John Matthews - Past Imperfect

Long, bland stares straight through them at the dining table. Little or no interest in any of their activities; whenever any personal involvement threatened to come close, he would make an excuse about cleaning tools or the tractor and head out to the garage. And when his emotions became too much and Monique tried to hug and console him, he'd shrug her off. During the summer evenings he stayed out late in the fields, but as the evenings drew in he'd make an excuse and head for a local bar. It was as if he could no longer bear to be in their company; or perhaps it was the house itself, reminders of Christian.

Many a time when he was working in the fields, she would look up from the kitchen window and see him sitting on the stone wall at the ridge of the field, staring emptily into space. She would busy herself with chores for a while, and sometimes as much as forty minutes later he would still be in the same position when she looked out.

The Fievets next door had been helpful and supportive, but they weren't close enough for her to share her innermost thoughts about Christian's death or the worry of Jean-Luc's increasing emotional distance from her and Clarisse. The town had rallied well behind her, she'd been particularly touched by the memorial service — but at some point afterwards she felt unable to face another village shopkeeper, another sympathetic face and heartfelt condolence. For over a month after the service, she had hardly ventured out, the Fievets did her shopping.

Outside the church, Captain Pouillain had approached and said that someone was in custody, 'a local vagabond. Justice would soon be done.' A satisfied, firm statement, as if he felt assured the news would salve her pain. She'd hardly remembered him from the first interview; the only gendarme she recognized from the line in the church was the one who had called to tell her Christian was dead. He stayed in the background, gendarme cap in hand. Most of it outside the church had been sympathy at arm's length — pats on the shoulder, heads hung in sorrow, muttered condolences with eyes downcast, trite offers of help from people she hardly knew. She'd grimaced afterwards at the irony: it had taken the death of her son to make her feel truly accepted in the village.

Apart from the week when her mother had visited, there had been nobody to share her grief — until she looked up and saw Clarisse at the doorway. So for the past long weeks she'd shared small stories, comforts and hugs with her daughter, fighting to come to terms with the unacceptable partly through the innocent eyes of a five year old — fill the sickening void with whatever vestiges of love and affection remained in her house.

The only thing Jean-Luc had shown any interest in was the trial, seeing justice done. While she'd been still too blind with tears and numb to react to Poullain's statement outside the church, Jean-Luc had nodded enthusiastically, asking several questions before they'd parted. For the first time since Christian's death, he appeared animated, drawing hard on each word for comfort, solace. Each week he phoned the police station and was brought up to date on the latest stages of the instruction . 'Next week, they're all going out to the scene of the crime to re-enact it,' he commented one morning at breakfast, but she'd hardly been listening.

Jean-Luc mentioned it again the morning of the re-enactment, and only then did she pay attention: two mentions, and again a rare show of eagerness — it must be important. Heading out, he said that he would be working in the west pasture. But half an hour later the rising wind made her think about how exposed the west field was, and when she looked to see if Jean-Luc might have moved to the more sheltered fields at the back, she noticed the car was gone.

As the wind rose, it bent the wheat at an angle. But not evenly: one swathe would be cut sharply at an angle while another remained upright, the path of the wind undulating, weaving patterns through the field like rolling golden surf. The morning air was cool, the wind gusting intermittently, and patches of brief sunshine broke through between the shifting grey clouds, bathing them momentarily in light and warmth.

Dominic looked thoughtfully at the figures ahead as the light shifted. The shadow of a large cloud floated down the bordering hillside like a giant valkyrie until it hung over them, bathing them in grey, matching the intensity of their mood. Thirteen men in a lonely windswept field, linked only by the death of a ten year old boy. With the shifting light, the wheat sheaves undulating with each pulse of the wind, it was almost as if the field was protesting, trying to evade them and keep its secrets.

The figures huddled close together to be heard. Naugier was going over information with the attending medics, forensics and Poullain, in no particular order. Servan, Levacher and Harrault were just behind closest to Dominic. A greffier constantly at Naugier's side made notes in shorthand.

Machanaud stood beyond handcuffed to an Aix prison warden. His turn would come next. Perrimond was to one side of Naugier, Molet the other by the greffier . Dominic noticed Machanaud glancing towards the riverbank, his eyes bleary and distant. Perhaps stung by the wind, or was he still in a daze with it all, hardly believing that he was back in the same spot three months later charged with murder, pleading for his life. He'd had a lot of time to contemplate his story. Naugier looked up at Machanaud sharply at intervals as he went over the forensic details.

Naugier then clarifed with Machanaud which part of the river he was at that day, and directed Servan to remain standing where the attack took place. Everyone else was then directed down to the riverside.

'Two hours? And in all of that time, did you see or meet a young boy?'

Naugier's question cut through the air crisply. The assembled group stood silent, expectant. Naugier had spent the first minutes by the river confirming that Machanaud had been fishing, what he caught, and the time he was there — ten past one to just after three — before coming to the key question.

'No,' Machanaud said, with stronger emphasis than his previous answers. Even the furthest in the group heard his denial.

Naugier looked pointedly in both directions. 'Did you see or meet anyone in that time?' Foliage further down the riverbank was thin, the view virtually clear; most of the foliage and trees were clustered along the bank's ridge bordering the farm track.

'No.'

Following Naugier's gaze towards the flat bridge a hundred yards downstream, Molet suddenly picked up on the significance. The small bridge connecting the neighbouring farm to Breuille's wheat field was in the police report as 'where we think the boy crossed' , mainly because there were no sightings of him walking through the village itself. But he hadn't realized it would be so visible.

Naugier pointed. 'You are aware that is the only connecting bridge for some distance. Can you see it clearly from here?'

Molet prayed for Machanaud to suddenly plead short-sightedness, but his 'Yes' came crisply.

'And you saw nobody crossing that bridge throughout your time here that afternoon?'

'No.'

Naugier looked thoughtfully in the other direction, upstream; then he slowly scanned up the river bank towards the path, as if he was following an imaginary line towards where the attack had taken place. 'Monsieur Machanaud. Can you see the gendarme we left standing on the path?'

'No. I can't see him.'

'And the afternoon you were fishing — did you see or hear anything from the position where the gendarme is now standing?'

'No.'

Naugier nodded. This made sense. The river bank dipped down sharply. The only part of the lane visible was lower down as it sloped towards the road. 'Now let us return to your sighting of vehicles passing that afternoon, starting with the first vehicle. What time would that have been?'