Past Imperfect

Marinella bit lightly at her lip. 'It's not just for them — it's also convincing myself. Building back the confidence and enthusiasm to continue.'

Lambourne wasn't sure whether he'd convinced her or not. When he went into his next session, she was still there: perhaps waiting for Philippe's call, perhaps still balancing everything out in her mind.

Though when he came out of the session, she was gone. Two hours later, just twenty minutes after Philippe had called and left a message, she phoned from the library.

'You were right — there's nothing in the British press. I've searched everything.' The enthusiasm was back in her voice. 'I'm just checking through books now. I'll know for sure in an hour or so.'

Lambourne gave her the message that Philippe had called and Marinella asked if he had mentioned Le Monde. 'No, he just left his number.'

'Okay, thanks. I'll call him.' She rang off abruptly.

Lambourne didn't see her again until early evening. She was in high spirits and brought him up to date quickly: Le Monde did have an entry, but it was only five lines on page twelve the day after the attack and mentioned only the boy's name and the village. No parents' names, no trimmings. 'The boy was alive apparently for five days after that and his later death didn't appear in Le Monde. Three articles in La Provencal, one large, two small. And nothing at all in the British press or books.'

'You look relieved.'

'I'm ecstatic. I'm also starving — let's go eat.'

Over dinner, David could hardly keep pace. This was the Marinella he remembered: confident, optimistic, energetic, eyes sparkling. He felt glad now that he'd calmed her earlier doubts. Though as she talked about the remaining steps ahead of finding the Rosselots or close past friends who could corroborate Eyran's account as Christian Rosselot, he felt the first pang of uncertainty.

Marinella was talking as if she was suddenly on an open freeway, had been lost for a while on some annoying side road, but now was full speed ahead, not an obstacle in sight. And he began to worry that he might have fired her up too much, that if she suddenly hit an obstacle and was deflated again, he'd feel partly responsible. Having rekindled her enthusiasm, if in a few sessions time he decided that continuing regressions were not in his patient's interests, it would seem heartless to suddenly pull the plug.

That enthusiasm carried Marinella through the next two days. The first stumbling block was that the Rosselots could no longer be traced in the area. One of the town hall clerks recommended Philippe to the Bauriac gendarmerie. 'They conducted much of the investigation and someone there might know.' Philippe could only find one person at the gendarmerie who remembered the investigation, Captain Levacher. While Levacher personally had no knowledge of the Rosselots or their current whereabouts, he had another number for someone who might be able to help. 'Dominic Fornier, he assisted in the investigation thirty years ago.' He had a number also for Captain Poullain who headed the investigation, but Levacher explained why he thought Dominic Fornier might be more useful. 'Here it is, National Police, Panier district, Marseille. 1974. That's the last number we have for him.'

Philippe phoned the number and they gave him another number for a division in West Marseille. The people in West Marseille were more circumspect and gave no information, merely asked his name, logged his call, and promised that someone would call back. Philippe didn't get the return call until the next morning, a girl named Therese giving him a number in Lyon. Philippe phoned to be informed: 'Chief Inspector Fornier is in a meeting right now. He'll be free probably about midday.'

Philippe brought Marinella up to date straightaway.

She checked her watch: 9.20am. France was an hour ahead, so Philippe planned to try again in almost two hours. 'Great. I'll be sitting by the phone waiting for news.'

Two more hours and they could hopefully piece together Christian Rosselot's life. But along with the excitement, she suddenly felt restless, ill at ease. The last days of research and Philippe's paper chase across France had obviously told on her nerves. Though as she tried to settle the rising butterflies in her stomach, it struck her that it might also be something else: the portent of possible failure was suddenly there once again. Only two hours away.

TWENTY-FIVE

8th December, 1978

'What is this — hit man of the year nomination list?'

'Close. It's the suspect list for the Bar du Telephone killings.' Duclos watched Brossard's expression keenly as he scanned down and saw his own name on the list. Hardly a flicker of recognition. 'You know what this means?'

'Yes, it means the police are going to waste their valuable time with nine suspects — and I'm one of them.'

'It also means that your life will be difficult for the next month or so. You'll be watched, perhaps brought in for questioning whenever it suits the police. Your life will be disrupted — and it will be bad for business. People won't go near you for a while with contracts.'

'Except one thing. I'm the only one on the list for whom the police have no firm identity. Just a vague photo-kit and an alias I once used. They won't know where to start.'

Duclos nodded. He knew the history. It was partly why he thought Brossard would be ideal. It had taken him almost a week to set up the meeting through Francois Vacharet. It was over three years since his last visit to Vacharet's, not long after the death of his father. Vacharet had been keen to offer him a new boy from Martinique, but Duclos had wanted to get straight down to business. He showed Vacharet the same list and asked him to pick out the ones he knew. Vacharet came up with three names. 'Forget Tomas Jaumard,' Duclos prompted.' He didn't explain why: that he'd had an association with Jaumard through his father, Emile Vacharet. 'Of the other two, which would you recommend?'

The quick biography sounded ideal: early thirties, no arrests or convictions, master of disguises, little or nothing on police files except an identikit picture, description and modus operandi: Brossard invariably wore different wigs and glasses to change his appearance. The supposition was therefore that his normal hair style was short. Eugene Brossard was a false name from a door buzzer tag for a flat Brossard had vacated two days before a police raid. He was always one step ahead.

Duclos was sure the Brossard before him was also heavily disguised: thick blonde wig cut in Beatles style, rounded glasses with a mottled burgundy frame. He looked like a David Hockney caricature.

The only thing which had initially made Brossard uncomfortable was the tape recorder running. Duclos explained why: that any minute he was going to offer Brossard F100,000 to have someone killed. The reason for the hit was the blackmailing of a close friend. Duclos wanted to be sure that the blackmail wasn't repeated, so the tape would serve as an insurance policy — for both of them. 'Now that I've admitted a dark secret, it's your turn. Tell me about one of your hits.'

Brossard laughed at the suggestion at first, but Duclos was insistent. 'The tape will never go out of my possession; after all, it would incriminate me as much as you. What have you got to lose? If you don't want to do it, fine. Me and my hundred thousand will walk out of the room.'

Duclos listened as Brossard described in bland monotones the murder of a Chief Planning Regulator in Nice three years previous. Duclos remembered the case: a planning officer implicated in a milieu bribes scandal. The milieu got to him before the State Procureur. He couldn't help wondering why Brossard had chosen this particular story. Was it partly a warning not to misuse the tape? I've already killed one government official. Fuck with me and one more won't make that much difference.

Brossard stared coldly at Duclos. Duclos could hardly see his eyes behind the dark glasses except when he blinked. Duclos felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. He hadn't felt this uncomfortable in someone's presence since… since.

The memory of his palm sweating on the gun butt was still vivid, lifting it, so