Chief Inspector Maigret Visits London (7 page)

‘I guess this guarantees Serge Vachon a place in the Guinness Book of Best Alibis,' Andy Gillespie said, when he heard the news the next morning.

‘You're right there, Sonny Jim. It's hard to see how he could have done the dreaded deed on Inspector Martin when he's been brown bread in the Thames for a couple of days,' his boss agreed.

‘So what do you think happened? He had a skin-full of red wine, then went for a walk in the dark along the Thames and fell in?'

‘It's been known to happen, Andy, but it doesn't explain all the garlic in his stomach, nor the heavy blow to the back of his head… '

‘Perhaps he had a morbid fear of the un-dead, and he hit his head on some floating timber, or some other flotsam, when he fell in the drink.'

‘What? And then he obligingly rolled over in the water so the very same piece of flotsam could wallop him again on his forehead?'

‘Or a different piece of wood – it
could
happen, guv,' Andy suggested defensively.

‘No, no, no: the pathologist was very clear on that point: whatever whacked him on the back of the head also inflicted the wound on his forehead. And what about all the other bruises on his body: how do you explain them? And what, apart from this far-fetched fear of zombies that you've dreamt up, accounts for the raw garlic in his stomach?'

Andy shrugged. ‘It's supposed to be good for us; maybe he was some kind of health nut.'

‘And maybe you've strayed into clutching at straws territory now – or blasted La-La land. I don't buy it, Andy. And if you tell me you do, I'll be very worried about your future in this unit.'

‘Who's going to break the news to Nicole Vachon, guv?' Andy asked, deciding it was time to change the subject before his career suffered any further damage.

‘I'd like it to be Maigret, he'd be the logical person to do it, but I doubt he'll go for it. He seems keen to avoid his ex-wife as much as possible, and I know for a fact that he hasn't left St Mary's since he heard his mate was there: he's even been sleeping in the same room as Georges Martin.'

Chief Inspector Scott was right. Philippe Maigret would, most definitely, not inform Nicole that Serge was dead.

‘Non non et non,
' he said when he was asked, and we know that means never in a million years!

Not even Megan Lisle could persuade him to change his mind, although she tried very hard.

‘Megan, I will not leave this hospital again until Georges comes out of his coma. Please understand that I feel very strongly about this matter, and do not ask me again. I would do the same if it were Jacques who had been injured instead of Georges. These men are my team, my colleagues, my
friends, and I do not desert them in their hour of need.'

‘You're right, darling,' she said, ‘I'm sorry I asked.' Then she put her arms around him, kissed him, and shed a few more tears for Georges Martin.

So the unenviable job of breaking the news to Nicole fell to the Chief Inspector and Sergeant Andy Gillespie, as they had feared that it would. But they had not anticipated Nicole's reaction. First she had an attack of hysteria, then having ‘completely worn herself out' (as Clive Scott unsympathetically remarked), she fainted. When she recovered consciousness there were more tears, and so inconsolable was she that they dared not tell her that she would be required to identify Serge's body.

‘I want Philippe,' she cried again and again. ‘Get Philippe here. I need him. Why isn't he here already? Tell him to come. He
must
come!'

‘Father Wainwright's on his way, Nicole,' Clive Scott said gently. ‘He and his wife will be here in a few minutes.'

‘I don't want them! I want Philippe. Get him here now!' she sobbed. But Philippe Maigret would not come.

‘You must,' Megan had urged at the beginning. ‘At a time like this it's the least you could do.'

‘No, absolutely not: my place is here with Georges.'

‘Sweetie, he doesn't even know you're here.'

‘But I
know I'm here and that's what matters. And here I'll stay until Georges comes out of the coma. And that's final, Megan, so please don't mention the subject again.' But of course she did.

Meanwhile, Jacques, having visited Georges Martin twice at the hospital with the children, had decided that the best way he could help was to find out more about the counterfeit money, which might lead to the people behind the conspiracy.

He had already established a pattern: every day, after tempting the children out of bed with the smell of his delicious breakfast crepes wafting up the stairs, he walked them to school with Inky by his side
.
Every day he trawled the neighbourhood looking for more upside-down pentacles. He found two, but no money. Then he gradually widened his search into the surrounding areas, looking for more. Or for whatever clues he could find. When he and Inky were exhausted from the walking, they sat in friendly bakeries or coffee shops, usually in Dulwich, Jacques drinking more coffee than was good for him, and pretending to read the newspaper, while Inky slept at his feet. And all the time he was watching, listening, observing, until one day the sleuthing paid a dividend.

‘Can you imagine it? And in a respectable area like this,' he heard the shopkeeper say to a regular customer, ‘and someone passes me not one, but
two
dud £20 notes that look so real that I don't even realise they're fake. Not at the same time, of course, nor even on the next day. Not that that makes any difference. But of course the damn bank spots the difference, doesn't it? And now I'm £40 out of pocket.'

After the customer had tut-tutted in sympathy, and left with her coffee and cakes, the shop was quiet. Jacques, who by now was known to the owner, sauntered over to the counter and said casually, ‘Pardon,
Madame,
but I could not help over-hearing your conversation about the – how do you say? – fake
£20 notes.'

‘You're French aren't you?' she asked, thinking, and not for the first time, what a charming accent he had. ‘
Mais oui
,
Madame
,' he replied, deciding to play the role of Frenchman to the hilt, ‘but please do not hold that against me. It was, you might say, just an accident
of birth!' As he spoke, he gave an exaggerated Gallic shrug, and
Madame
was well and truly hooked.

‘But I think you have a lovely accent. What's your name? Mine's Debbie,' she said, ‘and what are you doing in London?'

‘I'm Jacques, and I'm a freelance photographer. I'm in London for a week or two taking photographs for a book I'm working on.'

‘Where's your camera?'

‘Here – in my pocket.'

‘It's very small. I thought you professional guys had big cameras and tripods and gear like that.'

‘Not these days,
Madame
: all I need is my trusty little digital, and that does the job perfectly well. Now about these £20 notes that turned out to be counterfeit… '

‘Yes, what of them?'

‘Would you like me to try to get your money back for you?'
Madame
was even more interested.

‘Yes, of course! But what can you do, Jacques?'

Jacques decided that it was time to go into James Bond mode. He looked carefully around the shop in an exaggerated manner, and put his fingers to his lips.

‘Ssh,' he said, ‘I have something to tell you but it is for your ears only. Do you understand?'

Madame's
eyes widened and she nodded, hardly daring to breathe. At that moment the bell on the door of the shop tinkled as another customer came in. Rats! thought Jacques – and just when things were coming nicely to the boil. He tapped the side of his nose, and the shop owner nodded. He mouthed the word ‘later' and she nodded again. Then he resumed his seat.

What shall I tell her, he thought? Will it be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, or a sanitized half-truth version? He decided on the second option: safer for her and safer for him too.

When the customer had left, Debbie immediately sashayed over to his table, her generous hips swaying from side to side, like palm trees moving in a tropical breeze.

‘May I?' she asked, looking at the spare chair.

‘Mais oui, Madame
,'
Jacques replied, staying in character, ‘it would be my pleasure.'

Debbie sat down, and leant towards him, displaying her ample bosom, which was barely covered by her low-cut top. She was a pretty woman, but she reminded him of an over-ripe peach.

‘Now, Jacques,' she purred, ‘what exactly can you do for me?'

Help, thought Jacques, have I gone a little too far with the charm offensive! He took a large gulp of his coffee. That's better, nerves under control now!

‘I could, perhaps, get your money back for you.'

‘And?' What else? ‘I… don't understand,
Madame
,'
Jacques said, feeling a tremor run down his spine.

‘What were you about to tell me before that last customer came in?' ‘Oh, yes,' replied Jacques, considerably relieved. His relief would not last long. ‘I was about to take you into my confidence,
Madame
about my… '

‘Debbie, please, Jacques. Call me Debbie. Are you married?'

‘
Comment?'

‘
I asked if you were married, Jacques – are you?'

‘Yes,
Madame
… '

‘Debbie, please.'

‘I'm sorry, Debbie,' Jacques said, pulling himself together as quickly as he could. ‘Yes, I am very much married. I have a lovely wife, Yvette, and two wonderful children, Michelle and André.'

‘Oh,' said a deflated Debbie, ‘I see. Now what can you do about the money, Jacques?'

‘Do you suspect anyone, Debbie?'

‘No… er… yes… er perhaps. But I've no proof, and that's what we'd need, isn't it?'

‘Not necessarily.' Now for the clincher, he thought. ‘I have not always been a photographer, Debbie. I was, at one time, a policeman, and I worked for the
Police Nationale
in Paris.'

‘You were? You did?'

‘
Oui,
and
oui
,
but I would be most grateful if you kept that information to yourself for obvious reasons.'

‘I see. Yes, of course. Mum's the word.'

‘Comment?'

‘It's an expression we use sometimes, Jacques. It means I'll keep it under my hat. Or, in your case…
chapeau
,
' she said dredging up one of the few French words she remembered from her school days.

As Jacques was grappling with the intricacy of the English language, Debbie glanced down at the newspaper he'd been almost
reading.

‘Well I never,' she said. ‘Now, that's a funny thing. Talk about a coincidence.'

‘What?'

‘This man in the photo,' she replied, placing her finger on the newspaper.

‘Yes? What of it?'

‘Well, that's the very chap I suspected of passing me the dud £20 notes!'

‘So let me get this straight,' Chief Inspector Scott said when the news of Jacques' discovery reached him via Philippe Maigret, ‘a respectable English gentleman, born in Richmond, Surrey, a former army officer, now turned successful business man… '

‘How do you know all that?' Chief Inspector Maigret interrupted.

‘I read it in
‘Who's who'
and, naturally, we've done some further checks of our own. But to continue, this man, a pillar of society, a patron of the arts who has just made a donation of £100,000 to a new boutique portrait gallery in Dulwich, is, by way of a side-line, also passing dud £20 notes in local cafés. Is that about the size of it?'

‘Yes, Chief Inspector. That's the information given to Jacques by the shop keeper.'

‘I'm sorry but I just don't buy it. It's not possible. It's just too damn far-fetched by half, Chief Inspector.'

Philippe Maigret's hackles began to rise. ‘Chief Inspector, Jacques Laurent is an excellent, experienced
police officer, who has been part of my team for a long time. If he believes the information is accurate then so do I.'

‘Alright, alright, keep your hair on. Let's say that, for the time being, I accept that this man is somehow part of a criminal conspiracy: then I have to ask the question, ‘Why?' Why would he do it? What's in it for him? And the same goes for the large donation he's just made to this gallery. Wouldn't he be more likely to keep a low profile, rather than having his photo splashed across the page of a newspaper?'

‘He might do the one for a very good reason – as yet unknown – and the other to buy more respectability, which is always an excellent way to disguise wrong-doing. Have you never heard the expression ‘the truth is stranger than fiction', Chief Inspector?'

‘Of course I have. But in my experience it's never been this
strange,
nor had so much flaming fiction. Isn't it more likely that this Debbie woman is mistaken?'

‘
Anything is possible, Chief Inspector, but James Evremond has… '

‘And that's another blasted thing,' Clive Scott said, ‘correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't Evremond a French
name? That's a further French connection that I find unsettling. I don't like all these coincidences.'

‘Yes, it is. Evremond is a French name with an illustrious history. But I, too, am wary of coincidences. In my experience there's always a sensible explanation for every one of them.'

‘I agree. Of course there is
another possible explanation,' Clive Scott mused. ‘Perhaps James Evremond himself is just an innocent bystander. Maybe someone passed these notes to him, and he, not realising they were counterfeit, simply passed them on to someone else?'

‘And where might this innocent bystander have come by the notes?' Philippe Maigret asked.

‘Anywhere, at all: maybe he went to the races or the football, or won a bet, or bought something in a shop. Anywhere, the possibilities are limitless.'

‘Is that really what your instinct is telling you, Chief Inspector?'

‘No, it's blasted-well not!'

‘I'm pleased to hear that, otherwise I would be worried. I think, Chief Inspector that your instincts are telling you exactly what my instincts are telling me.'

‘Which is?'

‘Which is that, however unlikely it seems that a man like James Evremond would be involved in a criminal conspiracy, that's exactly what has happened,' Philippe Maigret said.

‘And in the murder of Serge Vachon, and the attempted murder of Inspector Martin too?'

‘Yes, and that too,' Philippe Maigret replied. Then he sighed one his legendary long sighs before he spoke again. ‘And that, God help us, too. But do you really believe that Georges Martin was the intended target? I don't.'

‘It was Nicole Vachon?'

‘Yes, that's what I think. And Georges Martin was, unfortunately for him, simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time.'

‘It sounds to me like someone was tidying up loose ends.'

‘D'accord
,
Chief Inspector. I believe that when it was discovered that Serge was two counterfeit £20 notes short, because Nicole had spent them, someone decided to eliminate both of them. And that's how Serge ended up in the Thames, and Nicole was almost killed by a car.'

‘It's a pretty damn ruthless way to do business,' Clive Scott said.

‘Yes, it certainly is that, which means there must be a great deal at stake if these people are prepared to go to such lengths to cover their tracks.'

‘And it also means Nicole Vachon is still in danger.'

‘Yes she is. However, as she returns to Paris tomorrow, she will be my problem, not yours. She's taking her husband's body back to bury him. The paper work will be finished later today.'

‘So we should keep an eye on James Evremond in the meantime?'

‘I would. I'd have someone on his tail for the next few days to see where he goes, and who he meets. And with plenty of photographic evidence as well. I'd also have a quiet word, very quiet
,
because we don't want the plotters to be tipped off by anything they may learn through the media, with the London banks, warning them to be on the look-out for these fake notes.'

‘I'll do it, and hang the blasted budget. But I can only do it for a few days; the financial plan won't stretch further than that.'

‘
Bon
.
Thank you Chief Inspector Scott, you've set my mind at rest now.'

‘When do you return to Paris?'

‘I also return tomorrow, after Georges has been discharged from St Mary's. We fly by air ambulance, then Georges will be admitted to hospital in Paris for further treatment, followed by physiotherapy.'

‘Mrs Lisle will go with you?'

There was another long sigh. ‘No, she will not, Chief Inspector. And that's a very sore point with me, so best not to pursue the matter. But now I must say
au revoir,
because I understand that a car has arrived to take me, and my former wife, to the morgue for the formal identification of Serge Vachon's body. It is a responsibility that I do not relish, but I must go with her.'

‘I wish you luck, Chief Inspector Maigret.'

‘Thank you. I have a feeling I might need it.'

But, in fact, Nicole Vachon behaved impeccably from the moment she saw Philippe Maigret. There were no more histrionics and very few tears, except when she had to say the words, ‘yes, this is my husband Serge Vachon.' Then the tears began to slide silently down her cheeks, and she swayed a little, as if she might faint again. Philippe put his arms around her to hold her steady, and was rewarded with a teary smile.

‘
Merci
,
Philippe,' she whispered, then turned on her heel, and walked quickly out of the room.

Later that day Philippe again tried to convince Megan that she should return to Paris with him, but she would not.

‘But why won't you come?' he asked. ‘Jacques will stay on with Max and his family, even though we know Nicole was not threatening him, because her dog's name really
is
Max. So everyone will be safe, but I'll be unhappy, because I'll be in Paris, while you're in London.'

‘There's still the counterfeit money Max found, and the man who's been asking questions about him. And that's a big worry.'

‘Jacques will take care of that – that's why he's staying in London, so there's no reason why you can't come.'

‘It's only for a little while, Philippe. Then I'll be in Paris all the time. I can't leave London yet, not while I'm worried about Max. It's his half term, the week after next, and I've been thinking I might try to bring him to Paris with me, as I did with Celia.'

‘Oh, I see,' said Philippe, pleased by this unexpected news. ‘And of course I have plenty of space in my apartment for both of you.'

‘No, love. I wouldn't stay with you this time, not with Max. It wouldn't be right. I thought we'd stay at the Hotel Celeste again. It's good there, and the people are… '

‘Megan, Megan, Megan,' he sighed, shaking his head. ‘Do you want to break my mother's heart? It's bad enough that you don't want to stay with me… '

‘I didn't stay that I didn't
want
to stay with you; just that it wouldn't be appropriate with… '

‘It was appropriate enough before.' ‘Yes… well… that was then, and this is now. Things change, Philippe.'

‘Apparently so.'

Oh dear, it looks like another dark mood is about to descend on him, she thought. ‘However, I would be happy to stay with Louise, if that would not be inconvenient for her,' she said quickly.

‘Bon.
So it's all settled then, you know
maman
will be delighted to have you stay. She looks on you as the daughter she never had,' he said, perking up immediately.

I can see I'll have to nip this tendency for emotional blackmail in the bud sometime, Megan thought. But it will have to wait. We have enough to deal with right now.

‘There's one more thing I don't understand about this whole conspiracy, and counterfeit money business,' she said as they were about to eat their dinner. ‘If Serge was killed, and an attempt was made on Nicole's life, just because she passed two of the notes in Little Venice, how come this James Evremond did the same thing and yet he's still alive?'

‘Maybe because he's the criminal mastermind, so he's calling the shots.'

‘But if he is, why would he compromise himself in that way?'

‘Perhaps because he's an arrogant psychopath who thinks he can get away with anything, because he's so clever.'

‘Or maybe he believes he has the devil on his side.'

‘What!'

‘I've been talking with David Wainwright. You know he has a degree in psychology?'

‘I hope you didn't tell him about the counterfeit money that Max found, and the pentacle that was at the scene. Scotland Yard wants to keep that quiet at present, and I agree with that decision.'

‘I'm afraid I did, Philippe. But Dave won't say anything – he knows it's all hush-hush. He promised he wouldn't, and anyway he's a priest so he has to keep things between him and his parishioners strictly private.'

‘But you're not one of his little flock are you?'

‘Well… no… at least not in the strictly
technical
sense of the word
.
'

‘Not in any sense of the word! You're as fond of bending the truth as Nicole was,' he said. ‘Why do I keep getting mixed up with women like you? Will I never learn?'

‘Oh, pish! Now do you want to hear David's take on all this, or not? It's your choice.'

‘Tell me.'

‘He thinks Serge Vachon's mood swings might have had something to do with Satanism, and the upside-down pentacle with the money supports that belief.'

‘That's complete nonsense! We can't be sure that Serge had anything to do with the money Max found, or the pentacle. I don't believe it for a moment.'

‘Easy for you to say, Philippe, but he's seen people struggling with this kind of thing before, and he says the pattern is very similar.'

At that moment Philippe's mobile rang.

‘I'll ignore it, darling,' he said. ‘All this talk of devil worship has made me hungry. Let's eat.'

But the phone continued to ring insistently, so that in the end, he was forced to answer it. It was Jacques.

‘This better be important, my friend,' Philippe said, ‘because I'm about to have my dinner.'

‘Sorry, sir, but this
is
important. At least I think it is.'

‘Okay, speak to me.'

‘I've found another pentacle, the same as all the others.'

‘That could have waited until the morning, Jacques.'

‘Maybe, sir, but I thought you'd want to know that there was also another cache of money, and it's even more than Max found.'

‘Hmm, well I guess that was worth a phone call,' his boss said, although he was not convinced, and his stomach was rumbling.

‘No, sir, wait – there's more. This is the really important thing. It was in Dulwich Park, not far from that new gallery.'

‘That's a very public place to hide something this important; they must be getting careless.'

‘Not really, Chief. It was fairly high up and hidden in a large knot-hole in a tree. I only discovered it because Inky seemed very interested in the area. I think she must have picked up a scent of some kind, because she kept sniffing around the tree, and didn't want to leave, even when I called her. And then, when I looked more closely, I saw the pentacle. It was a small one, much smaller than the others I've found. You'd have to be actually looking for it to notice it.'

‘That's very good work, Jacques, I'll contact Chief Inspector Scott tomorrow with this new information. I wouldn't like to disturb him now while he's having his dinner,' Philippe Maigret said pointedly, hoping Jacques would take the hint.

He did. ‘There's one more thing, sir, or rather, two. I've had a good look at the money, and this time I'd stake my pension that it's genuine.'

‘That's even more interesting, Jacques. And what's the second thing?'

‘With the money was a photograph of a famous London landmark.'

‘What?'

‘The London Eye, sir, previously known as the Millennium Wheel.'