John Matthews - Past Imperfect

If. If. If. Dominic stared at the fax machine in the corner. The arrangement was that she'd fax through the transcript straight after the session. Thirty years of waiting to know and now only an hour remained. While he understood the reasoning, the duplicity of his little agreement with Calvan somehow added to his nerves. Only the two of them knew. It was almost incestuous. In the same way that he was keeping the secret from his wife, she in turn was duping Lambourne and Capel. So many secrets. Something was bound to go wrong.

Like two conspirational children playing hide and seek, hunting cloak and dagger style through the shadows of memories from thirty years ago. Excited by their little secret as much as the adventure. Unable to tell the adults who would say that they knew better and stop their little game.

The night before he'd had a clear opportunity to tell Monique — but still he put it off. If nothing was uncovered by Calvan or if it merely supported Machanaud's guilt, there was no point. If. If. If.

To support the theory Calvan had sold, he should be absent from the first sessions. Perhaps he could turn up at the third or fourth. They'd discuss it later. Meanwhile she'd fax transcripts through and would readily admit to doing so to Lambourne and Stuart Capel on the pretext of authentication and gaining 'advice on questions for future sessions.' How to guide Christian in the right direction. If Dominic then showed up for later sessions it wouldn't seem strange; would follow more naturally that he had by then 'stumbled' on information which might help the investigation.

But the forced detachment, his purposely being kept away from the activities in London, only made him more anxious. His nerve ends bristling because something was happening in a small room four hundred miles away over which he had no control. Christian's frail voice at that moment telling them the secrets of over thirty years ago and he wouldn't know for an hour. Or they would be close to finding out when Christian suddenly headed off at a tangent, and if he was there he could whisper sharply in Calvan's ear. 'No, no… take him back! Ask him this!'

The squad room was hectic: phones ringing, people calling across the room, typewriters clattering. Dominic had shut his door to concentrate on the normal morning's mountain of papers that required his quick attention: final approval of files to go to the procureur's office, an enquiry from St Etienne over a pattern of regional car thefts, medical report on a rape case. The noise of the squad room was muffled beyond his door, but still Dominic couldn't concentrate. The most he'd manage was a half page before his thoughts once again drifted, wondering what was happening at that moment in London. And he would glance back at the fax machine: frustration because it symbolized his detachment and impotence at that moment, yet also hope. It was his only link with what was happening.

In the two days since Marinella Calvan's call, he'd received even more papers from Lepoille on cases involving psychics to add to Monday's package. He'd hardly looked at them. The last days he'd been through a ridiculous see-saw of hope and disappointment without putting himself through it again to no avail. Verfraigne from the Lyon procureur's office had called and given him the prosecution pecking order in Aix en Provence together with some names. He'd written them down, but hadn't called anyone. The list was tucked into the front of Lepoille's top file at the edge of his desk.

A stack of papers and thirty years of doubt waiting on one fax.

Session 9.

'Did you play much by the river with Stephan?'

'Yes, quite a bit.'

'What sort of games did you play — did you ever swim in it?'

'No. It was too cold. But we used to play on the river bank.'

River bank . Where the police thought the boy was probably held between the sexual assaults. The memories from before open, carefree, not yet linked in Christian's mind. Only minutes before he'd mentioned the field close by. Marinella knew from her last session that Stephan was one of his closest friends. It seemed as good a place to start as any.

The first ten minutes of the session had been with Lambourne taking Eyran back before she took over. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Lambourne seemed to be taking longer than normal. Showing his resentment in the only way left to him.

She'd started with other times he'd played with Stephan, their favourite places and games, introducing a general, relaxed mood. Christian was free to ramble, no constraints. But ever so slowly she circled in like a cat stalking its prey. The trick was that hopefully Christian was never aware of it. Already she'd struck out once and missed her target. Thinking that she'd asked enough general questions, she'd asked what happened the day he headed off to see Stephan but never made it. 'Did you meet up with someone else? What happened?'

Again Christian mentioned a searing bright light after a period of darkness, knowing in that moment that he was close to Stephan's house as he recognized the field — but as recall of the attack flooded back, he quickly became incoherent. Eyran's head lolled, his breathing becoming laboured. She'd sensed Lambourne about to reach over to the keyboard as she broke Christian hastily away.

She circled more warily now. River bank? She didn't want to pounce too early this time. 'What sort of games did you play on the river bank?'

'We used to build a dam. There was a small stream higher up that flowed down from the hillside and into the river. In the summer it was usually dried up, but in the spring it used to flow in quite fast.'

'How did you and Stephan make the dam?'

'We would get sticks and leaves and pack them in with mud. Stephan would bring a spade with him so that we could dig a hollow. One day we dug an enormous hole to one side, then diverted the stream into it by blocking the way with sticks and leaves.' A fond memory, speech animated, excited. Eyran's eyes glistened. 'The water built up and built up, until finally it started overflowing. It was incredible… almost like a small lake.'

Marinella remembered a segment from one of Lambourne's earlier taped sessions: 'The pond seemed suddenly to be much larger — like a huge black lake.' She shot a meaningful glance at Lambourne. His face remained bland. Reluctance to admit any breakthrough, or perhaps he simply hadn't picked up on the connection.

'…We would leave a narrow passage leading out, then block it with sticks and mud. Then, when it was full and almost overflowing, we would break the dam and run down alongside the sudden torrent until it hit the river.' A pause, excitement ebbing slightly. Eyran's expression more thoughtful. 'My mother didn't like me playing there. I would come back too muddy and dirty.'

Marinella let the moment settle. 'Did you ever play lower down the river bank?'

'Only a few times.'

'Were you often lower down the river bank on your own? For instance, when you cut across the fields and had to cross the bridge there?'

'Yes, sometimes.'

Gently. Gently. 'And at any time, did you meet anyone else there — at the lower part of the river?'

'No… no, I don't think so.' Eyran's brow creased. 'I don't remember.'

'The day you left to meet Stephan but never made it. The day your bike broke down. Did you meet someone lower down the river that day?'

'No… I didn't meet anyone there. I didn't cross the river there… I… I… there was…' Eyran broke off, swallowing hastily. He looked for a moment as if he was about to say more, but then the thought was lost.

Strike two. Marinella could almost feel Lambourne gloating behind her. When he'd discovered she'd gone behind his back, they'd had their worst argument yet. She said a lot of things she immediately regretted: too staid, limited PLT experience, merely clinging to what he knew for safety's sake, not for the patient. Confirming his conventional status or perhaps his Englishness, Lambourne had been far less personal, kept mainly to patient/counsel ethics: it was his patient, he should have been consulted first, made the main decision. It had been wrong of her to contact Stuart Capel directly to sell her theory.