Monique's first question. Dominic looked on expectantly, felt his mouth dry with anticipation, the atmosphere tense in the small room.
A frown, a creasing of the boy's brow, as if he was scanning frantically back through images and memories long past. The boy looked very different to how he remembered Christian: wavy light brown hair, a few freckles across the bridge of his nose, his eyes pale brown. Christian's hair had been darker and curlier, his skin tone olive, his eyes a piercing green. It was difficult to relate the two.
The thought lines in his forehead slowly eased. 'We were clearing some long grass from the grapevines my father had planted at the beginning of the year.'
Marinella picked up on the frown, wondered if Eyran was thrown by the questions being suddenly more specific, rather than the very generalized questions of the last session.
'And what happened while you were helping your father in the field?'
Faint lines returned; uncertainty with the question. After a moment: 'It was very hot. I er… I became worried at one point that I wasn't being of much help. My father was working very fast, I wasn't keeping up with him very well.'
'But something happened that day to make you finally stop working,' Philippe prompted. 'What was it?'
Gradual realization, the lines easing again. 'I was stung by a bee.' A pause. Marinella tapping at the keyboard. Philippe was about to prompt when Eyran continued. 'But my mother didn't have a plaster or any antiseptic. She applied some vinegar, then some baking powder on cotton wool. It took out a lot of the sting. She said that it was something she'd learnt from her mother.'
Dominic felt the back of his neck tingle. When he'd gone through the questions with Monique, she'd mentioned Christian helping Jean-Luc and getting stung by a bee. Her applying vinegar and baking soda because they had no antiseptic. Dominic shivered involuntarily as the tingle spread down through his body. It was Christian's voice. There remained little doubt.
Listening first hand was dramatically different to just the detached voice on the tape, he thought. Seeing the small face struggling with the thoughts and images, the brow knitted, tongue gently moistening his lips as the words were finally found. The words of another boy from another era. The description of Christian and Jean-Luc working side by side in the fields, father and son, both dead now these past thirty years, cut a powerful and poignant image. Dominic's hand clenched, emotions of sadness and nostalgia gripping him hard.
He'd arranged to fax the transcript to Monique and wait in London for her to answer; if her response was positive, he wanted to stay to talk with Marinella Calvan in more depth. But if little additional information surrounding the murder could be gained, what would be the point?
The second question was about a game of boules in the village square one Sunday. Christian was nine, it was only a couple of months after his birthday. Philippe pinpointed the day: Christian had gone with Jean-Luc to watch the village boules games on several occasions. But this particular Sunday something had occurred.
'…There was an accident.' Eyran's eyes flickered, the right image finally falling into place. 'Nothing serious. But two cars going around the square, one went into the other. The two drivers, both men, were very angry, shouting loudly at each other. Most of the men playing were distracted, it looked like any minute a fight might break out.'
'And what happened then?'
Eyran had settled into the rhythm of the more specific, narrowly targeted questions. Pauses were now less marked. 'One of the players, Alguine — when he thought that everyone was looking towards the road, moved to stand by his own boule, then nudged it closer to the cochonnet with one foot.'
'What did you do?'
'Looking around, I realized that nobody had noticed but me. Alguine had moved quickly away from his boule, so I moved gradually towards it and, as the other players' attention drifted back, I looked down suddenly and apologized: "Sorry. I must have kicked this boule while I was looking at the accident. I'll put it back where it was." I could see Alguine glaring at me, but he said nothing. Later, when I told my father, he couldn't stop laughing.'
Jean-Luc had told Monique, Dominic reflected, then in turn Monique had told him just the other day when she'd prepared the questions. Batons passed down through the years. A few faint brush strokes depicting an era of Monique's life previously strange to him.
Thirty years? Machanaud had died over ten years ago. Fourteen years in prison. Only six years of freedom in between. A handful of twilight years to swill back some eau de vies and spin out his long forgotten glory days in the resistance, poach a last few rivers. Rough justice.
If four years ago he hadn't bumped into Molet, Machanaud's lawyer, in the recess halls at the Lyon Palais de Justice, he might never have known. Molet was there on a hearing for a Nice-based client. They both recognized each other straightaway — but it took some prompting from Dominic for Molet to finally recall from where and when. After some initial pleasantries, they turned to the subject of Machanaud. Molet did most of the talking while Dominic registered in turn surprise, guilt, and finally, outrage.
Molet obviously read the guilt, because he commented that he himself had not realized Machanaud was still being held under psychiatric care until year eleven. 'I thought he would have been released ages ago. But it still took three years to press for his release. There was a review only once a year.'
Molet went on to describe Perrimond's undue influence with hospital governors and state psychiatrists to ensure Machanaud was not released. Provence establishment favour swapping — at the golf club or masonic lodge — at its very worst. 'Each time a negative psychiatric report came through. Machanaud wasn't finally released until a year after Perrimond's death.'
'… I got a boule close to the white, only a few centimetres away. My father was quite surprised. Only one of the other players got so close — and in the end they had to measure to see who had won.'
Dominic looked down. It wasn't part of the prepared question sheet. Marinella Calvan had obviously let him ramble; perhaps happy of a diversion allowing Christian to relax, establish a more natural rhythm. It was obviously also an incident he remembered with fondness.
The boy's faint smile. Dominic found it vaguely disturbing. A reminder of lost happiness, lost years.
Molet had looked sharply at Dominic, as if perhaps expecting a reciprocal disclosure of guilt. But Dominic said nothing. What could he say? That year seven had been the first time it had occurred to him to check on Machanaud, and when he couldn't trace Molet's number he had finally called Perrimond's office. Three calls later with no reply, his workload had quickly swamped his concern. And on the few occasions since that the thought had arose, he'd convinced himself that Machanaud had probably been released years back. He had never troubled to pick up the phone and check. Too busy.
And even if he had explained all that, Molet would have questioned why he was concerned. And he would have felt inclined to explain the rest: his past doubts about Machanaud's guilt, the police cover-up over the car description, how he had been pushed into going along with everything because of the veiled threat of being shipped off to a gendarmerie in northern France. That his mother would have been left to die alone. He could explain none of that — so in the end he said nothing.
But Dominic was sure that in that moment Molet had seen it all in his face, seen the quickly rising burden of guilt and shock as it struck him just how long Machanaud had spent locked away.
'… it was on a trip to Alassio. We went there for a weekend.'