Past Imperfect

suspended belief with these closing stages he'd answered with the fact that the case so far had been fraught with so many obstacles and difficulties — that now with none in the way, it was no longer familiar ground. After so long, it still felt somehow unreal that it was all finally within grasp. But now, looking at Corbeix and downing the last slug of whisky, he wondered whether it was because reality lurked just around the corner. That something else would arise, Duclos would pull another rabbit from the hat to destroy their case and escape justice.

'They're pressing ahead with the case.'

A part of Duclos had feared they might, had prompted the safeguards he'd put into action. But another had clung to doubt: they would lack both the evidence and the audacity! And it was this part that held sway, wrestled with acceptance. Duclos went cold, rigid. He was in a call box on Rue Archimede, two blocks from the Parliament. He watched blankly the traffic and people passing.

With the long silence, Bonoit was suddenly hesitant, awkward. 'You know, I shouldn't even be calling. Certainly it will have to be my last call.'

'Yes, yes — I understand.' Duclos snapped out of his reverie. 'What earthly basis is there? What evidence?'

'I don't have all the details — but something about a garage worker and a coin found in an old car of yours. And still some background with psychics which I mentioned earlier.'

A coin? A coin left in his old car? Impossible, surely invented? He'd searched every nook and crevice straight after the incident, had driven the car for seven months afterwards without seeing anything. 'Sounds ridiculous to me. As I said before — some misguided political witchhunt that will probably blow over before it's even started.' But Duclos could hear the nervousness, the strain in his own voice. The sudden worry that he might have overlooked something, would be facing the unknown. For the first time he was frightened. His hand shook, his palm clammy on the receiver.

Or was it sheer outrage, anger? Thirty years of serving his country, of fighting for bills and statutes for the benefit of all, and they had the cheek to drag this up now. That upstart Fornier and a rag-tag bunch of Provence police and prosecutors. Outrageous! Two days of searching his memory after Bonoit's initial call, and he finally recalled Fornier: the young gendarme assisting! Dour faced and doubting in the background when Poullain had visited him at the Vallons. How on earth did someone like that rise to become Chief Inspector?

'There's something else,' Bonoit commented. 'Fornier was apparently involved in the initial investigation…'

'I see.' Duclos feigned surprise.

'… His involvement now is meant to be purely because of that. Only someone involved then would know the gaps to fill in now. But it goes deeper.' Bonoit paused heavily. 'A couple of years after the murder, Fornier married the victim's mother — Monique Rosselot. They're husband and wife.'

Duclos was numbed, a tingling hollowness. A void struggling with the ludicrousness of what he'd just heard. He wanted to shout: 'But she was already married: Jean-Luc Rosselot. I read it in the papers at the time! But realized that might raise the question of why he had shown such strong interest in the case. He sensed the need to say something beyond just another 'I see'. Then it struck him: personal involvement? 'Given that background, should Fornier really be involved now?'

'Debatable point. Apparently, that is why Malliene is down as leading the investigation. Fornier's meant to be just assisting and for background — continuity between the old and new case. But word has it that Fornier's doing most of the legwork. Malliene is merely checking and signing off — possibly to avoid any claims of bias through personal involvement.'

The smile came slowly to Duclos' face, his concern dissipating. Something else that could probably be turned to advantage! 'Interesting.' He thanked Bonoit. 'I appreciate how you've stuck out your neck to try and help me.'

Bonoit said it was nothing, 'For old friendship.' A quick 'bon chance' before he rang off.

In the immediate silence following, it struck Duclos that he probably wouldn't hear from Bonoit again. When the arrest warrant came, there would be a lot more old friends and colleagues who would suddenly want distance, he thought ruefully.

Coin? The one thing that nagged disturbingly at the back of his mind. Everything else — garage workers, psychics — sounded like the sort of nonsense Thibault, his lawyer, would destroy in short order. He would phone him tomorrow. Start shoring up his defence before the wolf pack arrived.

Duclos could almost imagine Fornier rubbing his hands together. The incompetent hoping for final glory. But with everything with Aurillet already in place, and now with this new information — Duclos still felt confident of winning through. At the same time hopefully teaching Dominic Fornier a lesson he wouldn't quickly forget.

Perhaps he shouldn't have had the whisky. The effects of the steroids wore off in the afternoon; the drink had probably only heightened the problem. Corbeix could feel the muscle twinges rising in his right thigh. He'd planned to stay at least an hour after Fornier left and structure notes from the afternoon session, but already he could feel the warning signals. If he stayed more than another ten minutes, he might have trouble making it even to the car park. And in addition there was the twenty minute drive home.

A recurring worry was that his legs would seize up mid journey, he wouldn't even be able to operate the clutch or the accelerator. On bad days, he'd take a taxi in and back. But this morning had started off good, no twinges, then shortly after the session with Roudele, he'd felt the first. Almost as if his body was reminding him that the day had been gruelling. While the session had been in full flow, the adrenalin running, he'd hardly felt a thing.

Was that what it would be like in the instruction hearings ahead. Sailing through on a sea of adrenalin, and then completely demolished soon after? But today had started off well, he reminded himself: what about those days when he felt exhausted just with the effort of getting out of bed and having breakfast?

Corbeix packed his files in his brief case and headed out, locking his office door. The corridors were quiet. Most of the staff had left an hour ago.

All to do. Fornier's road had ended, his own was just starting. And he knew now with certainty that he'd get little or no help from Galimbert. He'd sounded out Galimbert a week ago, then again when the coin lead came through: sounds tenuous. Exploratory. 'Too much ground breaking that could go wrong — especially against such a high profile figure.'

Objections, objections, with no hint of support in sight. Galimbert wasn't keen on the case. If he handed it over to him to conclude after the summer recess, Galimbert would throw in the towel at the first serious onslaught from Duclos' lawyer.

Corbeix shook his head as he started down the Palais de Justice steps. RPR. He recalled soon after their first discussion about Duclos that Galimbert was a staunch RPR supporter. They were prosecutors, functionaries of the law, politics weren't meant to come into it. Governing parties changed, but they were always there, serving, holding the mantle of justice. But he couldn't help wondering if Galimbert's lack of enthusiasm had been largely swayed by Duclos' RPR status. One of Galimbert's heroes.

Corbeix grimaced tautly. It hardly mattered now. He was on his own. Fighting one of the largest cases in French criminal history when he felt he hardly had the energy to make it to the car park.

At the bottom of the stairway, Corbeix paused to regain breath, looking up briefly at the high-ceilinged entrance vestibule of the Palais de Justice and the motto above the doorway: Liberte, egalite, fraternite. Then continued, his faltering step echoing starkly from the tiled floor and stone walls.

Echoing feet on marble floors. Dominic followed the two Strasbourg Judiciare DIs through the Parliament vestibule from the elevators. As they turned into the corridor leading to Duclos' office, thick pile carpet met their feet. Cushioned, silent, as if to mask their final approach from Duclos.

But a rather concerned guard at the entrance desk had spent time with badge checking, register signing and phoning through to Duclos' secretary before letting them pass. Duclos knew they were coming.

They walked into the main office: a secretary, a clerk behind. But no sign of Duclos. Dominic stayed in the background while one of the DIs, Paveinade, explained the purpose of their visit to Duclos' secretary. His sidekick,