John Matthews - Past Imperfect

But he'd been unable to sleep, had stared blankly up at the ceiling with too many thoughts jumbling. Coin leads all gone. Eynard gone. Nothing left. But that conclusion wouldn't settle, just didn't feel right. Monique's words from a few days before: 'There must be something, something. ' Some small detail that perhaps he'd overlooked from the hours of tapes and transcripts from Eyran Capel. He felt angry this time; could feel it coursing through his veins, driving him on.

Though it wasn't until two hours later, after lunch and a chain of discarded notes headed Coin? Truck? Restaurant? Lane? — questions with few answers — that something useful finally came: bottled water! He'd been in the shower when the thought hit, the water swilling around him as he stood stock still for a moment… Some other water running… spilling on the ground…… Duclos had just come from a restaurant, he didn't need to go down to the river where Machanaud might have seen him!

Dominic decided to head out to Taragnon and the field. He stood where he thought Duclos must have been after the final assault on Christian: a few paces into the wheat, his car parked just behind. Dominic summoned up the picture in his mind: Duclos’ clothes are off, perhaps on the car seat or draped over the open boot. The bloodied rock is in his hand, his body splattered with blood. He knows he can't stay on the lane long for risk of someone passing.

Back to the car… Dominic walked the few paces, his feet crunching on the wheat… takes out the bottled water, swills down. Dominic imagined the heat of the day, a heat haze perhaps rising off the field.

Then dabs dry with… with? A cloth or towel from his car, or Christian's shirt? Perhaps that explained why Christian's shirt had been missing. Whichever, Duclos had obviously dumped it along with the rock somewhere.

And then the coin? Had Duclos discovered the coin? Was that why none of the garage workers or the Caugines had seen it? And if so, had he thrown it away immediately or later with the rock and Christian's shirt? Or had he been stupid enough to hang on to it as a memento. A trophy. Dominic shook his head and smiled wryly. A sudden image of a dawn raid on Duclos’ house — the coin found in a drawer under his underwear and silk cravats, Corbeix slapping his shoulder in congratulations — bringing home how much he was reaching.

Dominic crossed the lane and headed down the river bank. The river was grey, silent, reflecting the mood of the sky above. No glints reflecting from the rocks and shale; Dominic could hardly even make out the bottom.

Then he was back looking past Molet's shoulder at some leaves drifting past. The first realization that Machanaud's case was slipping away. Three decades melted away in an instant.

Dominic looked down the river to where Machanaud had stood that day, then up the bank to where Duclos had parked his car. Fourteen years in prison? An afternoon's poaching, a few fish for Machanaud's supper. Dominic shook his head.

He decided to backtrack on everything else. He timed it to the restaurant: four minutes. It was now a hardware store. Dominic stayed in the car park, closed his eyes and imagined Duclos playing for time inside, making sure he was seen for his alibi, selecting from the menu and eating at leisure, sipping at his wine. Christian in the darkness of the boot, probably only yards from where he was now, trapped and afraid. Dreaming about his father and the farm… wondering if he was going to be harmed. Dominic shuddered.

The two women come out of the restaurant. Christian hears their voices, kicks back. But a truck passes at that moment, drowns out the sound. Their car doors open, close, they start driving away. Duclos settles his bill, asks for a bottle of water to go.

Dominic drove out, headed back towards where Christian's bike had been left. A Citreon passed, followed soon after by a Mercedes van. Christian's truck superimposed: MARSEILLE, V-A-R-N and LA PONTEI…? There was a small industrial park called La Ponteille in Marseilles, but they hadn't looked hard. A driver recalling a young boy in a passing sports car thirty years later? Desperately reaching again.

Where the bike had been was now planted with vines, only two rows of peach trees remained at the back of the field. Perhaps if only forensics had checked here as well, Dominic reflected. No semen had been found in examining Christian, only ruptured vessels indicated a sexual assault. Duclos had obviously pulled out to ejaculate. Nothing was found by the wheat field, but what would have been the chances here? Christian's bike had by then been found and moved — Dominic wasn't even sure if he was standing in the right spot now. Between what might have been and what had come to pass… Dominic sighed. Probably they wouldn't have found anything.

He headed towards Bauriac. On the edge of town the tanneries were closed and derelict. A sign announced the development of industrial units to be completed April, 1997 . No more acrid fumes… Stinging his eyes as he drove out to see Monique, to tell her…

Dominic stopped in the square and looked across at Louis' old bar. Louis. Dead now these past seven years. He'd married and had three children with Valerie and sold the bar almost twenty years ago. Bought a small hotel on the coast near Mandelieu. Dominic had holidayed there en famille quite a few summers, spent days out fishing and reminiscing on Louis' speedboat. Gerome had struck up a friendship with Louis' youngest, Xavier, and they still kept in touch. Valerie still ran the hotel, though they'd only been down to see her twice since Louis' death.

Dominic got out and walked across to the bar. He realized he hadn't been inside since Louis sold it, had hardly been back to Taragnon or Bauriac in all those years. Too painful. Even when they'd bought the farmhouse in Vidauban and might pass through on the way to Aix, Dominic would make sure to choose an alternate route.

Black and chrome: black velvet chairs, black smoked glass table tops with chrome trim. The bar counter was black and had three thick chrome strips facing. It was almost empty, with just a few stragglers at the bar and one table. The new owner obviously went for the evening cocktail crowd. Or perhaps this is what teenagers and bikers liked nowadays.

Dominic ordered a brandy. No juke-box. A powerful sound system played Brian Adams' 'Run to You.' Some French rap followed. The barman was young, slim and had a ponytail. As far removed from Louis as you could get. Dominic smiled. He drained his glass and ordered another brandy. Suddenly the alcohol felt good, cut through the images: Louis dancing with Valerie to the juke-box, him driving out to tell Monique, tell her that … the lorry flashing past, Christian trapped in the car boot, the coin … Duclos raising his wine glass, gloating . Dominic gripped his glass tight.

He knocked it back sharply, ordered again. Some heavy rock followed. Dominic headed for the bathroom to escape. The images were too vivid, too harsh. He wished now he hadn't come back. He splashed some water on his face to freshen up. Catching his reflection in the mirror as he straightened, suddenly it struck him: he hadn't returned just to hunt clues, but for himself. To relive the memories, then bury them once and for all. At heart he knew it was all futile, hopeless. No startling revelations would be sparked off just by him being there again. Duclos had outwitted them all thirty years ago, and he'd done it again now. Had somehow got to Eynard before them. It was over. Over! Even if they did find something, Duclos would no doubt beat them to it yet again, would…

' Ca va, Monsieur? Is everything okay?'

Dominic focused past his shoulder. An old man turning from the urinal was looking on concernedly. Images of Machanaud raising his eau de vie: 'How's the investigation going?'