Now she wrote: The wheat field is not just a symbol for Christian's separation from his parents, but also perhaps his best friend. Christian might see Eyran as a replacement for that best friend — the friend he never got to see that fateful day.
She'd tried to broach the subject of Fornier's quest at first gently, mentioning only that there might be a few more questions. But Lambourne looked immediately dismayed, mentioned that on the last tape Stuart Capel had complained about the pointed, angled questions making Eyran hesitant, almost defensive. 'I'd assured him that this last session would be far more open, allow Eyran freer range. What questions?' And she'd fluffed that they were nothing important: 'They'll wait.' With Lambourne and Stuart Capel concerned about even a few pointed questions, hoping to de-rail into a full murder investigation was hoplessly out of reach. At least she'd tried.
Shortly after the last session she'd been struck with another link: There was a river running close to where Christian Rosselot's body was found, and in one of Eyran's dreams the brook by Broadhurst Farm featured, expanding into a large lake. Perhaps Christian believed somehow that if he'd have been able to cross that river, he would have escaped his attacker and avoided his fate. And in Eyran's dream the lake symbolized separation from his parents. But it is obviously Christian's separation which has the strongest connection with water.
The debate with Lambourne over whose sense of separation was stronger — Christian's or Eyran's, past or present — was irrelevant. The links were all there. The Freud-devotees and conventionalists were going to love it. Object loss symbols were classic.
And if they started to wriggle and defend, she had more than enough information with which to bury them: Dr Torrens initial recommendation to therapy, his earlier EEGs recording brain wave disturbance, Lambourne's sessions — his concern about dominance of the secondary character and schizophrenia — then finally Eyran speaking in French under hypnosis and her being called in. Over sixty pages of notes and files even before the three tapes and forty-six pages of transcript from her own sessions — now fully corroborated by a French Chief Inspector and his wife. Not some fringe new-wave religion nutcases who name their children Rainbow or Stardust.
It was going to be a good paper, one of her strongest yet. Correction, it was going to be a great paper.
Marinella put on the headphones and flicked through the pop and comedy channels until she found some classical music: Offenbach's Barcarolle was playing.
When she got back to Lambourne's from shopping, she'd heard that Dominic Fornier had called. She felt guilty about not phoning him back. The image of him walking away from their meeting, the die-hard detective shouldering the doubt through all those years, now clinging to one last hope, had stuck in her mind. She reached tentatively for the phone just before leaving her hotel for the airport — then decided against it. She'd call him tomorrow. Not sure immediately if she was just delaying facing his disappointment, or hoping for better words of explanation to settle in the meantime.
Grieg's 'Morning'. Soothing, relaxing. Hopefully she'd doze off soon. To her side, Bob was flicking through the in-flight magazine. But the next tunes — Brahm's Hungarian Dance and Tchaikovsky's March Slav — broke her slightly out of her half slumber, roused her spirits. She found herself tapping the armrest to the rhythm of March Slav as she imagined the key points of her final paper being pounded home to the army of sceptics who had plagued her through the years.
Only when Mozart's Andante came on could she feel waves of calm and relaxation again descending, sleep once more in sight.
But at the start of the third stanza, the thought hit: Politician.
The man Fornier had suspected was now a prominent politician! An MEP. Murder case. Re-opened after thirty years. Implicating one of the country's leading politicians! If Fornier's suspicions were right, then it was going to be a big case. Enormous case! And one of the first ever proved through a past-life regression. The thoughts hit her in such quick-fire succession that it took her breath away.
She could see it all rolling out ahead: Oprah Winfrey was a given, she was already reading clippings from the New York Times and Washington Post in between make up for Maury Povich and Larry King: 'I understand that in France this case is as big as O.J. Simpson. But the added factor of core evidence coming from a past life regression has literally split the French legal establishment in two.'
The case was already great, but now within her grasp was the opportunity to make it phenomenal. If Fornier's hunch was correct and she played it right, it could dominate the American media throughout the trial. Eight months, a year? It would do more to aid the acceptance of PLR than anything previously conceived. The thoughts and images hit like so many cluster bombs: speeches, increased department funding, books, chat shows… Newsweek…
Breathless as they pounded home, suspended belief batting helplessly against the audaciousness, the ridiculous magnitude of it all — a laugh suddenly burst free. A laugh that quickly lost its hesitance and became more raucous.
Bob was looking over and mouthing something. She pulled off her headphones.
'Is that the Bill Cosby?' he asked. Funny, isn't he?'
'Yeah. But not half as funny as Mozart.'
He looked puzzled and quickly buried his face back into the flight magazine. Should keep him quiet for a while, she thought.
Marinella put back the headphones and sunk back into the Mozart, slowly closing her eyes. Even if it turned out not to be the politician Fornier suspected, proving the guilt or innocence of the person already charged would still grab a few good headlines, be something of a first. She had to at least try. She'd forever punish herself over the possibly lost opportunity if she didn't. It was probably best to phone Fornier after she'd spoken with Lambourne and Stuart Capel; she'd already raised his hopes once and let him down.
It wasn't going to be easy. All the obstacles with Lambourne and Capel that had made her finally step back from a hard push with Fornier's proposal, still held true. She would need to be convincing.
THIRTY-TWO
Marseille, October 1983
Marc Jaurmard followed close behind Marcelle Gauthereau. If it was to happen at all, it would be inside, thought Jaumard. He would sign everything, Gauthereau and the notary would nod courteously, and then someone would slip from the shadows and slap down the summons. Stepping through the notary's door, he glanced back to check that Gauthereau didn't lock the door behind him. He'd also checked the brass plaque downstairs before following Gauthereau up the two flights: Patrice Roussel, Notarie.
Roussel was in his late fifties, wispy greying hair, thin, pinched features, and tight economical gestures. Polite nods, quick half smiles without showing teeth as he took details, the same meaningless smile as he handed Jaumard's identity card back.
It was taking far longer than Jaumard had expected. The door to the reception had been half open at the beginning, he'd been able to keep one eye on the receptionist, see if she made a move to lock the door. See if anyone else suddenly came in. But she'd shut the connecting door on her way out from dropping a file on Roussel's desk halfway through.