Playing the Martyr Page 4

  ‘…an emergency. Yes.’

  The telephone rang and Pouget went to answer it. ‘Commissaire Aubret’s phone… yes.’ She looked at her boss intently as she listened to whoever was on the other end. ‘Ok. I’ll tell him. And I’ll see you shortly please. I want to add your witness statements to the dossier.’ She put the phone down.

  ‘Leveque?’

  ‘Yes. He spoke to the doctor in Saint-Genèse, she’s also the mayor by the way. The Allardyce sisters. We won’t be able to interview Jane tonight. She’s quite traumatised and has been sedated.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It must have been a hell of a shock. And the other one, Lucy is it?’

  ‘She’s hit the wine according to Leveque. But he doesn’t drink, so ‘hitting the wine’ could mean anything from a sip upwards.’

  ‘He doesn’t drink?’ Aubret, not a heavy drinker by any means, never entirely trusted people who didn’t drink at all. He suspected it was because they didn’t trust themselves, which meant he couldn’t trust them either. Pouget shook her head and moved back to the window. ‘Well. Maybe it’s for the best that we leave them for tomorrow anyway.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I’ve a feeling I’ll be spending time with our Juge this evening. Though he never did like coming in here.’

  ‘Well it looks like he won’t be keeping you waiting much longer.’ She turned hurriedly away from the window. ‘He’s crossing the road this way.’

  ‘Good.’ Aubret said defiantly, as if he’d planned all along to lure the Juge to his own, safer, territory. ‘Get me the dossier, Commandant.’

  She hurried out and Aubret needlessly tidied his desk, throwing his Gaviscon into a drawer, hesitating first whether to swallow another. No. He didn’t want Lombard thinking he was nervous. Especially when he had nothing to be nervous about. He swallowed one anyway. The phone rang again.

  ‘Aubret!’ He yelled, a little too loudly. ‘Ah, Brosse.’

  ‘Commissaire. It’s Juge Lombard, sir.’

  ‘Yes Sergent. Send him up.’

  ‘No, sir. I have a message from the Juge.’ Aubret’s head sunk into his chest. ‘Yes sir. The Juge requests that you send a copy of the dossier “as it stands”, he said, to his home tonight.’

  ‘But, that’s…’

  ‘And, the Juge says, he’ll meet you at 10am where the victim was found. 10am sharp. The Juge said.’

  Aubret slammed the phone down, almost smashing it as he did so. He took a deep breath and went back to the window, just in time to see the unmistakeable figure of Juge Lombard walk jauntily away down the street.

  Chapter 5

  Lombard yawned as the rural, two carriage train came to a halt between stations. He should have got a driver, he thought. Actually at this rate, he could have walked, but it was an opportunity to regather his thoughts, and to do so on neutral territory. The guard made the usual, barely decipherable announcement about not opening the doors on a stationary train, but before he’d finished the thing shuddered into life again, making its unhurried way through the Loire countryside. He hadn’t slept well. That was hardly unusual and at least this time it wasn’t due to late nights remonstrating with Madeleine’s hectoring ghost. It was excitement. No. Not excitement. Nervy adrenalin. Like a trial, a test he had to pass. An examination, but of himself.

  That was one of the reasons he’d decided to avoid the contrived meeting with Aubret. He hadn’t wanted to look too eager or too desperate. He’d banked on Aubret playing his own games too, naturally, and therefore hadn’t expected the dossier to arrive before ten at the earliest. It gave him time to calm down a bit, to try and get his emotions under control. It also gave him time to drink a pacifying bottle of wine too, to have a one-sided conversation with the cat about recent events and play some more games of his own. That journalist for La Nouvelle République, for instance, Carl Maichin. He hadn’t been hard to trace via the paper’s website. Lombard had sent him an email, just to let him know that he was handling the case and that the Procureur was delighted and so on. Maichin was naturally suspicious, and certainly more used to the Procureur making his own announcements, and with more noise.

  It’s a sign of how much the parquet, in other words the Public Prosecutor’s office, trusts me after a long, painful, layoff, Lombard had written later in the exchange. And both of them knew what was really going on. You scratch mine etc. It wasn’t an easy decision to get a journalist involved, and it certainly went against the grain, but he needed a level of control too. He had never taken this route before, and it made him nervous, but he wasn’t prepared to allow Aubret, and mainly Llhermanault, to toss him about like killer whales with a beach ball in a gawped-at sideshow.

  Of course, Carl Maichin was delighted to be fed the news, even if at this stage it was hardly exciting, but Lombard left the conversation with the hint of further exclusives and cooperation that the national press wouldn’t be party to. It was a dangerous game, he knew. The French press, unlike in other countries, weren’t historically involved much in murder investigations but Lombard was erecting a safety net. Should he fall, he didn’t fancy falling onto hard ground. And if he went down, he would take others with him. Despite Aubret’s infamous file and suspicions, Lombard had never worked like this before, but he had to admit he was finding it quite exhilarating. It might be useful to have a reputation.

  The dossier had eventually arrived, as expected, at about ten thirty. A younger officer who he hadn’t seen before had introduced himself as Leveque, and he’d looked nervous. He was probably in his mid-twenties but he looked much younger, despite the efforts of a beard that had, even at this early stage, run out of motivation. It only made him look more childlike, surely the opposite of what he’d wanted. He’d been reluctant to come in to the shop, refused point blank to accept a glass of wine when he’d finally been tempted in and so had just stood on the door mat, like a hotel porter waiting for a tip. They had shaken hands, as was customary, but Leveque behaved like Lombard had a contagious disease. No doubt he’d been warned. Be wary of Lombard, don’t let him drag you down with him.

  ‘Well if you won’t share a glass of wine, Leveque, you may as well get off home. It’ll be an early start.’

  ‘Yes sir…’

  ‘It’s not ‘sir’, it’s Monsieur le Juge. Do you have far to go?’

  ‘Saint-Pierre des Corps.’

  ‘Not far then.’ Still Leveque had hesitated. ‘Is there something else?’

  ‘The Commissaire wondered if I should pick you up in the morning, Monsieur le Juge? He said you were unlikely to have transport.’

  ‘Did he?’ It was true that Lombard had often relied on the police to ferry him about. He didn’t like driving anyway and the only vehicle he and Madeleine had ever owned was a clapped-out camper van that they’d intended to renovate. And which still stood in a rented garage out near the airport. Having said that, he didn’t want to rely on Aubret this early. ‘No thanks. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow at some point.’

  ‘Yes. Monsieur le Juge. No doubt.’ And with that he’d struggled with the door and got out as quickly as he could. It was obvious that any association with Lombard was now considered a risk. He was a pariah, which was actually quite exciting in itself and certainly new to him. He knew he would have to address this new status at some point, and sooner rather than later, but how though? He’d been caught, bang to rights; and removing that stain wouldn’t be easy at all.

  The train slowly hissed to a stop as the guard announced Saint-Genèse-sur-Loire. He waited for the train to pull out again on its long journey to Paris, before crossing the tracks with a few others who had got off here, all tourists, all curious no doubt at the news. Turning left out of the station, passing a boarded-up Café de la Gare, he walked slowly towards town. The only indication that that was the right direction was the imposing church spire in the near distance, across the river. He had arranged to meet Aubret at the crime scene, which was the other way, but he had plenty of time and he w
anted to get a sense of the place, even though, really, he knew exactly what he would find there.

  The low aqueduct bridge offered a great view of the thinned-out summer river. Ducks and geese slept on the banks and winter detritus clogged some of the arches under the bridge. Numerous fish, perch, carp, zander all flitted about in sudden energetic bursts. All easily visible in the sharp, clear water and all, for now, skilfully avoiding the lone fisherman, an old man, hoping to catch a fresh, free, meal. Lombard allowed him to cast off again before walking past. ‘Bonjour,’ the old man said without taking his eyes of his baited float.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Lombard responded. ‘Tell me, Monsieur,’ Lombard stopped a few yards on from the old man, ‘where is the boulangerie?’

  There was a pause while the old man either weighed up the options or tried to hide his annoyance at being disturbed. ‘Keep going straight on, a couple of minutes. It’s on your right there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ And Lombard turned around again.

  ‘But it’s shut on a Monday.’ Lombard stopped, smiled to himself, put his hands in his pockets and turned back the way he’d come. ‘Your best bet is Super-U. Ten minutes’ walk that way.’ The old man nodded, again without taking his eyes off the river in front of him.

  ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘But the bread is shit. All salt.’

  ‘So what do people do on a Monday for bread then?’ Lombard was at the man’s shoulder watching his line too.

  ‘Eat salty shit.’ The old man shrugged, never once looking round.

  ‘Bon courage Monsieur.’ Lombard smiled to himself and headed off in the direction of Aubret, the death of Graham Singleterry and salty shit.

  Chapter 6

  Brigitte Hervé breathed heavily onto the silver photo frame, before giving it an ostentatious rub with a yellow duster. She had the air of someone deep in concentration, focussed only on the manual task in hand, oblivious to what was going on around her. She had no idea if the others in the room believed that to be the case or not, but frankly she didn’t really care. They weren’t to know that she’d dusted everything only the day before, as she did every day, and anyway she wasn’t in the sunlit sitting room to do her chores; she was there to keep an eye on things. And it had been a rewarding morning so far, what with the doctor and the police at the door before breakfast, and now the Notaire.

  The patio doors were shut and the blinds partially drawn so that the room didn’t heat up too quickly. The ceiling fan whirred slowly as if daunted by the prospect of a full day’s work and the Allardyce sisters, ostensibly her new employers, sat side by side on the white leather corner sofa. One was suffering the effects of trauma and sedatives; the other the effects of too much local wine.

  ‘And here, Mesdemoiselles, is the document that finally says La Terre Noire is yours.’ She watched via a reflection in one of the photo frames as Notaire Ludovic Galopin produced, with a sweaty flourish, a yellow cardboard file overfull with papers. He placed the weighty pile on the glass coffee table and reclosed his battered briefcase. ‘If you could both initial each page and then sign…’

  ‘Every page?’ Lucy had already had enough of her so-called new life, and wasn’t fussed who knew it either. In that way she was like her father, Brigitte noted admiringly, but while he may have hit the wine just as hard, he would never have allowed Galopin to bully him this early in the day. Her half-sister Jane sat in a daze staring at the door as if in fear at who would come through it next. Jane was definitely not like her father, Brigitte noted less admiringly.

  ‘Seriously? Every bloody page?’ Lucy flicked dismissively through the heavy document. ‘I’ll get a sprained wrist.’

  Galopin affected a chuckle. His English had improved over the years, largely through necessity as the number of English clients rose, and it was now at a level where he understood English sarcasm. His face showed that he wasn’t a fan of any of it, though it was a small price to pay. They had made him a relatively wealthy man, certainly in Saint-Genèse terms.

  ‘Can’t we do this later?’ A pale Jane abruptly woke from her spell and smoothed her skirt in her lap. She sat bolt upright, and tucked her long auburn hair behind her ears.

  ‘I understand, Mademoiselle Allardyce… after the awful shock…’ Galopin’s corpulent body shook whenever he said anything, ‘but it’s for the best to get these things out of the way.’

  There was a tense silence as each waited for the other to take control of the situation. ‘I don’t feel up to it,’ was all Jane could muster. She may be a bit pallid and frail, thought Brigitte, but her blue eyes were as sharp as sapphires. So there was something of her father there after all. Each child, born of separate mothers and within a month of each other, something her late employer had thought hilarious and never tired of repeating, had elements of their father. Though even together, they still didn’t add up to the original, who Brigitte had adored.

  ‘Call me Saint,’ the late Emmanuel St. John Allardyce had said with a wink on their first meeting. That was now almost a quarter of a century ago and he’d gone on confidently to explain how inappropriate a name it was for him. She hadn’t really understood the lecture, but she understood when it was over and what had just happened to her. He was no saint, that’s for sure, she remembered fondly. In those days men were men; they ate well, drank well and appreciated a fine-looking woman too. Brigitte caught herself in the mirror. Yes, she thought, nearly twenty-five years ago, and she was still a fine-looking woman.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ persevered Galopin, swallowing an impatient sigh, ‘with what has happened, I strongly suggest we get this paperwork out of the way now.’

  ‘But… can’t it wait?’ Jane may have looked like a weak spirit, but she could obviously be stubborn too.

  ‘No. I think not.’ Galopin had decided it was time to put his foot down. ‘The police will want us all to co-operate, normal life will be...’ He struggled slightly for English vocabulary beyond what was called for in his work. ‘I certainly will be very busy and…’ He cut himself off.

  ‘I will be too, you mean?’ said Jane, a look of fear returning to her face.

  ‘I fear so.’ He looked away from his tearful client and Brigitte caught his eyes, not letting her intense stare drop.

  ‘I don’t honestly see what we can tell them.’ Lucy was either oblivious to her sister’s fragility or didn’t care, ‘We were just the poor sods who found him.’

  ‘Yes, Mademoiselle, but you must make a statement. Paperwork is very important to the police.’

  ‘They’re like bloody solicitors then!’ Lucy rooted about in her canvas bag for a pen. ‘I mean poor man and all that, but we haven’t seen him in years. He taught us French one summer, ’til dad put a stop to it.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with us really?’ Jane was almost pleading.

  ‘On the face of it nothing, but Monsieur Singleterry was a friend of your father’s…’

  Unnoticed, Brigitte rolled her eyes. ‘He was a friend to many around here.’

  Galopin continued. ‘His passion was to help people, help them settle in. Help with the language. Many times he sat in with myself and other English clients, with my poor language skills, they found him invaluable.’ He took a pen out of his pocket and offered it to Jane first. ‘He was very much a giving man.’ He added with wafer-thin sincerity.

  He was a nosy busybody, thought Brigitte. One who couldn’t stand it if he wasn’t involved in something. Her Saint had despised him, called him ‘The Thrush’. Always making a noise and you couldn’t get rid of him, he’d said. The Saint had towered over the diminutive Singleterry and had always used his stage experience and voice to make the man feel even smaller, but Singleterry never got it. He was impervious to what people thought of him, and the Saint wasn’t the only one who considered him an irritant. Most people did. What was the point of him, the Saint had once said after practically throwing the man out again. What was the point in involving yourself in other people’s lives for no advantage, for n
o gain?

  ‘He always made an effort to welcome newcomers to Saint-Genèse,’ Galopin added.

  ‘Well he certainly did this time!’ Lucy snorted.

  The telephone rang in the hall and Brigitte reluctantly pulled herself away to answer it. Lucy didn’t waste the opportunity and leant across Jane and closer towards Galopin.

  ‘She gives me the creeps too. She never leaves us alone.’

  ‘Oh Lucy, that’s not fair, she’s just looking out for us the way she did Dad.’ Jane weakly signed her name on the front page and handed the papers to her half-sister.

  ‘Well we certainly won’t be having the same relationship they had!’ An awkward silence followed Lucy’s levity.

  ‘She is your employee, Mesdemoiselles.’ He was struggling to turn the pages for his clients, his podgy fingers and his desire to get the business concluded making him clumsy. ‘Or she will be when the paperwork is complete.’

  ‘Then there may be some changes.’

  Jane’s head dropped at her sister’s belligerence.

  ‘Yes.’ Galopin drew the word out, leaving no-one in any doubt of what he thought of the idea. ‘But…’ He didn’t look up from the document.

  ‘But what?’ Lucy asked impatiently, wary of Brigitte walking back in on the conversation.

  ‘Well you may give notice, if you wish. But she has been here a long time. Your father cherished her and made it clear that, though it was not legally binding, he would like her to stay.’

  ‘But it’s not legally binding?’

  ‘Lucy. I think we’re in enough trouble without upsetting Madame Hervé. Let it go.’

  Lucy signed another page and handed Galopin’s cheap, tourist’s ‘Chateau de Saint-Genèse-sur-Loire’ pen back to Jane. Brigitte opened the door suddenly and was pleased at the effect this had on the others. She guessed they’d been talking about her. Good. Her wide smile was probably unnerving for them too. She bided her time and went back to her dusting.

  ‘Who was that then? Was it for us?’ Lucy was pretending not to care, and didn’t look up from her task of initialising every page.