Fornier's hunch was correct and she played it right, it could dominate the American media throughout the trial. Eight months, a year? It would do more to aid the acceptance of PLR than anything previously conceived. The thoughts and images hit like so many cluster bombs: speeches, increased department funding, books, chat shows…
Breathless as they pounded home, suspended belief batting helplessly against the audaciousness, the ridiculous magnitude of it all — a laugh suddenly burst free. A laugh that quickly lost its hesitance and became more raucous.
Bob was looking over and mouthing something. She pulled off her headphones.
'Is that the Bill Cosby?' he asked. Funny, isn't he?'
'Yeah. But not half as funny as Mozart.'
He looked puzzled and quickly buried his face back into the flight magazine. Should keep him quiet for a while, she thought.
Marinella put back the headphones and sunk back into the Mozart, slowly closing her eyes. Even if it turned out not to be the politician Fornier suspected, proving the guilt or innocence of the person already charged would still grab a few good headlines, be something of a first. She had to at least try. She'd forever punish herself over the possibly lost opportunity if she didn't. It was probably best to phone Fornier after she'd spoken with Lambourne and Stuart Capel; she'd already raised his hopes once and let him down.
It wasn't going to be easy. All the obstacles with Lambourne and Capel that had made her finally step back from a hard push with Fornier's proposal, still held true. She would need to be convincing.
THIRTY-TWO
Marseille, October 1983
Marc Jaurmard followed close behind Marcelle Gauthereau. If it was to happen at all, it would be inside, thought Jaumard. He would sign everything, Gauthereau and the notary would nod courteously, and then someone would slip from the shadows and slap down the summons. Stepping through the notary's door, he glanced back to check that Gauthereau didn't lock the door behind him. He'd also checked the brass plaque downstairs before following Gauthereau up the two flights:
Roussel was in his late fifties, wispy greying hair, thin, pinched features, and tight economical gestures. Polite nods, quick half smiles without showing teeth as he took details, the same meaningless smile as he handed Jaumard's identity card back.
It was taking far longer than Jaumard had expected. The door to the reception had been half open at the beginning, he'd been able to keep one eye on the receptionist, see if she made a move to lock the door. See if anyone else suddenly came in. But she'd shut the connecting door on her way out from dropping a file on Roussel's desk halfway through.
The blood pounded through Jaumard's head as the papers were passed back and forth between him and the notary. Another question, another line filled in. Another stamp and seal with the notary's elaborate signature on top. Jaumard found himself half looking at the closed door in between — expecting it to burst open at any second and the summons be served. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his trouser legs.
And suddenly the envelope was being passed across. Though maybe this was the summons, he thought with a jolt. He studied its front cautiously. Just his name and
'I thought you might want to open it in my presence,' Gauthereau invited. 'In case there's something that needs my attention straightaway.'
'No…no. It's okay.' Jaumard backed away to the door. 'I'll call you if there's anything. Thank you.' He opened the door and was out, quick smile to the receptionist, another door, and he was on the stairs — taking them two and three at a time, bounding frantically down the last flight until he was out on the street.
Gauthereau stared bemusedly after Jaumard for a second before saying his own good-byes to Roussel. All those years of waiting, contact not made until a year after his last advert, and then all over in minutes. Gautherau's curiosity had grown over those years as to what was inside the envelope: a hidden stash, secret bank account, drugs routes, black book with key
Only once sixty yards clear, around the next corner, did Jaumard pause, let out a long deep breath as he rested his back against a wall. His nerves were still racing. He decided not to risk opening the envelope even there, and didn't do so until he was sequestered at the back of a small cafe almost half a mile away.
Apart from the barman only three people were in the cafe, the lunch time rush hadn't yet arrived. Jaumard felt safe from prying eyes as he opened the envelope. He had to read it twice before its significance really hit him. A smile slowly crossed his face. Quite a legacy his brother had left him. Alain Duclos. RPR Minister for Limoges. Child murder case from 1963. A hit contract that was never fulfilled. Incredible. The three page letter even suggested two possible courses of action. Though he thought he knew already which he would take.
Marinella Calvan had been on the phone for over ten minutes with Stuart Capel, and whatever hopes she'd had earlier in the call she felt suddenly slipping away.
Her thoughts had gelled over the weekend of how best to broach the subject. Telling the truth wouldn't work. Eyran's therapy diverted to aid a murder investigation just wouldn't be accepted. But if she kept close to what she at heart believed, that Christian's non-acceptance of separation was far stronger than Eyran's, she might succeed. The sincerity and enthusiasm would come through in her voice. It also did much to bury her initial apprehension on reflection over her motives. By the time she'd worked up the story in her mind, adding embellishment from her notes, it had become the lead chariot, helping the murder investigation was merely tagging along behind.
But despite the strong case she put forward now to Stuart Capel — Christian's almost total erasure of the last hour of his life, the symbols in Eyran's dreams of the lake and the wheat field having far stronger relevance in Christian's life than Eyran's, that before they could fully get to grips with Eyran's acceptance of loss and detachment, they first had to tackle Christian's — he wasn't convinced. He hadn't said no, only that he wanted to think it over, 'we should speak again tomorrow’. But she had the feeling that he was merely delaying so that he could let her down softly.
She needed to add support to her argument. 'This isn't just my view, but also that of my previous department head, Dr Donaldson. He's had more years of experience in this than myself and David Lambourne put together.' Donaldson might well support her view, but during their earlier meeting he had merely nodded thoughtfully and passed a few minor comments. She wouldn't know his full opinion for probably a few days when he'd had a chance to study her notes and transcripts in more detail.
Silence from the other end. Perhaps he was becoming swayed. She pushed the advantage. 'Look — it would just be for two weeks. Four sessions at the most. I think that should do it. Then Eyran would be back to conventional therapy with David Lambourne.'
'It was actually David Lambourne I wanted to speak to before I decided,' Stuart commented. 'Have you spoken to him already?'
'No, I haven't.' If she had phoned Lambourne, he'd have said no. If Stuart Capel now contacted him, put out by the fact that she'd gone behind his back, that 'no' would be even stronger. Lambourne had given her Stuart Capel's number after the last session purely for her to verify some of Eyran's personal details for her paper. Last ditch hope: brutal honesty. 'I didn't speak to him because I already know his point of view. He doesn't agree with my prognosis. That's why I called you directly. If you phone him, he'll only tell you the same.'
'I see.'
Swaying again, or perturbed by her slight of hand? At least the ball was back between them. The main excuse for delay had gone.
Stuart recalled the look that Lambourne had fired Calvan when she'd broached the subject after the last
