Past Imperfect

incompetent at every turn. But the pecking order was always clear: politicians looking down, disdainfully; lobbyists looking up, resentfully.

Except that Duclos had broken from the mould, was a corrupt politician. One of the few Marchand felt he could look down upon. The air of mutual disdain could have been cut with a knife. The only common ground arose from the money they were both gaining though their association. Strange how money of that size created its own inertia, Duclos reflected: cut across most social divides.

Duclos shook off an involuntary shiver. Telephone boxes. The third in as many days. More information at last from Bonoit.

'Who's leading the enquiry?' Duclos asked anxiously.

'Corbeix. Aix-en-Provence based Chief Prosecutor.'

The name meant nothing to Duclos. 'What stage is the enquiry at?'

'As far as I know, just initial rogatoire generale.'

'Who's heading it?'

'There's two names: Malliene and Fornier. They've also been doing a lot of digging with pimps and gay establishments in Paris and Marseille for some reason.'

Duclos sensed the unspoken questions. 'Strange,' he commented. He felt his skin prickle. Fornier? The name rang a bell from somewhere, but he couldn't remember from where.

'What's going on, Alain? Bonoit sounded suddenly concerned. 'You know, I shouldn't even be phoning you like this. It's just that, well, in the past…'

'I know, and I appreciate it.' Was Bonoit fishing or seeking assurance? Duclos had given Bonoit strong support during his fledgling years with the Limoges prosecutor's office. Eagerness for Bonoit not to see his mentor's image shattered, or repayment of favours? 'It's nothing. I was questioned for something several years ago and cleared. They found and charged the real culprit. Sounds a bit like a political witch hunt to me — old enemies coming out of the woodwork. Probably this bio-tech dispute. Seems to have upset a lot of people. I'm not exactly flavour of the month right now.'

Bonoit muttered an agreement which hardly registered. Everything suddenly gelled for Duclos. Paris! His pulse started racing. He couldn't wait to get off the line and make another call.

He quickly thanked Bonoit, and Bonoit promised to call again if anything more came up. Duclos leafed through the back of his address book for the number. It took him a while to find it, he hadn't called the number for almost fifteen years. The digits were jumbled and out of sequence, with each set of two in reverse. A number from the past he had long forgotten and didn't think he would ever have to call again: a Marseille back street bar which would pass a message to Eugene Brossard.

Corbeix' body invariably told him it was time to go home an hour before twilight. As the effects of the steroids wore off, the cramps and muscle spasms returned to his legs. He'd been free from it for almost five days, then suddenly it had flared up again. About the time that Fornier had phoned to tell him all the coin leads had drawn a blank.

Fornier had put in a lot of work on the case. Fornier also seemed to be able to pull favours at short notice, getting half of an Interpol department to back up his frantic nationwide search. Nine people from thirty years ago traced in just three days. Corbeix was impressed. But despite Fornier's effort and ingenuity, in the end, nothing. To have lived with the case for so long, to get so close and then see it slip away. Cruel fate. Corbeix felt for Fornier.

Raking through what meagre hopes remained, Fornier had asked him if he'd uncovered anything useful on past French cases involving psychics. He didn't have the heart to tell Fornier he'd hit a similar dead end, said that he was still waiting on news. While five days of probing various departments in the Paris prosecutors office had uncovered eight cases with relatives or the press involving psychics, some of which had been entered in police files, none of it ever made it into trial evidence. The consensus was that even if a prosecutor believed he could convince a final jury with such evidence, the examining magistrate was a different matter. Most dropped it for fear of jeopardizing the case through instruction.

A Sorbonne law lecturer who advised the Procureur's office on unorthodox cases had raised some useful points from relevant trials in America, but still the bottom line was that psychic and PLR testimony could only successfully be presented in France as background and texture. 'Without at least some hard evidence from the living rather than the dead, I don't see any foundation on which to build.'

With the last coin lead now gone, their last hope of prosecuting Duclos for murder went with it.

But at least from what Fornier had mentioned, there appeared to be strong hope in one area: Justin Eynard, a Paris red light club owner. If nothing else, their chances of prosecuting Duclos for child molestation looked bright. Some silver edging. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. No doubt by eleven or eleven-thirty, Fornier would have a result, would phone him and then the fax would start whirring with Eynard's statement. At least he could start moving things positively on one front.

Justin Eynard lay back on the bed while the girl undid his shirt buttons. She smiled up at him lasciviously. A sunshine smile with a hint of mischief. Juanita from Santa Domingo was all he knew. An enticing mixture of negro and Spanish: dark cafe au lait skin tone and large brown eyes. Exquisite.

She watched his every emotion as she kissed slowly down his chest and stomach with each fresh button undone. Sampling the merchandise: executive benefit of running a hookers' bar. Eynard insisted in testing out all new girls, judge their fighting weight for clients.

Eynard tensed as she went lower. A few slow licks, and then she took him fully into her mouth. Eynard gasped. God, she was good. She wore a white satin evening dress slit to the thigh which contrasted wonderfully with her skin tone. As she sucked and rubbed him into her mouth with one hand, the other reached back and pulled aside the bottom of her skirt to expose her bottom. She arched it higher. Underneath she wore a peach coloured tanga. Two coffee ice cream scoops separated by a peach slice.

Eynard watched in the mirror to one side as she deftly pulled the tanga aside and started rubbing herself in time with the motions of her mouth. Her fingernails were long and turquoise varnished with star bursts, and intermittently she would slip a finger inside herself.

Eynard was in heaven. His breath started to come in short bursts and, sensing his growing excitement, with one last loving lick the girl rolled away. Peeling off her dress, she bent away from Eynard to accentuate her bottom, then resumed playing with herself while sliding one finger in and out of her mouth in time. Eynard groaned in anticipation.

Slowly she peeled down the tanga, stepped out and leaned back over Eynard. Her breasts were firm and cantaloupe sized with large brown nipples the size of cookies. Coffee ice cream and chocolate cookies. All Eynard could think of.

With a few more licks to resume acquaintance, Juanita swung one leg across and slowly sank down on Eynard. She reached back and grasped him gently by the balls, as if to push him firmer inside. As she started to get into the rhythm of the motions, she closed her eyes in abandon, sucking on the little finger of her other hand.

Eynard felt his excitement mounting, a raw tingle rising from the back of his heels. Jesus, this girl knew what she was doing. His clients were in for a rare treat. He reached out a hand and stroked her breasts, tweaked one nipple.

She writhed slowly and determinedly, picking up the pace gradually. Control. A virtuoso performance. Eynard felt his senses floating, the tingle rising higher.

'Close your eyes. I haff big treat.' The Spanish came through in her accent. A pleasant lilt.

Eynard smiled and closed his eyes obediently. He felt her finger slide into his mouth, teasing his tongue. And then the other hand was behind him again, gently stroking, urging him into her with each thrust.

So good… good.

Eynard felt something slide in beside her finger, cool and longer… plastic or metal? The finger slipped out. Oh god, a vibrator, he should have told her he wasn't into that sort of thing.