Past Imperfect

almost brown. He'd been dead now almost an hour. Dominic straightened up and Lasnel too shifted to one side for a moment as a detective moved in and took some photos using flash; though it was afternoon and bright sunshine, the buildings each side heavily shaded the narrow lane. Dominic went over to Bennacer.

'Any witnesses?'

Bennacer shook his head and pointed to a middle aged woman, quite dark, probably Moroccan or Algerian. 'She was the first to find him, two other men came up quickly afterwards, one of them went to the nearest phone to make the initial emergency call, the other's here.' Bennacer pointed to an old man not far behind the woman. 'But nobody actually saw the attack.'

Dominic clarified with Bennacer that the other man, in his twenties, hadn't appeared again but probably wasn't significant. The victim's wallet was missing, there was no available identification, but Bennacer knew him: a local club owner called Emile Vacheret. The attack had been made to look like a robbery, but Bennacer doubted it. It was probably a milieu hit.

Dominic nodded. Now that Bennacer had mentioned the name, Dominic remembered the file. Their main informant on milieu activities, Forterre, had reported moves to set up stronger drug distribution networks using Marseille clubs. Vacharet was one of the club owners in the file. Vacheret had for years used his clubs as fronts for packets of marijuana, but there was pressure for him to start handling heroine as well. Emile Vacheret was against the idea, but his son Francois, now in his early thirties, was known to be in favour. 'So it looks as if they didn't want to wait the fifteen years for the old man to retire,' Dominic commented sourly. 'Do you think his son might have actually been involved in the hit?'

'No, I don't think so. He might have disagreed with his father, but he wouldn't have gone that far. With Emile out of the way, they'd get what they wanted anyway with Francois — so no need to implicate him. It also serves as a warning: what better way to make sure the son tows the line.'

The inner politics of the milieu, thought Dominic. Essential knowledge for much of his past nine years in Marseille. As the drugs market had burgeoned, with Marseille one of the main distillation and shipment centres for Europe, the incidence of reglas de compte, settling of accounts, had increased. As with so many other similar cases, there would be no murder weapon found, no fingerprints, no witnesses. Just the usual list of suspects bounced between departmental files and computers.

'Are any of his clubs near here?'

'The nearest is at least three blocks away. Nothing in the immediate streets.'

Dominic scanned the street beyond the small crowd. Eleven days? Eleven days before he cleared his desk in Marseille and started his two year posting with Interpol in Paris. The case wouldn't have progressed much in that time, would no doubt end up with his Chief Inspector, Isnard, where it would fester in one of his two usual piles: unsolved cases and internal admin overload. If he wanted some movement on the case, some strong leg work while he was gone, his best chance lay with Bennacer.

Dominic flicked back through his notepad. Too many loose ends to tie up in just eleven days: cases in progress, reminders before he left, now he was adding more. Any work breaks had been filled with organizing packing and moving and rent contracts for their house in Aubagne and their new house in Corbeil, twenty miles south of Paris.

No doubt there would be a goodbye drink with his department and, if there was time, a last meal at ‘Pierre Tetre’ in Cannes with his wife and son. They'd dined there the night he proposed to her, then again six years back when he received his final exam results and his move from the Marseille gendarmerie to the National Police became official. The two years at Interpol was voluntary and his current ranking would remain the same, but it would broaden his work experience and help his progress to Chief Inspector: two or three years after he returned at most. Without clinking glasses first at Pierre Tetre, the move to Paris would seem somehow incomplete.

Dominic looked up. The ambulance was approaching, forcing the crowds close to the walls each side in the narrow lane. He wrote on a scrap of paper and handed it to Bennacer. 'I'm not sure how much I'll be able to do on this before I leave. But don't just let the case rot on Isnard's desk. Do the leg work yourself and work your milieu contact as best you can. This will be my number in Paris. Call me directly if anything comes up.'

As Dominic closed his notepad, he saw the word Machanaud? written on the second to last page. A year after gaining his Inspectorate with the National Police, he'd been driving through Taragnon and was reminded of the case. Machanaud should have been released two years before, might have even been paroled earlier. He tried to contact Molet through the Palais de Justice and his old law firm, only to discover that he had moved practice to Nice; four phone calls later, he gave up on tracking down a phone number. He decided to try finding out what had happened to Machanaud through Perrimond's office. After three calls to Perrimond's secretary and none of them returned, within a week a snowstorm of work had pushed it into the background and it was forgotten.

It sprang to mind again a year ago when he saw a press cutting about Alain Duclos. He'd seen nothing about Duclos in the ten years since the murder. It was a small sidebar talking about the new candidate for the RPR in Limoges, Alain Duclos, and mentioned his position as Chief Prosecutor the past five years and some notable successes against companies for labour contract infringements: mostly sweat shop use of illegal immigrants, with Duclos quoted that 'it not only imprisoned the immigrant in a cycle of modern day slavery, but also robbed the French people of their workright.' Champion of the People, Dominic thought cynically. Duclos and politics were obviously made for each other.

He'd made a mental note then to try Perrimond again but had forgotten about it. Then just the week before he'd made the entry in his notepad along with the other loose ends of his life he wanted to deal with before leaving. No doubt he was worrying for nothing. Machanaud had probably been paroled after four years and spent at most another year in an institution receiving therapy. He would try Perrimond again as soon as he got back to his office.

4th February, 1976

Rain pattered against the side window of the car. Duclos looked anxiously at his watch. Chapeau was already five minutes late. Perhaps he was having trouble finding the new meeting place.

The idea had been forming slowly the past year, though subconsciously it had probably been there far longer. Almost three years ago an old uncle of his had died and, together with his cousin, they'd handled the house clearance. Duclos knew a local antiques dealer, but they'd decided to go through the house first to identify the curios, be sure of their ground for when the dealer arrived. In an old attic trunk together with a uniform, brocade and medals, Duclos found an old service revolver, an SACM 7.6mm.

His uncle had been an army officer during the Vichy government regime, but it wasn't the sort of thing the family would make public, nor did Vichy period army memorabilia have strong re-sale value. The trunk's contents would probably not be passed to the dealer and he doubted that his uncle had even made them known to his family. Yet the gun looked in surprisingly good condition, had obviously been regularly oiled and cleaned, was now tucked away neatly with a box of ammunition at its side. Duclos looked up and listened for a second — his cousin was still busy downstairs — before pocketing the gun and the shells.

The thought didn't hit him in that moment what he might want it for, but in retrospect he recalled his eagerness to pocket the gun, his worry that his cousin might come up and prevent him being able to take it. Perhaps the intent and purpose had been there subliminally all along.

But it wasn't until almost eighteen months later, with the next demand from Chapeau, that the significance of the gun really struck him. The demands came almost every year, had worn him down bit by bit. Each step up the ladder, each pay rise or increase in stature, and Chapeau would phone. Congratulations!

He'd come almost to resent his own success, felt physically sick with each press flashbulb and item printed, knowing that Chapeau would read the clipping and the phone would ring. He began even to question his own motives for striving for such heights of ambition, that secretly he wanted Chapeau to call, that only the continuing punishment might somehow rid him of the nightmares that still haunted him periodically — waking up in a cold sweat as he saw the small boy's piercing green eyes staring back, pleading with him… please don't kill me!

In the dreams, the car boot and the final moments of attack had become one and the same, the eyes shining back at him from the boot's darkness just before he swung the rock down. The first dream had come six months after the attack and sometimes he would get quick flashbacks as he opened the boot. He'd sold the car