crouching, now examining further up the rough track. He looked over at Poullain.
'It's been too dry, and the track is too uneven and dusty. I doubt we'll get any decent imprints.'
Poullain nodded, and asked the team leader Dubrulle about progress. Dubrulle explained that they would probably be at least another thirty or forty minutes, then they would head over to Aix and see the medical examiner. 'It could be he'll have some information by tomorrow morning. Our first lab test results won't be ready till tomorrow afternoon.'
Servan and Levacher were half way back on their third sweep and Levacher had his jacket unbuttoned with the heat. Poullain's radio crackled with a sudden harsh, distorted voice. Poullain went over to it.
Dominic couldn't hear what was said. He saw Poullain look down thoughtfully after a moment. The conversation appeared quite staccato, apart from a stretch towards the end of the call when Poullain waved his arms in a struggle for emphasis and then checked his watch as he finished.
Poullain was pensive as he approached. 'A call's come in to the station from a woman saying her son's missing. It's the only call of that type they've received today. The boy said that he was going to a friend's house on his bike and should have been there for one-thirty. He never showed up. But it's only four-forty now, it could be too early to jump to conclusions. You know what kids are like. The boy could have gone to another friend's house or disappeared for sweets or to play somewhere else.'
'How old is her boy?'
'Ten. The age is right.'
On a bad month, the station might get three missing person alerts, sometimes two months would go by with none. Most were false alarms, but the timing and age of this one narrowed the odds. Dominic could sense Poullain delaying the inevitable. He recalled the incident of a young boy who'd died falling down a disused well the previous autumn. Facing the relatives with the news had unsettled Poullain for days. This time he would probably send someone else.
Dominic looked out thoughtfully across the field. 'What's her name?
'Monique Rosselot.'
FOUR
Monique Rosselot looked out onto the farm courtyard. From the kitchen, a mass of bougainvillaea covered the wall on one side. Christian had been only six when he'd helped his father, Jean-Luc, plant it; now it was a profusion of pink flowers.
Christian's bike rested on the corner of the wall just past the bougainvillaea. Jean-Luc had come back with it just twenty minutes before, having followed the path Christian normally took to Stephan's house. At first she'd felt relieved: the bike's brake was jammed. At least that might explain some of the delay, walking would have taken him far longer. But still he should have been there by the latest at 2.30 pm. It was now 5.45 pm. Where had he gone? Perhaps he'd stopped off in Taragnon for a drink or sweets, the walk would have tired him and made him hot and thirsty. Though still that would only account for another forty minutes or so. He must have met another friend in Taragnon, gone off to play somewhere else and lost track of time. It was all she could think of.
When Jean-Luc had come back with Christian's bike, their daughter Clarisse had asked, 'Is Christian lost somewhere?' Only four, she'd seen her parent's consternation and picked up on part of their conversation.
'No, it's all right. He's just late seeing his friend because his bike broke down.' Christian was so protective and caring of Clarisse; he was like a second father to her, sharing his own sage past experience of the pitfalls and problems of being five. But she was too young to be worrying along with them.
Monique bit her lip. It was over an hour since she'd called the police. The nearest phone was over a kilometre away, and in the intense heat the walk had been exhausting. On her return she'd felt sick and went into the bathroom, leaning over the sink. Despite her stomach still churning, in the end nothing came. She'd caught her reflection in the mirror as she looked up; she'd aged five years in the last hour. She felt physically and emotionally drained.
In the end she was saved the trouble. Just ten minutes before planning to leave, the black Citreon 2CV pulled into their courtyard and two gendarmes got out.
It was almost 1 am. Louis' bar had been crowded, but the numbers were beginning to thin out. Louis had been dancing earlier with Valerie, but now she was talking with a friend in the corner while he put away some glasses and had a Pernod with Dominic at the bar. Dominic was out of uniform, in slacks and a short sleeved polo shirt, nursing a brandy.
'Who saw her?' Louis asked.
'Harrault and Servan. Poullain was going to send me at first, but there were too many notes to take from the afternoon, recording times and early findings from forensics and our own team. In the end he sent Servan to pick up Harrault. He's the most senior. Poullain thought if anyone he'd bring the right tone.'
'Where's Monique Rosselot now?'
'Probably still at the hospital. Harrault ran her and the father there and stayed with them the first hour, introduced them to the main doctors, got as much information as possible and tried to console them. The doctors were operating at midnight, the boy's probably still in there now. The father headed back with the daughter, but Monique said she would probably stay the night.'
'What are the boy's chances?'
'Not good. There's a lot of internal cranial bleeding and damage. If he lasts through the operation and the next twenty four hours, the doctors say his chances will increase. But brain damage is heavy and even if he survives, he could be severely disabled.'
Louis reached for the bottle and topped up his Pernod, swirling it briefly in its narrow glass before tipping it half back. 'God, this must be rough on her. Have you seen her before? She's quite a woman.'
'No, I don't think I know her. Harrault said that she was quite pretty.'
'Quite pretty. Huh! Let me tell you, Monique Rosselot is one of those rare beauties that you only see once in a while. In Bauriac, those once in a while's are even rarer. Even on the coast she'd stand out — I'm amazed you don't know her. When are you seeing her?’
'Sometime tomorrow. We haven't asked her any questions yet, it seemed inappropriate while she's still grappling with whether or not her son will live. I'll see her with Poullain tomorrow, we'll arrange it around the timing of her hospital visits. If she's at the hospital all day, then we'll go there.'
Louis raised his glass, taking another quick slug. '
Dominic smiled. Louis the lecher. Louis the connoisseur of women. Three tables could be calling for service and Louis would stop to admire at leisure a beautiful woman passing. The fact that Monique Rosselot was married was immaterial, she was still there for the admiring. Harmless voyeurism. But Dominic wondered if Louis knowledge of Monique Rosselot went deeper than that. 'Do you know her well?'
'Not personally. She's been in a few times and we've spoken briefly once or twice, but that's all. She used to come in more when her boy was younger. But my barman, Joel, is quite friendly with the father Jean-Luc, and Valerie knows one their neighbours. And you know me, if there's a beautiful woman involved I'll spend half the day talking, I'm not choosy who I speak to. Probably why I spend so much time talking to you.' Louis paused for effect and chuckled. 'No, seriously, you know what Bauriac's like, people talk a lot, and they came here, what, seven or eight years ago — the boy was just a toddler. People are particularly curious about newcomers. Questions were thick and fast the first year they arrived.'
'Did many of them get answered?'
'A few. It seems she had her boy when she was under age, no more than fourteen or fifteen when he was conceived. Nobody knows exactly. Jean-Luc's family gave him a hard time, not only about being careless with an under age girl, but her background. Her mother's half Moroccan, half Corsican, and her father's French — but the
