Past Imperfect

'And the clubs?'

'Perseus will probably have to close for six months.'

Sauquiere threw his hands up. 'That's ludicrous. It's hardly worth cutting a deal.'

Deleauvre smiled tightly. The closure had hit a sore spot: the threat of Eynard's income squeezed, fat retainers being reduced. They argued the toss for a while, three months, one month, and then Deleauvre thought on an angle: Gay activists? Closing Perseus could be sensitive. 'If the claim arises that this whole thing has been engineered just to close down one of the main gay night spots, it could become politically awkward. Something the judge would be eager to avoid… given pressure from the right quarter.'

Fifteen minutes later the foundation of the deal was decided: eighteen months to two years maximum for Eynard, Perseus stays open or, at worst, a one month closure purely as a gesture. Current 'house' for young boys to close; if they wanted to open up discreetly elsewhere, then Deleauvre didn't want to know. But no supply of boys for paedophile magazines and videos.

Sauquiere looked at his diary. 'I can't do tomorrow, busy day in court.'

They arranged for ten o’clock the following morning. Session room at the police station, taped interview, sample statement to be pre-prepared. 'You check it over, then your client gives a statement along those lines in his own words. Everybody's happy.' Deleauvre smiled, and they all shook hands.

Eynard had hardly spoken throughout. Sauquiere had him well trained: a few words at the beginning, then later a brief confirmation that his term would be in an open prison. 'I've heard they're practically like hotels. I can still run my business from there. Catch up on my Rabelais.'

Deleauvre weaved back through the bar and the girls plying their trade. Some wore silver satin shorts and black see through halter tops, others nothing but a tanga. One caught his eye as he passed, dipped one finger in her champagne glass, pulled her halter to one side to expose a breast, and teased the droplet around one nipple provocatively. She smiled. She was beautiful and very sensuous: a young Denuevre. Tempting. He smiled in return as if to say 'next time' and made his way out into the street.

Outside in Pigalle, a half smile lingered on Deleauvre's face as he took out his mobile. Fornier would be pleased: they had Duclos' head on a platter.

Dominic was scanning the ground as the voice broke through… Tails you lose… and he looked up to see Duclos standing there. They were on the path by the wheat field. But it wasn't a young Duclos, it was Duclos from the last press photo he'd seen.

Duclos had the coin in his hand. He opened his palm for a second, allowing Dominic a tantalizing glimpse of it. Duclos smiled. Dominic made a desperate lunge for it, but Duclos closed his palm tight and swivelled around quickly… you lose, Fornier! In the same motion, throwing the coin high and wide…

Dominic watched it sailing high over the bushes and trees bordering the lane… realizing in sudden panic that if he didn't follow it, see where it fell, he wouldn't be able to find it later. He started running, following its path, bursting through bushes and foliage, feeling them lash across as he frantically ran down the river bank incline. 'Please, God… don't let it reach the river.' If it fell there, they would never find it. Lost forever among the glint of rocks or beneath the river bed mud.

The coin sailed high ahead of him as he thrashed frantically through the bushes… you lose… you lose... Breathless as he ran, a feeling of desolation as the coin soared almost out of sight… Monsieur, coffee?… a feeling that he couldn't possibly catch up with it before it fell. He wouldn't see where it fell, wouldn't be able to…

'…Monsieur, coffee?'

Dominic woke up. A female attendant was pouring a cup for the man across the aisle. Dominic rubbed his eyes, caught her attention and nodded. 'Yes, please.'

He eased the stiffness from his back as he sat up straight. The past few days activity and tension, the late nights with Lepoille, were catching up with him. He felt permanently tired. The coffee cut through his dry throat, cleared his thoughts.

Perhaps that was how it happened. Duclos saw the coin and threw it straight into the woods, or went to the edge of the bank so that it would reach the river. Or disposed of it later, dumped it along with Christian's shirt and the bloodied rock.

Only one lead left now. One hope remaining out of the original nine. Lepoille had phoned with another name while he waited in the Rouen cafe for Leveque’s return home. He'd called straightaway. Nothing. Leveque had been equally as hopeless, hardly even remembered the garage, let alone the car or the coin.

Portions of the five conversations spun randomly though his mind. The man on the second call had commented: 'A coin, you say… now that's interesting…' Dominic's pulse had raced, only for the man to continue with a story about his nephew being a keen coin collector. 'I think he has one of that type in his collection. Bought it not long ago…'

Dominic shook his head. Nearly all of them had appeared more alert at the mention of the coin: 'Was it valuable?'… 'What type did you say?'… 'Was it from a robbery?' Cars they expected to be asked about, they'd handled little else for decades… but a coin linked to a murder enquiry? Something different from their daily grind. He had been so sure that one of them, just one of them would have… Roudele! The thought crashed in abruptly. The pause. The long pause when he'd asked Roudele about the coin and a dog had been barking in the distance. Roudele hadn't asked any questions about the coin, showed no curiosity. Almost as if in that moment it had all come back to him, he knew exactly what Dominic was talking about. He didn't need to ask.

The thought settled. But then it could have been anything. A distraction: someone walking in the room, something interesting on the TV, Roudele wondering why the dog was barking outside. Perhaps he should have visited each one personally, read their expressions, the look in their eyes.

A distraction, or did Roudele know something? Dominic closed his eyes momentarily, sighing. Nothing underlined stronger how little hope he placed in the remaining lead: a woman. Probably a secretary or receptionist. Certainly she wouldn't have worked on the car herself, the only hope was if she'd logged or recorded something found from one of the mechanics. Perhaps one of the three now dead. But what were the chances of her knowing something which nobody else in the garage had shared?

Dominic rested back, tried to get back to sleep. Catch another hour before they arrived at Lyon. He was exhausted.

When his mobile rang twenty minutes later, he was still drifting on the edge, thoughts revolving preventing him falling fully under. He reached for it expectantly.

It was Deleauvre. 'We've got Duclos. Eynard's going to name him!'

The excitement suffused slowly; he was still half asleep. So tired. 'That's great. When's it happening?'

'Day after tomorrow. First thing in the morning.' Deleauvre summarized the deal with Sauquiere.

'Will any children come forward in support?'

'No, too sensitive. A lot of them are illegals or runaways. It's complicated.'

Eighteen months, two years, thought Dominic. The maximum of four or five could only be gained with a child testifying and the claim of abuse. Poor consolation for murder, but at least Duclos' career would be ruined. 'Oh, how the mighty fall,' he commented, smiling. He thanked Deleauvre for his help, and they arranged to speak again straight after Eynard's statement.

Putting down his mobile, Dominic caught his own reflection in the train window: eyes dark circled, haunted. The face of a man that looked like he'd been chasing the same case for thirty years. But intermittently electric sparks from the train cut through the darkness outside and his reflection. How the investigation felt: hurtling through darkness with just a few flashes of hope.

Serge Roudele remembered the coin straightaway. He'd forgotten it had been an Alfa Romeo coupe, hadn't read where Fornier's questions were heading early in the conversation.

At the time, he'd been left his father's coin collection, but wasn't conversant himself with rarity and values. The coin had simply looked nice and could have had the potential to be rare. But when he'd checked, it hadn't been that valuable. Even when he'd sold it along with the rest of his father's collection just over ten years ago, he doubted it had garnered more than five or six hundred francs.

And at today's rate? The offer of 5,000 Francs was probably nearly four times its worth. Inspector Fornier