Click. Stop. Silence.
Dominic listened out for the machine clicking again, but there was nothing. Monique had obviously finished with the tape.
'…That's all there's left to know now. Whether the rest of his body will also be affected. Arms and upper body.'
'I see. I understand.' Attention completely gone now. Only one thing he wanted to know. 'Let's talk again tomorrow morning — hopefully more will be known then.' Dominic rang off.
Walking back into the lounge to confront Monique, despite his wish not to pressure her or make her feel awkward in any way, his impatience he was sure came through — he probably did look like a schoolboy anxious for his exam results. Not saying anything, but his eyes saying it all, and thinking: So? So?
Monique didn't answer for a moment, looked down and away before finally lifting her gaze to speak. But the words themselves were secondary, he had already read it in her eyes. The storm clouds, the grey shadows, had returned. And this time he feared that they would take far, far longer to drift away.
TWENTY-NINE
Marseille, October 1982
MARC JAUMARD, brother of TOMAS JAUMARD, alias 'Chapeau'. Would the aforementioned, or anyone with knowledge of the aforementioned or his current whereabouts, please contact as a matter of urgency the offices of FOURCOT amp; GAUTHEREAU, 3?19, Rue Andre Isaia, Marseille. Teclass="underline" 698564.
Marcelle Gauthereau checked the small entry in the personal column of La Provencal, as he had done every six months for the past three and a half years. He wondered why he bothered sometimes. The copy was exactly the same as the first entry, they were obviously just printing from the first plate. Still he found himself mechanically checking the address and phone number. Particularly the phone number. Then he would consider its position on the page — see if it was placed well and didn't get lost too much among the heavier box adverts and the mass of pleas for instant romance.
The envelope had been signed, sealed and left with the notary for six years now. He had been the lawyer witnessing on behalf of his client, Tomas Jaumard, and it had also fallen to him to carry out Jaumard's instructions regarding the envelope in the event of his death. Tomas's brother Marc was to be notified and he, Marcelle Gauthereau, would then accompany Marc to the notary's office where, upon due presentation of identification and signing of a receipt, Marc would be handed the envelope left by his brother. Simple.
Except that when he originally sent out the notification, Marc Jaumard had moved. His letter was returned with no forwarding address. Gauthereau sent a clerk by the building a week later to discover that Marc had gone back to sea, but not with his old company. After phoning his old company and another number they recommended, the trail petered out with a past work colleague and an old flat mate. The only faint light that could be thrown on his whereabouts was that he might have joined up with a merchant company sailing out of Genoa. 'Perhaps he maintains a place there when he's back on shore.'
There were still some funds from the retainer Tomas Jaumard had left him to execute his will. The will simply couldn't be executed without Marc Jaumard; no other relatives were named. Gauthereau started placing the adverts. One every six months in Marseille, one a year in a Genoa paper in Italian. There was enough cash to cover a total of twelve insertions. Gauthereau was intrigued what might be in the envelope. Names, dates and vital contacts? Drug routes and stashes, details of Chapeau's account in Switzerland perhaps? Could he have earned that much as a milieu button man?
La Provencal had peppered the account of his death with his nickname. They seemed to all have nicknames: Tomi 'The Wall' Boisset, Jaques 'Tomcat' Imbert, Pierre 'The Priest' Cattaneo. Somehow added to the mystique and fear. Chapeau? The newspapers hadn't explained, nor had he ever asked. Getting through their few brief business meetings had been torturous enough; he'd always found himself clock-watching towards the end, uneasy under Jaumard's slow fish eye, without adding superfluous questions.
Two more insertions to go in Marseille, one in Genoa, before the retainer was finished. After that the envelope would stay gathering dust in the notary's office, with little chance of anyone knowing its contents.
Session 7.
Marinella Calvan listened to Lambourne's voice in the background as he induced Eyran Capel into hypnosis. The three questions Dominic Fornier wanted asked were on a piece of paper before her.
As before, Lambourne would spend the first ten minutes or so getting Eyran comfortable and asking general, everyday questions — then would slowly regress Eyran back and draw out Gigio.
Then Philippe would take over in French and Marinella would tap out her first question on the screen. Though Fornier's English was good, the questions had originally been in French and Philippe had translated. She would start with her own questions first, get Christian Rosselot settled more naturally into the mood and period, then lead into Fornier's questions.
Though Fornier was sat at the back of the room just as a casual observer, his presence created an added tension. Was it because of what he represented: someone who had been close to, had feelings for Christian Rosselot. What was before just a detached voice was suddenly tangible, real. A young boy who people once cared about, loved, just as her with Sebastian. Fornier's presence and the background he'd explained with his wife, the boy's mother, brought it all suddenly home to her.
Or was her concern that the voice and the details wouldn't stand up as real, and in a few questions time she would know. Nothing left but to pack her bags and fly back to Virginia that evening. Another disappointment. Perhaps it was just the number of them cramped in the small room, hanging on each word of a young boy long since dead, each laboured syllable, not speaking themselves, subduing even the faintest cough or sigh. And all them, except Philippe, with different hopes and ambitions of what might be gained from the session.
The differing aims of her and Lambourne had been underlined acutely at their meeting over dinner the night before. A discussion previously delayed; it seemed pointless to air their respective views on the link between Eyran and Christian until they knew whether the regression was real. Fornier had called the previous morning and told them that the details on the tape seemed accurate both to him and his wife, but there were a few extra questions to be totally sure: 'These are more personal, things which only Christian would know.'
David Lambourne was particularly anxious after his recent conversation with Stuart Capel. 'Eyran is still having his dreams, though not as intensely or frequently as before — at most maybe one every other week. But Stuart Capel is asking some pretty pointed questions about how we think putting an explanation to this regression will help Eyran.'
'Does Gigio still feature as prominently in them? Marinella asked.
'Maybe not quite as much — he's only in half of the dreams. But Eyran claims to be equally as distressed and frightened with Gigio not there. He doesn't have a friend to keep him company, face the dangers and pitfalls alongside him.'
'Or lead him astray, lead him into danger.'
Lambourne shrugged. 'The point is, Stuart Capel is starting to question our exploration of the link between the two boys. Suggesting that it might not be helping.'
'I see.' Amateur armchair analysis; all they needed to add to the already contrasted principles between herself and Lambourne. The chasm between standard psychiatry and parapsychology — with Lambourne's brief dabbling with PLT as a rickety rope bridge between the two. And in addition Fornier was now asking oddly-angled questions.