Chief Inspector Maigret Visits London (14 page)

At 10.45 that morning, Cynthia Craven arrived at the Evremond home, where she was refused entry by Chief Inspector Scott. To say that she was displeased would be putting it mildly: in fact she was positively hostile.

‘I have some questions for you, my girl,' the chief inspector said, ‘but not here, and not now: at Scotland Yard later, when I'm good and ready.'

‘I'm not your girl,' she said angrily, ‘I'm a trained nurse who's taking care of Miss Evremond, so show some respect, and get out of my way, because I live
here. I insist that you let me go inside right now!'

‘Yes, and we know exactly how you've been taking care of the poor girl. But don't worry about her welfare: she has a police doctor and an intensive care nurse with her, and they're really taking care of her now.'

‘But… but where's Mr Evremond? What has he to say about all this?'

‘Give it up, madam; it's game over as far as you're concerned. Oh, and by the way, we've found the bottle of that revolting muck your boyfriend's been force-feeding to the poor child. And that's on its way to Scotland Yard for analysis at the police lab. We want to find out exactly what's in that damned stuff!'

At the mention of the word boyfriend, she looked startled, but decided to tough it out. ‘What boyfriend?' she said.

‘Your boyfriend who lives in the Whitechapel house: the one who kissed you goodbye when you left this morning.'

‘You've been spying on me? What about my civil liberties,' she said angrily.

‘I couldn't give a flying fig about your blasted civil liberties right now! What about what you've been doing to a poor sick girl, and her rights? Genevieve has already told us that you've
also been giving her the damned stuff, which you were careful to refer to as “a tonic”, but never when the other nurse was around. Apparently she's an innocent party in all this wretched business. Get her out of my sight, Sergeant Gillespie, before I vomit at the thought of the deliberate cruelty that's behind all this conduct,' Clive Scott fumed. ‘Arrest her on a charge of conspiracy to endanger the health of a minor. Slap the cuffs on her, and then get someone to take her to Scotland Yard tout-de-blasted-suite. And if she offers any resistance… '

‘We're not to pussyfoot around with her?' Andy Scott interrupted helpfully.

‘I was going to say “shoot to kill”, Andy, because she's got me so angry that I'd happily do it myself, but I guess your alternative is more politically correct, so we'll go with that – at least for now.'

‘Gotcha, guv.'

‘Oh, and one more thing: get her mobile off her. Do it right now. She's to be held
incommunicado
for as long as legally possible.'

‘The law says that I'm entitled to make one phone call,' Cynthia Harkness said smugly.

‘Yes, so it does. And the law also says that those who resist arrest can sometimes find themselves very seriously unhappy as a result.' ‘But I'm
not
resisting arrest,' she said, holding out her hands so the handcuffs could be secured. ‘And I want to make that very, very, clear, Chief Inspector Scott. Nor am I likely to trip and fall down any stairs, at any time, because my balance is excellent.'

‘Yeah, yeah, we've got the message, sister.'

‘In that context, guv, what I hear on the grapevine leads me to believe that little… misunderstandings can sometimes lead to… er… unfortunate events,' Andy Gillespie said.

‘Yes, I've heard of such things happening myself, Andy, but I'm sure
that won't happen as far as Ms Craven is concerned… '

‘But if something unforeseen should happen, boss?'

‘Then I'd be very seriously displeased with anyone who was involved,' his guvnor growled. ‘Got it?'

‘Got it, sir,' Andy reluctantly confirmed.

After Cynthia Craven had been carted off by one of the uniformed officers, Clive Scott made a phone call.

‘Is that you, Sergeant Moore?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘I'd like you to instruct the officer who's watching the Whitechapel house to arrest the man living there. And he's to do it pretty damn sharpish. Okay?'

‘On what charge, sir, and what's this man's name?'

‘Child endangerment, and practising medicine without a licence, will do for now; we'll add additional charges when we know more. But as for his name, well, I haven't a clue. Tell the officer to ask for some ID; that should help fill in the gaps.'

‘Okay, sir – will do.'

However, ten minutes later, Sergeant Tom Moore, was back on the phone. ‘He's not there, sir. From what various neighbours have told my officer, he seems to have done a hasty bunk. Should we force an entry?'

‘No, leave that to the Met police. We can handle that. And thanks for everything, Sergeant.'

Meanwhile, in the apartment overlooking Regent's Park clear across town from the Evremond home, Chief Inspector Maigret was being treated to a long lie-in, and coffee with warm croissants in bed, while he read the morning newspaper.

‘Exactly why am I being given the 5-star treatment,' he asked suspiciously. ‘Are you about to call me “my Lord' again?'

‘Not blooming likely,
monsieur,
' Megan Lisle said, aiming a convenient pillow at him. ‘That was a verbal accident, as you very well know, and it will not happen again – in this or any other Universe!'

He laughed. ‘But you're up to something, I can tell – so what is it? Spill the… baked beans.'

‘Well, after what happened to Max yesterday, I thought it might be a good idea to stay in south-east London for a couple of nights so that… '

‘I agree. When?' Philippe interrupted, much to her surprise.

‘I thought tonight?'

‘Tonight is fine by me.'

‘Great! And perhaps, after you've showered and dressed, you'd do something else for me, love.'

He sighed. ‘I knew it! What do you want me to do?'

‘Would you phone Chief Inspector Scott to find out how far he's got with his plans this morning, and where he is now? Oh, and whether he's managed to get James Evremond out of the way yet.' ‘Okay, I will when I've showered. I'd intended to phone him anyway,' Philippe replied. ‘Anything else you'd like me to do in the meantime?'

‘No, that's enough for now.'

‘
Bon.
Then how about another coffee?' he said, chancing his luck.

‘Okay.'

Chief Inspector Scott answered Philippe Maigret's call just as the search of the Evremond house was finishing. He was pleased to hear from his French colleague whom, although he would have been the last to admit it, he now looked on as an important ally, and friend. With a few short and snappy sentences he informed him of that morning's developments, including the discovery of the boxes of sparklers in the basement, the poisonous mixture in the refrigerator, the arrival of the equally toxic nurse, Cynthia Craven, and her mysterious boyfriend, who had made a hasty departure from the house in Whitechapel.

‘Well, Chief Inspector, it looks like you've had a busy, but profitable, morning,' Philippe said when Clive Scott had finished his account of recent events.

‘You don't know the half of it,' the Met policeman replied. ‘I've forgotten to tell you the best – or rather, the worst part. Just before you called I spoke to the technicians at the Yard's lab.'

‘And, perhaps they found the sparklers were not the usual variety used for children's parties, and other celebrations?'

‘How did you know?'

‘I just made a lucky guess,' Chief Inspector Maigret said modestly.

‘Then let me say that the lucky guess was right on the mark. ‘As you probably know, the typical sparkler is made up of a thin metal rod that has been dipped in a thick coating of pyrotechnic composition and then allowed to dry. This composition is rich in a metallic fuel like aluminium or iron, which, when it is burnt, creates silver or gold sparks, depending on which fuel has been used. The fuel often contains potassium nitrate or sometimes potassium chlorate as an oxidizer, sometimes with sulphur and carbon. If you want a coloured flame all you do is add nitrates or chlorides of barium, copper, or strontium.'

‘I'm impressed. I knew nothing of all that, while you seem to be something of an expert,' Philippe said.

‘Don't you believe it: I just read all that from a text that the lab sent me! I don't understand even half of what it means!' Clive Scott confessed. ‘But the bottom line is this: the sparklers that the lab examined were very different from the usual variety. And the lab guys were lucky that they were wearing protective clothing, and eye-shields, before they started tinkering around with them, otherwise they'd probably all be in intensive care by now. These things start off just as you'd expect, but when they've burnt a quarter of the way down the rod then – Whammy! The rest of the sparkler literally explodes, showering the person holding it with a
lethal,
accelerant-filled firestorm. The bottom line is that these are very nasty, dangerous things. Now what do you think of that!'

‘I think you'd be facing a major disaster if the plan was to give those sparklers to the gallery's guests at the London Eye. And clearly that's what you suspect, and so, I regret to say, must I. God help us – so must I.'

‘So you don't think this is some half-baked conspiracy theory I've cooked up in my declining years?' Clive Scott asked.

‘Of course I don't! Why else would the sparklers have been kept under lock and key at the home of someone with James Evremond's history? And, remember what Sherlock Holmes said, “when you have excluded the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”.'

‘I hate to be the one to break the news to you, Chief Inspector, but Sherlock Holmes was a
fictional
character.
'

Philippe Maigret laughed. ‘Yes, I'm aware of that fact, but I understand that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle may have said almost the same thing!'

‘
Touché
! I should have seen that one coming! But now I
think it's time to roll up our shirt sleeves and go to work
tout-de-blasted-suite
. Can I count on your help?'

‘But of course! And if we're to be working with our shirt sleeves rolled up, don't you think it's time you called me Philippe?'

‘I will – but only if you call
me
Clive.'

‘
Bon,
so it is agreed, Clive
.
But now I have Mrs Lisle tugging at my sleeve to remind me to ask if James Evremond is out of the way so that she, and Celia, with some other young friends, may visit Miss Evremond this afternoon.
'

‘
Yes, yes, it's quite alright. Evremond's at Scotland Yard, and now we've found the lethal sparklers we'll be able to hold him for up to fourteen days under the Terrorism Act. The Evremond house is under police guard, but I'll make sure the officers know that that Mrs Lisle, Celia, and the other young ladies are to be allowed in whenever they wish. And you too, of course, Philippe.'

‘Thank you, Clive. However, I think I will leave the visiting of the sick to the ladies. I'd like to have a look around the little Dulwich gallery that Jacques has described so elegantly to me. It's possible that I may see something that he missed, although I doubt it, as not much gets past our Jacques!'

‘What time will you be in Dulwich?'

‘In about an hour, or so; we're taking things slowly this morning.'

‘Half your luck,' Clive Scott said enviously. ‘I'll be back at Scotland Yard before that. I need to crack the whip at the lab to find out what's in the disgusting mixture that young Genevieve has been forced to swallow. But stay in touch, and let me know of any developments.'

‘But of course, Clive; and I'm sure you'll do the same.'

‘Goes without saying, matey… er Philippe,' Clive Scott said, just before the call ended.

‘You're getting pretty damn chummy with the French upper class these days, guv,' Andy Gillespie commented impishly, ‘whatever happened to keeping our cards close to our chests?'

‘Not my style, Andy, free exchange of information. That's the spirit of
entente cordiale
– welcome to the 21
^st
Century! And, if you don't want a clip round the lug hole, stop yanking my chain!'

Granny Meg met Celia, Charlotte, and her older sister, Izzy, at the senior school gate that afternoon. She had earlier sent Celia a text to tell her that they could now visit Genevieve but that she would treat them to a hot chocolate and some cake at the local coffee shop first.

Afterwards, they walked arm-in-arm to the Evremond home. It was not far, and the weather was lovely, so it was a pleasant walk. Philippe, in the meantime, was having a good look around the entire area, including the little art gallery where James Evremond had bestowed his generous gift.

A little earlier there had been a change of shift at the Evremond house, but the new policeman on duty, a young constable, was expecting them, so he greeted them with a smile and a cheery “good afternoon ladies”, then opened the front door for them.

‘He's rather hunky, don't you think?' Charlotte whispered.

‘Yes, he is – numnum,' giggled Celia and Izzy.

‘Mind your manners girls, he'll hear you,' Granny warned.

‘Well, if he does, Mrs Lisle, I expect he'd be quite flattered,' Charlotte said. And that was definitely that!

They spent almost an hour with Genevieve who was delighted to see them again. She chatted and laughed, and everyone said how much better she looked. So did her room, which was filled with masses of sweet-smelling flowers, while the curtains were fully drawn back, and the window was open. They also met Patrick Evremond, who was a huge hit with the girls, having instantly been declared a total hunk in his own right.

As Megan looked at the young people gossiping, telling jokes, and filling the room with their laughter, she thought gratefully that the Life force had returned to that room again. But for how long would it stay?

Sometime around 5 pm, shortly after the girls and Granny Meg had left, another visitor approached the Evremond home. The young detective constable looked up from his notebook as he heard the front gate click again.

‘Can I help you, sir?' he asked, while thinking that the long black coat, worn over the black shirt and trousers, was a strange way to dress on such a fine afternoon.

‘Well, yes, officer, I think perhaps you can,' the stranger replied affably, as he approached the policeman. ‘Oh look!' he exclaimed pointing towards the sky.

As the policeman turned his head to look where the man was pointing, he felt the cold bony fingers pressing firmly into the side of his neck. And that was the last thing that he ever felt.

At about the same time, Chief Inspector Scott arranged for Slippery Sid Ellis, and James Evremond, to be taken to the same interview room so that they could observe them – from the other side of the two-way mirror
⁸
– to see if they knew each other.

‘What they got you banged up for, guv?' Slippery Sam asked sociably.

‘I really don't know,' replied Evremond, ‘and I'm very worried because my daughter's ill and there's no one looking after her. Except the police, of course, but they're hardly qualified to… '

‘Act like they've graduated from Florence Nightingale's nursing academy?' Slippery interjected helpfully.

‘Precisely. Do you have any idea of how long they're likely to keep me here?'

Slippery shrugged. ‘Depends,' he said, ‘on what charge they can cook up for you in the meantime.' ‘What are they holding you for?'

‘I don't know, guv,' Slippery lied, ‘I'm in the same boat as you are: I think I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

‘That's a shame.'

‘Yes, it's a damned shame, but what I can I do? They're holding all the aces. Same in your case, I guess.'

‘Maybe.'

On the other side of the two-way mirror frustration was building with every insignificant word the pair spoke.

‘I get the feeling they don't know each other, boss,' Andy Gillespie said. ‘They're just making small talk.'

‘And I get the feeling that you're right, dammit,' Clive Scott said. ‘Okay, get the duty officer to wheel Evremond out and take him back to the cells, then wheel in Cruella De Vil (his name for The Recruiter's girlfriend, nurse Cynthia Craven!): let's see if Slippery Sid knows her.'

But he didn't.

Meanwhile, in Dulwich, the police nurse, Deirdre Wilson, had just walked into Genevieve's room where she was still sitting in a comfortable chair by the side of her bed, talking animatedly with her brother.

‘Will you two be okay if I pop out to the chemist's for fifteen minutes?' she asked. ‘Dr Lucas has just phoned through a prescription that he wants me to collect for you, young lady,' she said smiling at Genevieve.

‘We'll be fine,' brother and sister replied together.

‘Good. And then, when I'm back, I think it will be time for the patient to get back into bed for a little rest before her supper.'

Not long after Deirdre had left, the front door opened again: this time very quietly. Patrick thought he heard something, so he stopped talking and listened carefully. Nothing: must have been my imagination, he thought.

The Recruiter left his briefcase in the hallway and crept silently towards the basement door which led off the end of the kitchen. To his surprise, the door was not locked. He flew down the stairs with that peculiar motion he had perfected over many years of practising the martial arts. When he found that the boxes of the exploding sparklers had gone, he lost all control and fell into a total frenzy. He rampaged around throwing things about, pulling stuff off shelves, and opening, then slamming shut, cupboards and drawers. And that noise Patrick most definitely
did
hear.

‘Close the door after I've left, Ginny,' he said quietly, ‘and make sure you lock it. Then dial 999. Tell them there's a dangerous intruder in the house, and they're to let Chief Inspector Scott at Scotland Yard know immediately. And tell them to come
quickly!
'

‘Patrick – don't go!' she cried. ‘I must. Now be a brave girl, and do as I say.'

Patrick stood on the wide landing at the top of the stairs and looked down. As he heard the click of Ginny locking her door, The Recruiter suddenly appeared in the hall below him, and they glared at each other.

‘Well, well – another Evremond brat, by the look of things,' The Recruiter said with an unpleasant laugh.

‘
I
will not
let you pass
,' Patrick shouted down at him.

The Recruiter sneered, ‘Is that meant to be some kind of joke? You're just a boy. How can
you
stop
me?
You don't know what you're up against, my lad, nor the strength of the forces I have at my disposal. There's no limit to the ways I can hurt you: many of them without so much as a drop of blood being spilled. If you don't believe me you can ask the policeman outside your front door. Oh wait,' he laughed. ‘You
could
ask him, but he wouldn't be able to answer you. How could he? He's dead!'

‘I can stop you, alright,' Patrick said, standing his ground. ‘Can't you see I'm not alone? Look who's behind me.'

‘You don't think I'd fall for that trick, do you? It's the oldest one in the book. There's no one behind you.'

‘Look again,' Patrick said calmly, although he was trembling inside. ‘Can't you see the Archangel Michael: the very one who fought your filthy old Satan-Snake and slung his evil butt out of Heaven? Michael's here, standing behind me, with his angels, and behind them are all the holy martyrs of the Lord.' What else, what else, Patrick thought desperately, trying to remember his Sunday school lessons. Who comes after the holy martyrs? ‘And… and all the blessed company of saints and apostles,' he finished triumphantly.

Then suddenly The Recruiter was on the landing, facing him. How did he do that Patrick thought – did he fly? It looked like he
flew.
But how is that possible? And then The Recruiter's hands were on his shoulders and they were struggling, fighting, clawing and gouging each other. Patrick was young, fit, and athletic. But his assailant was stronger, and well experienced in the deadly arts. As they grappled with each other his hands were probing to find the exact location on his neck that would send Patrick to his death as effortlessly as he had killed the young policeman.

‘I need help,' Patrick found himself shouting. ‘Can't you hear me?
Help, I said. I need your help!'

The Recruiter laughed. I've got him now, he thought. There is no help for him. I've got him exactly where I want him. He's mine. And this one I think I might kill slowly. Slowly, and with the most excruciating pain. With his next heartbeat, Patrick became aware that his entire body was being filled with an extraordinary power. Every sinew was strengthened once, then twice, and then again and again, and again. At the same time he could feel the increased blood supply surging effortlessly through his veins. He felt invincible. He felt blessed. He had been empowered with an ancient strength:
a holy strength.
It was the same power that the boy David had felt, four thousand years earlier, when he loaded the first stone into his slingshot and prepared to take aim at the giant Goliath.

Patrick grabbed The Recruiter, and threw him to the floor like a rag doll. He got up, shook his head, and they struggled again. Patrick delivered a series of heavy blows to The Recruiter's upper body with his fists and elbows, and he staggered back teetering close to the edge of the top step. Then he recovered and lunged at Patrick again, full of the devil's own fury. Patrick looked him steadily in the eyes, then, with all the force of which he was now capable, he shoved him backwards.

The Recruiter fell down the stairs with such momentum that he hit the wall at the half-landing with a loud whack, before bouncing off again. With the collision had come a terrible scream: an unholy cry of pain. One of the sharply-pointed stars of the inverted pentacle he wore around his neck had been thrust deep into his heart by the impact with the wall. He was dead before his body dropped to the floor below, but that fall broke his neck. I did it deliberately, Patrick thought. I knew that if I hit him hard enough he would fall. Was I wrong to do that, he asked. It doesn't
feel
wrong.

Simultaneously he heard the sound of Ginny unlocking her door, and the wail of the approaching police sirens. She crept out to the landing and clung tightly to him without saying a word. Brother and sister stared down at the lifeless body of her tormentor lying on the floor below them, twisted and splayed out like some wretched reject from a Guy Fawkes' bonfire.

‘Ding, dong, the witch is dead,' Genevieve said softly.