Playing the Martyr

by Ian G Moore

  ‘That was…’ The telephone rang again and Brigitte turned around and back through the door, leaving the sentence hanging and giving off fumes, like an unwelcome air-freshener.

  The rest of the signing continued in mumbled monotones as the Allardyce half-sisters tried to do as they were told by a sweating, almost lascivious Galopin: ‘sign here’, ‘initial here’, ‘date here’.

  ‘Voilà!’ he said finally, theatrically clicking the top of his pen. “C’est fini. The house, La Terre Noire, is now yours.’

  ‘Oh yippee.’ Lucy sat back heavily on the sofa, as if exhausted by the manual work and her own sarcasm.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur Galopin. You’ve been very kind.’ Jane offered her hand, which the Notaire took with a gentleness that surprised her. He stood up with difficulty.

  ‘Normally I would suggest some of the local Vouvray in celebration but… it hardly seems appropriate in this instance.’

  ‘That’s what you think, matey!’ said Lucy loudly. ‘We’ve bloody earned it! My wrist is killing me!’

  Brigitte came back into the sitting room hurriedly, disappointed to have missed the final action but still smiling anyway. She stood in front of them as if about to make an announcement.

  ‘First things first, Madame Hervé,’ Lucy jumped up from the sofa. Adopting a more formal tone than she had used so far, she also, with impeccable timing, ruined Brigitte’s moment. ‘Before your news, we’d like a bottle of Vouvray please and,’ she held Brigitte’s glare, ‘three glasses.’

  Brigitte felt her face flush with anger. She’d never been able to hide her anger.

  ‘Four.’ Jane interrupted, ‘We’d like four glasses.’

  ‘Four glasses then,’ Lucy shrugged. ‘And who was on the phone?’

  Brigitte was trying to stay calm. The fire having abated as quickly as it had arisen, ‘The police and a juge d’instruction will be here this afternoon, Mesdemoiselles. It is time to make your statements.’ She turned quickly and headed off to the well-stocked cellar.

  ‘Christ, how boring.’ Lucy said.

  ‘I think that’s a good thing really, don’t you, Monsieur Galopin?’ Jane was trying to be positive and was now standing for the first time in the meeting. ‘It’s better to get things done and out of the way. For us, I mean.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’ Galopin didn’t sound convincing; the signing over and done with, he no longer had any need to be neutral or diplomatic. ‘But with an investigating magistrate too? That is most unusual. Most unusual indeed.’ His face darkened. Galopin, by the very nature of his profession, liked order and due process, routine. And investigating magistrates were background figures; puppeteers, pulling the strings of an investigation and rarely needing to step into the limelight. He didn’t like it when routine was broken, and he had difficulty hiding his irritation.

  Jane was about to ask why he was so bothered when there was a loud pop from the back of the room as a beaming Brigitte opened the bottle of Vouvray.

  ‘Excellent. Now you’re talking.’ Lucy headed for the glasses.

  Brigitte poured the drinks with practised precision. The chilled pale gold liquid fizzed, and the bubbles leapt like hats thrown into the air. The four of them clinked glasses, but it took Brigitte to offer the toast. ‘Santé.’ Your health.

  There was little warmth to the gesture but at least things were moving on, it seemed. A new life was about to start, firstly for the Allardyce girls, possibly even for Brigitte herself. She was certainly trying to give that impression anyway.

  ‘There were two telephone calls, Madame Hervé. Who was the other from?’ Lucy, finally feeling like the ‘Lady of the House’, thought she should have been told already.

  ‘Yes, Brigitte,’ Jane interrupted pointedly. ‘You looked like you’d had some good news.’

  ‘It was my son.’ Brigitte said slowly, giving herself time to gauge the reactions and relishing the silence that followed. ‘He intends to visit later in the week. I would have liked him here sooner, when your father died, but…’ She sipped lightly on her glass and lowered her eyes.

  ‘You have a son?’ asked Jane with a wary surprise, lifting her glass to her mouth as she did so, using it to hide her face.

  ‘You ladies did not know?’ asked a surprised Galopin.

  ‘No,’ said Lucy coldly, while Jane tried to smile.

  Galopin hurriedly put his glass on to the table. ‘Well I must be going…’ and, with that, and with surprising speed considering his bulk, he was off through the door.

  ‘You have a son, Brigitte?’ asked Jane again, still trying to digest the news. ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘You did not ask.’ She started to put the empty glasses back on the tray, though Lucy held on to hers. ‘He’ll be delighted to meet you. He’s about your age.’

  The Allardyce sisters looked at each other. Brigitte knew their story, she knew it well. She knew that the phrase ‘about your age’ would be saddled with difficult memories, and traumatic childhood scenes, some of which she’d seen. All of which she’d been told about. She picked up the tray, leaving the bottle, and turned theatrically out of the room. Her Saint had been right, what was the point in involving yourself for no gain?

  Chapter 7

  The climb was steeper than he’d envisaged. Or at least, his poor level of fitness made it feel like a trek. He could see Aubret waiting for him further up and he suspected that the Commissaire had probably arrived an hour early just to gain the higher ground, a tactical advantage, as though it were a pre-arranged duel with swords. Which, Lombard sighed, probably wasn’t going to be that wide of the mark. He stopped halfway up the hill as a plane overhead made its oddly quiet descent into the nearby airport. He made a point of taking in the panoramic view, though actually he just wanted to get his breath back. General fitness meant little to him personally, and certainly wasn’t the virtue that so many seemed to think it was, but neither did he want Aubret to think that he was so out of shape physically that his mind would be affected too. A paranoid thought, probably, and he was possibly over-thinking things, like a teenager nervously approaching a date. But he knew Aubret well too, and, ‘Still drinking too much then?’ would likely be his opening thrust.

  The view could have been a postcard. A ‘Wish You Were Here’ from the Loire valley. All it lacked was a superimposed bottle of wine or an ash-covered pyramid of goat’s cheese as a gaudy commercial reminder of what makes the place tick. The dominating church spire stood, almost aggressively, as its centre point. The eye drawn to it, as it was designed to do, and away from less significant buildings. To the right of the church were a number of tall lime trees which probably bordered the town square, a car park, market place, meeting place and which inevitably would be called something like the Place de la Mairie. To the right was a small Chateau. Half of its stonework and Romanesque-style turrets were gleaming, recent renovation making them look brand new. The other half was dirty and rundown, the part not hidden by scaffolding or covered in heavy plastic wrapping anyway. The stone aqueduct bridge, on which he could make out his fisherman friend, lay low over the sparkling river and bisected the two dominant structures. It once would have let the trading boats of the Loire pass underneath, but that trade had long since gone and the great river looked comfortable and peaceful in retirement. The bridge also looked like the only way in to the town from this side, and so strategically guided the infrequent traffic into its small French town heart and its boulangeries and cafés. Saint-Genèse-sur-Loire could have been any one of a hundred small towns in this part of France, thought Lombard, oddly comforted by the observation. Each one had its small French town checklist of ‘must-haves’ and each one battled the other at this time of year to attract the hundreds of thousands of tourists who would pass through the valley. A USP, that was the current thinking, a ‘unique selling point’. What could each town do that would set them apart from the others? A wine appellation perhaps, or a historical reference point? Famous or notorious citizens? Lombard turned away and be
gan climbing again. Saint-Genèse-sur-Loire now had its own USP, of course: violent murder. And that could be good for business too in its own way.

  ‘It’s a beautiful spot, Commissaire. Don’t you think?’ Lombard was just a little more than an easy talking distance away as he shouted up to Aubret, catching the policeman momentarily off-guard.

  ‘I doubt our victim thought so.’ He replied, almost sullenly.

  Lombard held out his hand and looked Aubret squarely in the eye. ‘Commissaire,’ he said warmly and with a sudden, unconvincing smile added, ‘how are you?’

  It hadn’t been a specific plan to approach the meeting in this way. Like anyone trained in the law, Lombard knew how to unsettle an opponent, or in this case even a reluctant ally, but the warmth was genuine and it surprised him as much as it did Aubret. The last time they had met had been distinctly awkward with Aubret accusing the juge of tampering with evidence and Lombard soaking it all up in silence, like a boxer who’d lost his will to fight. But a lot had happened in the year or so since then, and he knew Aubret would be dreading this as much as he had been. Especially the question of Madeleine. Aubret took Lombard’s hand in his own customary iron grip and, as expected, looked into the Juge’s eyes as if trying to work out which Lombard was in front of him. The quiet, determined searcher of ‘truth’, as all investigating magistrates are taught to see themselves or the embittered, broken individual he’d last worked with. If asked, Lombard would have honestly admitted to both.

  ‘I’m fine, Monsieur le juge. It’s good to have you back.’

  Lombard raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked up at his colleague. Really? his mocking eyes said. I doubt it. ‘Enough of this Monsieur le juge rubbish please. We’re not strangers.’ He stepped past Aubret and stood at the yellow police-tape barrier which formed a square of about ten metres by ten. The wider field also had a similar barrier around it. An ineffectual ‘do not pass’ that was more about saying ‘we’ve got this under control’ than stopping anyone from actually trespassing. The forensic team would have done a thorough job by now, there would be little of note to be gleaned or tampered with anymore. Lombard turned back round and again took in the view. He paused and breathed deeply like a tenor about to embark on his first note. Then, without looking at Aubret, he said quietly, ‘So, Guy. Talk to me.’

  He hoped that Aubret would be happier just to get on with things. This was no time for sorting out their history, nor was it the time and place for the inevitable platitudes about Madeleine that would surely follow. And anyway, Lombard remembered almost with fondness, their relationship had been tetchy enough even without the more recent baggage.

  ‘You’ve read the report?’ The stroppy indignation which characterised so much of Aubret’s dealings with Lombard slipped back into gear smoothly and right on cue.

  ‘Yes. But I’m a bit out of practice, so let’s start from the beginning. What do we know happened yesterday?’

  Aubret made a move as if to retrieve something from his pocket, before thinking better of it and wiping his hand across his head instead as though that had been his intention all along. ‘OK.’ He looked like a man at a crossroads, unsure which way to go, ‘Look, about Madeleine, can I just say…’

  ‘No Commissaire, you cannot.’ His voice wasn’t unfriendly or cold, but certain and he held Aubret’s gaze.

  Aubret shrugged in a ‘well, I tried’ gesture and started again. ‘At three fifty-five Brigadier-Chef Monnier of the Police Municipale reported a dead body. Two sisters, Jane and Lucy Allardyce, had picnicked further down the hill, then come to take photos with what they thought was a scarecrow.’

  Which to all intents and purposes it was, thought Lombard.

  ‘Jane Allardyce hung a necklace on the scarecrow’s arm – the scarecrow being the victim obviously, but possibly not yet dead – and forgot about it before they left…’

  ‘Why would she put a necklace on a scarecrow?’

  ‘Something about an ex-boyfriend apparently, and sending him a selfie, punishing him. Anyway, they forgot the necklace, came back about 10 minutes later. And the hood was off the thing and the head split open.’ He sighed heavily. ‘We haven’t had full statements from either of them yet. Jane Allardyce was pretty hysterical so the local Doctor, a Clotilde Battiston, she’s also the mayoress of the place, put her under sedation. We can go and see her together this morning. Her French is OK, her sister’s isn’t.’

  ‘That’s Lucy Allardyce?’

  ‘Yes. She found her own sedation and hit that pretty hard, pretty quickly.’ Lombard raised his eyebrows as though he were in some way impressed. ‘Which is also pretty English, I would say,’ Aubret added sniffily.

  ‘But with French wine, I take it.’ The digs didn’t bother Lombard, he was used to them. The French, he knew, had this notion that the English drank to excess, which he would agree with, but in his experience no more than the French did. They just did it more publicly, that’s all. ‘OK. So the word got to your team and you arrived at five. Let’s go from there.’

  ‘When we arrived, that’s myself, Commandant Pouget, Texeira, Chrétien and the new kid, Leveque.’

  ‘I met him last night. He seemed a bit wary of me for some reason. Carry on.’

  ‘The first thing I did was ask Monnier to get rid of the sisters. One looked like she was hyperventilating, so I got the basics and got them out of the way. The local gendarmes had done a decent job of cordoning the place off, the pompiers – a Lieutenant Eric Jollet – had pronounced the victim dead, and corroborated Monnier’s identification of him. Graham Singleterry.’ Aubret stressed the ‘H’ in Graham and Lombard briefly thought about correcting him, but decided bigger battles would need to be fought. ‘I asked Texeira and the others to scour the immediate area for anything while Pouget and I approached the body.’

  ‘Can I pass through?’ Lombard lifted the yellow tape and for form, sought Aubret’s permission to cross the line.

  ‘Be my guest. The forensic team arrived pretty sharpish and have given clearance. It’s obvious where the – well, it was a cross – it’s obvious where that was. It’s quite a deep hole, so it could hold the weight obviously. It would take some digging with the ground being this hard. I’d say done beforehand, well in advance.’

  Lombard peered into the hole, then stood with his feet either side and looked out towards the town.

  ‘Ok. Graham Singleterry. 63. English. Married.’ He paused and looked around. ‘How did he get here?’

  ‘Difficult to say for sure.’ Aubret followed Lombard’s gaze over the town. ‘The ground is so dry anyway. But this field is used a lot by the town, this is where the fireworks are set up for July 14th. So there are numerous tracks, footprints and so on. Too numerous to be any good really at this stage. OK. Then Pouget and I informed Madame Singleterry.’

  ‘That couldn’t have been easy. It’s not something I could do.’ He wasn’t just throwing Aubret a compliment to ease the situation, it was genuine admiration for that side of the job. Lombard was much better at receiving bad news than delivering it and avoided situations like that as much as possible.

  ‘It was actually quite straightforward, as far as these things go. Madame Helen Singleterry speaks fluent French, and she didn’t break down or anything. Not at first anyway. She took the news very calmly. I’m not saying she was relieved, but very controlled.’

  Lombard didn’t take his eyes off the view. ‘That suggests it wasn’t the happiest of marriages to me. You said at first?’

  ‘Yes. She wanted to know how he’d died. Obviously we don’t have all the details yet, Pouget is at the autopsy this morning, but what we do know is fairly nasty. That upset her.’

  Lombard’s jaw tightened visibly, and he felt a sudden wave of anger pass through him. A violent surge that fogged his mind. So it wasn’t the fact of her husband’s death that bothered Madame Singleterry, but the grubby details of ‘how’.

  ‘When did she see him last?’

  ‘Late on Saturday.
She wasn’t 100% sure of the time, but thinks it may have been about 10pm. He stormed off; he could be a moody character apparently, a bit petulant if he didn’t get his own way. Other witnesses have said the same.’

  ‘They were at a party?’

  ‘Kind of. A town fête. It’s been in the planning for months, Singleterry was on the Comité des Fêtes and helped to organise it. Unusual for an Englishman, I’d say. To be in that position.’

  ‘And admirable too. What was the fête for?’ Lombard was annoyed with himself that he must have missed the posters up at the station or in his brief town visit.

  ‘Some Joan of Arc thing apparently. She passed through or nearby.’

  ‘Really? Here?’ Lombard couldn’t hide his scepticism. ‘On her way to the court at Chinon, or towards Blois and then glory at Orléans?’

  Aubret looked annoyed by Lombard’s dismissive reaction, like a parent looks at a child who is needlessly showing off. ‘How do I know?’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I doubt anyone knows for sure. It just seems a little tenuous that’s all. It’s amazing how many ‘sightings’ are still being discovered isn’t it? These small towns on the banks of the Loire, economically dying, their youth moving out in droves… they need new ideas to attract new blood. Only their new ideas are usually several hundred years old. Or in this case five hundred and eighty-six years old. Is it an annual thing?’

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that either, but I’ll find out. Anyway, he got into a mood about something or other and just took himself off. Everybody saw him go, but no one was really that bothered.’

  ‘Not even his wife.’ Lombard almost whispered it and he could feel his own grief, never far from the surface anyway, beginning to bubble up inside him. Why, though? Why would the death of a total stranger touch him like this? He hadn’t been suppressing his own sadness, far from it. He’d wallowed in it at times, enjoying moments where he felt utterly sorry for himself. He didn’t feel like he’d not grieved properly, yet he now suddenly felt quite lost again. He couldn’t take his eyes off the town in from of him. Why did Singleterry have to soak that up until the end? ‘Poor man. He’s put on a cross to die, presumably drugged and conscious enough to know where he is…’