The trial of the decade. It had all the ingredients: a leading politician, a detective stalking him relentlessly through three decades, regressionists and psychics on chat shows, a multi-billion dollar bio-technology dispute, and endemic corruption and political side-taking. No doubt he and Corbeix were both now viewed as champions of the new France, battling against endemic southern provincial corruption. Dominic shook his head. At heart, the issue should have been so simple: could justice finally be found for the murder of a ten year old boy?
Dominic eased his foot down, touching 165kmph. That justice was surely now closer. He pushed his concern about Thibault’s late ‘confront’ notice to the back of his mind.
'I thought you said that it would all be over at the last instruction hearing?'
'If it wasn't for something that came up unexpectedly at the last minute, it would have been,' Duclos defended. 'But it certainly will by the next.'
'First the last — now the next. My people are becoming anxious, and with good reason.' Marchand's tone was impatient. 'Despite the fact that your lawyer might have stopped mentioning the subject, the bio-technology dispute has come up again. As they say in the media: 'one of those stories that will run and run'.’
Panic. Everyone panicking, everything closing in. Duclos rubbed his strained eyes. His sleep had been poor for weeks now. Even he'd panicked after the last hearing collapsed, began to worry that this would be the pattern at every hearing: hopes built up of winning through, getting the case thrown out — then at the very last minute everything crushed. He'd started to think of last ditch options if all else failed, and had finally put through a call to Brossard: 'Two more people who might need to go the same way as Eynard.' He would phone again if he had to finally go ahead with the action. In the end, he doubted it would be necessary; but it was comforting to know there was a final fail-safe option if all else went wrong. Brossard already checking the movements of the people concerned, primed and ready to move if he had to call again.
The only one not panicking was Jaumard. He'd called Duclos at five o’clock one morning from Tacloban in the Southern Philippines. 'Thasss amazing, it's almost lunch time here,' he'd remarked to Duclos' complaint about the time. 'It's just to let you know your transfer arrived okay. I'm busy spending it here with a couple of friends.' Duclos could tell that Jaumard had been drinking, could hear a couple of girls giggling in the background. 'Well, it's nice to hear your voice, Minister. Nice to know that you're still alive, they haven't guillotined you yet.' A quick guffaw, and Jaumard rang off.
The call put Duclos in a foul mood for hours, he was unable to get back to sleep. Jaumard off in the Philippines spending his money with a couple of tarts, while he was trapped in his own house with Betina, Joel, a gendarme and half the nation's press at the gate.
Finally, he'd managed to calm himself: it would soon all be over. He reminded himself of the strength of the ace card they were holding with Aurillet at the next hearing. This time there was a virtual guarantee.
He placated Marchand. 'Don't worry. The hearing coming up now is a completely different situation. We have almost total control over what's going to happen. But if you want to wait till after the hearing to assure your people — fine. We should know in a few hours.'
'What makes you so sure of success?'
At first, Duclos wasn't going to tell Marchand. He could have just glossed over the issue, avoided answering. But he felt the need to put Marchand's mind at ease once and for all. And he was also proud, found himself almost gloating over the ingenuity of the scheme as he explained it to Marchand. At least one touch of genius among the whole mess.
Marchand's reaction was almost as breathless as Thibault's when he'd explained the ruse four days earlier. 'What — you mean Aurillet is practically in your pocket? When in fact the prosecution think he's one of their most important assets.'
'Got it in one.'
Marchand at least seemed more settled and assured as he signed off. In contrast, Thibault had been quite agitated. The sheer audacity of the scheme, or its implications? The fact that as his lawyer — unless he wanted to drop the case — he had little choice but to ride along with it. 'I'd better post a 'confront' notice straight away.'
'Do what you have to,' Duclos had commented flatly, but thought: if Thibault had delivered what he'd promised earlier, he wouldn't have even had to play the ruse and tell Thibault, worry his delicate legal sensibilities. Thibault should have been thankful it had all been laid on a plate for him. All he had to do was sit back and watch the case explode in Corbeix' face.
Dominic's hand trembled on his mobile phone as he dialled. Please God, let me be wrong… let me be wrong!
Past thoughts flashing as he'd sped fast traffic. Snippets of conversations. The phone started ringing. Motorway lay-by. The first Dominic had come to. Large trucks passing rocked his car slightly.
Bennacer answered after two rings. Background noise of traffic. Bennacer was on his mobile, obviously en route to Aix.
I'm surprised in a way that his pimp is Aurillet. Part of a conversation from over a week ago that Dominic hadn't pursued at the time. Dominic asked Bennacer about it now: 'What led you to make that comment?'
'It was just that looking at the details of the case, the boy killed in Taragnon was dusky — mixture of French and North African. Also Eyrnard in Paris specializes in a lot of that type. But as far as I know, Aurillet mostly deals with fair-skinned boys.' Bennacer glanced back towards Aurillet handcuffed to a sergeant in the back seat. Aurillet looked uncomfortable, possibly at the conversation taking place as if he wasn't there. He turned away, glanced through the side window.
'Is there a Marseille-based pimp who specializes in dusky boys?' Dominic asked.
'A couple. But the main one that springs to mind is Francois Vacharet. Place in the Panier district, used to be run by his father Emile. You should remember the father: we investigated his murder together back when you were on our patch. Looked like a milieu hit.'
'Yes, yes. I do.' Hazy memory from twenty years ago.
'That's the other thing: Vacharet's was one of the few places also operating back in ‘63.' Bennacer turned back to Aurillet. 'Too far back for you Vince, huh? Still in nappies.' Aurillet sat tight-jawed staring through the window. Probably stung by the jibe, though Bennacer thought for a moment he saw something beyond: Aurillet looked genuinely perturbed. 'So if Duclos did have a pimp back then, it wasn't Aurillet.'
'Have you got a number for Vacharet?'
'Not on me. But if you call my assistant Moudeux, he'll pull something up from the file.'
'Thanks.' Dominic rang off, dialled straight out to the Marseille station and was put through to Moudeux. Thirty seconds of Moudeux tapping through a computer file and he had the number. Dominic dialled it straightaway.
A man's voice answered after the second ring. Dominic asked for Francois Vacharet.
'He's on the other line right now. Who may I say is calling?'
'Victor. I'm an associate of Alain Duclos. Acting as liaison between him and his lawyer, Jean-Paul Thibault.'
'One moment.'
Dominic felt his nerves racing in the wait. If anything had been done to disguise Duclos' activities, then it was a strong bet it had been arranged through his real pimp. But Dominic knew that he'd have to be assumptive, take the initiative to get to the truth.