Past Imperfect

'An Italian twenty lire, silver. 1928.'

'Was it rare?'

'Fairly. Jean-Luc's father had brought it back from Italy years before. He gave it to Christian on his eighth birthday.'

Dominic was silent, thoughtful: if Duclos had seen the coin, he'd have thrown it away straightaway. But Christian hadn't been able to feel for it: what if it had dropped behind the spare wheel or some tools out of sight? A chance. Just a chance.

He confirmed that Monique hadn't found it later among any of Christian's things. 'With all the confusion — with the investigation and Christian in the hospital — it got forgotten. I didn't notice it was missing till months later. But it's obviously important now… very important. Why?'

And again he assured her that he'd tell her that night, diverted quickly to pleasantries before signing off. A generation of hiding the truth from his wife and still he was playing for time.

Lucky coin? Dominic reflected ruefully. The only luck might be, thirty-two years later, it finally bringing some justice and vindication for Christian Rosselot.

THIRTY-FIVE

Limoges, June, 1985

A miracle. Duclos looked at the pathetic figure of his new born son through two layers of glass: the first separating the observation room from intensive care, the second the glass of the incubator. Scrawny, hardly an adult's forearm in length and purplish blue — all that was keeping him alive was the oxygenated, sanitized air of the incubator and the mass of pipes feeding and monitoring.

A miracle that would probably only last a few hours, according to the doctors. His son would be lucky to make it through the night. Those few hours strongly etched in his memory: a glass case. How he would forever remember his son, timelessly preserved in a glass cabinet; a freak of nature, an exhibit.

Betina still hadn't come round from the anaesthetic. The only option left to save her and the baby had been caesarean inter-section. Horrifically rushed, the anaesthetist had hardly finished his countdown and response tests before the surgeon made his incision. Some monitors were still being attached as he cut.

Betina had begged and pleaded for her baby's life as they'd wheeled her frantically on a gurney towards the operating theatre. The attending emergency medic had gripped her hand and assured, 'Don't worry, you'll be okay.'

But entering surgery, the graver atmosphere and more concerned expressions made her panic that everything might not be okay. 'If there's a choice, save my baby first. Put his life before mine.'

'We try our best not to make choices,' the surgeon commented. '…Unless God forces our hand.'

Betina was still struggling with the significance of this, was about to press the surgeon for a clearer assurance when the anaesthetic bit.

She probably wouldn't awake for two or three hours yet, Duclos reflected. What was he going to tell her? 'He's alive, but he'll be dead soon. Doctors did their best. Shame.'

Or perhaps he would spend an hour's more bedside vigil with his son, then sneak away on the promise of returning a couple of hours later, but get delayed. Leave it to the doctors to tell Betina. Avoid the drama of seeing her in tears, in the same way he had avoided every other drama and confrontation with Betina through the years. Besides, they were more expert than him, were used to choosing the rights words in this sort of situation every day. He'd be hopeless. Worse still, if the boy died before Betina awoke, it was best if he wasn't there; he couldn't possibly face her given that circumstance. At least with a few hours of life remaining, she'd cling to some hope, some solace.

They'd even talked about a name: Joel. 'Hello Joel,' he murmured, and saw his breath mist the glass as he pressed his face closer. The frail figure, so pathetic and defenceless with all the tubes and monitors attached — reminded him in that moment of Christian Rosselot in the hospital… of him reaching out to stifle the last life from the boy. He shivered involuntarily. Had he really been so desperate? How could anyone… anyone? And in that moment, as his eyes welled uncontrollably, a tear trickling down, it hit him that it might just as well be his hand reaching across and stifling Joel. Realization that his turning the wheel at the last moment hadn't just been instinctive self-preservation; in part he'd responded to some dark inner fear, however irrational, of future complications he wouldn't be able to face.

Was that why he was crying now, he thought. Tears of remorse, the first he could remember, flowing freely because the sight of his son, an actual life rather than a shadow of shapes on a scan from his wife's womb — had reached out and gripped him hard. Or was it because he knew now with certainty that his son would die as he was now, would never grow beyond the pathetic, shrivelled form before him. The tears could be safely shed; all worries, whether real or ridiculously imagined in his own mind, were over.

It hardly mattered now. When all that remained was a few hours of life preserved in a glass case, what else was there but pity, sorrow? He was a politician. He knew the right emotion for every occasion.

Between his other work, Dominic's occasional glances towards the phone the past hour had become increasingly anxious. After his initial call to Lepoille, they'd spoken again an hour later, then nothing since. Almost half the day had gone now for Lepoille to find something. What had happened?

Seven months? Duclos had obviously been keen to dispose of the car. Unpleasant memories. The papers were strewn across his desk: faxed pages from an Alfa Romeo owners club in Paris: User's manual. Alfa Romeo Giulietta Sprint, 1961. Car registration for the next owner after Duclos: Maurice Caugine, an address in St Junien, thirty kilometres from Limoges.

Details of the car boot and position of the spare wheel and tool kit were on the seventh page faxed through. The spare wheel had eight oval holes around its perimeter, each one double the length of a large coin. Easily large enough for the 20 lire coin to have fallen through. He'd gained a photocopied picture and details of the coin from a collector's catalogue: Italian 20 lire. 1928. Silver. 15g. Emanuele III on head, Lictor hailing Roma on reverse. Edition minted between 1927 and 1934.

The spare wheel took up half the boot space. As Christian had described, space would have been cramped. Even curled in almost a foetal position, part of his body or at least his arms must have been pinned above the wheel. If he'd fallen asleep and dropped the coin, it could have easily have landed on top of the wheel and through one of the oval holes. Or at first had fallen on top of the wheel, then with the vibrations and movement of the car or Christian shifting position, found its way to one of the holes.

If the coin had fallen to the side of the wheel, Duclos would have spotted it easily and pocketed it or thrown it away. But if it had fallen through one of the holes… seven months? What were the chances of Duclos not changing his wheel in that time? Whoever had been the first to change the wheel would have seen the coin.

Maurice Caugine had kept the car for over three years. The chances of him not changing the wheel in that time were remote. Either he'd seen the coin or their only chance was probably gone.

Lepoille had called back within the hour: bad news. Maurice Caugine had died eight years ago. 'But it looks like he was survived by his wife. I'm trying to track her down now.'

Since that call three hours ago, nothing. Dominic's spirits had slumped at the news. Another hurdle: now they were dependant not only on Maurice Caugine having noticed the coin, but him having mentioned it to his wife. And forcefully enough for it to have stuck in her mind to recall thirty years later.

Corbeix had been initially enthused about the coin lead. 'Sounds rare enough to argue that it couldn't have got there any other way than the boy being in Duclos' boot that day — if you can find someone who saw it there. Let me know how it develops. Meanwhile I'll send a note to Malliene about the case.' They'd already discussed the procedural details: Dominic would provide a report every week or two weeks, as the case dictated, and would pass it to Malliene to add any comment before he signed it off. Purely a safeguard so that Malliene wasn't signing off anything he disagreed with. 'I'll ask him to contact you the next day or so to tie up the details.'

Corbeix finished by mentioning he was hoping for more information the next day or so on cases involving