Lepoille was back. '… Nothing yet. Found a relative on one, but nothing more. We'll phone as soon as we get something. What time will you get there?'
Dominic calculated: just over an hour more to Paris, then the connection to Rouen. 'About six o'clock.' He could have shaved fifty minutes by flying, but it was vital he maintain contact by phone throughout.
Dominic called the new number straight after signing off from Lepoille. It was engaged.
Madness. A boy under hypnosis mentioning a coin from over thirty years ago, an old woman remembering the name of a garage… and half of Interpol Division II's computer team had been tied up for two days.
Hundreds of computer records searched. Nine names and matching identity numbers of the workers in a Limoges garage from thirty years ago. Four traced. Three dead. Two left to find. Any casual workers not on the 1964 garage pay-roll list would be virtually impossible to track down.
Of the four so far traced two were still in Limoges, one in Narbonne and one in Rouen, not on the phone. Dominic decided to head to Rouen while Lepoille continued his search. With the train he could stay in touch, plus call directly any new traces which came in.
Dominic dialled the number again in Limoges: Serge Roudele. It answered. Dominic introduced himself and confirmed with Roudele that he worked in the Mirabeau garage in 1964.
'Yes, I did… why?
'It concerns an Alfa Romeo. An Alfa Romeo Giulietta Sprint.' The other two workers Dominic had spoken to earlier hadn't remembered the car. Among the hundreds of cars seen by a garage worker over the years, how to throw a spotlight on this one car? 'Now I know that you probably saw a lot of cars, but maybe not so many Alfa Romeos. This was the coupe version, quite a classic. Dark green.'
Brief silence, then: 'No, sorry. I don't seem to remember it.'
'Owner was a young lawyer, Alain Duclos. Went on to become your local MP, RPR party.'
'I'm afraid I was just on the works floor, I didn't deal with the owners. I hardly knew whose car was whose.'
'… Quite a distinctive car.'
'Sorry — we dealt with so many classics and sports cars. They were a strong line for the garage, so I saw a lot of them. I just can't place it.'
As with the others, thought Dominic. But still he asked about the coin. One car among so many might be hard to place, but it wasn't every day that a rare coin was found in a car boot. 'An Italian twenty lire. Silver. Quite large. It would probably have fallen down and been concealed by the spare wheel.'
A pause. A long pause. The sound of a dog barking somewhere in the distance. 'I'm sorry, inspector. I really can't remember anything like that at all.'
'Or do you remember anyone else in the garage finding such a coin — any talk about it at all?'
'No… nothing, I'm afraid.'
'Well — if you do happen to recall anything later, give me a call.' Dominic gave his mobile number. 'It would help us enormously in a very important murder case. There's no possible recrimination against anyone who might have taken the coin, and there's even a small reward: 5,000 francs. About double what the coin is worth on today's market.'
The script was practically the same each time: setting the scene; the car; the coin; the seriousness of the case; the assurance of no recriminations in case of worries about a theft charge; the reward as incentive.
Dominic left a marked silence in hope of response, but Roudele merely repeated that unfortunately he didn't remember anything. Dominic thanked him and rang off.
Madness. Hopeless. Thirty five minutes left to Paris. Hurtling across France on a futile paper chase, pursuing a few fragments of memories from decades ago. One more lead to check and two more names to chase. But despite the odds against them finding anything after all these years, Dominic felt this strange sense of controclass="underline" of him connected to Lepoille and Interpol's central computer room while speeding towards their next lead at over 300kmph, of Lepoille in turn linked to networks of computers the length and breadth of the country, searching, sorting, feeding the information back to him. A web of control so wide and powerful it would somehow defeat the odds stacked against them. Modern France. Tracking down the clues to Christian Rosselot's murder in a way that was impossible thirty years ago.
Though just over an hour later, sitting in a Rouen cafe and sipping hot chocolate with a calvados chaser, watching through the rain for Guy Leveque to return to his house, one again it felt like good old detective work. How it used to be.
'Pardon. Sorry.'
At the sight of her boss with two other men in the cubicle, the girl pulled the curtain closed again and went to the next cubicle with her client.
'Okay, so what have we got?' asked Sauquiere. 'My client names this Alain Duclos. Says that he comes to Perseus 2000 regularly and asks for young boys. What does my client get in return?'
Deleauvre looked between Sauquiere and Eynard. Eynard with his pony-tail and ridiculous purple satin shirt over his Buddha-like figure, Sauquiere with his Armani blazer, furtive, darting eyes and greased back hair. It was difficult to decide who looked seedier. The start of the meeting had been difficult, until Sauquiere realized the cards Deleauvre was holding: a clear testimony from Ricauve implicating Eynard in supplying boys for a child pornographer. Sauquiere suddenly showed interest in the benefits of his client in turn rolling over and naming somebody else. Deleauvre sighed. 'He's still going to have to do some time. But we'll make sure it's only two rather than what he'd face normally, four or five. With remission, he'll be out in fifteen months.'
'And the clubs?'
'Perseus will probably have to close for six months.'
Sauquiere threw his hands up. 'That's ludicrous. It's hardly worth cutting a deal.'
Deleauvre smiled tightly. The closure had hit a sore spot: the threat of Eynard's income squeezed, fat retainers being reduced. They argued the toss for a while, three months, one month, and then Deleauvre thought on an angle: Gay activists? Closing Perseus could be sensitive. 'If the claim arises that this whole thing has been engineered just to close down one of the main gay night spots, it could become politically awkward. Something the judge would be eager to avoid… given pressure from the right quarter.'
Fifteen minutes later the foundation of the deal was decided: eighteen months to two years maximum for Eynard, Perseus stays open or, at worst, a one month closure purely as a gesture. Current 'house' for young boys to close; if they wanted to open up discreetly elsewhere, then Deleauvre didn't want to know. But no supply of boys for paedophile magazines and videos.
Sauquiere looked at his diary. 'I can't do tomorrow, busy day in court.'
They arranged for ten o’clock the following morning. Session room at the police station, taped interview, sample statement to be pre-prepared. 'You check it over, then your client gives a statement along those lines in his own words. Everybody's happy.' Deleauvre smiled, and they all shook hands.
Eynard had hardly spoken throughout. Sauquiere had him well trained: a few words at the beginning, then later a brief confirmation that his term would be in an open prison. 'I've heard they're practically like hotels. I can still run my business from there. Catch up on my Rabelais.'
Deleauvre weaved back through the bar and the girls plying their trade. Some wore silver satin shorts and black see through halter tops, others nothing but a tanga. One caught his eye as he passed, dipped one finger in her champagne glass, pulled her halter to one side to expose a breast, and teased the droplet around one nipple provocatively. She smiled. She was beautiful and very sensuous: a young Denuevre. Tempting. He smiled in return as if to say 'next time' and made his way out into the street.