John Matthews - Past Imperfect

Chapeau visited the hospital twice within three hours before a plan started to formulate, the time in between filled in with a leisurely lunch and an afternoon stroll along Aix's Cours Mirabeau.

The hat he wore was a non-descript brown trilby; a habit acquired from a spell working as a bouncer in a Marseille night club, Borsalino's , where he had to wear a bright, wide brimmed trilby. The hat was a distraction, it covered his tight knit curly hair and could be tilted to shade his discoloured eye; it could only be noticed up close, but it was a strong distinguishing feature. He always wore a hat while working, never when not.

On the first visit, he'd walked along the second floor corridor twice, then sat on a bench at its end for a while, watching the movements of people back and forth. From viewing a hospital porter a few doors down from 4A exit laden with towels, he guessed it was a store room. He didn't notice the porter open or lock the door, so Chapeau waited for a quiet moment when the corridor was empty, then went to check: eight foot long by three foot wide, one side was stacked with linen, towels, cotton swabs, a bucket with mop in the corner, floor cleaner and bleach. No uniforms.

The room gave him an idea, the rest of it slotting into place over lunch. He would have to get a uniform, lighter fluid and a syringe. He returned to walk the corridor again, re-checking positions between the store room and 4A, distance from the fire alarm and the main wards. Then he sat down on the bench again, one last run through of the plan in his mind.

He looked up; the door to room 4A had clicked open. He watched a woman walk out, long dark hair in ringlets, pale beige dress.

As she lifted her eyes towards him, he leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees while he contemplated his shoes. All she would see was an apparently concerned trilby, waiting for news from one of the nearby rooms. As she went from view, he headed for the stairs and made his exit.

When they'd gone through best timing, Alain had mentioned that his friend had seen a woman visiting the room — probably a girlfriend or relative of the boy's pimp. Quite a beauty, thought Chapeau; at least partly Arab, but dressed simply and understated, not the gold hoop earrings, heavy make up and high heels of a pimp's girlfriend. So, she was just a 'friend', though probably her main role was as caretaker and guardian for his various boys, as many as twelve or fifteen under the same roof, a surrogate 'aunty'. With pimps mostly male, women invariably took care of the domestics: cooking, cleaning, shopping.

Over the next few hours he visited three shops in Marseille specializing in hotel and industrial uniforms before finding one close to that of the porters at the hospital. Lighter fluid he picked up at a nearby tobacco shop, the syringe at a pharmacy.

Now, sitting at a Panier bar, he sipped at a brandy and ran through again the projected sequence in his mind.

The only thing still to decide was whether he went back that night or waited till the next morning.

Dominic headed out straight after their meeting with Pierre Bouteille, with Poullain suddenly eager to progress the next stage: alibi verification for all possible suspects, not just Machanaud.

He made it to the garage near Le Muy by 7.54pm, then made the deduction from the time he passed Cafe Font du Roux: 68 minutes. That meant that if Duclos had left the cafe at just after three, he would have been at the garage by 4.08 — 4.10 pm.

The garage attendant remembered Duclos car, not only because of the rarity of Giulietta Sprints, but because Duclos had asked for an oil change and whether he might make it to Juan-les-Pins by four thirty. 'Impossible. I told him it would take at least forty minutes — he'd be lucky to make it by four fifty. So it must have been about five past four then.'

Dominic asked if he'd noticed anything unusual, any bloodstains or clothing in disarray — but no on each. Dominic headed off on his bike for Juan-les-Pins.

The attendant was right. The road was winding for part of the route and it took him 48 minutes. He parked close to the sea front and walked along the promenade, past the pavement artists and makeshift souvenir stands. The promenade was raised so that he was looking over the rooftops of the bars and restaurants tucked in below at beach level.

As Dominic came to the third set of steps leading down, he saw the sign for the Rififi to the left. Part bar, part restaurant, at nearly 9 o'clock it was busy with diners. The evening air was still hot, so stepping off the bike he'd taken off his leather jacket. Underneath was his white epaulette shirt, and he put his gendarme cap back on. A waiter asked how he could help or did Monsieur wish to dine?

Dominic explained the purpose of his visit and was shown to the bar to await the owner, a short, stocky man with bushy grey hair in his early fifties who introduced himself as Pierre Malgarin. He looked slightly flustered at the interruption during the busy dining period.

Dominic explained the background and confirmed that Malgarin knew the Vallons. 'Apparently, they dined here about what, twelve days ago or so?'

'About that, yes.'

'Claude Vallon, the son, had a friend with him — an Alain Duclos. Mid twenties, slim, black hair. Did he come in here about six days ago on his own? It would have been late afternoon, about five o'clock.'

'I don't know. I'm not usually here then, I come in lunch times and evenings. But possibly my head waiter will know.' Malgarin beckoned the waiter who had shown Dominic to the bar. As Malgarin repeated the question, the waiter nodded.

'Young friend of the Vallons. Yes, I remember him coming in for about half an hour or so five or six days ago.'

'Do you remember what time it was?'

'Not really. Just that it was well after lunch time, because we'd cleared up by then. But for all I remember, it could have been any time between four and six-thirty. Maybe Gilbert will know.' He leant across and involved the barman in the conversation, but the barman shrugged.

'I don't remember exactly. Only what he drank — Campari and lemon. And he asked me if I'd seen a girl: long dark hair, Italian looking, early twenties. She was wearing an orange bikini when he'd seen her on the beach the day before. We get so many girls, I told him, it was hard to place one just like that. I couldn't remember her.'

'Did he call into the bar the day before when he saw the girl for the first time?'

'No. Or at least I don't remember seeing him. Perhaps he saw her from the promenade or from one of the adjoining bars.'

'Anything unusual about his dress or his manner?'

'No. Not really. Just that he seemed bothered that he might not see her.'

Dominic couldn't think of any more immediate questions. In the conversation lull, the waiter excused himself. The owner asked, 'Has that been useful? Would you like to stay for a quick drink — on the house?'

Dominic was about to decline, then ordered a beer on an afterthought and offered his thanks. Perhaps one of them might remember something else while he waited. He was close to the end of the bar, with only three lines of tables between there and the beach edge. Two sets of large glass windows had been drawn back so that the front of the bar was mostly open onto the beach.

Dominic sipped at his beer. The sound of gently lapping surf wafted in above the babble of voices and clatter of cutlery. Deep into the bay, Dominic could see the lights of four or five fishing boats; and behind him, from an open air restaurant with a live group by the town square, drifted 'Quando caliente el sol…'

A sordid investigation with a young boy sexually assaulted and battered? It seemed a million miles from this. Could Duclos really have battered the boy half to death, then come down here and calmly sipped at Campari and lemon while looking for this girl, if she existed? Where had he seen her from the day before? It struck Dominic as a rather convenient underlining of heterosexuality. And if Duclos had been so worried he might miss her, why stop for an oil change and to confirm the time? What was more important: that the attendant remembered him, or to get to see the girl on time?