Duclos sat up in bed with a jolt, his eyes slowly adjusting in the dark. The sweat felt suddenly cold on his skin. He looked over. Betina was still asleep, he hadn't disturbed her.
I want a child. The first time she'd mentioned it had been almost three years ago. She would be thirty-six next birthday; if they didn't have one or two children by the time she was forty, by then it might be too late. Two? He was still struggling with the unthinkable of one. She'd mis-read his look, fought to be re-assuring. 'I know it hasn't been easy for you with me at times… and mostly my fault because of my past problem. But this is important to me. I'll make an effort, I promise.'
A nightmare come true. He was sick with flu for over two weeks. Probably psychosomatic. But then he had to become more inventive: headaches, allergies, sprained muscles, sudden business trips, stress and overwork… the chain of excuses became laughable, pathetic. She wore him ragged, he virtually broke out in a cold sweat each time she smiled at him approaching bedtime.
But between the various excuses and trips away, miraculously he managed to succumb to sex no more than once every eight to ten weeks. Even then he would fail the occasional performance halfway through, claiming that he was too tense or that he could sense she was nervous, was perhaps trying too hard. At most there would be three or four occasions a year where she could possibly conceive.
But it was probably the worst possible time for the problem to have arisen. The calls from Marc Jaumard had started only ten months before her drastic bid to have a child. Five years with no calls; then one out of nowhere. Duclos could hardly believe it. Only months after Chapeau's death, he'd erased thoughts of any possible repercussions from his mind; felt confident he was free of the problem once and for all. All those years with no blackmail, the first years of happiness with Betina, and now both problems were plaguing him at the same time. Duclos shook his head. It was like some ridiculous cruel joke.
Marc Jaumard didn't have the same abrasive, taunting style of his brother, but on several occasions he'd been drunk, as if he needed Dutch courage before making the call. Duclos didn't want Jaumard calling his office, so gave him his home number. Often the calls would come through at night, probably after Jaumard had staggered out of some bar, and with him having to subdue his voice and often leaving for an impromptu meeting, Betina had become suspicious.
During one of their failed lovemaking sessions, she'd rolled over furiously and asked him if he was having an affair — who was it that kept phoning? The thought of him in bed with the unkempt, overweight Jaumard, invariably Pernod-breathed, made him laugh out loud. One time when Jaumard woke them up with a 2am call and Betina was staring at him accusingly, he'd thrust the phone out angrily: 'See for yourself. It's just some drunken asshole.'
A second's silence from the other end as Jaumard got over the surprise, then slurringly Jaumard apologized for phoning so late. 'It's jussst… jusst some business with your husband.'
He'd thought the jealousy, her concern that he might be having an affair, could have partly been behind her new amorousness — but removing that worry had made little difference. She was as relentless as ever. Finally, eight months later, she became pregnant. All his efforts had been to no avail. She was now in her fourth month.
The first moment she told him, a cold chill had crept up his spine. His reaction perplexed him at first. He should have been relieved. The ordeal was over. No more bedtime demands. She finally had what she wanted. What had worried him more? His loathing of their having sex or her getting pregnant?
But months later, when she suggested a scan to check that the baby was healthy, he found himself about to protest the idea — before realizing he had no good, rational grounds against a scan. Except one. In that moment, the root of his worry suddenly hit him. He was afraid to know it might be a boy! A girl, fine, and even a boy in those early years. But as it became older, started to remind him of the boys he sneaked off to see in Paris and Marseille, he would feel unsettled. His own son. Those big, innocent eyes staring straight through him… somehow sensing his awful secret. He could hardly think of a worse nightmare.
Dominic spoke to Corbeix late Friday. Corbeix had been busy in court most of the day, apologized that as yet he'd only had half an hour to skim through the letter and the files sent. 'It looks intriguing. But give me the weekend to look through it in more detail. Let's speak Monday.'
Shortly after sending everything to Corbeix, the questions started turning in Dominic's mind: What happened immediately after Christian was by his bike with Duclos? According to the original medical report, the first sexual assault. But where had Duclos kept Christian afterwards, between the two attacks? Tied up somewhere near his bike, or did Duclos take him straight to where he was finally found, perhaps hidden in the woods somewhere upstream from Machanaud? Whichever, the cafe in between had obviously been to create an alibi. It never occurred to them that Christian might have been tied up and left alone for all that time, it was always assumed that his attacker had stayed with him throughout, wouldn't risk leaving him to be found by someone else. If the boy had been discovered, his attacker could have returned straight into the arms of a gendarme welcoming party. Duclos had taken quite a risk.
'… But I didn't realize it till I came out of the darkness. The field…'
Darkness mentioned again. A period of darkness between the first and second attacks. Probably a blindfold. He'd discussed it on the phone with Marinella Calvan late Thursday, linking details from the transcript with what was known from the original investigation. Guide points for the next session.
Green sports car? Christian hadn't said that it was an Alfa Romeo. It could be argued that there were other green sports cars in the area at the time. Already he found himself pre-proposing the points that Corbeix might raise.
By mid-afternoon Monday with no call from Corbeix, other concerns sprang to mind: Perhaps Corbeix was staunch RPR and wouldn't dream of going near the case? He phoned Verfraigne and, at the end of a conversation about Corbeix' overall strength and track record as a prosecutor, asked casually about his political leaning. 'He's a socialist, I think.'
Surely he'd made allowances for the tenuous nature of the case in his opening letter? He was just seeking guidance at this stage, what they should be looking for in the remaining sessions, what might help turn the case from something purely tentative, exploratory, into something prosecutable. Surely Corbeix wouldn't just cast it aside at this first stage, surely…
Corbeix' call came through finally at just after five o’clock, suggesting a meeting for eleven-thirty the next day. Dominic remembered that at that time Marinella Calvan would be in the midst of the second session, and suggested a delay until two-thirty or three. 'By then, I could bring another transcript with me which might throw more light on the case.'
Corbeix agreed to three o'clock. No indication either way as to what he thought, reflected Dominic. It had taken him a moment to recognize Corbeix' voice. Husky, slightly breathless, it was almost a different voice to that on Friday. Corbeix had kept things short and seemed eager to get off the line.
When the transcript arrived the next day, the period between the two attacks, the darkness was no longer a mystery: '…just a spare wheel. Space was very tight. I was curled up around it… I could hardly move.' Dominic's hands were trembling by the time he finished reading. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, fighting to settle his nerves. Forcibly tried to return some calm and rationality before he left to see Corbeix.