The blood pounded through Jaumard's head as the papers were passed back and forth between him and the notary. Another question, another line filled in. Another stamp and seal with the notary's elaborate signature on top. Jaumard found himself half looking at the closed door in between — expecting it to burst open at any second and the summons be served. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his trouser legs.
And suddenly the envelope was being passed across. Though maybe this was the summons, he thought with a jolt. He studied its front cautiously. Just his name and c/o of Patrice Roussel underneath. It certainly looked like his brother's handwriting. He hesitated — suddenly deciding against opening it in front of these two sets of prying eyes. He wanted to get out and away as fast as possible. Slipping it quickly into his back pocket, he stood up. 'Thank you, gentlemen.'
'I thought you might want to open it in my presence,' Gauthereau invited. 'In case there's something that needs my attention straightaway.'
'No…no. It's okay.' Jaumard backed away to the door. 'I'll call you if there's anything. Thank you.' He opened the door and was out, quick smile to the receptionist, another door, and he was on the stairs — taking them two and three at a time, bounding frantically down the last flight until he was out on the street.
Gauthereau stared bemusedly after Jaumard for a second before saying his own good-byes to Roussel. All those years of waiting, contact not made until a year after his last advert, and then all over in minutes. Gautherau's curiosity had grown over those years as to what was inside the envelope: a hidden stash, secret bank account, drugs routes, black book with key milieu contacts? Now he would probably never know.
Only once sixty yards clear, around the next corner, did Jaumard pause, let out a long deep breath as he rested his back against a wall. His nerves were still racing. He decided not to risk opening the envelope even there, and didn't do so until he was sequestered at the back of a small cafe almost half a mile away.
Apart from the barman only three people were in the cafe, the lunch time rush hadn't yet arrived. Jaumard felt safe from prying eyes as he opened the envelope. He had to read it twice before its significance really hit him. A smile slowly crossed his face. Quite a legacy his brother had left him. Alain Duclos. RPR Minister for Limoges. Child murder case from 1963. A hit contract that was never fulfilled. Incredible. The three page letter even suggested two possible courses of action. Though he thought he knew already which he would take.
Marinella Calvan had been on the phone for over ten minutes with Stuart Capel, and whatever hopes she'd had earlier in the call she felt suddenly slipping away.
Her thoughts had gelled over the weekend of how best to broach the subject. Telling the truth wouldn't work. Eyran's therapy diverted to aid a murder investigation just wouldn't be accepted. But if she kept close to what she at heart believed, that Christian's non-acceptance of separation was far stronger than Eyran's, she might succeed. The sincerity and enthusiasm would come through in her voice. It also did much to bury her initial apprehension on reflection over her motives. By the time she'd worked up the story in her mind, adding embellishment from her notes, it had become the lead chariot, helping the murder investigation was merely tagging along behind.
But despite the strong case she put forward now to Stuart Capel — Christian's almost total erasure of the last hour of his life, the symbols in Eyran's dreams of the lake and the wheat field having far stronger relevance in Christian's life than Eyran's, that before they could fully get to grips with Eyran's acceptance of loss and detachment, they first had to tackle Christian's — he wasn't convinced. He hadn't said no, only that he wanted to think it over, 'we should speak again tomorrow’. But she had the feeling that he was merely delaying so that he could let her down softly.
She needed to add support to her argument. 'This isn't just my view, but also that of my previous department head, Dr Donaldson. He's had more years of experience in this than myself and David Lambourne put together.' Donaldson might well support her view, but during their earlier meeting he had merely nodded thoughtfully and passed a few minor comments. She wouldn't know his full opinion for probably a few days when he'd had a chance to study her notes and transcripts in more detail.
Silence from the other end. Perhaps he was becoming swayed. She pushed the advantage. 'Look — it would just be for two weeks. Four sessions at the most. I think that should do it. Then Eyran would be back to conventional therapy with David Lambourne.'
'It was actually David Lambourne I wanted to speak to before I decided,' Stuart commented. 'Have you spoken to him already?'
'No, I haven't.' If she had phoned Lambourne, he'd have said no. If Stuart Capel now contacted him, put out by the fact that she'd gone behind his back, that 'no' would be even stronger. Lambourne had given her Stuart Capel's number after the last session purely for her to verify some of Eyran's personal details for her paper. Last ditch hope: brutal honesty. 'I didn't speak to him because I already know his point of view. He doesn't agree with my prognosis. That's why I called you directly. If you phone him, he'll only tell you the same.'
'I see.'
Swaying again, or perturbed by her slight of hand? At least the ball was back between them. The main excuse for delay had gone.
Stuart recalled the look that Lambourne had fired Calvan when she'd broached the subject after the last session; he'd thought then they'd previously had words. At least she was telling the truth about that. 'Since you seem to know already what Lambourne's objections are, why don't you tell me?'
'It's simple. He thinks the solution is with Eyran in the present, I think it's with Christian in the past. Difference is, I have a stronger case to back up my argument. David's direction was floundering when I arrived, and all we've discovered since is that the imaginary character is a real life. Nothing more. Where's David going to head from here? He doesn't even have the secondary character to explore any more — conventional Freud is out of the window, and his expertise with PLT is limited. He's at a dead end.'
'What if you're wrong?'
'There's always that possibility. But what is there to lose? Four sessions over two weeks and then I'm gone. David Lambourne has Eyran back to pursue whatever he wants to pursue. But if I'm right, it could be the breakthrough we've been looking for.' Hearing her own voice, its enthusiasm, she felt a sudden twinge of shame.
Two weeks? Stuart reflected. Eyran had already been in therapy five weeks and they were virtually back to square one. It didn't seem a lot to ask, and Calvan's arguments were convincing. But still he held strong reservations — partly his reluctance to accept this past character, partly the problems that might be caused with Lambourne — when another thought suddenly hit him: Amanda. If she learned he'd said no, she would probably seen it as just another prime example of him being obstructive, trying to be an armchair psychiatrist and map out what was best for Eyran despite expert advice to the contrary. 'Okay — I'll agree to the sessions. But just the four. That's it. And you'll have to phone Lambourne yourself and smooth the way with him. If he phones me afterwards, I'll confirm what we've agreed — but I don't want to get in the middle of any conflict between you.'
Stuart could tell by the brief pause at the other end that Marinella Calvan had been caught off guard by the sudden turn around.
'Yes… yes. Certainly. I'll call him.' One more obstacle to go. But Marinella was sure that Lambourne wouldn't roll over nearly so easily.
12.14pm in Lyon. The session in London would already have started.