by Ian G Moore
‘You don’t believe her, then?’
Lombard turned his gaze away from the glistening river they were now crossing as they headed into Saint-Genèse and said, ‘You think I’m being harsh?’
‘She’s grieving. But, you’d know more about that than me right now.’
If Aubret was expecting a reply, he didn’t get one. Lombard was back in his own world. Back to the Sunday afternoon before his mother had been taken in and before he’d been taken on. And there he was, mid-afternoon at Madeleine’s graveside. It was a messy, untended grave. Untouched in just over a year, where the dead flowers, once in their bloom and a symbol of grief and love, now told a story of neglect and of pain. Lombard had been there for nearly three hours. He hadn’t touched the dead flowers, just stared at the headstone, barely moving and apparently devoid of emotion. But Lombard’s face was like an optical illusion. What was there, if you were able to look close enough, was hurt and confusion in abundance; extreme pain, incomprehension. The look of a man utterly betrayed.
Chapter 10
‘I need a drink,’ said Lombard suddenly, as if just waking up. He’d been looking out of the window as they drove slowly around what turned out to be the Place de L’Église in Saint-Genèse, and not the Place de la Mairie as he’d guessed. ‘There will do.’ He pointed to Émile’s brasserie, gradually thinning in numbers on the terrasse but still busy enough to be keeping the patron occupied.
Lombard often played up to his ‘English side’ of wanting a drink. He really didn’t mind what people thought, but he also knew, as did the experienced policeman, that bars and cafés are the hub of small towns and therefore a good place to start any investigation. You can chase around all you want, but just sitting in a bar could sometimes be like being a spider on the web, you could feel the vibrations working towards you. Also, he really did need a drink.
‘Some lunch, you mean?’ Aubret chided eventually.
‘If you like. Though I’m sure the wonderful Fabienne has made you a packed lunch.’ He regretted the sarcasm immediately and the reference to Aubret’s wife.
They parked silently in the shade of a lime tree on the main square. The place was silent; a warm, early summer’s afternoon and a post-lunch somnolence meant that the only activity was from the chirruping birds and the summer insects. It was, Lombard reflected, pure rural France and no place for a murder, and such an apparently spiteful one at that. As they approached the bar, Émile was wiping down a table even as a couple of tourists were leaving it, heading in the direction of the small chateau probably and hoping to get the best of the afternoon in the restored gardens. Émile was aware of the shadow over him as he concentrated on his duties, but if it was more customers he obviously preferred to ignore them, and he continued to do so.
It was Aubret who broke the silence. ‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Lagasse.’ Émile immediately recognised an official tone and stood up sharply.
‘Commissaire Aubret and Monsieur le Juge Lombard.’ They all shook hands. ‘Are you still serving?’ Aubret casually pre-empted Émile’s answer by walking past the bar owner and sitting at an empty table in the shade.
‘I was just closing up, but of course, for you two gentlemen, of course… anything.’ Lombard could sense Émile’s unease as he looked nervously between the two officials and fussed about with the chairs, moving a couple of them out of the way, even though they weren’t blocking the path. In any other circumstances it would be amusing, but he suspected that Lagasse was like a smiling chimpanzee and what looked like good humour was actually fear.
‘Good man.’ Lombard made sure he caught Émile’s eye, just to confirm what he thought. And there it was. The man was scared of something, though it might just actually be life itself. Some people were like that and couldn’t hide it. ‘Two Krönenbourg please.’
‘No. I’ll have a pastis.’ Aubret put his box of Gaviscon on the table between them. ‘Thank you, Monsieur Lagasse.’
‘I’ll have the same actually. And can you prepare a baguette to take away with me please? Just something simple, ham will do.’ Émile had a look on his face as though he’d been asked to knock up a delicate soufflé and Lombard couldn’t help smiling to himself as he sat down. ‘He’s a jittery character.’
‘He’s a bar owner. No bar owner likes cops at their tables. Especially super-cops.’
The dig wasn’t lost on Lombard. Juges d’instruction had almost mythical power in France; Balzac had called them the most powerful men in the world and they were regarded as super-flics by the more excitable parts of the media.
‘Madame Singleterry said that she’d seen the patron here and her husband together. He looked mortified, she said.’
‘Yep. We asked him about that. Something about the service, he said. It was taking too long. He told Singleterry he would speak to the staff, and went and hid in the kitchen for five minutes. He said Singleterry wasn’t there when he came out.’ Lombard picked up the Gaviscon box.
‘Still the reflux, Guy? Did you ever try that herbal thing I suggested?’
‘These things work just fine.’ Aubret took the box back, almost petulantly, though Lombard saw immediately that he regretted the gesture. They sat in silence for a few moments.
‘You don’t trust me at all, do you?’ It was a direct question, not asked with any edge to it, but one that had overtones nevertheless. ‘I worry you, you said.’
Aubret didn’t respond at once. He tapped the box on the table top and experience told Lombard that he was struggling to control his temper. He wanted to rake over old ground because he felt that Lombard had let him down. Lombard had broken the rules in Aubret’s eyes and the death of Madeleine didn’t change that; it only meant a less confrontational approach, and that’s why the Commissaire was struggling. They both stared at each other, waiting for the other to make the next move. A fly buzzed fussily between them, like a boxing referee urging some action from inert heavyweights.
‘You worry me for a number of reasons,’ Aubret said eventually and with care. ‘The fact that you are even here, that worries me. It means trouble. I’ve no doubt you’d have been brought back or retired at some point. Probably retired, no-one would want muck raked up about a precious juge d’instruction. Especially a bent one, if you’ll excuse me for saying so.’ Lombard airily waved his hand as if it didn’t bother him, though it did and it certainly had Aubret flustered. ‘You being called back for this one,’ he leaned in, ‘that means trouble. That means this isn’t a straightforward murder. You’re here because you’re English and it’s obvious Llhermanault doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. He’d rather send you in than get involved in this. The Joan of Arc stuff is why you’re here and I don’t like that. Joan of Arc has implications, political implications. She still means something here.’
‘Your drinks, Messieurs…’ Émile seemed slightly more composed on his return, though his hand still shook as he set them down. ‘On the house.’
‘We’re not seeking favour here are we, Monsieur le Commissaire? Just honest officials. Everything above aboard.’ If he was trying to deflate the tension, it wasn’t working.
‘As you say,’ Émile said and wheeled away quickly.
‘Leaving aside whether I’m “bent” or not. Do you really think much of the Joan of Arc stuff? Do you think someone is really stoking a fifteenth-century feud?’
‘You don’t, then?’ Aubret’s eyes narrowed on him. It was clear to Lombard that Aubret, though not terribly religious, saw the use of France’s revered saint in the cruel murder of an Englishman as highly symbolic and as such, fraught with division and malice. To Lombard, not a religious man, that surely just described any murder.
‘It may be too early to say. I agree all the signs are there. The crude haircut, the town fête, the French-English community. It just seems a bit arbitrary, that’s all. Almost, done in hindsight.’ He tapped the table, annoyed that he wasn’t expressing himself very well. ‘Look, I agree, the murder was planned in advance and probably for
that evening, they may even have expected Singleterry to flounce off at some point, but the haircut? That feels improvised to me.’ He took a long drink. ‘Why not burn him?’
‘The Allardyce sisters ruined the plan? He panicked?’
‘He?’
‘I think the strength it would have taken to put the victim in place would take a man.’
‘Possibly, though not definitely. Or a woman and a man.’ Again, they fell silent. Aubret mixed water into his pastis and took a small sip. ‘What was this thing that finally killed him? The report mentions a kind of makeshift gun. And if so why not just shoot him?’
‘Maybe it didn’t work. It looked more like an antique, not much more than an iron tube really, though it had a trigger of some sort. Something like that would have made a serious noise.’
‘Did you take a picture of it?’ Lombard sat forward keenly and Aubret searched for a picture on his phone.
‘That’s it.’ He said, handing the phone over. ‘Very basic.’
Lombard squinted at the phone, trying to make out the image. It looked exactly as Aubret had described it. An iron tube with a rounded muzzle at the tip, like pursed lips, and a thick trigger halfway down that looked like a whale’s fin. He handed the phone back.
‘I take it you’ve got Lemery searching for a match.’
‘Yes, but I think it’s just a homemade thing. Or adapted from a war find.’
‘It’s a replica. Or it might even be authentic,’ Lombard said quietly, ‘but it looks like an early handgun. Ask Lemery to look up couleuvrine.’
‘What’s a couleuvrine?’ It was Aubret’s turn to be sceptical, though he knew as well as anyone Lombard’s freakish trivia knowledge.
‘Like I said, an early handgun.’
‘How early?’
‘The fifteenth century.’ Lombard noticed triumph in Aubret’s eyes.
Émile reappeared to collect up Lombard’s empty glass. He may have been fearful of approaching but it was in his fussy nature to try and move the day on. He turned away before he could be addressed and then stopped immediately as he saw the imposing figure of Clotilde Battiston impatiently blocking his way. He stopped in his tracks. ‘Messieurs,’ he began before he’d even turned around, ‘May I introduce…’
‘Clotilde Battiston, pleased to meet you.’ Clotilde liked to control an entrance and she wasn’t going to let the weak Émile Lagasse mess up any introductions. This was her town after all and she strode quickly to their table and was there before they could rise to greet her. ‘I am the Maire of Saint-Genèse-sur-Loire.’
‘Madame le Maire.’ Lombard and Aubret both stood in synchronised union. ‘I am Juge Matthieu Lombard and this is Commissaire Guy Aubret of the OPJ.’ They all shook hands and Lombard gestured for the mayor to join them.
‘Thank you,’ she said and then, without looking round, ‘Émile! A small espresso and eau-de-vie please.’ Clotilde placed her large bag under her chair and smoothed her skirt in her lap, a strangely coquettish gesture it seemed to Lombard. She then looked from one to the other. ‘So gentlemen. How are we getting on?’
Lombard noticed Aubret’s surprised reaction to this interruption. Watching a ‘no-nonsense, straight-talker’ have their thunder stolen by another of the same ilk would normally cause tension, but Aubret seemed impressed by Madame Battiston. Even if she had just taken control of this impromptu meeting and made herself a part of the investigative team.
‘We’re still establishing the basics, Madame,’ Aubret managed calmly. ‘The victim was quite involved in the town, quite a popular man.’
Clotilde thought a bit before responding. As she did so, her eyes wandered beyond her table companions and very obviously to the pharmacy behind them, and Nicolas Marquand in particular, emerging with a large carrier bag.
‘He was popular with some, that’s for sure,’ she said tersely. ‘Less so with others.’
It was a politician’s response and a complete switch in character from just a moment earlier. It wasn’t lost on Lombard or Aubret, who both turned to follow her gaze. Marquand noticed the three of them at the same time too and was obviously torn between whether to walk the other way or join them briefly. Deciding that the latter was the wisest course of action, he took quick strides towards them. A practised smile broke effortlessly across his face as he approached, but he didn’t look as composed as before, thought Lombard, in fact he looked exhausted.
‘Afternoon once again gentlemen,’ he said wearily, but agreeably enough. And then more curtly to the mayor a simple, ‘Clotilde.’ He put the carrier bag down on a chair at a different table and kissed Clotilde very formally, even coldly. The coolness of their greeting spoke volumes.
‘We were just discussing Monsieur Singleterry. Madame le Maire was saying how popular a figure he was in Saint-Genèse, with some people.’ Lombard, innocently opening the paper bag to his baguette, wanted to know if Singleterry was the source of their tension.
‘Popular?’ Marquand made a gesture to show his ambivalence towards Clotilde’s opinion. ‘Yes, I guess so. He did a lot for the town, certainly. Always involved.’
‘But not popular, then?’ Lombard took a bite.
‘He was your favourite Englishman, Nicolas!’ Battiston laughed, a friendly gesture, but an odd one.
‘And you had yours.’ He shot back. ‘I liked him, if that’s what you mean. He had a good business head, good for Saint-Genèse. Sometimes it takes an outsider to see things. It takes new eyes. Unfortunately, outsiders are rarely listened to around here.’ He pointedly avoided looking at Clotilde.
‘Please take a seat, Monsieur.’ Lombard offered his own chair, preparing to find another for himself.
‘I can’t, I’m afraid. My wife is expecting me with her delivery.’ He picked up the bulging carrier bag again. It was full of medicine.
‘Is she still taking Olanzapine, Nicolas?’ Clotilde rather heavy-handedly overdid her concern, even putting her hand on Nicolas’ arm as she did so. He moved away.
‘She’s in good hands, Clotilde. I’ll pass on your concern.’ He made to leave. ‘Messieurs, as I said earlier. Please get in touch, I’m just sorry I can’t help you right now.’ He turned and walked away.
‘You are not the family doctor, Madame?’ Lombard couldn’t hide his surprise. He knew how political small towns like this were, to the point of claustrophobia, and if there was only one doctor, it would be considered a slight if you weren’t registered with them.
‘No.’ Clotilde seemed suddenly distracted, and couldn’t help turning to watch as Nicolas crossed the road to his large car. ‘No. I’m not.’ She turned back round, she was businesslike again. ‘Marie, his wife, is clinically depressed. It’s common knowledge, before you ask about Hippocratic oaths and so on. It’s a case of managing her moods, rather than – in my opinion – looking for increasingly desperate ways to “cure” her.’
‘And Monsieur Marquand disagrees?’
‘He does. Or Marie does. I would have prescribed l’Olanzapine too by the way, but not all the homeopathic rubbish she takes on the side. I would have restricted access to the good stuff to get rid of the voodoo stuff. Either way, she’s no longer my patient.’
‘L’Olanzapine…’ Lombard said the word as though he were scrolling through a medical dictionary, looking it up, ‘that’s used in the treatment of schizophrenia, I think.’ Then, in a manner suggesting he was reading it. ‘An atypical antipsychotic’
‘It is, that’s right.’ Clotilde was obviously impressed by his knowledge.
‘I’m no expert. Just something I picked up,’ he added, almost blushing.
He was well aware that his vast bank of trivial knowledge sometimes unnerved real experts; he was unaware, though, that his modesty only unnerved them even more. Either way the effect was sometimes useful.
‘Nicolas and Marie were childhood sweethearts, they grew up here, though nobody expected them to marry. Marie was always, oh I don’t know, weak is the wrong word. Sensitive, perhaps? Not t
he sort that you’d have seen as Madame Marquand material. Marquand the businessman. Among his other interests.’
‘Could it not simply be love, Madame?’ Lombard couldn’t quite believe he was asking the question, and avoided eye contact by addressing his baguette.
‘In a way. Perhaps.’ Clotilde didn’t come across as the romantic kind. ‘Marie’s parents died in a car accident. She was old enough to cope with most of it, but it broke her spirit, she’s never really been the same. Nicolas decided he couldn’t leave her. He just couldn’t do that. Bad timing? Love? Depends on your point of view.’ She looked at the two men, all three of them cynical in their way. ‘If you think that’s love…’ She tailed off.
‘You mentioned his “other interests”?’ Aubret was looking at his watch.
‘I think he has political ambitions, Monsieur le Commissaire. Oh, he hasn’t said anything to me, why would he? It’s just a feeling.’
’In Saint-Genèse?’ Aubret seemed doubtful and let it show.
‘Oh no! No, I doubt that!’ She laughed. ‘I would say he’s outgrown us.’ She turned again to see Marquand drive off. ‘Anyway gentlemen, I must go. I have my first afternoon appointment soon. Old Monsieur Benoît, probably another scare with his heart. Though I expect the old man will outlive us all.’
They said their goodbyes and Lombard sat back down to attack his sandwich once more.
‘We should get to the Allardyce place before too long.’ Aubret was tapping at his watch now and beckoned to Émile that they were finally finished.
Lombard stayed sitting, his legs crossed despite the harassed bar owner now fussing around the table. ‘Is there such a hurry, Commissaire?’ Lombard was looking for one last little prod at Émile. ‘I think if we waited long enough the Allardyce sisters would probably just turn up here.’ He looked directly at the strained bar owner. ‘Everything seems to happen here Monsieur, it’s a goldmine you have.’
He slowly rose to leave, leaving a ten euro note behind, and followed Aubret back towards the car. Émile crossed himself and looked to the skies. It had been a long afternoon. Even for a Monday.