Past Imperfect

'No, no… not at all. You or your husband have done nothing wrong. But it is nevertheless a very important investigation we're conducting, and any assistance you can offer could be vital.'

'I see. Certainly… in any way I can help.'

The perkiness was back in her voice. A little old lady helping out on a Maigret-style enquiry. Probably the most excitement she'd had all year. 'I want you to remember back, Madame Caugine. Back to when your husband had the car. Do you ever remember him mentioning finding a coin in the car?'

'A coin?'

Dominic let the silence ride a second. Her tone was mostly rhetorical, self-prompting. She was thinking. 'Yes, a silver coin from Italy.'

'From Italy, you say? Not some French money left there?' She queried. A quick mumbled 'no' from Dominic. 'Was it particularly valuable?'

'No, not particularly. But as I say, it's very significant to a case we're handling now.'

'I don't know… I don't seem to recall anything.'

Dominic could almost feel her at the other end grappling through the years, straining for memories out of reach. He sensed that she wanted to help. He prompted: 'It was quite a large silver coin. Twenty lire, 1928. Do you remember your husband finding anything unusual in the car boot?'

Brief silence as Madame Caugine thought deeper, then a sigh. 'I'm sorry. No… I just can't think of anything. I haven't been much help, have I?'

Dominic felt the first twinge of alarm. It was slipping away. But how likely was it that her husband hadn't changed a wheel in three years? He was sure that the memory could be drawn out if he hit the right chord. 'Your husband would have probably only seen the coin when he changed the car wheel. Do you remember him changing the wheel at any time?'

'Yes… yes. I do.' Faint hope returning to her voice.

'When was that?'

'We were on the way to Paris to see his brother. We got a flat tyre on the way there.'

'Did your husband mention seeing anything in the car boot when he took the new wheel out?'

'No…'

'Or over the next few hours or days?'

'No, not that I recall.'

'Was it in the daytime? Was the light good?' Dominic could almost hear the clinging desperation in his own voice.

'Yes — it was mid-afternoon.'

Dominic's mind spun desperately through the other options. 'And do you remember your husband mentioning changing a wheel while he was on his own?'

'Not that I remember. No… I'm sorry.'

'… Perhaps when he changed the wheel that second time, he might have mentioned something. Perhaps doing it before, seeing something unusual?'

'No… nothing I'm afraid. As I said, I really can't recall my husband mentioning anything like that.'

Her voice was once again flustered, now with just a hint of defence. Dominic felt guilty: an image of him pinning the old lady back with increasing interrogation. He eased off. 'I'm sorry, yes. You did mention it already.' Dominic looked up: people busy on the phone, keyboards clattering, someone scanning the new roster on the notice board. Dominic's gaze cannoned frantically around the squad room in search of inspiration for what he might say next. But there was nowhere left to go. He'd covered everything. 'Perhaps you might recall something later.' Stock phrase, his mind was still desperately panning in case there was something he'd overlooked. Nothing. Nothing. He left his number.

'If I do remember anything — I certainly will, inspector.'

Dominic thanked her and rang off. But he knew she probably wouldn't ring, was just being polite. She'd had perfect recall of the wheel being changed; if the coin had been mentioned, she would have remembered. Maurice Caugine hadn't seen the coin. It was all over.

Dominic stayed late just in case she called, packed up finally at almost 8 pm. But as he suspected, nothing. It was already dark as he headed out, the spring night air fresh. His shoulders were slumped in defeat, though in a way he also felt strangely relieved. The past two weeks had brought his nerves to the very edge. He'd hardly slept a full night since hearing the first tape. A nightmare of juggling psychiatrists, transcripts, police and court files with the ghosts of his family's past that he should have known at the outset was best left alone. He let out a deep breath, felt it all suddenly washing away from him. It was over. A stiff brandy, then he could mentally file it along with the other deep and bitter experiences through the years. His life could go back to how it was before Marinella Calvan had called.

The phone was ringing as Duclos walked in the house. No lights were on. He flicked on the hallway and lounge switches on the way to picking it up.

'Oh, it's you.' Jaumard. The disappointment came through in Duclos' voice. 'I was expecting a call from somebody else.'

'Anything important?'

'Yes — I'm waiting urgently on a call from the hospital. I don't have time to talk now.'

'What's happened?'

'It's my-' Duclos stopped himself. He didn't want to share the accident saga with Jaumard. Curtailed version: '-my wife. She's premature. There's been complications.'

'I didn't even know she was pregnant.'

'You wouldn't. It's none of your business.' Flat tone, impatient.

'Isss't a boy or a girl?'

Duclos cringed; he wished now he hadn't said anything. 'Boy.' He could pick up Jaumard's slurring. As usual he had downed a few stiff ones before phoning. 'I must go. Keep the line-'

'That's good. You like boys, don't you? Well, I hope mother and son are both fffine.'

Duclos' jaw set tight. Was this just standard drunken, oafish Jaumard, or some attempt at his brother's line in acid banter? He felt like leaping down the phone and battering out what few brains Jaumard had left. He should have had him killed years ago, taken him out the same way as his brother. Except that he was sure, brainless or not, Jaumard had taken a leaf out of his brother's book and left a similar insurance letter with a lawyer somewhere. 'Look, as I said. I don't have time to-'

'I know. Sssorry. I only called now because I'm shipping out in a few days.'

Always the same, thought Duclos. Jaumard would hit him for some money just before a voyage. The only compensation was that he wouldn't hear from him again for six months, a year. 'I see. Call me tomorrow night when you're sober. We'll make the arrangements then.'

'What's his name?'

'Eynard. Justin Eynard.'

The name meant nothing to Dominic. The world of Parisian vice was strange to him. His two years at Interpol in Paris had been devoted to international cases. Marseille would have been more familiar territory, but nothing had come up through Bennacer. Only this one lead now from Deleauvre in Paris.

'What's his background?'

'Started off with girlie bars, then later a couple of sex accessory and video shops with under the counter material, a lot of it paedophile magazines and videos. Then finally he opens up a gay disco. But a lot of the boys there are under age, fourteen, fifteen — sat in dark corner booths heavily made up so that you would hardly know. And if you approach the barman and comment that they 'look a bit old', he'll give you an address. Eyrnard would run a 'discreet' house nearby. He also started supplying some of his kids to paedophile porn makers.'

'So, what have we got on him?'

'We're close to nailing him through one of his men. A recent bust on a paedophile porn ring has led back to Eynard. Their contact, Ricauve, spends a lot of time in Eynard's disco. Says that he's not only seen Duclos there, but seen him go off with one of the barmen who normally escorts clients to their nearby 'house'. We're cutting a deal with Ricauve for information, so we should be able to land on Eynard like a ton of bricks. He's got a lot to lose, so we're pretty sure he'll roll over and finger Duclos.'