serious. Dominic tried to restrict dates to no more than two a week, particularly with his other commitments at home. With him not finishing until midnight it would be too late in any case for a full date, though the sight of Louis fighting to win Valerie's affections was well worth a visit. 'I'll probably come by on my own for a quick brandy, keep you company at the bar.'
On Valerie's last visit, Louis had put on Sam Cooke's 'Another Saturday Night', which Dominic had brought him only a few weeks before. Coming out from behind the bar like a matador, Louis dramatically threw his shirt to one side. Now down to his vest, Louis felt that it showed off his physique, and with his dark and brooding Corsican features he saw himself as another Victor Mature. Dominic teased him that he looked more like Bluto. The wrong side of forty, too much of his own short order cooking had long ago rounded out most of his muscle definition. Louis’ bull like figure trying gracefully to imitate something between the jive and the tango with Valerie was a sight to behold.
'Should be a good crowd later tonight,' Louis commented.
Dominic nodded. Calling by when his shift finished at midnight was probably good timing. After 11pm the bikers normally thinned out and more young couples came in on their way back from the cinema. Cleopatra was showing for a second week. Louis was probably right, the turn out should be good. 'I'll only stay an hour though, then I should get home.'
Louis grimaced understandingly. Dominic not wanting to spend too much time away from his sick mother was by now almost common knowledge. Dominic's elder sister lived in Paris with her husband and only visited periodically, so Dominic had shouldered most of the responsibility. Diagnosed just over a year ago, less than two years after burying his father, his mother's cancer had been the main reason for his transfer from Marseille. Why he restricted his dates and tried not to stay out too late. Dominic knew that there wasn't much time left to spend with his mother.
Dominic was distracted. Servan, one of the young station Sergeants, was running across the square towards the cafe. Louis stared as well. The last time he'd seen a gendarme running was when the newly installed alarm had gone off by mistake at the jewellers around the corner. Something was wrong.
Servan was breathless as he approached Dominic's table. 'A young boy has been attacked out towards Taragnon. Poullain's just radioed in. He's on his way there now. He wants you to assist, and take myself, Levacher and another sergeant. We're to meet him there.'
'Where's Harrault?'
'He was with Poullain at Tourtin's farm when it happened. One of Tourtin's outbuildings was broken into last night. When Poullain got the call, he left Harrault taking the statement.'
'How old is the boy?
'Anything from nine to twelve years old. We still don't have any firm identification.'
'Is the attack bad? How badly is he hurt?' The surprise came through in Dominic's voice. This was Bauriac.
