Past Imperfect

Christian as well.'

'Thanks.' Dominic squeezed her hand back. Though he knew it was probably just to make him feel better about possibly failing. Like him, she would no doubt like to see Duclos nailed to the side of the Arc de Triomphe for what he'd done to Christian.

'You don't need to do this for me. I got over the ghosts of Christian long ago.'

But he was doing it as much for himself, he thought. To set the record straight. Though she would probably now never know his guilt over Machanaud. She was right: they'd had a great life together. Shared everything. Except a few secrets. 'Does it bother you, everything coming back now. In any way awaken the ghosts?'

'Obviously a little.' Momentary flinch. She didn't want to admit how much it had obsessed her. He had enough worries and pressure. 'But we shouldn't let it rule our lives. If Duclos is meant to be convicted, then so be it. If not, the same applies. Whatever is meant to be is meant to be. Don't torture yourself trying to change it Dominic. Don't punish yourself. You've done everything you can on this case. If it's still not enough — then let it go. Nobody would blame you, think less of you. And certainly not me.'

As ever: soft, understanding. Her eyes too implored him, added depth to her words. Soulful brown eyes that had melted him the first day he saw her, had glimmered and sparkled at him across countless candle-lit tables through the years; at the birth of Yves and Gerome and the numerous birthdays and celebrations since. A good life. God, how he loved her.

But beyond the softness and compassion in her eyes, he could still see the pain. See the shadows that had haunted her with Christian through the decades. Shadows that belied her compassion, that screamed: get him, get him! Bring Christian justice. Don't let him get away.

Betina's voice drifted from the kitchen. 'I'm bringing in the cake now.'

Joel smiled. Duclos smiled awkwardly in return. They sat at opposite ends of the dining table. Distance between them. Always more acute when Betina wasn't present. As if she was the only link between them; they couldn't communicate effectively without her presence.

Betina came in with the cake and the atmosphere eased. White icing with blue piping: Happy Birthday, Joel.Ten candles.

A miracle. Five days skirting with death in an incubator, then remarkably Joel had started to gain strength. Another two months with worries about healthy bone formation, and Joel had never looked back.

Delayed congratulations from colleagues once Joel was out of danger. Cigars. 'You must be overjoyed!' 'Yes, yes, of course.' His best politician's smile. Inside he was too numbed to know what he really felt. At least Betina would be happy, had been the overriding thought. It would keep her occupied, away from him. Some advantages.

Blonde hair, mop style. Blue eyes. Joel looked like his mother, took after her in every way. He could see very little of himself in the boy.

Betina smiled appreciatively at the two of them above the cake. 'It's good to have you at home, Alain. Especially for occasions like this.'

'Yes, it's nice to be back.' Duclos forced a smile, but thought: stupid bitch. Gendarme posted at the front door, his life and future hanging in the balance. It was hardly the ideal homecoming. But he knew what she meant: between Brussels and Strasbourg, the various business trips and weekends sneaked away — also covered as business trips — he hardly spent any time at home. Often he would see them only two or three days in as many months. Duclos laughed inwardly at the irony: such was their relationship, their sham of a marriage, that it had taken a court order to get him to spend some time at home.

Birthdays? Despite Betina's comment, one of the few times he was actually present. He could only remember missing three of Joel's birthdays: two he'd forgotten and Betina had barely forgiven him, and another had clashed with a vital business trip. He'd left a present and phoned from Prague to wish Joel 'Happy Birthday'. A seven year old's sweet lost voice on the line: 'Thank you, pappa.' Probably hardly remembering from one month to the next what his father looked like. He was hardly there.

And when he was: distance. He could feel it in the boy's eyes whenever they settled on him. Perhaps he could expect no less with the time he spent away; or was it the strong bond Joel had with Betina making him feel like a stranger, an outsider to their activities? Outside their precious little circle. But in his darker moments, the boy's gaze would unnerve him. He would wonder if it wasn't just a questioning look because of his long absences, but more knowing: as if in that moment — as he'd feared through the long years — the boy had seen through to his soul and guessed his dark secret. But he'd been so careful, had consciously made an effort. He'd never looked at Joel in that way, never. The boy's blonde hair and fair skin had made it easier. Not the type he was attracted to. But apart from that, it was his son, his son! He would never, never…

'Are you okay?'

Yes, fine. Fine.' But he could feel his pulse racing, his hands clenched in fists beneath the table.

Betina's expression was contemplative, concerned. 'I know that all of this isn't easy for you. But you should try and relax for just a moment. You're at home now, with your family. Among people who care about you.'

He let out a long, slow breath. 'Yes, yes, you're right.' Tried to let the tension ease away, slowly unclenching his hands. Three more days to know if the case had been thrown out. If not, then their next chance was with Marinella Calvan. Thibault had phoned just the day before to tell him of some juicy new leads he was tracking on Calvan; was confident that he'd be able to crush her in grand style. Perhaps he shouldn't worry. If it wasn't all over with good news from Barielle in three days, then it certainly would be by the next hearing.

But that wasn't the only worry, he reminded himself: later that afternoon no doubt Jaumard would call again, and he'd have to spend time on the phone to Geneva to arrange a transfer. The court case; Jaumard; his name in every newspaper; a gendarme at his door; a clutch of newspaper reporters beyond, clicking and jostling at the first appearance. At times it felt like everything was closing in.

With the first headlines, he'd assured Betina that it was all ludicrously fabricated. None of it true. 'My lawyer will have the case thrown out in no time at all.' She hadn't asked, but he'd wanted to answer before any questions possibly came. Betina had accepted his answer without visible reservation, but he couldn't help wondering if a part of her suspected: the business trips, the long weekends away, his rarely sharing her bed. Just the pattern that would fit in with such a secret life.

Betina was lighting the candles and smiling. And Joel was smiling too, bright eyes above the gleam of the candles.

Eyes that knew. Duclos shook the thought away. As Betina had suggested: relax. He was among family. People who cared.

But through the years, how much had he cared? A son who felt at times like a stranger. A wife who he hardly slept with. Eyes that sparkled with warmth and understanding — and all he'd done was spend the long years trying to avoid them.

And now he had been welcomed back. Family. The tight family circle of Betina and Joel which he'd stood outside for so long. Self exclusion. He let the new feeling of welcome wash through him, bathed in its warmth as he watched Betina light the last candles. Betina smiling; Joel smiling. Family closeness and warmth he could hardly remember experiencing before. But slowly beyond, he began to see something else: all the other smiles through his weeks at home. Tight smiles, anxious smiles — tension so acute that at times it could be cut with a knife. Moments when it had flashed through his mind uncharitably that he'd be better off in prison than stuck at home with the two of them.

And the falseness beneath their smiles suddenly struck him, the thought resurged: they knew. They both knew. And here he was firmly embraced within their syrupy little family circle, surrounded by candles and sweet smiles. Trapped.

Sweet icing smiles, blue piping: Ten? Oh God, the same age Christian Rosselot had been when he'd died.

The candles glimmered. Joel's smiling face was above them, eyes wide as he pouted…

But all Duclos could see was the single candle burning in the hospital with Monique Rosselot's face in profile, Christian Rosselot's eyes pleading up at him, don't kill me… don't kill me!

And as his son blew out the candles, the rock came down… he saw himself smashing the life from Christian