John Matthews - Past Imperfect

Dominic noticed Lambourne sit forward sharply. Marinella had told him about Lambourne threatening to end the sessions if Eyran looked in danger of verging into a catatonic state, and she had already come close a few times. Now again she was walking the tightrope.

'Let's go back… back. Break away!' Marinella could sense Lambourne's hand hovering on the desk beside her, about to reach out for the keyboard. She didn't dare look around, kept her eyes fixed between Eyran and the keyboard.

Marinella had explained that the field was central to Eyran's therapy, and how she had hoped to leap from there to a vital element Dominic had related from Corbeix: getting Christian to admit that the man with the car, Duclos, had killed him. 'If not, the defence could wriggle out by claiming culpability only for the sexual assaults. That the boy was left unharmed after that.' But as Marinella had warned Dominic initially, it was the hardest possible thing to get the boy to admit. And now any possible opportunities to make the leap had probably gone.

'I understand that those memories are unpleasant, that you don't wish to recall them. But beneath that — beneath the detail that I know is painful for you — you know that something bad happened to you that day. You know that, don't you?'

Eyran's brows knitted. A slight swallow. 'Yes…I.'

'And you know that somehow the man in the car was responsible. Why you weren't able to see your friend that day. You know that the man hit you and stopped you from going.' Marinella knew the word 'kill' would produce another rush reaction. 'Do you remember the man hitting you?'

Dominic tensed as he realized she was going for it after all; he'd felt sure she would move Eyran on to another memory. He saw Lambourne look incredulously between her and the computer as Eyran's brow knitted harder.

'If it wasn't the man with the car,' Marinella pressed. '…If it was someone else — then tell us. Was it someone else who hit you?'

Eyran's head started shaking again. Small beads of sweat popped on his forehead. 'No… no… it was him.'

Lambourne's voice came almost immediately. 'I can't believe you did that!'

Eyran's head tilted, his brow creasing again. He looked suddenly perplexed.

Marinella tapped out on the screen: 'And I can't believe you did that either! Broke the one-voice rule.'

Philippe looked up from the screen and shrugged, smiling. She'd forgotten to put it in brackets, but he knew not to translate.

Marinella continued tapping: 'We've already got the problem of non-acceptance with two children. Let's not add another to the list: that you can't accept I might be right.'

Lambourne's expression was thunderous. He looked frustratedly between the screen and her. This was great, she thought. Argument by computer. Except that Lambourne couldn't answer because she was hugging the keyboard, and he couldn't risk speaking again. Just the sort of argument she liked.

Dread gripped Dominic as he expected Lambourne to suddenly stop the session. Quickly overrode his brief amusement and admiration at Calvan's feistiness. Philippe was still beaming, and Fenouillet had merely paused in his note-taking, had no idea what was going on. But finally Lambourne just shook his head and waved one hand dismissively, as if the whole argument was suddenly unworthy. Though some last fleeting shadow in Lambourne's eye, the way he looked quickly between Marinella, himself and Fenouillet, made Dominic suspect Lambourne might already be thinking: so many questions around the murder, and was a notary really necessary for just a filing?

'Going back to where you left your bike. The field and the farm track — did you hear anything there. Tell me what you heard?'

'There was nothing, really. Just the wind slightly.'

'Anything else. Are there any sounds in the background? Anything you can hear at all?'

Dominic noted the change from past to present tense: Are there? After the last session, Marinella told him about a special New York based FBI unit which specialized in hypnotizing crime witnesses to gain more accurate descriptions. The present tense put the witness directly back in the scene. Detail was usually far more accurate and in depth. Marinella had used the same technique in the last session with Eyran, but the results had been disappointing. Apart from the segment with the water running and the bells ringing, they'd gained little of value. She'd asked Christian if he remembered any shops they'd passed in the man's car; if he saw anyone on the way to where his bike was; if he saw anyone in the field or on the track by his bike; if any other vehicles passed apart from the Marseille truck. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He'd banged his desk and kicked filing cabinets in frustration reading the transcript. Now she was asking if he heard anything by his bike: again nothing. They were fast running out of areas to explore. Marinella went back to the Marseille truck, asking Christian to concentrate on the letters on the side. 'Are there any other letters or words you can see?'

'L-E. Le something. P-O-N…T…'

'Anything else?'

It was hopeless, thought Dominic. Fragments of words from a truck from over thirty years ago. Even if by some miracle they traced it — a driver flashing by just for a few seconds all those years back? What on earth would he remember? Goats bells? They'd interviewed the farmer shortly after Machanaud mentioned him, but he'd seen nothing; tree coverage was too thick by the river. What else was there: water splashing? A woman's voice in a car park . Pathetic!

Dominic looked anxiously at the clock: twenty minutes left. The letters had fizzled out with an E-I. Pontei : not even a full word. Marinella was flicking back in her notes, as if searching desperately where to head next — and in that moment the realization finally struck him, dissolved his anxiety and clinging expectation to a sinking hollowness. Concrete to jello: they weren't going to find anything! She'd exhausted all the main avenues and now was just scrambling around the edges at fragments. He could almost imagine Duclos smiling at them, gloating.. .

Marinella moved back to the subject of separation: this time other people Christian had felt separation from that day apart from his parents and his friend. Probably best, Dominic conceded dolefully; with no new clues forthcoming, at least she could satisfy the main aim of the therapy.

… Gloating as he sat in the restaurant sipping wine… as he untied and assaulted Christian for a second time… as he smashed down the rock repeatedly on Christian's skull, bludgeoning the life out of him. Dominic shook his head. The images were unbearably intense, because now they knew that Duclos had done it, but would have little choice but to sit back and watch him walk away. And Dominic would feel the same sense of loathing and disgust each time he saw Duclos' face in a newspaper, smiling, gloating … as he opened some new industrial park, smiling from a campaign rostrum, gloating at them that he'd got away with it… his arm coming down repeatedly to strike home his campaign points in the same way that he'd brought the rock down on Christian's head that day. And he would hardly be able to bear to look, knowing.. . knowing that…

'Grandpapa Andre? ' The name cut abruptly into Dominic's thoughts. One name among Christian's recital of separation he hadn't heard before: father, mother, Clarisse… but not Grandpapa Andre.

Dominic read the full line on the computer screen: '…I remember thinking about Grandpapa Andre. I clung to the luck he gave me.'

Dominic scribbled a frantic note — What luck? Why? Where is he? — and handed it to Marinella Calvan.

She typed: 'What luck was it that Grandpapa Andre gave you?'