An easy question at last, thought Calvan. 'Well obviously, not until after the last session.'
'So, mid April sometime?'
'Yes, about then.'
'Then I would like you to listen to this.' Barielle produced a tape recorder from beneath his desk top. 'I will ask your comments afterwards.' A small cassette recorder, Barielle ceremoniously pressed play. The sound was faint and tinny, and Barielle turned up the sound to ensure it carried across the room.
'… it's a story we're preparing for next week's edition.'
'What paper did you say?'
'Miami Herald.'
Marinella recognized the voice straightaway: her agent, Stephanie Bruckmann. Stephanie had mentioned the Miami Herald calling.
'… we were hoping to combine a short bio on Marinella Calvan with a human interest piece on this case in France. I saw King's interview a few days back. Sounds a fascinating case…'
A man's voice. Whoever it was, they were good; the mood settled with general questions to start before honing in on finer detail. Answers were teased thick and fast out of Bruckmann, the two voices singing tinnily across the room.
Marinella felt as if she had been raped. She'd come fully prepared for PLR to be put on triaclass="underline" its credibility questioned and pummelled from every angle. But in the end they'd attacked mainly her own credibility. And now this was the final assault. One of Thibault's Stateside goons posing as a reporter. She felt as if he'd broken into her home and rifled through her bedside drawer, had picked out her private diary and was now reading it aloud to the courtroom. Underhand shit.
'… And when was it she first contacted you to start setting up possible speeches and interviews?'
'Sometime in April, I believe.'
'Do you remember the exact day? It's important, you see — to get the biography accurate.'
Pause. Faint flicking of paper. 'Yes, here we are. I started setting things in motion on the… the twenty-fourth of April. But she initially made contact, what — about three weeks before. She phoned me from London, told me what was in the pipeline with PLR and the murder case. Then we talked a couple more times in between as the sessions progressed.'
If Marinella hadn't already guessed what was the crucial point on the tape — she would have known from the way Barielle that second stared up at her. Searing blue eyes. She read it all in Barielle's face: Three weeks before the twenty-fourth. Third of April! Only days after the first session. Crucifixion.
She wanted to scream: it's not fair; it wasn't just for myself, but for the acceptance of PLR at large. Scream at the injustice and the tactics used to gain the tape. At Thibault and his goons and the slimy murderer of a politician who had hired them. But the image that overrode was of Dominic Fornier walking away from her that day in Covent Garden, shoulders slumped. A lifetime of tracking down Duclos, and now her stupidity had let him down. Destroyed the case.
And now there was probably nothing she could say that Barielle would believe; it would only make matters worse. So she just listened as the tape droned to a finish, stood red-faced, feeling powerless and cheated as the last of her credibility slipped away.
Cold marble. Dominic could feel the chill of the corridor. Unlike the individual rooms, the corridors in the Palais de Justice had hardly changed through the years. Timeless. Memories of Perrimond, of Machanaud; of every bold Prosecutor and the many poor condemned souls who had sat in the cavernous hallways the past thirty years, awaiting their fate.
Sat as Dominic was now on a wood bench, staring down at the floor. Dirt ingrained in marble tiles, the only remnants left of those who had waited on justice. Stained memories.
Marinella Calvan had come out only moments before and recounted the catalogue of disasters that had taken place inside. 'I'm sorry. It all went so terribly wrong. I just don't know how they got hold of half the information.'
Dominic could see she was distraught. She could have just rushed past him and headed straight down the Palais de Justice steps without taking the time out to say anything. He placated. 'It's okay. We gave it our best shot. If it's not meant to be, then so be it.' Monique's words. 'Even the publicity to date will have done Duclos no good.'
As Marinella had come out, David Lambourne was called in. She commented: 'I don't think he'll do us any particular favours.'
Beyond Dominic on the bench were Stuart and Eyran Capel. Stuart would appear straight after Lambourne, then Eyran to close the afternoon's proceedings. Since the boy had no direct recall of what took place under hypnosis, he would be asked only his name, date of birth, and to confirm the times and dates he attended the sessions in question.
Dominic wasn't sure how much Stuart Capel had overheard of his conversation with Marinella Calvan, but when she went over in turn to say hello to Stuart, Dominic noticed that at first Stuart looked concerned. A few words with both Stuart and Eyran, a quick ruffle of Eyran's hair, and soon afterwards she was gone. Dominic recalled that she had a boy of her own about Eyran Capel's age.
Noticing Dominic stare thoughtfully at the floor, Stuart commented: 'I suppose it must come as something of a blow?'
'I don't know if it's fully hit me yet.' Dominic sighed. So Stuart had overheard something, or Marinella had mentioned it. 'It just seems to have been such a long haul. The past few weeks have felt like thirty years. I've had to re-live my past all over again.' Pained smile. 'All my sins.'
They sat in silence for a moment. Respect for the dead trial. Stuart Capel was the first to break it.
'When is the hearing with your wife?'
'Two hearings time. Probably about a month or so.'
Stuart nodded. Lambourne had sent him copies of the transcripts two weeks after the last sessions with Calvan. When Eyran's condition started dramatically improving, Stuart was curious what had led to that turning point. A haunting, almost surreal quality to the transcripts which Stuart had found hard to relate to Eyran. Hardly any of that netherworld had broken through to Eyran's life outside of the dreams. Stuart hadn't let Eyran read the transcripts, but had recounted the main foundations of the case. Eyran's first main excitement had been that he had been helping out on a real-life murder case. Then later the deeper relevance dawned: that it was a past life, and in that life, he had been the victim. Pieces of a dark puzzle slotting finally into place. The last stages in a long healing process. Acceptance.
And as part of that final closing of the book, they'd arranged to go to the wheat field with Fornier earlier that morning. They were staying in Cannes, Fornier in Lyon: they met at a cafe by the Bauriac main square and drove out. Thirty minutes of walking through an empty field, some extra colour and shapes put to the voice on tape — but no real answers.
But part of Eyran's rising curiosity had been Monique Rosselot, and Stuart had asked about her then: 'Would she be at the later hearing? Eyran had hoped to meet her.' And Dominic had explained the sequence. Monique wouldn't appear until two hearings time to confirm the details on tape and corroborate the coin evidence: that Christian left that fateful day with it in his pocket.
They'd followed in a separate hire car to Aix, so hadn't discussed it further. But now with its mention again, Dominic commented: 'With all this happening — I doubt her hearing will even take place now. Look, leave me your number before you leave. I'll talk to Monique.'