Dominic got out and walked across to the bar. He realized he hadn't been inside since Louis sold it, had hardly been back to Taragnon or Bauriac in all those years. Too painful. Even when they'd bought the farmhouse in Vidauban and might pass through on the way to Aix, Dominic would make sure to choose an alternate route.
Black and chrome: black velvet chairs, black smoked glass table tops with chrome trim. The bar counter was black and had three thick chrome strips facing. It was almost empty, with just a few stragglers at the bar and one table. The new owner obviously went for the evening cocktail crowd. Or perhaps this is what teenagers and bikers liked nowadays.
Dominic ordered a brandy. No juke-box. A powerful sound system played Brian Adams' 'Run to You.' Some French rap followed. The barman was young, slim and had a ponytail. As far removed from Louis as you could get. Dominic smiled. He drained his glass and ordered another brandy. Suddenly the alcohol felt good, cut through the images: Louis dancing with Valerie to the juke-box, him driving out to tell Monique, tell her that… the lorry flashing past, Christian trapped in the car boot, the coin… Duclos raising his wine glass, gloating. Dominic gripped his glass tight.
He knocked it back sharply, ordered again. Some heavy rock followed. Dominic headed for the bathroom to escape. The images were too vivid, too harsh. He wished now he hadn't come back. He splashed some water on his face to freshen up. Catching his reflection in the mirror as he straightened, suddenly it struck him: he hadn't returned just to hunt clues, but for himself. To relive the memories, then bury them once and for all. At heart he knew it was all futile, hopeless. No startling revelations would be sparked off just by him being there again. Duclos had outwitted them all thirty years ago, and he'd done it again now. Had somehow got to Eynard before them. It was over. Over! Even if they did find something, Duclos would no doubt beat them to it yet again, would…
'Ca va, Monsieur? Is everything okay?'
Dominic focused past his shoulder. An old man turning from the urinal was looking on concernedly. Images of Machanaud raising his eau de vie: 'How's the investigation going?'
'Fine, just fine,' Dominic muttered. Suddenly he had to get out. He paid the barman, knocked back his brandy and headed back to Vidauban. He slotted in a CD to drown out the heavy rock still ringing in his ears: 'Simply Red'. Gerome had introduced him. 'His generation's’ soul music. Years before he'd introduced Gerome to his own time-warped soul collection.
Dominic felt the music soothing him. The images and emotions started to settle. He should never have gone back… never. He banged the wheel in annoyance. Nothing ever felt good… because nothing ever could. I'll keep holding on…keep holding on… As the words and rhythm flowed through him, mouthing silently to some of the verses, he wondered whether he'd chosen it because it was one of his favourites, or because subconsciously it just seemed to…
He bit at his lip. Tears welling suddenly gave him the answer. And the rest of the emotions and images he'd been fighting back, bubbling like raw acid beneath the surface, suddenly broke free: Monique in the hospital with the candle burning, him calling at her door and saying that Christian was dead, dead. The gendarme's tapping through the wheat field, Jean-Luc's solitary figure at the back of the field. Louis smiling, pouring him another brandy, winking as a pretty girl passed. His mother smiling in the fading light at the beauty of the garden and the tangerine tree. All gone now, all gone. Old friends, loved ones, the endless chain of work colleagues long buried with heart attacks or liver failure. Even the memories now dull and faded with the years.
All that was left now was a voice. The lost and lonely voice of a small boy murdered over thirty years ago.
The welling tears stung his eyes, and Dominic thought stupidly: 'I'm too old too cry. Seen too much, buried too many friends. Too many.' But the long years of holding back the memories, of fighting back the tears, biting at his lip with each friend lost, each funeral — had built a veritable tidal wall. And as his last defences were stripped away, the barricades suddenly broken by that lone pathetic voice, by the week's activities and now the sudden recall and memories — the rest flooded in a rush behind, the wave crashing down relentlessly. His whole body was suddenly racked with sobbing.
The road ahead blurred as his eyes watered, a pastel abstract. He had to pull over to the side of the road and stop.
He cried at the injustice, cried for the lost years, cried for the loved ones and friends long since buried and forgotten, cried and cried and cried until his whole body started to tremble; a ridiculous, pathetic shaking that gradually struck him as amusing as much as sad and distressing. And he found himself half laughing between the sobs as it continued, as he glanced up and noticed a young man passing look towards him concernedly.
He wiped his eyes hurriedly as he fought to recover, regain his composure.
For the rest of the drive to Vidauban, he felt strangely relaxed, calm. As if the sudden catharsis had washed away all the past bitter memories along with his false hopes and the frustrations of the past week. It was in the past. It was gone. How could he have ever deluded himself that he could solve some past problem with something now, thirty years on? That barrier was probably never even meant to have been crossed.
His life put in order, everything at last in perspective — when Dominic hit his bed back at Vidauban, the wave of exhaustion of the past days finally caught up with him. He fell into a deep sleep almost immediately. Though some faint memories still replayed: the tinkling of goats’ bells from the next field, the church bells announcing the service for Christian Rosselot…
All that broke through his subconscious from his mobile ringing in his jacket pocket.
At the other end, Serge Roudele counted off the third ring. He decided to wait three more rings before giving up. Ever superstitious, if it didn't answer by then he would read that as a clear message that he wasn't meant to make contact, confirming his first assumption about Fornier's calclass="underline" it was a trick. He wouldn't call again.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The tape recorder red light flicked on as the small bleep sounded. The operator, Lassarde, glanced up. Third recording of the night, must be approaching the hundredth now over the past five days. How long did Bennacer intend to keep the line tap running? He sipped at his coffee, stared numbly at the reels turning.
'What time will you be here?'
'About nine, nine thirty on the Saturday. Pretty much as usual. You mentioned a new boy. How does he compare with my usual, Jean-Pierre? Is he as young?'
A pause, faint clearing of the throat. 'Look, let's discuss all that when you get here. Don't worry, you won't be disappointed.'
Lassarde sat up. Young boys. Aurillet, the child pimp they’d tapped, sounded nervous talking about their ages over the phone. But who was at the other end? From what he'd been briefed, he doubted it was Duclos. This sounded like a regular, someone who visited practically every weekend. Duclos was apparently more a seasonal visitor. But because Duclos called rarely, hopefully he might announce himself — even though they might wait weeks for the call. Patience.