John Matthews - Past Imperfect

Stuart had asked if he was okay, and he’d fluffed that it was probably just the trial and having to speak in front of the judge. But seeing his eyes dart anxiously at the people around, Stuart seemed keen to get him away. He suggested they get a drink. Now, again, he was checking.

One thing at least with which he’d been fortunate. He’d always liked his uncle Stuart, and he could tell that his uncle really cared; his fostering wasn’t just an obligation felt to his father.

‘It was something about the beach. Something I…’ Then Eyran stopped himself. Even his recall now of the wheat field was pleasant. Perhaps that was why he’d had a block before: the emphasis had been on him remembering anything bad. Yet all he felt was warmth; it reminded him of the fields by Broadhurst Farm where he played when he was younger.

Stuart was looking at him curiously, one eyebrow raised. ‘Are you sure everything’s fine?’

Eyran nodded hastily and sipped at his coke. He got on well now with Tessa, he’d settled in at his new school and made some new friends, the nightmares had stopped, and only a few sessions remained. Everything was fine.

Yet he knew that if he mentioned some fresh recall, Stuart might start to worry and think about extending the sessions. And probably that would bother Stuart more than himself. Whatever images still replayed after the sessions remaining, he’d just have to sort out himself; they’d remain his own private domain, like the copse at Broadhust Farm.

‘Yes. I feel better now,’ Eyran said. And quickly turned away from Stuart searching into his eyes for the truth, looked again towards the beach he recalled from another time.

Dominic was on the A7 heading south towards the fourth instruction at Aix en Provence.

Clear water. Corbeix' view from the two meetings Dominic had with him in the twelve days leading up to the next hearing. Thibault had fired his main ammunition and failed. There would obviously still be some obstacles ahead, but Corbeix saw them as more clearly flagged. He knew what to expect. It should be more or less plain sailing now through the remaining instruction hearings towards full trial.

In particular, the next hearing should be an easy run: Vincent Aurillet and Bennacer on Duclos' background with young boys, then later Barielle with a summary of evidence to date from Dominic and Corbeix. The main feast would be Aurillet. 'Thibault would be wise to keep his head down,' Corbeix commented. 'Aurillet's evidence is unshakeable. Duclos' voice is on tape, and Aurillet will spill forth chapter and verse about Duclos sordid history with young boys. I doubt we'll see a 'confront' notice.'

But at the last minute, just three days before the hearing, one was posted.

The only thing Corbeix could think of was Thibault possibly attacking Aurillet's seedy background. 'Trying to discredit him through that. I can't imagine he'll get much else worthwhile.'

But Dominic wondered. All the other 'confronts' had been posted at least ten days in advance. This time it was almost as if they'd only discovered something new at the last moment, or purposely wanted to post late so as not to allow time for the shoring up of defences. The thought preyed on Dominic's mind.

Dominic glanced at his car clock: 1.56 pm. He wanted to give himself at least twenty minutes before the 3 pm hearing with Bennacer and Corbeix. Bennacer was escorting Aurillet up from Marseille. After losing Eynard, they'd taken no chances and had kept him under police guard in a hotel room.

Press coverage had gained momentum the past two weeks. A copy of Le Monde was on the seat beside Dominic, Duclos' haunted face staring out on the front page, snapped through a car side window. One of the few occasions Duclos had ventured out during house arrest.

One of the more considered articles, though still along similar lines: comparisons to the Tapie case and to Medecin, the ex-Mayor of Nice self-exiled in Uruguay due to corruption charges. New France against the old. North against the south.

New France. Thirty years ago in Provence, it could take up to a year to have a new phone installed. Now a new Minitel system could be installed in 24 hours. A train then took ten hours to Paris, now a TGV sped through in less than half the time. But France was proud also of its political evolution in that period: past bureaucracy had been streamlined, the past 'old boy' networks of favouritism and protectionism torn down, corruption combatted — particularly in the provinces. With the south always considered as one of the worst offenders.

The fact that Duclos was from Limoges was conveniently overlooked: the crime had taken place in Provence, and the original trial and now the retrial were also there. Crime and corruption in the south slotted into a popular and familiar image. Good copy.

Only this time it had been given a slightly different spin: the old trial and its failure to prosecute Duclos, that instead a poor vagrant and poacher had been convicted, was seen as typical of the protectionist attitude to officialdom endemic then. Symbol of past corruption. And the new trial was seen as the fresh broom, part of the new tide that had swept away past corruption increasingly the past decade. Figurehead of just what had been torn down in re-building the new France.

The trial of the decade. It had all the ingredients: a leading politician, a detective stalking him relentlessly through three decades, regressionists and psychics on chat shows, a multi-billion dollar bio-technology dispute, and endemic corruption and political side-taking. No doubt he and Corbeix were both now viewed as champions of the new France, battling against endemic southern provincial corruption. Dominic shook his head. At heart, the issue should have been so simple: could justice finally be found for the murder of a ten year old boy?

Dominic eased his foot down, touching 165kmph. That justice was surely now closer. He pushed his concern about Thibault’s late ‘confront’ notice to the back of his mind.

'I thought you said that it would all be over at the last instruction hearing?'

'If it wasn't for something that came up unexpectedly at the last minute, it would have been,' Duclos defended. 'But it certainly will by the next.'

'First the last — now the next. My people are becoming anxious, and with good reason.' Marchand's tone was impatient. 'Despite the fact that your lawyer might have stopped mentioning the subject, the bio-technology dispute has come up again. As they say in the media: 'one of those stories that will run and run'.’

Panic. Everyone panicking, everything closing in. Duclos rubbed his strained eyes. His sleep had been poor for weeks now. Even he'd panicked after the last hearing collapsed, began to worry that this would be the pattern at every hearing: hopes built up of winning through, getting the case thrown out — then at the very last minute everything crushed. He'd started to think of last ditch options if all else failed, and had finally put through a call to Brossard: 'Two more people who might need to go the same way as Eynard.' He would phone again if he had to finally go ahead with the action. In the end, he doubted it would be necessary; but it was comforting to know there was a final fail-safe option if all else went wrong. Brossard already checking the movements of the people concerned, primed and ready to move if he had to call again.

The only one not panicking was Jaumard. He'd called Duclos at five o’clock one morning from Tacloban in the Southern Philippines. 'Thasss amazing, it's almost lunch time here,' he'd remarked to Duclos' complaint about the time. 'It's just to let you know your transfer arrived okay. I'm busy spending it here with a couple of friends.' Duclos could tell that Jaumard had been drinking, could hear a couple of girls giggling in the background. 'Well, it's nice to hear your voice, Minister. Nice to know that you're still alive, they haven't guillotined you yet.' A quick guffaw, and Jaumard rang off.