Past Imperfect (60 page)

When his mobile rang twenty minutes later, he was still drifting on the edge, thoughts revolving preventing him falling fully under. He reached for it expectantly.

It was Deleauvre. 'We've got Duclos. Eynard's going to name him!'

The excitement suffused slowly; he was still half asleep. So tired. 'That's great. When's it happening?'

'Day after tomorrow. First thing in the morning.' Deleauvre summarized the deal with Sauquière.

'Will any children come forward in support?'

'No, too sensitive. A lot of them are illegals or runaways. It's complicated.'

Eighteen months, two years, thought Dominic. The maximum of four or five could only be gained with a child testifying and the claim of abuse. Poor consolation for murder, but at least Duclos' career would be ruined. 'Oh, how the mighty fall,' he commented, smiling. He thanked Deleauvre for his help, and they arranged to speak again straight after Eynard's statement.

Putting down his mobile, Dominic caught his own reflection in the train window: eyes dark circled, haunted. The face of a man that
looked
like he'd been chasing the same case for thirty years. But intermittently electric sparks from the train cut through the darkness outside and his reflection. How the investigation felt: hurtling through darkness with just a few flashes of hope.

Serge Roudele remembered the coin straightaway. He'd forgotten it had been an Alfa Romeo coupé, hadn't read where Fornier's questions were heading early in the conversation.

At the time, he'd been left his father's coin collection, but wasn't conversant himself with rarity and values. The coin had simply looked nice and could have had the potential to be rare. But when he'd checked, it hadn't been that valuable. Even when he'd sold it along with the rest of his father's collection just over ten years ago, he doubted it had garnered more than five or six hundred francs.

And at today's rate? The offer of 5,000 Francs was probably nearly four times its worth. Inspector Fornier was obviously valuing it at almost mint condition. His first thought had been theft - but would the police really pursue someone over thirty years for a coin of such value? And then Fornier had mentioned murder, and he'd felt his blood run cold. He'd been eager to get off the line, let his thoughts clear.

Reward. No recriminations. But did they want the coin itself back, or just to know that he'd seen it? What would they think when they realized he'd sold it? And could he really believe Fornier's assurance of no recriminations. He remembered seeing a programme once about a police unit in America luring bail jumpers with letters promising lottery prizes. Part of a policeman's job was to trick, outwit criminals. How else would they get people to come forward without some enticement?

The reward was tempting, he could do with the money. But would he be walking straight into a trap? His greed in taking the coin in the first place had caused this problem now, he reminded himself. A second bite at the same cherry was probably tempting fate.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Strasbourg, April, 1995

Alain Duclos’ hands shook as he addressed the EU assembly. The medical debate of the decade, and he was central
rapporteur
. It all rested now on this final stage of the debate: the case of John Moore and the ruling of the California Supreme Court.

The vote taken today was vitally important. The earlier call had come at the worst possible time:
'There's been a few questions with your name arising. Somebody's curious...'
Bonoit, a young Limoges Prosecutor now with the Paris
Procureur's
office. Bonoit initially called Duclos' Brussel's office, mentioned it was delicate. Duclos had phoned him back ten minutes later from a call box.

Reports were before each Minister, and Duclos summarized the key points. The University of California Medical Centre had developed a unique cell line from a cancerous spleen removed from John Moore, filed for patent, then sold that development with resultant rights expected to yield over $1 billion from the pharmaceutical industry. 'Mr Moore subsequently sued, claiming ownership of the body part from which the cell line had been developed, but lost the case. The main premise of that ruling was that as soon as the organ left Mr Moore's body it ceased to become his property, and so was patentable.'

'I understand though that in a first action taken by Mr Moore, a court ruled in his favour?'

Duclos looked at the bank of translators beyond the MEP’s semi-circle: PDS, Italy. 'Yes - but this was overruled by the California Supreme Court. Another factor which weighed was the many years of genetic research taken to develop the cell line. A case of 'added value' uniqueness, if you will.'

'....It's not directly my office - but because of the offbeat nature, it's being bounced around a few departments: questions about past cases involving psychics. Something to do with an original investigation back in 1963, apparently...'

Another voice rose. German 'Green' party: 'That "uniqueness" I believe was quite evident when Mr Moore's spleen was first removed. Mr Moore's argument is not only that he contributed the larger part of that uniqueness, but that he was not even consulted. That this was developed without his permission, and he was - as he described in his own words - 'essence raped.' His body part had ceased to become his own and was suddenly an industry commodity.'

Low mumbling: mixture of support and protest. The Green Party had invited Mr Moore to speak at a Brussels press conference during conciliation, Duclos recalled. If he couldn't get justice in America, then he could at least make history by influencing the future of European patent legislature. But every possible interest group - medical ethics, body and science rights, earth friendship, mainstream and fringe religious groups - had also come out strongly in support. Ownership of body parts was an emotive issue.

As the debates and arguments for and against flowed, Duclos rode the waves. His rôle as
rapporteur
was to take an impartial stance, merely present the facts and the varying arguments clearly. Though he knew already what he wanted: rejection. At first a daunting if not seemingly impossible task. The EU Commission had already strongly backed a patents directive. The bill should sail through. If it didn't, it would be the first time a bill approved by the Commission at the plenary session was rejected by the Parliament. The whole conciliation process could be brought into question.

He’d pressed Bonoit for more information about the renewed investigation, but Bonoit knew little else; he promised to dig some more and Duclos should call him back in a couple of days. The waiting to know was killing Duclos, and now the tension of the current debate. Incredible that the years of blackmail had brought him to this: swinging a key debate. But with the size of the coup, this one was as much for himself as for Jaumard. His retirement fund.

No trace of concern hopefully showed now in his face, his hands pressed firm on his folder to control their trembling. Enigmatic geniality as he tackled the various questions. The strength of the Greens argument had laid a useful card in his hand.

Closing his presentation, Duclos provided a distilled summary of the arguments aired: a man whose cell line he claims is in itself unique. A laboratory claiming its three years of cell line development was the largest contributor to that uniqueness. 'But at what stage does research and industry expertise give the new claimant predominant rights?' Duclos paused for emphasis. 'Yes, research and industry does need due protection in order to flourish. And the ruling in America should provide strong pre-eminent guidance to the assembly in that respect. But the many controversial issues raised by that decision need also to be taken into account. With the main question now: can the assembly rest easy with such a ruling in Europe and discard the arguments against, based purely on the fact that industry requires due protection for its research? Furtherance of science or furtherance of the rights of the individual. Thank you.'

Duclos closed his folder. He was sweating profusely. Hopefully he'd struck the right tone without being too obvious, but he couldn't be sure. Reactions looked mixed. Nothing left now but to wait for the votes to come in.

Metz, April, 1995

Duclos never felt comfortable calling Marchand from either Strasbourg or Brussels, so invariably he would stop at a call box half way in between. He found one on a quiet road eight kilometres beyond Metz. Marchand answered almost immediately.

'What progress?' Duclos asked.

'The transfer was made three days ago. It should be in the account now.'

'Did you see the press coverage?'

'Yes, very encouraging. They were very pleased.'

To anyone listening in, a totally non-descript conversation, Duclos reflected. No names, no subject discussed. Only the two of them knew the gaps to be filled in: the EU Parliament had rejected the bio-technology patents directive. The Commission and industry lobby groups had cried 'outrage', and had started talking about tabling a new directive. But the present directive had already been five years in preparation; a new one, even if successful, could take up to three years.

A remarkable coup. Better even than they'd anticipated. They'd agreed a month's grace after the decision to let the dust settle, then the transfer would be made. Additional transfers would then follow for each successive year without a successfully approved bio-technology patents directive.

'Looks like we might be in for a good run on this one. Anything from two to four years,' Marchand commented.

'Let's hope so. I'll probably do some Christmas shopping in Geneva this year.'

'Yes, certainly. It would be nice to see you again.'

Probably not, thought Duclos. At their one meeting, he'd sensed that Marchand hadn't liked him, nor had he particularly liked Marchand. A Swiss based rather than Brussels lobbyist - to Duclos, Marchand typified the breed of self serving industry lawyers and lobbyists who constantly snapped at his and other politician's heels. In return lobbyists were often resentful that politicians hadn't dealt with their client's 'issue' effectively, labelling them incompetent at every turn. But the pecking order was always clear: politicians looking down, disdainfully; lobbyists looking up, resentfully.

Except that Duclos had broken from the mould, was a corrupt politician. One of the few Marchand felt he could look down upon. The air of mutual disdain could have been cut with a knife. The only common ground arose from the money they were both gaining though their association. Strange how money of that size created its own inertia, Duclos reflected: cut across most social divides.

Duclos shook off an involuntary shiver. Telephone boxes. The third in as many days. More information at last from Bonoit.

'Who's leading the enquiry?' Duclos asked anxiously.

'Corbeix. Aix-en-Provence based Chief Prosecutor.'

The name meant nothing to Duclos. 'What stage is the enquiry at?'

'As far as I know, just initial rogatoire generale.'

'Who's heading it?'

'There's two names: Malliené and Fornier. They've also been doing a lot of digging with pimps and gay establishments in Paris and Marseille for some reason.'

Duclos sensed the unspoken questions. 'Strange,' he commented. He felt his skin prickle.
Fornier?
The name rang a bell from somewhere, but he couldn't remember from where.

'What's going on, Alain? Bonoit sounded suddenly concerned. 'You know, I shouldn't even be phoning you like this. It's just that, well, in the past...'

'I know, and I appreciate it.' Was Bonoit fishing or seeking assurance? Duclos had given Bonoit strong support during his fledgling years with the Limoges prosecutor's office. Eagerness for Bonoit not to see his mentor's image shattered, or repayment of favours? 'It's nothing. I was questioned for something several years ago and cleared. They found and charged the real culprit. Sounds a bit like a political witch hunt to me - old enemies coming out of the woodwork. Probably this bio-tech dispute. Seems to have upset a lot of people. I'm not exactly flavour of the month right now.'

Bonoit muttered an agreement which hardly registered. Everything suddenly gelled for Duclos.
Paris!
His pulse started racing. He couldn't wait to get off the line and make another call.

He quickly thanked Bonoit, and Bonoit promised to call again if anything more came up. Duclos leafed through the back of his address book for the number. It took him a while to find it, he hadn't called the number for almost fifteen years. The digits were jumbled and out of sequence, with each set of two in reverse. A number from the past he had long forgotten and didn't think he would ever have to call again: a Marseille back street bar which would pass a message to Eugene Brossard.

Corbeix' body invariably told him it was time to go home an hour before twilight. As the effects of the steroids wore off, the cramps and muscle spasms returned to his legs. He'd been free from it for almost five days, then suddenly it had flared up again. About the time that Fornier had phoned to tell him all the coin leads had drawn a blank.

Fornier had put in a lot of work on the case. Fornier also seemed to be able to pull favours at short notice, getting half of an Interpol department to back up his frantic nationwide search. Nine people from thirty years ago traced in just three days. Corbeix was impressed. But despite Fornier's effort and ingenuity, in the end, nothing. To have lived with the case for so long, to get so close and then see it slip away. Cruel fate. Corbeix felt for Fornier.

Raking through what meagre hopes remained, Fornier had asked him if he'd uncovered anything useful on past French cases involving psychics. He didn't have the heart to tell Fornier he'd hit a similar dead end, said that he was still waiting on news. While five days of probing various departments in the Paris prosecutors office had uncovered eight cases with relatives or the press involving psychics, some of which had been entered in police files, none of it ever made it into trial evidence. The consensus was that even if a prosecutor believed he could convince a final jury with such evidence, the examining magistrate was a different matter. Most dropped it for fear of jeopardizing the case through
instruction
.