John Matthews - Past Imperfect

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.

His eyes snapped open, and he went to shift his head away from the object… but a hand clamped tight on his forehead. The object suddenly came into focus: the silencered barrel of a gun. The girl's arms were still on his chest. Someone was behind him! Panic seized Eynard. Fear and the repellent feel of the gun metal against his tongue made him almost gag. The girl lifted off and moved away. He was already half limp, the excitement gone.

Eynard looked longingly towards her back as she headed for the bathroom, knowing in that moment it was probably the last girl he would see.

'It's done.'

'I see. Fine. I made the transfer as arranged.'

Brossard had already checked but didn't pass any comment.

Another call box, another conversation with no names or details. Duclos could imagine Brossard at the other end in a similar call box in Paris. They hadn't even met this time to set everything up. Just a voice on the line. He wondered what Brossard looked like now? Then realized he hadn't even known what Brossard looked like then, fifteen years ago in his blonde wig and thick rimmed glasses.

Duclos had called Eynard's bar only days before to set up a weekend in Paris and one of the barmen apologized that Justin was a bit pressured lately but that he should try again later. 'Anything serious?' Duclos had asked. 'No, just some stupid mix up with the police over some child porno videos.' Duclos knew as soon as Bonoit mentioned the police hunting for background on pimps that Eynard might be a problem.

But if the police kept digging for something on himself and under age boys, eventually they were bound to find something. Next time he might have to be more inventive.

Wheat. Shorter than Dominic remembered. Spring: over the next month or so it would no doubt grow alarmingly before being harvested.

Thirty one years since he'd stood in the same field: the day of the reconstruction. The wind had been high then, the wheat shifting wildly, unkempt and hardly harvested from one season to the next. Now it was neatly trimmed and cared for, a half metre short from its full harvesting height. And today there was no wind, the air still, a thin grey cloud layer with some diffused sunlight filtering through.

Stillness. Sterile. The crime scene washed clean by the shifting seasons and years, the many different families who'd owned the farm since. No trace left. Only distant images struggling to replay in Dominic's mind.

Originally Dominic had intended just to stay in Vidauban. A half hour after hearing the news about Eynard, he'd gone to the nearest bar for a quick brandy. He'd called Guidier on his mobile from the bar: 'I'll be gone the rest of the day. I'll phone in for any messages early evening. Anything urgent, get me on my mobile.'

Time to think, clear his thoughts. He would spend probably a day or two down at Vidauban. He needed the rest, had hardly slept all week. He was exhausted.

Arriving at the farmhouse, he'd headed straight for the bedroom and lay flat on the bed. Solitude. Gerome was working, probably wouldn't be back until six or seven. Monique was at the flat in Lyon, no doubt thought he was still at work. He would phone later to tell her he was staying overnight. Perhaps he would take Gerome to a local bar: help drown his sorrows.