Authors: John Matthews
Finding his way through was not going to be easy. He would need to follow the threads carefully in order to draw out Eyran's perception of Jojo in the right way, then press hard to break Eyran away from Jojo's subconscious influence. Yet too hard and all trust and patient transference would be lost.
It was going to be a delicate tightrope, and Eyran would probably resist him all the way. No child wanted to face that their parents were dead, and the dreams and Jojo were probably the only sanctuary Eyran had left.
NINE
The courtyard was in Moorish style, in the
Panier
quarter of Marseille. Two sides framing the courtyard were the house itself on three floors, the third the blank wall of the adjacent building. The fourth, and the entrance to the courtyard, were large solid wood double gates studded with black iron, with a small door with buzzer inset one side: the brothel's main entrance and all that was visible from the narrow street. Emile Vacheret's establishment was discreet, its façade anonymous, as its many regulars preferred.
The centrepiece of the courtyard was a small fountain edged with blue and white mosaic tiling, and window sills throughout the building had the same pattern edging. Some white doves played and strutted in and around the fountain. While he waited, Alain Duclos looked out through the ground floor french windows towards the fountain and courtyard.
Prostitution was legal, so the anonymity of the building was for the benefit of clients and for the small side attractions offered clients which weren't so legal. The room's cleaners, servants and waiters in the bar were all young boys, mostly from Morocco and Algeria, between the ages of twelve and nineteen - though the youngest age on any identity card was sixteen, in the event of a police raid. Vacheret paid heavily to the local precinct each month. The boys' functions as waiters and room cleaners were mostly a cover; they were also there for the client's pleasure, if so required. For heterosexual clients, which was indeed seventy percent of Vacheret's trade, a choice of girls would be paraded in, and the boys just served drinks and made the beds afterwards.
Duclos sat on the bed as Vacheret introduced two new boys who had arrived in the last week, as possible alternatives to his favourite of the last few visits, Jahlep. The two boys wore claret red baggy harem trousers and round neck white shirts. One was very young, possibly twelve, while the other was closer to fourteen or fifteen. Duclos concentrated on the younger one as Vacheret explained that he was a mulatto from Martinique, exquisite light brown eyes, delicate complexion, brand new the last week, hardly touched. Vacheret might as well have been trying to sell him a used car, Duclos thought. True, the boy was exquisite, cream brown skin, just the age he liked. But he just couldn't concentrate and get up any enthusiasm.
Noticing his hesitancy, Vacheret commented, 'What's wrong, you want a drink while you decide or is there something private you want to ask me about them. Shall I send the boys away?'
'I'm not sure. Perhaps. Give me a minute.'
Vacheret ushered the boys away and sat down beside Duclos. 'Have you decided on Jahlep again, but you didn't want to say so in front of those two. Or are you just undecided between Jahlep and this new boy? Perhaps you could try the two together?' Vacheret raised his eyebrows hopefully.
Beads of sweat stood out on Duclos' forehead and he looked troubled, his eyes darting as he contemplated the floor. 'Look, I'm sorry. I can't think clearly about the boys for the moment. Maybe later. But there's something on my mind, something I'd like to ask you about first.'
Vacheret nodded, suddenly pensive, barely containing a half smile; he was sure that Duclos was about to enquire about some bizarre practice or fantasy, something he'd been too coy to mention before. It always tickled him, this part, clients admitting their secret sexual desires; it was almost like being a psychiatrist or priest, finally clients got around to what was
really
troubling them.
But as Duclos explained what he wanted, Vacharet's expression became slowly graver. This wasn't what he expected.
Crossing the courtyard as he left twenty minutes later, Duclos could see the misty shape of a girl rolling up one black stocking through the net curtains at a window to one side. She had wild red hair and was naked except for a garter belt and the one stocking, and was sitting on the edge of the bed facing the window. Because she was close to the window, she saw him and smiled, gradually parting her legs wider. Duclos turned away and headed for the courtyard door. If he'd stayed, she would probably have put on a little show for him, but he wasn't interested.
He phoned Vacheret that night and, as arranged, Vacheret gave him a name and a time and place to make contact.
The room where Machanaud was taken to was at the back of the gendarmerie. The main window was open with the heat, its grey wooden shutters closed. Only faint slats of sunlight filtered in, so the main light, a football sized glass sphere screwed to the ceiling, had been switched on. The rooms at the back, away from the traffic and looking onto a car park shared with the Town Hall, were quiet.
Machanaud had arrived at 11.30am, as scheduled. But Poullain had made him wait in the room on his own for almost twenty minutes. Dominic timed and dated an interview form, and made notes as Poullain started with Machanaud's main background details: Age: 39; Town of birth: St Girons; Place of residence: Seillons; Occupation: farm labourer. Past convictions? Machanaud could recall two past convictions, but not the dates, so Dominic took the details from the past charge sheets: drunken and disorderly in March of that year and poaching the previous October.
Machanaud looked older than his age, Dominic always thought: closer to mid or late forties. His skin was weathered and pitted, his thick brown hair long and unkempt and heavily greased back in an effort to make it look tidier; though all too often a lank forelock would break loose and hang across his face. When drunk and in one of his more rebellious moods, the one eye that wasn't covered by hair gave the impression of leering wildly.
Poullain waited for Dominic to stop writing, then started with a general summary of Machanaud's activities on the 18
th
August , most of it purely skimming details from their interview of the day before. Then Poullain went back to the beginning, going into more specific timings. 'So you left after finishing work at Raulin's farm at about eleven, is that right?'
'No, closer to twelve.'
Poullain was testing. Machanaud had told them twice before that it was twelve. Eleven was closer to the time they thought he had left from their interviews the day before both with Raulin and Henri at Bar Fontainouille, who seemed to remember Machanaud calling in and leaving earlier. 'And you went straight on to Bar Fontainouille from there?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'How long would that take, do you think?'
'About fifteen, twenty minutes.'
Poullain spent the next ten minutes running through Machanaud's movements: Bar Fontainouille at 12.15pm, leaving just before 2 pm for Gilbert Albrieux' farm where he'd planted some vines the February past. Albrieux apparently hadn''t been there to see him, but after a quick check of the vines Machanaud claimed he sat on a stone wall and had a sandwich. After half an hour, he then headed off to Leon's.
Dominic felt the tension building with each question, or maybe it was because he knew what was coming: Poullain was slowly circling in for the kill.
'So, it's what - only ten or twelve minutes from Albrieux' to Léon's bar. What time did you arrive there?'
'About two thirty-five, two forty. But I only stayed about an hour, because I had to be back at Raulin's for the late shift at four o'clock.'
Dominic looked at his notes. Effectively all that Machanaud admitted to was being on his own for about half an hour after two o'clock. Their various interviews from the day before told a different story. Raulin didn't recall seeing him after 11am and although Henri at Bar Fontainouille wasn't sure what time Machanaud arrived, he was certain of the time he left, at about 1pm, because of when he started serving set lunches that day. Léon too wasn't sure what time Machanaud had called in, but they had the firm sighting from Madame Véillan which would have put Machanaud at Léon's at about 3.15pm. That left almost two hours unaccounted for between 1pm and 3pm.
'Did you go anywhere on the way back to Raulin's?'
'Just to pick up some tobacco, but that's just a few doors from Léon's. It only took minutes.'
'And in all of your travels on that day, did you happen to see a young boy?'
The question threw Machanaud. All of his answers had been carefully thought out to defend their suspicion of him poaching. Why else would the questions be angled so insistently around the two hours he'd been by the river? The continued questioning, the fact that they seemed to be taking the issue so seriously, for the first time started him wondering. 'A boy? What has that got to do with anything?'
'I don't know, you tell us.' Poullain's easy manner, asking questions at a steady pace, suddenly went. 'What time did you meet him - half past one, two o'clock? Where was it you first picked him up: in the village, or near the lane?'
Machanaud was perplexed. He ruffled his hair uneasily. 'I was at Bar Fontainouille, I had at least two drinks with Henri himself serving at the bar. I couldn't possibly have met anyone then.'
'Except that you left the Fontainouille an hour earlier, at one o'clock. And yes, you went to have lunch with your knapsack. But instead of going to Albrieux' place, you went down to the river by Breuille's land. And on the way there, you met the boy.'
Machanaud blinked nervously and looked down; then across briefly towards Dominic's notes. So they knew he'd been down by the river at Breuille's, probably guessed that he'd been poaching. But why the insistence about this boy? 'I don't understand why you're asking all this. I don't know anything about a boy.'
'Oh, but I think you do.' Poullain went in for the kill; he leant forward, his body rigid with intent. 'Your account of the entire day is complete fabrication. Not one bit of it is true. The only thing we know for sure is that you were seen at three o'clock by Madame Véillan, coming out of the lane at Breuille's farm.' Poullain's voice was rising feverishly. 'The same place where minutes beforehand a young boy was left for dead with his skull smashed in!'
With a sickening sensation, it suddenly dawned on Machanaud why Poullain had been asking about the boy. He'd heard about the attack, it was the talk of the village, but there had been no mention of where. 'Are you trying to tell me that this boy was found on the lane to Breuille's farm?'
Machanaud's tone of incredulity only served to anger Poullain deeper. 'You know he was, because that's where you left him - just after you smashed his head in with a rock!'
Machanaud shook his head wildly. 'No! I told you. I had nothing to do with that boy, I never touched him.'
'So are you now trying to say that you were there and saw the boy - but you never touched him.'
Machanaud was confused, his voice breaking with exasperation. 'No, no. I
never
saw the boy. I know nothing about him. I went from the Fontainouille, a short break for lunch, then straight onto Léon's.'
'Léon doesn't remember seeing you until at least three-fifteen.' It was a bluff, but Poullain was more confident of Madame Véillan's time keeping than Léon's. 'And Henri says that you arrived at eleven and left about one.'
'That's impossible,' Machanaud spluttered desperately. 'I was still at Raulin's until twelve.'
'Raulin says that he didn't see you after eleven, and that's the time he has entered in his book for you finishing that day.'
'There was some extra work on the bottom land. He probably didn't see me there.'
Poullain ignored it. 'Henri knows for sure you left at one o'clock, because that's when he starts preparing lunches. And between then and Madame Véillan seeing you leave the lane - that's almost two hours.' He leant forward until he was close to Machanaud, his tone low and menacing. 'Two hours in which you calmly took your pleasure with this boy, before deciding that you'd have to kill him. What did you do to keep him quiet in the meantime - tie him up?'
Machanaud was cold with fear. He had been shaking his head at Poullain's bombardment, stunned by the sudden turn around of events; surely they couldn't really believe that
he
had attacked this boy. If it was just a ploy to get him to admit to poaching, they'd succeeded. He was so frightened, he'd run for any sanctuary. 'Okay, I admit it, I was there. But I know nothing about the boy - I was poaching.'
'I see.' Poullain looked down thoughtfully, drawing a deep breath before looking up again. 'And how long were you there?'
'Two hours.'
'And have you been to that stretch of river before?'
'Yes, two or three times, I don't remember exactly.'
'Any particular reason why you favour there?'
'The fish are no better than elsewhere - but Breuille is away. Less chance of getting caught, and even if I am, he's not around to press charges.' Machanaud risked a hesitant smile.
Poullain considered this for a moment. 'So now you're trying to tell us that all of this morning's subterfuge, all of this lying, was purely to cover up the fact that you were poaching. Even though you know Breuille's away and therefore charges can't be pressed.' Poullain looked disgustedly towards Dominic. He waved one hand dramatically. 'Pah! It is not even remotely believable.'
A swathe of hair had fallen across Machanaud's face. He cut a sad picture; like a lost and bewildered animal. A lamb to Poullain's slaughter. His eyes darted frantically. 'But Marius Caurin is still around caretaking the land - I even saw him head out at one point on his tractor. He could have seen me.'