The only time Stuart had spoken with Calvan before was for twenty minutes after her first session with Eyran, when she'd provided some of her background with regressions, children and xenoglossy. She preferred cases of xenoglossy in children because of the unlikelihood of them learning the language by other means. Fluent Spanish, medieval German, Phoenician, obscure regional dialects. Hundreds of authenticated case studies and papers compiled between herself and her mentor, Dr Emmett Donaldson. Impressive stuff, incredible. Somehow too incredible to be real. Stuart hadn't voiced any doubt, but Calvan somehow sensed it, had suddenly asked him if, apart from Eyran, he knew anyone who had been in a coma. No, he hadn't. But, she pressed, he had probably heard of people who after being in a coma had afterwards suffered amnesia. Memory loss. 'Yes,' he'd answered. Calvan had succinctly pointed out that if a period of coma had the ability to wipe out memory, then a death certainly would. 'People tend not to believe in past lives simply because they themselves have no personal recall of a past life. Nothing tangible with which to relate. But that doesn't mean they haven't occurred. Most people under hypnosis do in fact recall past lives. And my colleague Dr Donaldson has had great success in sessions with young boys up to the age of seven while awake. After that, the ability to recall diminishes.'
Stuart could just imagine Calvan back in Virginia, pacing in front of first year students, dazzling the class with the same graphic example. Why was he still so sceptical?
Marinella Calvan's parting words after the last session still rang in his mind: 'At least now we know it's a real past life, the danger of possible schizophrenia has gone. No more worries about a secondary character taking over.'
But Stuart hadn't felt any relief. Replacing something tangible — something with which he could strongly relate — with a concept he still couldn't quite grasp, just didn't sit right. Regardless of the obvious benefits stressed by Calvan.
When he'd first mentioned his doubts to Amanda about the continuing sessions, she'd quickly thrown in his face that he'd never been keen on them, and now at the first obstacle, the first turn in the road with which he didn't agree — he was ready to throw in the towel. 'Leave it to the experts, Stuart. It's their problem. Why their walls are full of diplomas in psychoanalysis and yours aren't. You're never going to second guess them at their own game.'
So that was how she saw it. The age old argument. While it was their problem, he wasn't so obsessed with Eyran, he had more time to devote to his own family. To Tessa and herself. Eyran had conveniently been shoved off to the sidelines: someone else's problem. If Stuart called an end to the sessions, the problem of Eyran was back fully in their laps.
But Amanda's comment, however mis-guided, threw a starker light on his own doubt. He had originally hoped that the sessions would break down the barriers and imaginary characters in Eyran's mind. He would feel closer to Eyran again. The Eyran he remembered. But now the character was real, not imaginary. Not one that would be shifted by a few couch-side questions from Lambourne. And apart from worrying where the future sessions with Eyran might now head, he wondered whether at heart it wasn't scepticism, but more that he didn't want to believe. Accept the reality of a secondary character who would always be with Eyran, however deeply buried in his subconscious. Yet again he would be sharing Eyran.
Time was too tight for the evening flight to Lyon, so Dominic decided to stay over another night at the Meridien. He opted for an afternoon flight the next day so that he would be readily available through the morning for any news from Marinella Calvan. They had the final session at eleven o’clock, and he imagined that she would broach what he'd proposed either directly before or after the session, while both the Capels and Lambourne were present.
Though she'd voiced caution and doubt, her questions and keen interest had also displayed strong eagerness to help. Dominic was hopeful.
No call by eleven. She either hadn't yet broached the subject, or it was too awkward to hold up the session or make the call while the Capels were still there. Or, if she got agreement, she might even plough straight in and ask some pertinent questions straight away. Another hour or so to wait.
Dominic felt at a loose end. He'd earlier phoned his Lyon office and gained an update on activities while he was away from Inspector Guidier, his second in command. He now phoned Guidier back and asked him to make contact with the Lyon Public Prosecutor's office. 'Try Verfraigne. It's just a hypothetical situation at this stage.' Dominic explained what he wanted: the likely prosecution procedure for a murder case re-opened after over thirty years. Any obvious pitfalls and obstacles. 'It wouldn't come under Lyon's jurisdiction, but Aix-en-Provence. So the names of prosecutors and any likely chains of command for such a scenario there would also be helpful.'
Guidier was curious. 'Anything interesting?'
'Could be. Could be.' Dominic didn't want to say anything until Marinella Calvan had called, didn't want to tempt fate. But by starting the process, at least he had the feeling something was in motion. 'I'm leaving here at one-forty. But I won't be back in the office in Lyon until probably six or seven. Just time to pick up some files before I head down to Vidauban for the weekend.' He gave the hotel telephone number for any immediate news.
Dominic's second call was to Pierre Lepoille at Interpol. Lepoille was one of the best Interpol intelligence officers he knew. A researcher in his mid-twenties when they'd worked together at Interpol in Paris; now thirty-four, Lepoille was a true scion of the electronic age. A walking encyclopaedia of random knowledge, with whatever he didn't know a few keystrokes away: Interpol's own secure network, the FBI's AIS programme, Minitel or surfing the Internet.
Lepoille was part of the permanent backbone of intelligence staff who supported the shifting quotas of officers, like himself, on two year assignments with Interpol. Or liaised with the myriad of police forces world-wide. Gaining access, breaking codes, smashing deftly through virgin cyberspace barriers — few secrets could be safely cocooned from Lepoille's probing keystrokes. The thought of a criminal being apprehended in Kuala Lumpur from an initial enquiry from a backwater police station in Tupelo, Mississippi, all through a succession of quick-fire keystrokes, Lepoille found addictive.
His only other addiction was Gauloise, but since smoking was not allowed in the computer room, Lepoille's two vices were in serious conflict. Lepoille would grasp at any excuse to head to the canteen, lighting up as soon as he was out of the computer room, then would chain smoke, practically lighting one from the embers of another. But at some stage Lepoille's withdrawal symptoms of being away from his computers would become stronger and he'd be eager to return. Dominic recalled many a chain-smoking canteen meeting with Lepoille.
'Dominic. Nice to hear from you. Been a while.'
They spent a few minutes catching up on the eight months since their last meeting before Dominic got to what he wanted: 'Psychics. Cases proven through psychic phenomena, as well as failed cases involving the same. With the latter, any obvious legal obstacles that came out of why the cases failed.'
'In France, or beyond.'
'Mainly France. But any big landmark cases outside might also be useful.'
'Okay.' Lepoille didn't ask what it was for. Countless intelligence enquiries every week had numbed him to the unusual. Lepoille had become used to not asking.
Dominic left Lepoille his number at Vidauban for anything that might come through in the next day or two, then took a long deep breath and sat back. It was done. Everything put in motion. Nothing left but to see what came back in. He looked at his watch: 11.52am. Calvan would be finished in just eight minutes. The phone could ring and he would know whether his efforts of the last fifty minutes had been wasted or not.