John Matthews - Past Imperfect

Machanaud's tone of incredulity only served to anger Poullain deeper. 'You know he was, because that's where you left him — just after you smashed his head in with a rock!'

Machanaud shook his head wildly. 'No! I told you. I had nothing to do with that boy, I never touched him.'

'So are you now trying to say that you were there and saw the boy — but you never touched him.'

Machanaud was confused, his voice breaking with exasperation. 'No, no. I never saw the boy. I know nothing about him. I went from the Fontainouille, a short break for lunch, then straight onto Leon's.'

'Leon doesn't remember seeing you until at least three-fifteen.' It was a bluff, but Poullain was more confident of Madame Veillan's time keeping than Leon's. 'And Henri says that you arrived at eleven and left about one.'

'That's impossible,' Machanaud spluttered desperately. 'I was still at Raulin's until twelve.'

'Raulin says that he didn't see you after eleven, and that's the time he has entered in his book for you finishing that day.'

'There was some extra work on the bottom land. He probably didn't see me there.'

Poullain ignored it. 'Henri knows for sure you left at one o'clock, because that's when he starts preparing lunches. And between then and Madame Veillan seeing you leave the lane — that's almost two hours.' He leant forward until he was close to Machanaud, his tone low and menacing. 'Two hours in which you calmly took your pleasure with this boy, before deciding that you'd have to kill him. What did you do to keep him quiet in the meantime — tie him up?'

Machanaud was cold with fear. He had been shaking his head at Poullain's bombardment, stunned by the sudden turn around of events; surely they couldn't really believe that he had attacked this boy. If it was just a ploy to get him to admit to poaching, they'd succeeded. He was so frightened, he'd run for any sanctuary. 'Okay, I admit it, I was there. But I know nothing about the boy — I was poaching.'

'I see.' Poullain looked down thoughtfully, drawing a deep breath before looking up again. 'And how long were you there?'

'Two hours.'

'And have you been to that stretch of river before?'

'Yes, two or three times, I don't remember exactly.'

'Any particular reason why you favour there?'

'The fish are no better than elsewhere — but Breuille is away. Less chance of getting caught, and even if I am, he's not around to press charges.' Machanaud risked a hesitant smile.

Poullain considered this for a moment. 'So now you're trying to tell us that all of this morning's subterfuge, all of this lying, was purely to cover up the fact that you were poaching. Even though you know Breuille's away and therefore charges can't be pressed.' Poullain looked disgustedly towards Dominic. He waved one hand dramatically. 'Pah! It is not even remotely believable.'

A swathe of hair had fallen across Machanaud's face. He cut a sad picture; like a lost and bewildered animal. A lamb to Poullain's slaughter. His eyes darted frantically. 'But Marius Caurin is still around caretaking the land — I even saw him head out at one point on his tractor. He could have seen me.'

'Even if we accept this ridiculous story that you were poaching, you expect us to believe that you spent two hours calmly fishing while a young boy was savagely raped and assaulted not yards away — and you saw absolutely nothing .'

Machanaud looked pleadingly towards Dominic, clutching out for any possible support. Dominic looked away and back to his notes. Whatever misgivings Dominic might have with Poullain's interview tactics, it was the first golden rule: unless a two pronged assault had been previously agreed, the interview witness remained silent. He had already made his thoughts clear to Poullain about suspicion of Machanaud. Any comment about what arose in the interview itself would have to wait till later.

Machanaud was desperate, spluttering, 'The river bank dips down at points. The lane is partly obscured by trees and bushes. Somebody else could have come along without me seeing.'

'Yes, they could. But that same person couldn't possibly have stayed on the lane for all that time without the risk of someone coming along and seeing them. And yet if they hid in the only place possible — down by the riverbank — you would have seen them. But the real reason that you saw nobody else, is that there was only one person down by the river bank — you.'

'No.. .no…'

'…And it was there that you chose as your hiding place, a place you know well from past visits, while you molested the boy. Concealed from anyone passing. Twice you sexually assaulted him; then later, to cover your tracks, afraid that he would talk, you picked up a rock and — '

'No!..' Machanaud rose to his feet, slamming one hand on the table. His head had been shaking slowly, his low and repeated groans of 'no' finally rising to a crescendo.

Poullain let out a final exasperated breath, looking towards Dominic. 'Just take him away, I'm sick of hearing his lies.'

'What do you want me to do with him?'

'Put him in the holding cell for a few hours, let him cool his heels. Perhaps he'll remember something with a bit more sense. We'll decide then if we're going to hold him longer.'

The arrangement was that Duclos meet the man in front of the Fort St Nicolas in Marseille. From there, they could walk across Boulevard Charles Livon and into the Parc du Pharo to discuss their business. At dusk, the number of park strollers would be thinning out; it should be quite private.

The time and place had been arranged through Vacheret, and the man was known as Chapeau; obviously not his real name. Duclos had already waited ten minutes, gradually becoming more anxious, dwelling stronger on what he was waiting there for. Conscious suddenly of every small sound and movement around: the wind ruffling a flag on the fort, a stray cat tugging at a bag in a nearby bush, the shuffle of people approaching and walking by; uncomfortable if someone looked at him as they passed, catching his eye. For God's sake, hurry up. He couldn't take much more of this waiting.

While he was distracted for a moment by a coach that had pulled up in front, collecting a stream of tourists shepherded aboard by their guide — a man was suddenly at his side. He seemed to emerge from nowhere among the throng leaving the fort, and Duclos was slightly startled. He hadn't seen him approach.

'Your name is Alain?' the man enquired.

'Yes.'

'We have some business to discuss, I believe.'

Duclos merely nodded. It was obviously Chapeau. There was something familiar about him, but Duclos wasn't totally sure. 'Were you across the road a moment ago, looking over?'

'Yes I was.' Chapeau didn't offer to explain why, which unsettled Duclos further. They walked in silence towards the park. Duclos took the opportunity to study him closer. No more than thirty, skin quite dark, tight knit curly dark hair, heavy set and jowly; probably Corsican judging by the accent, Duclos guessed. One eye was slightly bloodshot and yellowed in the corner, as if he'd been hit close to it. Or perhaps it was a permanent ailment. The nickname intrigued Duclos; the man wasn't wearing a hat.

'What is it your friend wants done?' asked Chapeau.

At the mention of friend, Duclos was wary just how much had already been discussed. 'What did Vacheret tell you? Did he explain the problem and what needed to be done?'

'No. Just that you had a friend with a problem, nothing more. You know what Vacheret is like, afraid of his own shadow. Doesn't like to get involved.'

Duclos grimaced weakly. Good. He had spun a story to Vacharet of a married friend who played both sides getting into trouble with a rent boy and his pimp. The pimp was threatening blackmail by informing his friend's wife. Some muscle was required to warn him off. Duclos knew that Vacharet had milieu contacts and would be able to recommend someone. The pimp was streetwise, so it should also be someone with a reasonable reputation, perhaps a few hits to his credit, otherwise the warning would carry no weight. Thankfully, Vacharet had been worried about complicity, didn't want to know too many details. 'I'll just give you a number, the rest is up to you.' For the same reason, Vacharet had obviously said little to Chapeau. Even if he had, Duclos would have covered by claiming that for obvious reasons he hadn't wanted Vacharet to know all the details. Now none of that was necessary, except to maintain the subterfuge that the boy who was laying in hospital in Aix-en-Provence was a rent boy, and that his friend was responsible for the attack.