John Matthews - Past Imperfect

'Fine, just fine,' Dominic muttered. Suddenly he had to get out. He paid the barman, knocked back his brandy and headed back to Vidauban. He slotted in a CD to drown out the heavy rock still ringing in his ears: 'Simply Red'. Gerome had introduced him. 'His generation's’ soul music. Years before he'd introduced Gerome to his own time-warped soul collection.

Dominic felt the music soothing him. The images and emotions started to settle. He should never have gone back… never . He banged the wheel in annoyance. Nothing ever felt good… because nothing ever could. I'll keep holding on…keep holding on… As the words and rhythm flowed through him, mouthing silently to some of the verses, he wondered whether he'd chosen it because it was one of his favourites, or because subconsciously it just seemed to…

He bit at his lip. Tears welling suddenly gave him the answer. And the rest of the emotions and images he'd been fighting back, bubbling like raw acid beneath the surface, suddenly broke free: Monique in the hospital with the candle burning, him calling at her door and saying that Christian was dead, dead . The gendarme's tapping through the wheat field, Jean-Luc's solitary figure at the back of the field. Louis smiling, pouring him another brandy, winking as a pretty girl passed. His mother smiling in the fading light at the beauty of the garden and the tangerine tree. All gone now, all gone . Old friends, loved ones, the endless chain of work colleagues long buried with heart attacks or liver failure. Even the memories now dull and faded with the years.

All that was left now was a voice. The lost and lonely voice of a small boy murdered over thirty years ago.

The welling tears stung his eyes, and Dominic thought stupidly: 'I'm too old too cry. Seen too much, buried too many friends. Too many. ' But the long years of holding back the memories, of fighting back the tears, biting at his lip with each friend lost, each funeral — had built a veritable tidal wall. And as his last defences were stripped away, the barricades suddenly broken by that lone pathetic voice, by the week's activities and now the sudden recall and memories — the rest flooded in a rush behind, the wave crashing down relentlessly. His whole body was suddenly racked with sobbing.

The road ahead blurred as his eyes watered, a pastel abstract. He had to pull over to the side of the road and stop.

He cried at the injustice, cried for the lost years, cried for the loved ones and friends long since buried and forgotten, cried and cried and cried until his whole body started to tremble; a ridiculous, pathetic shaking that gradually struck him as amusing as much as sad and distressing. And he found himself half laughing between the sobs as it continued, as he glanced up and noticed a young man passing look towards him concernedly.

He wiped his eyes hurriedly as he fought to recover, regain his composure.

For the rest of the drive to Vidauban, he felt strangely relaxed, calm. As if the sudden catharsis had washed away all the past bitter memories along with his false hopes and the frustrations of the past week. It was in the past. It was gone. How could he have ever deluded himself that he could solve some past problem with something now, thirty years on? That barrier was probably never even meant to have been crossed.

His life put in order, everything at last in perspective — when Dominic hit his bed back at Vidauban, the wave of exhaustion of the past days finally caught up with him. He fell into a deep sleep almost immediately. Though some faint memories still replayed: the tinkling of goats’ bells from the next field, the church bells announcing the service for Christian Rosselot…

All that broke through his subconscious from his mobile ringing in his jacket pocket.

At the other end, Serge Roudele counted off the third ring. He decided to wait three more rings before giving up. Ever superstitious, if it didn't answer by then he would read that as a clear message that he wasn't meant to make contact, confirming his first assumption about Fornier's call: it was a trick. He wouldn't call again.

The tape recorder red light flicked on as the small bleep sounded. The operator, Lassarde, glanced up. Third recording of the night, must be approaching the hundredth now over the past five days. How long did Bennacer intend to keep the line tap running? He sipped at his coffee, stared numbly at the reels turning.

'What time will you be here?'

'About nine, nine thirty on the Saturday. Pretty much as usual. You mentioned a new boy. How does he compare with my usual, Jean-Pierre? Is he as young?'

A pause, faint clearing of the throat. 'Look, let's discuss all that when you get here. Don't worry, you won't be disappointed.'

Lassarde sat up. Young boys . Aurillet, the child pimp they’d tapped, sounded nervous talking about their ages over the phone. But who was at the other end? From what he'd been briefed, he doubted it was Duclos. This sounded like a regular, someone who visited practically every weekend. Duclos was apparently more a seasonal visitor. But because Duclos called rarely, hopefully he might announce himself — even though they might wait weeks for the call. Patience.

Lassarde looked at the digital monitor as the number came up: Toulon exchange. As he thought, the caller was a local regular. Brussels, Strasbourg or Limoges were what they expected with Duclos. The call finished with a few pleasantries, nothing significant. Lassarde got Bennacer's attention from the main squad room and brought him in, replayed the short segment.

Bennacer looked up as it finished. 'How many is that now with young boys mentioned?'

'Seven or eight. The rest has been just day to day stuff: bar stock, social calls, accountant, arranging builders to lay some new tiling in his main club, Nimbus. Pretty mundane. And this is the first call where anyone has got close to talking about the age of the boys.'

Otherwise Aurillet could claim that 'boys' referred to sixteen or above, thought Bennacer. Legal age of consenting homosexuals. It would be that much harder to nail Aurillet and subsequently Duclos. Even if a call came through linking the two.

Three more days passed before another call came through which made Lassarde sit up.

'… he's a runaway, looking for a secure place. He should be ideal for you. Can't be more than twelve or thirteen.'

'I don't know… I don't know if I can get involved.'

'What's wrong? You have before.'

Lassarde smiled. A street pimp supplying to Aurillet. Aurillet's attempts to step back had put him in deeper water. The rest of the conversation was stilted, Aurillet non-committal before he signed off. 'Bring him around. But I really can't promise anything.'

Though fourteen hours later, Lassarde once again disturbed Bennacer urgently in the squad room. Reading the anxiousness in Lassarde's expression, Bennacer broke short his telephone conversation and followed Lassarde hurriedly back into the small room. The recording was halfway through.

'…probably three weeks from now. I just wanted to make sure that Bernard would be there.'

'Yes, he will. Everything will be arranged as usual. Do you know which day? Will it be the weekend, as before?'

'Yes, I think so. Probably the Saturday, late afternoon.'

Bennacer looked at the digital display: 32-2-236521 . Brussels number. Then sharply at Lassarde. 'Is it him?'

Lassarde merely nodded, drew hard on his cigarette.

'… Fine. Look forward to seeing you then.'

A click. The red light went out as the tape stopped.

'Okay, let's hear it from the beginning,' said Bennacer. Rewind it…'