Chief Inspector Maigret Visits London (5 page)

A shock was in store for Andy and Megan when they met Nicole Vachon the next morning. She arrived promptly at 10.30 am, wearing a navy linen skirt, white blouse and a smart long-sleeved jacket in lime green. A filmy scarf was draped around her neck and dark glasses covered her eyes: Megan thought this outfit was rather strange, given that the day was warm, humid and overcast.

Nicole was invited into the vicar's sitting room where Andy offered to take her jacket. When she took it off, they could see the bruises: these extended down her arms, while the imprint of a pair of hands was obvious above her elbows. Then the scarf came off, and bruising was visible on her neck. And finally, when the dark glasses were removed, they saw that her right eye was blackened.

‘Who did this to you, Nicole?' Megan asked without thinking.

‘Serge did it. How did you know my name was Nicole?'

‘Oh, my… er husband. You told my husband your name when you phoned yesterday, and he mentioned it to me.'

‘Did I? I don't remember, but I don't suppose it's important.'

‘Has he hit you before?' Andy Gillespie asked.

‘Of course he hasn't! Do you think I'd stay with a man who hit me?' Nicole almost spat the words at Andy.

‘No, of course you wouldn't, Nicole. No one thinks you would. And good for you,' Megan said, smoothing her ruffled feathers. ‘So why would he hit you now?'

‘I don't know; he just suddenly went crazy. Then he said I ask too many questions. But all I did was ask why he was packing an overnight bag, and where he was going, and how long he'd be away. Just three questions,' she said sadly, ‘and this is the result.' Then she began to cry.

‘Andy, why don't you see about some tea for… ?'

‘Andy? I thought Father Wainwright's name was David?' Nicole said. She dabbed at her eyes, and was suddenly on guard. Damn and blast, Andy thought. And just when things seemed to be going so well!

‘Yes, his name
is
David, but I call him Andy,' Megan said thinking on her feet.

‘Why would you do that?' She was still suspicious.

‘Why would you call your dog Max?'

‘What?'

‘Why would you call your dog Max,' Megan asked again.

‘Because that's his name!'

‘Then why didn't he come when you called him the day we were collecting books for the church?'

‘Because he's going deaf, and sometimes I have to shout to make him take notice! But I don't like to shout in front of other people, because they might think I'm cruel.'

‘So the dog's name really is Max?'

‘Yes, of course it is, haven't I told you that already! Why do you keep talking about my dog when I've come here for help to find Serge?'

‘I'm sorry. I apologise,' Megan said quickly. ‘Has a doctor looked at your injuries?'

‘No. I don't want any medical treatment.'

‘Are you sure?' Andy asked. ‘Yes.'

Behind the double doors leading to the dining room the two Chief Inspectors, Maigret and Scott, with Inspector Martin, were listening intently. They could hear everything that was being said in the sitting room, thanks to some technical wizardry installed by Scotland Yard earlier that morning: installed but not permanently. The real vicar, David Wainwright, had made sure of that.

‘Why is the silly woman prattling on about blasted dogs and their blasted names, when what she's supposed to be doing is getting information about blasted Serge Vachon, and his blasted whereabouts?' Clive Scott fumed. At Scotland Yard it was generally accepted that Chief Inspector Scott, a good, solid, conscientious
policeman, sometimes operated on a very short fuse. This was one of those times, and now he so frustrated that he was well on the way to blowing his top.

Philippe Maigret cleared his throat to discreetly remind Clive Scott that he was straying into dangerous territory again by referring to Megan in those terms. ‘Ssh,' he said. ‘The name of the dog was important because… '

‘Oh, yes,' Scott interrupted, ‘because that's the name of Mrs Lisle's grandson, and she thought Nicole Vachon was warning her off by pretending that was the dog's name too.'

‘Exactement
,
Chief Inspector.
'

However, Andy Gillespie was having the same thoughts as his boss, so he decided to speed things up.

‘How can we help you, Mrs Vachon?'

‘I want you to tell me how to find Serge.'

‘But that's a job for the police, not us. We can't undertake a… '

‘No, no, no! No police. I don't want them involved. Not now, and not ever. Serge wouldn't be happy if they came around poking their noses into his business.'

‘And what exactly is his business, Nicole?' Megan asked.

‘He's an importer and exporter.'

‘Of what, exactly?'

‘Er… well… er… all kinds of stuff. And he handles the sales of my paintings in Europe.'

Megan looked carefully at Nicole before she decided to take the plunge. ‘Nicole, the police
are
already involved.'

‘What?'

‘Flaming Nora,' Clive Scott exploded in the next room. ‘What the hell does she think she's up to now?'

Andy Gillespie sat stunned and silent. He felt he should say something but hadn't a clue what.

‘This man,' Megan said, ‘is not
the vicar of St Luke's. He's a police officer, and I'm a friend of Louise Maigret.'

‘Louise Maigret?' Nicole repeated, trying to digest this news.

Megan stood up and walked over to the double doors. She opened them slightly and said, ‘I think it's time for you to join the meeting, Philippe.'

Sacre-double-blasted-bleu,
Clive Scott thought. Now it's all over, red rover!'

A second later Philippe Maigret emerged from the dining room. Nicole took one look at him, shook her head in disbelief, then launched herself into his arms and burst into tears. Philippe looked uncomfortable, but patted her gently on the back. ‘There, there,' he said, or at least that's what Megan and Andy assumed he'd said, because he spoke in French and Nicole replied in French. But she didn't stop crying. ‘Help me,' Philippe mouthed to Megan, who shook her head.

‘Excuse me, everyone,' she said, ‘I have to make a phone call.' She left the room and walked quickly into the kitchen where the real vicar and his wife were waiting.

‘How's it going, Meg?' David Wainwright asked cheerfully.

‘Don't ask,' she said, ‘I'm going for a walk in your lovely garden, David. I need a big dose of fresh air. And I think that any moment now you're going to be asked to do some major – no, correction –
mega
counselling work!'

A few moments later she was joined by Inspector Martin who was also looking to escape.

‘Are you alright,
Mad
…
er Megan?'

‘I hardly think so, Georges, what about you?'

‘You know we'll have to go back inside sometime, don't you?'

‘Yes, but not yet. I'm trying to decide how best to tell her the truth. Not the entire truth of course, but maybe a small part of it.'

The next minute they were joined by a red-faced Clive Scott. ‘Why did you do it?' he demanded.

‘Because I was tired of all the lies: it was obvious that every new one would lead to another, and so on, ad infinitum. Philippe was never
happy with the deception. Not from the very beginning, and he was right! ‘Come on,' she said, taking a deep breath, ‘I guess it's time to go back inside and face the music now.'

They re-entered the kitchen where Diane Wainwright, standing with the kettle poised in her hand, asked, ‘Shall I make a pot of coffee, Megan?'

‘That's a very good idea, Di. And best to make plenty of it: and good and strong with lots of sugar on the side.'

As the three of them walked into the sitting room they heard Nicole say incredulously, ‘You're going to marry the vicar's wife, Philippe? But how is that possible?'

‘Crikey,' muttered Clive Scott, ‘looks like we made our entrance a few blasted minutes too blasted soon!'

It took an hour before the explanations, counselling and reconciliation, not to mention the tears (Nicole's), and the endless cups of coffee (the policemen's), were concluded to everyone's satisfaction. From the beginning, Father David Wainwright took the lead, and he used all of his professional skills to accomplish this result. Megan was impressed. I knew he had a psychology degree she thought, but I didn't realise he was this good.

Chief Inspector Scott was making some mental notes of his own. I wonder if he does freelance work, he was thinking: he's a hundred times better than any of the blasted shrinks we use at Scotland Yard!

And strange to tell, Nicole didn't seem to be too concerned with their earlier deception. She was just relieved that there were people on her side now, and that some effort would be made to find Serge.

But what David Wainwright didn't reveal to anyone was that the recent changes in Serge's behaviour that Nicole had described: the sudden mood swings, the spontaneous, unusual violence, and the terrible headaches, might be an indication of one of three things:

An untreated medical condition, like an aggressive brain tumour;

Serious, prolonged drug use;

Or an acute, undiagnosed, mental illness.

There was a fourth
possibility, but his brain shied away from that like a horse confronted by a fence he instinctively knows is too high to jump. He had experienced the fourth alternative several times in his ministry, and he knew the emotional toll it took on everyone involved, him included. It was the unending conflict between Good and Evil which usually destroyed those who recklessly involved themselves in the dark side of life. And which, as he had already discovered, could result in total madness.

In other words, the question his mind was forcing him to confront was this: had Serge Vachon turned his back on the Lord God Almighty. And was he now a disciple of the devil?

Later that day, David Wainwright let himself quietly into a side door of St Luke's Church, and fell on his knees in front of the altar. And there he prayed, with all the fervour of which his soul was capable, that what he feared was not true.

‘Georges, I'd be grateful if you'd accompany Nic… er Madame Vachon to her home now,' Chief Inspector Maigret said as they were leaving the vicarage.

‘There's no need for that, Philippe,' Nicole said. ‘I feel better now, and I might do some shopping on the way. I'll be fine.'

‘I'm sure you would be, but I wonder if you would let Inspector Martin have a look around your home. It's possible he might find a clue as to where your husband is now. One of Chief Inspector Scott's men will come later to take his description, and other details. A photo would also help if you have one.'

‘Oh, I see. Well, in that case, let him come with me. He's welcome to look wherever he likes, if you think it will help. And yes, I have a photo of Serge. It might be a few years old, but it's still a good likeness.'

‘
Bon
. I'm sure his time with you will be well spent.' ‘What do you want me to do after I've finished, sir?' Georges Martin asked.

‘How about you do a little reconnoitre around the area to see what you can find out? Maybe drop in to some of the local watering-holes with Serge Vachon's photo to see if anyone knows him.'

‘Okay Chief. And after I've done that?'

‘I'll call you when I'm finished at Scotland Yard. It will probably take about an hour to tie up some… er loose ends there.'

‘It's red tape, Georges. It's what I call Uncle Tom Cobley and all business,' Megan whispered, ‘just in case everything goes pear-shaped and either Scotland Yard or
Police Nationale
ends up in the brown stuff.'

‘Comment
,
Megan?
'

‘
Merde
, Georges. In the proverbial
merde
!
'

‘In
la mer
, Inspector,' Father Wainwright said helpfully, ‘isn't
that
what you meant, Megan?'

‘Yes, of course, David, in
la mer
,
' Megan managed to say before she and Georges Martin began laughing.

Georges continued chuckling to himself as he and Nicole walked down the side street leading to Elgin Avenue. And he was still smiling when they reached the intersection where they would cross the dual carriage-way on the way to her mews house. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the grey car go across the roundabout at the Maida Vale tube station end of the avenue. It's a long way off, his brain registered automatically, there's plenty of time to get to the other side.

When they had almost reached the traffic island in the centre of the road, he realised that the car's speed was increasing incrementally, second by second: it was now going much faster than they could walk. Then it was almost on top of them, and all he could do was to give Nicole an almighty shove to safety before the car hit him. Then there was nothingness. Fade to black.

As she fell to the asphalt, Nicole heard the sickening sound of Swedish steel colliding with French flesh. The car paused momentarily then accelerated again, and she lost consciousness.

When she regained consciousness she was strapped on a stretcher in an ambulance speeding with its siren blaring towards St Mary's hospital.

‘Where is Inspector Martin?' she murmured. ‘What's happened to him? Is he alright?'

‘Ssh, lie still,' the paramedic said, adjusting her oxygen mask.

An hour later, when Philippe Maigret called Georges Martin, the phone was answered by an unfamiliar female voice.

‘Who are you?' the voice asked briskly.

‘Who are you?' Philippe Maigret countered, ‘and why are you answering Inspector Martin's phone?'

‘I'm a triage sister in Accident and Emergency at St Mary's hospital. Are you a friend of Georges Martin, sir?'

‘Yes, I'm a friend and colleague. What's happened to him?'

‘I regret… I regret… '

‘
Mon Dieu
! He's not… he's not… ' Philippe Maigret couldn't bring himself to say the word.

‘I think you should come as soon as possible, sir. He's been very seriously injured.'

‘How?'

‘Apparently it was a hit and run.' ‘And what of the woman who was with him, Madame Vachon?'

‘I don't know anything about her I'm afraid. I'm in the critical response unit – she might be in another part of the hospital.'

‘What's your name, sister?'

‘I'm Lorna Rogers, sir. And you are… ?'

‘I'm Chief Inspector Philippe Maigret, of the
Police Nationale
in Paris. I'll pass the phone to Sergeant Gillespie now, so you can give him all the details, while I see if arrangements can be made for a police escort to the hospital. Thank you, sister.'

Five minutes later the police car, with a motor-cycle out-rider, was speeding from Scotland Yard to the Edgware Road with sirens wailing. Philippe Maigret sat ashen-faced and grim in the back of the car holding hands with Megan, who alternated between tears and prayers. A police driver, especially trained for high-speed car chases, was driving at a terrifying speed, while Chief Inspector Scott sat next to him, holding on to the strap of his seat belt so tightly that his knuckles had already turned white.

When they arrived at St Mary's there was a small amount of good news, but much more bad news. Georges Martin was alive, but barely, and he was still in surgery. If he survived both the surgery,
and
the next twelve hours, it would be by the Grace of God, not to mention the skill of the surgeons who were operating on him. And it would probably also be a miracle.

When she could bear the waiting no longer, Megan went outside into the warm afternoon sunshine on the noisy Edgware Road. She was amazed at how completely normal everything seemed. Don't you know that inside this hospital a good, courageous man is fighting for his life, she screamed silently at the people passing by. Some stared curiously at her tear-stained face then looked away quickly, while others barely gave her a second glance. I've got to do something, she thought, but what? At that moment her mobile rang. It was David Wainwright's wife, Diane.

‘I like your French policeman, Megan,' she said brightly, ‘he's quite dishy and the two of you seem so happy together. I wondered if you might like to bring him to dinner at the vicarage one night before he returns to Paris.'

‘Oh, Diane,' was all Megan could say before her tears started again.

‘What's wrong, Meg? What's happened?'

‘It's Georges Martin, he's been run down by a car and he's in St Mary's in a very bad way.'

‘What can we do? Should David come to the hospital?'

‘Is he home?'

‘Yes, I saw him go into the church by the side door about fifteen minutes ago.'

‘Ask him to light every candle in the church, and then to pray as hard as he can. And you pray too.'

‘We will. I promise you, we both will.'

For the next four days Georges Martin hovered between life and death. His spleen had to be removed, he had substantial internal injuries, and he was in a coma. Sometimes Death seemed to gain the upper hand and they all despaired, then the pendulum swung again and Life clawed back a little ground. Philippe and Megan stayed at the hospital while one long day followed another, and still Georges did not regain consciousness. From the first night Philippe had insisted on sleeping in a small fold-up bed in Georges' room, while Megan slept fitfully alone in her apartment.

The children, Celia, Max and Timmy, brought armfuls of fresh flowers and hand-drawn cards to him. Timmy even brought his beloved new cricket bat that he usually took to bed with him, and left it reverently next to Georges' bed as though it was some holy relic with miraculous powers to heal. Then they all kissed his pallid cheek, shed more tears for him, and stole silently away when it was time to leave. Even Nathaniel, Megan's third grandson, who lived in Norfolk, and hadn't met
any
of the French policemen, sent letters and poems and cards with elaborate drawings about how the body could function quite well without a spleen.

But worse was to come.