Past Imperfect

psychics from a specialist division of the Paris Procureur's office. Dominic was encouraged that the case was increasingly demanding Corbeix attention. But still it struck him that Corbeix hadn't even contacted Malliene until he heard about the coin lead, and the examining magistrate who signed off the rogatoire general Corbeix probably wouldn't call again until he was sure the case was prosecutable. There was still some way to go.

Dominic stared again at the phone. Having built up his own and Corbeix' hopes, it could all be over with a single call. Madame Caugine could have died as well, or gone abroad and was practically untraceable, or was senile or in a mental asylum. Couldn't remember anything from the day before, let alone thirty years ago. The possibilities spun through Dominic's mind.

Pierre Lepoille was on the home straight. He tapped in Jocelyn Caugine's identity card number. Hopefully the office where she cashed her pension would come up and her current address.

Tracking Maurice Caugine had been easy. His identity card number had been on the car registration papers, and from there Lepoille traced where he last drew his pension before dying: La Rochelle, not far from St Junien. But Madame Caugine had been a different matter. He had no record of her identity card number, nor even her first name. The few papers he found for Maurice Caugine didn't feature his wife's details. Tracking was therefore more tedious. He tried all Caugines drawing pension for that year in the area: two men, one woman. The woman was a different address and her husband had died twenty years ago. So Caugine's wife had probably moved out of the area after he died, but where?

He tried several general searches and combinations before giving up. Some areas brought up far too many Caugines for him to search effectively. Stumped for an immediate answer, he went back to some other urgent work he'd pushed aside when Dominic's enquiry came in. Almost another hour had passed before the thought hit him: credit cards! Not current, but any applied for within three years after she had moved. Most credit agencies had a stipulation of the previous address being noted where the current address was less than three years.

He searched 1989, entering Caugine and Dourennes, the name of their previous street in La Rochelle as key words. Bingo! Seven choices, mostly Paris, only one in La Rochelle. Jocelyn Caugine had applied for a store card in Arcachon, south of Bordeaux. Two more key strokes and he was able to call up her full details and identity card number. He checked her current cashing address for her pension in case she'd moved, then called Dominic.

It took Dominic over two hours to finally get Jocelyn Caugine on the phone. When he first called, he was informed by another woman with the same surname, Josette Caugine, presumably her daughter, that she was out shopping, 'Shouldn't be too long.' The murder case of the decade on hold while this little old lady picked up courgettes and cat food at the local Continentale, Dominic mused. He left his name purely as Fornier, no inspector. Didn't want to frighten her off. He'd call later.

The second call Jocelyn Caugine answered directly. This time Dominic introduced himself with his full title. She sounded quite alert, attentive, showed no hesitance with recall. Yes, she remembered the car quite well. 'We often used to drive in it from St Julien to La Rochelle, particularly at the weekends.' Then her voice wavered slightly, sounding concerned. 'We're not in some sort of trouble, are we?' The 'we' as if her husband was still there to partly shoulder responsibility.

'No, no… not at all. You or your husband have done nothing wrong. But it is nevertheless a very important investigation we're conducting, and any assistance you can offer could be vital.'

'I see. Certainly… in any way I can help.'

The perkiness was back in her voice. A little old lady helping out on a Maigret-style enquiry. Probably the most excitement she'd had all year. 'I want you to remember back, Madame Caugine. Back to when your husband had the car. Do you ever remember him mentioning finding a coin in the car?'

'A coin?'

Dominic let the silence ride a second. Her tone was mostly rhetorical, self-prompting. She was thinking. 'Yes, a silver coin from Italy.'

'From Italy, you say? Not some French money left there?' She queried. A quick mumbled 'no' from Dominic. 'Was it particularly valuable?'

'No, not particularly. But as I say, it's very significant to a case we're handling now.'

'I don't know… I don't seem to recall anything.'

Dominic could almost feel her at the other end grappling through the years, straining for memories out of reach. He sensed that she wanted to help. He prompted: 'It was quite a large silver coin. Twenty lire, 1928. Do you remember your husband finding anything unusual in the car boot?'

Brief silence as Madame Caugine thought deeper, then a sigh. 'I'm sorry. No… I just can't think of anything. I haven't been much help, have I?'

Dominic felt the first twinge of alarm. It was slipping away. But how likely was it that her husband hadn't changed a wheel in three years? He was sure that the memory could be drawn out if he hit the right chord. 'Your husband would have probably only seen the coin when he changed the car wheel. Do you remember him changing the wheel at any time?'

'Yes… yes. I do.' Faint hope returning to her voice.

'When was that?'

'We were on the way to Paris to see his brother. We got a flat tyre on the way there.'

'Did your husband mention seeing anything in the car boot when he took the new wheel out?'

'No…'

'Or over the next few hours or days?'

'No, not that I recall.'

'Was it in the daytime? Was the light good?' Dominic could almost hear the clinging desperation in his own voice.

'Yes — it was mid-afternoon.'

Dominic's mind spun desperately through the other options. 'And do you remember your husband mentioning changing a wheel while he was on his own?'

'Not that I remember. No… I'm sorry.'

'… Perhaps when he changed the wheel that second time, he might have mentioned something. Perhaps doing it before, seeing something unusual?'

'No… nothing I'm afraid. As I said, I really can't recall my husband mentioning anything like that.'

Her voice was once again flustered, now with just a hint of defence. Dominic felt guilty: an image of him pinning the old lady back with increasing interrogation. He eased off. 'I'm sorry, yes. You did mention it already.' Dominic looked up: people busy on the phone, keyboards clattering, someone scanning the new roster on the notice board. Dominic's gaze cannoned frantically around the squad room in search of inspiration for what he might say next. But there was nowhere left to go. He'd covered everything. 'Perhaps you might recall something later.' Stock phrase, his mind was still desperately panning in case there was something he'd overlooked. Nothing. Nothing. He left his number.

'If I do remember anything — I certainly will, inspector.'

Dominic thanked her and rang off. But he knew she probably wouldn't ring, was just being polite. She'd had perfect recall of the wheel being changed; if the coin had been mentioned, she would have remembered. Maurice Caugine hadn't seen the coin. It was all over.

Dominic stayed late just in case she called, packed up finally at almost 8 pm. But as he suspected, nothing. It was already dark as he headed out, the spring night air fresh. His shoulders were slumped in defeat, though in a way he also felt strangely relieved. The past two weeks had brought his nerves to the very edge. He'd hardly slept a full night since hearing the first tape. A nightmare of juggling psychiatrists, transcripts, police and court files with the ghosts of his family's past that he should have known at the outset was best left alone. He let out a deep breath, felt it all suddenly washing away from him. It was over. A stiff brandy, then he could mentally file it along with the other deep and bitter experiences through the years. His life could go back to how it was before Marinella Calvan had called.

The phone was ringing as Duclos walked in the house. No lights were on. He flicked on the hallway and