John Matthews - Past Imperfect

'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 lounge switches on the way to picking it up.

'Oh, it's you.' Jaumard. The disappointment came through in Duclos' voice. 'I was expecting a call from somebody else.'

'Anything important?'

'Yes — I'm waiting urgently on a call from the hospital. I don't have time to talk now.'

'What's happened?'

'It's my-' Duclos stopped himself. He didn't want to share the accident saga with Jaumard. Curtailed version: '-my wife. She's premature. There's been complications.'

'I didn't even know she was pregnant.'

'You wouldn't. It's none of your business.' Flat tone, impatient.

'Isss't a boy or a girl?'

Duclos cringed; he wished now he hadn't said anything. 'Boy.' He could pick up Jaumard's slurring. As usual he had downed a few stiff ones before phoning. 'I must go. Keep the line-'

'That's good. You like boys, don't you? Well, I hope mother and son are both fffine.'

Duclos' jaw set tight. Was this just standard drunken, oafish Jaumard, or some attempt at his brother's line in acid banter? He felt like leaping down the phone and battering out what few brains Jaumard had left. He should have had him killed years ago, taken him out the same way as his brother. Except that he was sure, brainless or not, Jaumard had taken a leaf out of his brother's book and left a similar insurance letter with a lawyer somewhere. 'Look, as I said. I don't have time to-'

'I know. Sssorry. I only called now because I'm shipping out in a few days.'

Always the same, thought Duclos. Jaumard would hit him for some money just before a voyage. The only compensation was that he wouldn't hear from him again for six months, a year. 'I see. Call me tomorrow night when you're sober. We'll make the arrangements then.'

'What's his name?'

'Eynard. Justin Eynard.'

The name meant nothing to Dominic. The world of Parisian vice was strange to him. His two years at Interpol in Paris had been devoted to international cases. Marseille would have been more familiar territory, but nothing had come up through Bennacer. Only this one lead now from Deleauvre in Paris.

'What's his background?'

'Started off with girlie bars, then later a couple of sex accessory and video shops with under the counter material, a lot of it paedophile magazines and videos. Then finally he opens up a gay disco. But a lot of the boys there are under age, fourteen, fifteen — sat in dark corner booths heavily made up so that you would hardly know. And if you approach the barman and comment that they 'look a bit old', he'll give you an address. Eyrnard would run a 'discreet' house nearby. He also started supplying some of his kids to paedophile porn makers.'

'So, what have we got on him?'

'We're close to nailing him through one of his men. A recent bust on a paedophile porn ring has led back to Eynard. Their contact, Ricauve, spends a lot of time in Eynard's disco. Says that he's not only seen Duclos there, but seen him go off with one of the barmen who normally escorts clients to their nearby 'house'. We're cutting a deal with Ricauve for information, so we should be able to land on Eynard like a ton of bricks. He's got a lot to lose, so we're pretty sure he'll roll over and finger Duclos.'

'Sounds encouraging.' Dominic could feel his enthusiasm returning. After the disappointment of the coin, some hope. Duclos gets away with murder, but they nail him for molesting under-age boys. Drag him through the system, ruin his career, anything from a two to four year sentence. It was something at least. 'Let me know how the Ricauve interview goes.'

Dominic signed off. Lepoille had also tried to pep him up, suggesting that it was worthwhile tracking down the car owner after Caugine. He'd get on it right away. Dominic wasn't hopeful. The coin not discovered until almost four years later? Escaping the notice of both Duclos and Caugine. Unlikely.

But the strongest encouragement had come from Monique the night before. 'If you really believe in this, so strongly in fact that it's haunted you for over thirty years — how can you give up now?'

Dominic's single brandy after work had turned into three. It took a while for Monique's comments to cut through his despondency. 'Perhaps I'm just tired,' he offered lamely.

Or was it their sudden reversal of roles from the night before which had thrown him. Except for his complicity over the car sighting, he'd told her everything — his doubts about Machanaud, his suspicion of Duclos, how he had just gone along with the investigative flow, Machanaud's long prison sentence. He hadn't mentioned anything through the years because it would have underlined that Jean-Luc's suicide had been in vain. Too painful. Besides, it was just a suspicion. Even when he saw the possibility of gaining fresh evidence through the sessions, the same reasons prevailed, and he was also sceptical that anything tangible would materialize. 'Again, there was no point in upsetting you if it was all to come to nothing.' Until the coin. The first moment he realized he had a chance of proving something against Duclos.

Shadows returning, shifting clouds in her eyes: doubt, disbelief, slow acceptance. Sensing her mood — that in a few short sentences he'd torn down so many of her long held beliefs about the crime and Jean-Luc's suicide, compacted now by doubts about the openness of their own relationship, the secrets harboured over so many years — he felt the need to be dramatic: 'It's almost as if Christian is guiding us through this other boy. Giving us the clues to track his killer.'