Past Imperfect

'No… just a spare wheel. Space was very tight. I was curled up around it… I could hardly move.'

'Were you tied up?'

'Yes… my hands and my feet. And a cloth around my mouth.'

'Could you move at all?'

'Just a little… backwards with my legs. But I only tried once — when we'd stopped and I heard some voices outside. I kicked against the side of the car.'

'Do you think they heard you?'

'No. After a second I heard a car door shut and the sound of a car starting and driving away.'

'Was it a woman or a man you heard?'

'Two women.'

'And while you were stopped, did you hear anything else?'

'Only traffic passing. Some other cars pulling up and leaving… but most were more distant. No other voices.'

'Going back before — before you stopped. Could you hear anything? Could you tell which way you were heading?'

'No… not really. After a moment I could tell that we were passing some buildings — but I wasn't sure if it was Taragnon or Bauriac. I couldn't tell which way we'd headed.'

'When you stopped — how long did it seem you were there for?'

'At least half an hour… I'm not sure. I became tired. It was very hot inside there. At one point I fell asleep. I was thinking about my father as I fell asleep… I started dreaming about him.'

'What did you dream?'

'I dreamt that I was in my camp at the farm, and my father was in the courtyard at the bottom of the field. I leapt up to surprise him and started waving… but he couldn't see me.'

'Were you upset that he couldn't see you?'

'Yes, I started running towards him, waving more frantically and shouting… but still he didn't see me. And finally he just turned and walked back towards the house. I felt that he'd deserted me. I kept thinking — why doesn't my father come out and find me… why doesn't he… he…'

'Was the camp somewhere you used to play often?'

'Yes… it was one of my favourite hideaways.'

'And did you ever take your friends there?'

'Only Stephan once. But there was another place we used to go together. A camp we made in a tree hollow not far from where he lived… we would…'

Christian went off at a tangent describing his hideaway games with Stephan, which linked in turn to recall of other times Christian had hidden: the roof eaves at the farm, a stock cupboard at school. Marinella Calvan wasn't able to get him back to the car boot to discover what happened next.

The early part of the session had been general detail to settle Christian into the mood, then Calvan had tried to continue from where Christian had left off last time: sitting by his bike with Duclos touching him. Christian's responses were mostly garbled, incoherent — and two aborted attempts later Calvan changed tack abruptly to after the bike, honing in on the period of darkness. As Corbeix came to that part, Dominic noticed him flinch slightly, his mood discernibly darker and more intense.

Dominic had felt his blood run cold at the thought of Christian tied like a trussed chicken in the cramped darkness of the car boot while Duclos sat in the restaurant and sipped at a glass of chilled Chablis. Was it just for an alibi, or was Duclos calmly deciding, while he sipped at his wine, what he was going to do next with the boy? Kill him, or perhaps a bit more buggery beforehand? Perhaps he should choose his dessert first and then decide. Bastard!

Despite conscious effort to calm himself the past two hours, Dominic knew his reaction might still be volatile if Corbeix started to propose soft options.

Corbeix rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked up. 'In your initial letter you mentioned that Duclos' main alibi was him being seen in the restaurant. How long was he there?'

'An hour, an hour and a quarter perhaps.'

'So in total the boy could have been in the car boot as much as an hour and a half?'

'Yes.'

As Corbeix went back to reading, for the first time Dominic glanced around the room: trophy for racquetball, Toulon, 1988; three more trophies with inscriptions too small for him to read. Harbourside photo with Corbeix, his wife and two young girls, presumably his daughters, smiling proudly beside a speedboat that hardly looked big enough to carry them all. Family photo with Corbeix, wife and four young girls ranging from seven or eight to early teens. Corbeix the sportsman and family man.

Late forties, Corbeix was a few inches smaller than Dominic, broad and quite lean, a squat bullish figure. 'A powerful presence in court,' according to Verfraigne. 'Relentless' if he strongly believed in a case. He had thick wavy black hair swept back and piercing dark brown eyes, his eyelids deeply hooded. Eyes that seemed to tire slightly with the reading, or perhaps simply more sullen and grave as Duclos' actions sank home.

Computer replacing the old black typewriter; air-conditioning instead of a fan; beige carpet over the tile floor. Minitel and fax. Apart from that the Palais de Justice offices were much as they were thirty years before.

It seemed somehow surreal that all those years had passed since he sat in a similar office with Perrimond, Poullain and Naugier. A young gendarme merely washed along on the tide of events. This time he had the chance to make his mark. But despite that, he couldn't help reflecting ironically if today might not be that different. He would still be a passenger aboard the direction Corbeix chose.

When Corbeix had finished reading the transcript, he spent the first fifteen minutes going back between the two transcripts and Dominic's original letter and files sent, mostly clarifying points with Dominic from the original investigation: timing of the attack, forensics, Duclos' reported movements before and after, and the prosecution path and trial procedure pursued with Machanaud. Finally returning to the current information and how it tied in.

When the file had initially arrived with Corbeix, he'd started reading the attached transcript as if it was from a new witness, before realizing it was meant to be the victim's voice gained through a past life regression on a psychiatrist's couch. He'd almost sent the file straight back with a note: 'You must be joking!' But then he read beyond the first page of the covering letter from Fornier and started through the attached files: Calvan and Lambourne's credentials, medical and psychiatric evaluations, past authenticated PLR cases, past investigations involving evidence from psychics. Struck not so much by the credibility they strived to lend the transcript, but the strong plea he sensed behind. Fornier had gone to a lot of trouble to prove this case was prosecutable. More effort than most investigators went to from the slough of mediocre police paperwork which crossed his desk. And then he saw why: Fornier had married the victim's mother. The first hurdle to be tackled.

Not sure how to broach the subject tactfully, Corbeix went through the thought processes very much as they'd hit him. 'Someone else's name should be on the file as leading the investigation. If your name's there, it could be argued there's personal bias. Your judgement has been coloured.' Corbeix suggested a name: Gerard Malliene, an Aix based Inspector. Fornier didn't know him. Corbeix quickly salved Fornier's look of concern. 'It would still be very much your investigation. It's just a name to head the files. It's his jurisdiction and he's detached from any personal involvement. You'll be named in an advisory capacity for input from the original investigation. In reality, the investigation will run the other way around: you'll lead, Malliene will lend an impartial voice, advise where he can.'

Initially put out by the suggestion, Dominic understood Corbeix' rationale. At least it meant Corbeix had been thinking seriously about the case. 'So you think there's a chance of launching this case successfully?'

Corbeix held one hand up. 'That's not what I'm saying. There's grounds for an investigation, no more. Enough to re-open the case for a rogatoire general which I'll get an examining magistrate to sign off first thing tomorrow. But a case for prosecution is another matter. We don't have nearly