John Matthews - Past Imperfect

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.'

'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.