Duclos sat on the bed as Vacheret introduced two new boys who had arrived in the last week, as possible alternatives to his favourite of the last few visits, Jahlep. The two boys wore claret red baggy harem trousers and round neck white shirts. One was very young, possibly twelve, while the other was closer to fourteen or fifteen. Duclos concentrated on the younger one as Vacheret explained that he was a mulatto from Martinique, exquisite light brown eyes, delicate complexion, brand new the last week, hardly touched. Vacheret might as well have been trying to sell him a used car, Duclos thought. True, the boy was exquisite, cream brown skin, just the age he liked. But he just couldn't concentrate and get up any enthusiasm.
Noticing his hesitancy, Vacheret commented, 'What's wrong, you want a drink while you decide or is there something private you want to ask me about them. Shall I send the boys away?'
'I'm not sure. Perhaps. Give me a minute.'
Vacheret ushered the boys away and sat down beside Duclos. 'Have you decided on Jahlep again, but you didn't want to say so in front of those two. Or are you just undecided between Jahlep and this new boy? Perhaps you could try the two together?' Vacheret raised his eyebrows hopefully.
Beads of sweat stood out on Duclos' forehead and he looked troubled, his eyes darting as he contemplated the floor. 'Look, I'm sorry. I can't think clearly about the boys for the moment. Maybe later. But there's something on my mind, something I'd like to ask you about first.'
Vacheret nodded, suddenly pensive, barely containing a half smile; he was sure that Duclos was about to enquire about some bizarre practice or fantasy, something he'd been too coy to mention before. It always tickled him, this part, clients admitting their secret sexual desires; it was almost like being a psychiatrist or priest, finally clients got around to what was really troubling them.
But as Duclos explained what he wanted, Vacharet's expression became slowly graver. This wasn't what he expected.
Crossing the courtyard as he left twenty minutes later, Duclos could see the misty shape of a girl rolling up one black stocking through the net curtains at a window to one side. She had wild red hair and was naked except for a garter belt and the one stocking, and was sitting on the edge of the bed facing the window. Because she was close to the window, she saw him and smiled, gradually parting her legs wider. Duclos turned away and headed for the courtyard door. If he'd stayed, she would probably have put on a little show for him, but he wasn't interested.
He phoned Vacheret that night and, as arranged, Vacheret gave him a name and a time and place to make contact.
The room where Machanaud was taken to was at the back of the gendarmerie. The main window was open with the heat, its grey wooden shutters closed. Only faint slats of sunlight filtered in, so the main light, a football sized glass sphere screwed to the ceiling, had been switched on. The rooms at the back, away from the traffic and looking onto a car park shared with the Town Hall, were quiet.
Machanaud had arrived at 11.30am, as scheduled. But Poullain had made him wait in the room on his own for almost twenty minutes. Dominic timed and dated an interview form, and made notes as Poullain started with Machanaud's main background details: Age: 39; Town of birth: St Girons; Place of residence: Seillons; Occupation: farm labourer. Past convictions? Machanaud could recall two past convictions, but not the dates, so Dominic took the details from the past charge sheets: drunken and disorderly in March of that year and poaching the previous October.
Machanaud looked older than his age, Dominic always thought: closer to mid or late forties. His skin was weathered and pitted, his thick brown hair long and unkempt and heavily greased back in an effort to make it look tidier; though all too often a lank forelock would break loose and hang across his face. When drunk and in one of his more rebellious moods, the one eye that wasn't covered by hair gave the impression of leering wildly.
Poullain waited for Dominic to stop writing, then started with a general summary of Machanaud's activities on the 18th August, most of it purely skimming details from their interview of the day before. Then Poullain went back to the beginning, going into more specific timings. 'So you left after finishing work at Raulin's farm at about eleven, is that right?'
'No, closer to twelve.'
Poullain was testing. Machanaud had told them twice before that it was twelve. Eleven was closer to the time they thought he had left from their interviews the day before both with Raulin and Henri at Bar Fontainouille, who seemed to remember Machanaud calling in and leaving earlier. 'And you went straight on to Bar Fontainouille from there?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'How long would that take, do you think?'
'About fifteen, twenty minutes.'
Poullain spent the next ten minutes running through Machanaud's movements: Bar Fontainouille at 12.15pm, leaving just before 2 pm for Gilbert Albrieux' farm where he'd planted some vines the February past. Albrieux apparently hadn''t been there to see him, but after a quick check of the vines Machanaud claimed he sat on a stone wall and had a sandwich. After half an hour, he then headed off to Leon's.
Dominic felt the tension building with each question, or maybe it was because he knew what was coming: Poullain was slowly circling in for the kill.
'So, it's what — only ten or twelve minutes from Albrieux' to Leon's bar. What time did you arrive there?'
'About two thirty-five, two forty. But I only stayed about an hour, because I had to be back at Raulin's for the late shift at four o'clock.'
Dominic looked at his notes. Effectively all that Machanaud admitted to was being on his own for about half an hour after two o'clock. Their various interviews from the day before told a different story. Raulin didn't recall seeing him after 11am and although Henri at Bar Fontainouille wasn't sure what time Machanaud arrived, he was certain of the time he left, at about 1pm, because of when he started serving set lunches that day. Leon too wasn't sure what time Machanaud had called in, but they had the firm sighting from Madame Veillan which would have put Machanaud at Leon's at about 3.15pm. That left almost two hours unaccounted for between 1pm and 3pm.
'Did you go anywhere on the way back to Raulin's?'
'Just to pick up some tobacco, but that's just a few doors from Leon's. It only took minutes.'
'And in all of your travels on that day, did you happen to see a young boy?'
The question threw Machanaud. All of his answers had been carefully thought out to defend their suspicion of him poaching. Why else would the questions be angled so insistently around the two hours he'd been by the river? The continued questioning, the fact that they seemed to be taking the issue so seriously, for the first time started him wondering. 'A boy? What has that got to do with anything?'
'I don't know, you tell us.' Poullain's easy manner, asking questions at a steady pace, suddenly went. 'What time did you meet him — half past one, two o'clock? Where was it you first picked him up: in the village, or near the lane?'
Machanaud was perplexed. He ruffled his hair uneasily. 'I was at Bar Fontainouille, I had at least two drinks with Henri himself serving at the bar. I couldn't possibly have met anyone then.'
'Except that you left the Fontainouille an hour earlier, at one o'clock. And yes, you went to have lunch with your knapsack. But instead of going to Albrieux' place, you went down to the river by Breuille's land. And on the way there, you met the boy.'