Past Imperfect

Dominic had visions of even this last hope with Duclos slipping through his grasp.

Dominic's spirits were still at a low ebb three hours later when the call came through. The desk sergeant announced a woman and 'something about a coin'. Dominic's first thought was Lepoille tracking down the second owner's sister.

It was Jocelyn Caugine. 'Sorry to trouble you, inspector. But I did remember something. I don't know whether it's useful or not. My husband bought the car from a garage near Limoges — they apparently did some sort of trade-in with the previous owner. Perhaps they changed the wheel and saw the coin you mentioned.'

Dominic felt his spirits soar. 'Do you remember the name of the garage?'

'Something-beau. I can't remember exactly. But it's the only garage for quite a while: about four kilometres out of Limoges on the St Julien road. Left hand side as you approach Limoges.'

'Madame Caugine — you're marvellous. Marvellous!'

'Well — I just hope it's useful.' Slightly flustered by his enthusiasm.

Useful? Dominic smiled incredulously. He wanted to hug Jocelyn Caugine until her cheeks flushed purple.

Dominic ordered the biggest food hamper he could find — cognac, champagne, select cheeses and pates, truffles and chocolates — and had it messengered to Jocelyn Caugine with a note: From your favourite Inspector. Then he phoned Lepoille.

THIRTY-SIX

The TGV train hurtled across the flat plain of the Sologne.

Three names left to trace. Dominic called Lepoille on his mobile. 'Anything yet?'

'Just bringing it up… here we are…' The sound of Lepoille's fingers on the keyboard. 'One more found so far. Still alive. Limoges address… and, yes, a telephone number.' Lepoille read it out, enunciating clearly so that Dominic could hear above the noise of the train. 'Nothing as yet on the other two I don't think…' Lepoille's voice drifted as he swung away, calling out across the room, some mumbled background conversation, faint echoing clatter of the computer room imposing…

…The room where Dominic had spent so much time the past two days: late evenings, endless chains of coffees in plastic cups, looking expectantly over Lepoille's shoulder while he waited for the next Internet or ASF link, instructions bouncing across the room as quick as the key strokes between Lepoille and his two team helpers, and then finally the names and telephone numbers…

Lepoille was back. '… Nothing yet. Found a relative on one, but nothing more. We'll phone as soon as we get something. What time will you get there?'

Dominic calculated: just over an hour more to Paris, then the connection to Rouen. 'About six o'clock.' He could have shaved fifty minutes by flying, but it was vital he maintain contact by phone throughout.

Dominic called the new number straight after signing off from Lepoille. It was engaged.

Madness. A boy under hypnosis mentioning a coin from over thirty years ago, an old woman remembering the name of a garage… and half of Interpol Division II's computer team had been tied up for two days.

Hundreds of computer records searched. Nine names and matching identity numbers of the workers in a Limoges garage from thirty years ago. Four traced. Three dead. Two left to find. Any casual workers not on the 1964 garage pay-roll list would be virtually impossible to track down.

Of the four so far traced two were still in Limoges, one in Narbonne and one in Rouen, not on the phone. Dominic decided to head to Rouen while Lepoille continued his search. With the train he could stay in touch, plus call directly any new traces which came in.

Dominic dialled the number again in Limoges: Serge Roudele. It answered. Dominic introduced himself and confirmed with Roudele that he worked in the Mirabeau garage in 1964.

'Yes, I did… why?

'It concerns an Alfa Romeo. An Alfa Romeo Giulietta Sprint.' The other two workers Dominic had spoken to earlier hadn't remembered the car. Among the hundreds of cars seen by a garage worker over the years, how to throw a spotlight on this one car? 'Now I know that you probably saw a lot of cars, but maybe not so many Alfa Romeos. This was the coupe version, quite a classic. Dark green.'

Brief silence, then: 'No, sorry. I don't seem to remember it.'

'Owner was a young lawyer, Alain Duclos. Went on to become your local MP, RPR party.'

'I'm afraid I was just on the works floor, I didn't deal with the owners. I hardly knew whose car was whose.'

'… Quite a distinctive car.'

'Sorry — we dealt with so many classics and sports cars. They were a strong line for the garage, so I saw a lot of them. I just can't place it.'

As with the others, thought Dominic. But still he asked about the coin. One car among so many might be hard to place, but it wasn't every day that a rare coin was found in a car boot. 'An Italian twenty lire. Silver. Quite large. It would probably have fallen down and been concealed by the spare wheel.'

A pause. A long pause. The sound of a dog barking somewhere in the distance. 'I'm sorry, inspector. I really can't remember anything like that at all.'

'Or do you remember anyone else in the garage finding such a coin — any talk about it at all?'

'No… nothing, I'm afraid.'

'Well — if you do happen to recall anything later, give me a call.' Dominic gave his mobile number. 'It would help us enormously in a very important murder case. There's no possible recrimination against anyone who might have taken the coin, and there's even a small reward: 5,000 francs. About double what the coin is worth on today's market.'

The script was practically the same each time: setting the scene; the car; the coin; the seriousness of the case; the assurance of no recriminations in case of worries about a theft charge; the reward as incentive.

Dominic left a marked silence in hope of response, but Roudele merely repeated that unfortunately he didn't remember anything. Dominic thanked him and rang off.

Madness. Hopeless. Thirty five minutes left to Paris. Hurtling across France on a futile paper chase, pursuing a few fragments of memories from decades ago. One more lead to check and two more names to chase. But despite the odds against them finding anything after all these years, Dominic felt this strange sense of control: of him connected to Lepoille and Interpol's central computer room while speeding towards their next lead at over 300kmph, of Lepoille in turn linked to networks of computers the length and breadth of the country, searching, sorting, feeding the information back to him. A web of control so wide and powerful it would somehow defeat the odds stacked against them. Modern France. Tracking down the clues to Christian Rosselot's murder in a way that was impossible thirty years ago.

Though just over an hour later, sitting in a Rouen cafe and sipping hot chocolate with a calvados chaser, watching through the rain for Guy Leveque to return to his house, one again it felt like good old detective work. How it used to be.

'Pardon. Sorry.'

At the sight of her boss with two other men in the cubicle, the girl pulled the curtain closed again and went to the next cubicle with her client.

'Okay, so what have we got?' asked Sauquiere. 'My client names this Alain Duclos. Says that he comes to Perseus 2000 regularly and asks for young boys. What does my client get in return?'

Deleauvre looked between Sauquiere and Eynard. Eynard with his pony-tail and ridiculous purple satin shirt over his Buddha-like figure, Sauquiere with his Armani blazer, furtive, darting eyes and greased back hair. It was difficult to decide who looked seedier. The start of the meeting had been difficult, until Sauquiere realized the cards Deleauvre was holding: a clear testimony from Ricauve implicating Eynard in supplying boys for a child pornographer. Sauquiere suddenly showed interest in the benefits of his client in turn rolling over and naming somebody else. Deleauvre sighed. 'He's still going to have to do some time. But we'll make sure it's only two rather than what he'd face normally, four or five. With remission, he'll be out in fifteen months.'