John Matthews - Past Imperfect

Duclos' testimony predictably stuck to his original account given in 1963: travelling through Taragnon, calling in at a restaurant, a quick stop-off at a garage, then on to Juan-le-Pins.

When Duclos had finished, Barielle asked: 'Did you at any time meet a young boy travelling through Taragnon?'

'No, I didn't.'

'Did you at any time have a young boy in your car. Either in the passenger seat or in the boot?'

'No.'

'How long did you spend in the restaurant in total?'

'An hour, an hour and a quarter…'

Barielle continued with a series of straightforward, mechanical questions, eleven in all, making short notes between each one. He would ask the same questions from a dozen more angles before the instruction was over. Each time sharpening the angle or confronting with conflicting testimony from witnesses. The main skill of an effective examining magistrate digging for the truth. But Corbeix could hardly imagine Barielle commenting that according to the voice on tape of a boy long since dead, a different account had been proposed: 'What do you say to that, Monsieur Duclos?'

A reminder to Corbeix, listening to Duclos' account, that his claim at the last instruction of PLR just providing background and texture, was in part inaccurate: the case hinged on the physical evidence of the coin, but Eyran Capel's PLR transcripts provided the complete picture of what really happened that day.

All the details Duclos was now carefully omitting.

Jean-Paul Thibault had purposely coasted through the first instruction hearings. First of all he liked to listen, tune himself to the mood of the proceedings: the sensitivities and nuances of the prosecutions and the examining magistrate, their strengths and vulnerabilities. Where to hit and where to avoid. When he knew where he would have most impact — then he would start striking out.

But there was another strong reason for him biding his time: research and background. Uncovering the most vulnerable areas of witnesses. The day after receiving the main file, he'd assigned two of his best researchers to get information on Roudele, Fornier and Malliene in France, Lambourne and the Capels in England, and Marinella Calvan in America.

Day by day the threads of information filtered in. Unfortunately, there was nothing on Roudele. No past convictions for theft; the coin possibly an isolated incident. He'd decide later if he would press the point.

But with Dominic Fornier, they'd struck gold. Enough threads to weave a blanket. A shroud to hopefully smother Fornier, nail him in grand style at the next instruction .

'How did we fare?' Dominic tapped a pencil on his desk. Papers and files, telephones ringing, interruptions. The normal morning. Dominic had hardly been able to pay any of it strong attention. He'd phoned Corbeix' office twenty minutes before to learn that he was still not back: still in instruction . On the second call he was put through to Corbeix.

'We're probably ahead after the second as well. Thibault tackled Roudele over the theft of the coin, but nothing serious. And Duclos gave the same lame, ridiculous account of his movements that day as when you first took his statement back in 1963.'

'I suppose we didn't expect any less.'

'Suppose not.' Corbeix was thoughtful. Voicing the ease with which they'd sailed through the first two hearings reminded him of the onslaught he feared was coming. He'd already warned Fornier about the 'confront' notice posted against him and Malliene for the next hearing. Dominic had joked: 'So either Thibault is booking his ringside ticket and will just sit it out — or we'd better warn Malliene what he's in for.' Corbeix too had laughed, but nervously. They both knew who Thibault was gunning for.

'Can I talk? Is your line secure?'

Duclos' heart sank. It was Jaumard. Thibault was due out of court soon. He'd hoped it might be him: news of how his assault on Fornier and Corbeix had gone.

'Yes, it's fine. You can talk. No bugs.' Betina downstairs, gendarme at the front door. The phone was probably the only secure place. Thibault had made a big issue of it at the bail hearing. Emphasized that because his client was under house arrest, by necessity many of their conversations would be by phone. A secure line was therefore essential. Any line-tapping would breach client lawyer confidentiality, and he would immediately call for a mistrial. Barielle agreed: no line-tapping. Duclos suddenly pinched himself. Perhaps he should have said, 'No, it's not safe.' The last person he wanted to hear from right now was Jaumard. But yet another part of him was morbidly curious. 'Still, you shouldn't be phoning me here. What do you want?'

'Isn't it obvious. I've read the papers. You're going down for this, aren't you? That's my old age pension straight out the fucking window!'

'No, no — it's all complete nonsense. The whole thing will get thrown out quickly. Maybe even at this instruction — by the next at the latest. My lawyer's in court nailing them right now.'

'I've only got your word for that. And I'm not prepared to wait just on the off chance. As soon as you know you're going down for it, you'll stop paying me.'

No point in a clumsy denial; Jaumard's claim was patently true to both of them. 'You've phoned early. Normally you phone at night.'

'Yes, well. I wanted a clear head. This involves my future. I might only have one shot at it.'

Duclos sensed what was coming, but he didn't want to ask, invite it. As with everything else, delaying the ultimate. Though part of him also clung to hope that he was wrong.

Long breath from Jaumard. 'I want to cash in my pension now. Half straight away — the rest a week before your trial. That way if you go down I've got something put away.'

'And if I don't get convicted?'

'You won't hear from me again for three years.' Jaumard paused. 'Three hundred thousand francs now. Three hundred thousand just before the trial.'

Duclos spluttered. 'That's outrageous — I can't get you that sort of money. In fact, I can't get you any money at all. All my bank accounts and assets have been frozen.'

'Don't give me that shit. People like you can always get their hands on money somewhere.'

'Not when they're on trial for murder. I've had bail bondsmen and court officials crawling over every account and asset — I can't shift a thing.' But Jaumard was right; despite everything, he could get his hands on some money. Though the money in Switzerland from Marchand's bio-tech people he dared not let anyone know about: $400,000 at the outset of conciliation, another $400,000 when the ruling had come through. $120,000 for each successive year without a new patents ruling, to a maximum of seven years. His escape fund if all went wrong. Jaumard was the last person he'd let in on such a secret.

'I don't care how you find the money — just find it! Because I'm not waiting. I'll call you tomorrow and give you a bank account number for the transfer.'

Duclos' stomach sank. This was a new Jaumard: tense, irrational, but for once sober. Abstaining Jaumard: high octane mix of DTs and raw tension. 'It's impossible. I told you, if I try to-'

'Find it!' Jaumard snapped. 'If by the time I call you haven't worked out how to get three hundred thousand transferred to me within twenty four hours — then the very next day I'll be on the phone to the police with my brother's little folder. Aix Palais de Justice, isn't it?'

Jaumard left a brief silence, then the line went dead.

Corbeix saw where Barielle was heading from the first few questions, saw the problem approaching like a truck aimed head on. More pre-hearing pressure from Thibault.

'And how long have you been married to the victim's mother, Chief Inspector Fornier?'