Past Imperfect

before putting the two together.

Click. Stop. Rewind. Play.

'… The camp's one of my favourite places. I built it against the back of a stone wall in the field at the back of the house.'

'How far away from the house is it?'

'A hundred metres or so. From there, I can clearly see the back courtyard and the front door, see if anyone…'

Ring, Ring. Ring, Ring. The sudden loud jangling of the telephone in the hallway crashed abruptly into Dominic's thoughts, made him jump. He suddenly remembered he'd asked to be phoned at home for any news from the hospital on the police officer. One was out of danger, but the other was still critical.

He picked it up, nodding numbly to the first words, his mind still on the tape and his wife. 'I see. I see. When was this? I see. Crippled, you say?' He realized his voice sounded bland; detached, disinterested. He injected more enthusiasm. 'When will they know for sure the damage done by the shattered vertebrae?'

'…can see my mother working in the kitchen and I know then that it's time to come in. I know if my father is in the garage, because he always has the light on… there's no windows.'

'They're doing more X-rays now. Then as soon as they have those back apparently they're scheduling another operation. They should know more soon after that.'

'I see. So, how long? Six hours, twelve?'

'Ten or twelve probably. I doubt we'll know much more till tomorrow morning.'

'… I always helped her if I could. I missed her so much later, as I did my parents.'

'I see.' Dominic's skin bristled. Distracted. Trying to take in the two voices together.

'But don't expect any miracles. They're pretty sure he won't get the use of his legs back. They just don't know yet how bad the rest might be.'

'…and I remembered thinking, my father… my father… why didn't he come and try to find me…'

'I understand.' Scant relief. No tricolours on coffins, but a home visit nevertheless. A hospital visit. A meeting with his wife and close relatives. Stumbling condolences.

'… kept thinking how they couldn't face that I'd become lost from them… that I'd somehow let them down… their sorrow. My mother's face, so sad…so, so sad… her-'

Click. Stop. Silence.

Dominic listened out for the machine clicking again, but there was nothing. Monique had obviously finished with the tape.

'…That's all there's left to know now. Whether the rest of his body will also be affected. Arms and upper body.'

'I see. I understand.' Attention completely gone now. Only one thing he wanted to know. 'Let's talk again tomorrow morning — hopefully more will be known then.' Dominic rang off.

Walking back into the lounge to confront Monique, despite his wish not to pressure her or make her feel awkward in any way, his impatience he was sure came through — he probably did look like a schoolboy anxious for his exam results. Not saying anything, but his eyes saying it all, and thinking: So? So?

Monique didn't answer for a moment, looked down and away before finally lifting her gaze to speak. But the words themselves were secondary, he had already read it in her eyes. The storm clouds, the grey shadows, had returned. And this time he feared that they would take far, far longer to drift away.

TWENTY-NINE

Marseille, October 1982

MARC JAUMARD, brother of TOMAS JAUMARD, alias 'Chapeau'. Would the aforementioned, or anyone with knowledge of the aforementioned or his current whereabouts, please contact as a matter of urgency the offices of FOURCOT amp; GAUTHEREAU, 3?19, Rue Andre Isaia, Marseille. Tel: 698564.

Marcelle Gauthereau checked the small entry in the personal column of La Provencal, as he had done every six months for the past three and a half years. He wondered why he bothered sometimes. The copy was exactly the same as the first entry, they were obviously just printing from the first plate. Still he found himself mechanically checking the address and phone number. Particularly the phone number. Then he would consider its position on the page — see if it was placed well and didn't get lost too much among the heavier box adverts and the mass of pleas for instant romance.

The envelope had been signed, sealed and left with the notary for six years now. He had been the lawyer witnessing on behalf of his client, Tomas Jaumard, and it had also fallen to him to carry out Jaumard's instructions regarding the envelope in the event of his death. Tomas's brother Marc was to be notified and he, Marcelle Gauthereau, would then accompany Marc to the notary's office where, upon due presentation of identification and signing of a receipt, Marc would be handed the envelope left by his brother. Simple.

Except that when he originally sent out the notification, Marc Jaumard had moved. His letter was returned with no forwarding address. Gauthereau sent a clerk by the building a week later to discover that Marc had gone back to sea, but not with his old company. After phoning his old company and another number they recommended, the trail petered out with a past work colleague and an old flat mate. The only faint light that could be thrown on his whereabouts was that he might have joined up with a merchant company sailing out of Genoa. 'Perhaps he maintains a place there when he's back on shore.'

There were still some funds from the retainer Tomas Jaumard had left him to execute his will. The will simply couldn't be executed without Marc Jaumard; no other relatives were named. Gauthereau started placing the adverts. One every six months in Marseille, one a year in a Genoa paper in Italian. There was enough cash to cover a total of twelve insertions. Gauthereau was intrigued what might be in the envelope. Names, dates and vital contacts? Drug routes and stashes, details of Chapeau's account in Switzerland perhaps? Could he have earned that much as a milieu button man?

La Provencal had peppered the account of his death with his nickname. They seemed to all have nicknames: Tomi 'The Wall' Boisset, Jaques 'Tomcat' Imbert, Pierre 'The Priest' Cattaneo. Somehow added to the mystique and fear. Chapeau? The newspapers hadn't explained, nor had he ever asked. Getting through their few brief business meetings had been torturous enough; he'd always found himself clock- watching towards the end, uneasy under Jaumard's slow fish eye, without adding superfluous questions.

Two more insertions to go in Marseille, one in Genoa, before the retainer was finished. After that the envelope would stay gathering dust in the notary's office, with little chance of anyone knowing its contents.

Session 7.

Marinella Calvan listened to Lambourne's voice in the background as he induced Eyran Capel into hypnosis. The three questions Dominic Fornier wanted asked were on a piece of paper before her.

As before, Lambourne would spend the first ten minutes or so getting Eyran comfortable and asking general, everyday questions — then would slowly regress Eyran back and draw out Gigio.

Then Philippe would take over in French and Marinella would tap out her first question on the screen. Though Fornier's English was good, the questions had originally been in French and Philippe had translated. She would start with her own questions first, get Christian Rosselot settled more naturally into the mood and period, then lead into Fornier's questions.

Though Fornier was sat at the back of the room just as a casual observer, his presence created an added tension. Was it because of what he represented: someone who had been close to, had feelings for Christian Rosselot. What was before just a detached voice was suddenly tangible, real. A young boy who people once cared about, loved, just as her with Sebastian. Fornier's presence and the background he'd explained with his wife, the