Playing the Martyr

by Ian G Moore

  Chapter 11

  Mark Blanchard put his battered acoustic guitar back in its equally shabby, heavy-duty case. The case, itself covered in stickers from airports around the world, spoke of a man constantly on the move. A successful couple of hours spent busking outside the Quick restaurant on the Rue de Bordeaux also gave the impression of an itinerant lifestyle. But Mark, after pocketing his thirty-one euros and thirty centimes from his lunchtime efforts, had been in Tours for five years now and he considered it home.

  He’d originally come for one year to work as an assistant at one of the schools while also attached to the University history department. Dozens of students did the same every year from all over the world going to schools right across France, but Tours was considered a plum destination. Its mix of youthful night scene and vibrant history meant that those who ‘won’ Tours in the lottery of postings every year were grateful to have done so. One of Mark’s friends had got the more industrial Lens over near the Belgian border and hadn’t even managed to see out the year before returning to his native Mount Vernon in Iowa. Mark knew he was going to Tours though, there was no lottery or accident in his placement. His father, a wealthy and vigorous industrialist who had made a fortune in agricultural machinery, recognised in his youngest son the same itchy feet he had shown as a teenager. He made sure then, via appropriate donations and the setting up of a scholarship trust at the François Rabelais university, that Mark would go where his great-grandfather had been based in the First World War. The Blanchard name would once again grace the Loire Valley and specifically the Touraine.

  What William James Blanchard hadn’t bargained on was Mark staying there after his year was up, falling in love with a local girl and falling in love with Tours. The latter affair lasted far longer than the first and, though there had been many local girls since, and even a few fellow Americans too, there was only one Tours. Blanchard Senior had long given up trying to persuade his son to come home and not always just at his concerned wife’s behest. Instead he bought a nice, bright apartment just off the central Boulevard Heurteloup, near the station itself, and made sure his son was looked after. Mark Blanchard, for his part, and now in his mid-twenties, was grateful for the penthouse roof over his head for sure, but he could take care of himself.

  He put his money-collecting straw hat back on his head with some difficulty over his blond curly hair, picked up his guitar case and sauntered, as only a young man who knows life is beautiful can, back up the rue de Bordeaux. All the time whistling as he did so and intent on spending some of his earnings on a couple of beers at the Brasserie de la Gare. There he’d soak up the early afternoon sun and watch the world go by. He tossed a couple of euros to Ahmed, the old Algerian man sitting near the traffic lights with his scratchily written ‘J’ai faim’ sign. Ahmed was almost bait for his busking, people would walk past Ahmed and refuse him money on whatever principle some people refuse to help those who may need it, spend the next few metres feeling guilty about their principles and then toss the money into Mark’s hat instead; presumably feeling that Mark had ‘earned’ a reward as opposed to just asking for one. It meant that Mark and Ahmed were almost a team. Anyway, Ahmed wasn’t really hungry – his cousin owned the Turkish café across from where he sat head-bowed and apparently servile – but he saw Mark’s coin land, looked up in practised supplication and then, noticing who it was, winked at Mark to say ‘thanks’.

  Mark, having spent all morning on his feet, was looking to plonk himself down at his favourite Tours vantage point. The Brasserie de la Gare, nestled into the bottom right of the imposing train station, a station roughly the same age as his hometown, he was fond of telling folks back home. In front of him, laid out like a Monopoly board, was la Place du Général Leclerc. The ultramodern Centre de Congrès Vinci, which always struck him as looking like a spaceship that had landed in the wrong place at the wrong time. Its sleek, smooth curved lines showing little in common with anything else, it stood up brazenly opposite the station like a punk at a tea party. The two resembled opposing armies, the modern versus the traditional, and was to Mark, Tours in a nutshell. The place itself, a mixture of fountains, gardens, shaded benches and underground car park ventilation grills was also home to the bus station with its large metal canopies and air of seediness. Tours bus station, like every bus station in the world, just a haven for the cheap traveller and therefore also a haven for every chiseller and drunk that hunts a naive target. A beggars’ meeting place, where handouts are sought but rarely given. Mark loved to watch the bus passengers deal with the drunks; the drunks themselves, an ever-changing roster of desperation, like an endless zombie army, were generally polite. This is Tours, even the street beggars are well-mannered. And from where he sat it was like he was leaning against the station itself, its history and size offering protection.

  The second table from the end was one of Mark’s favourite places to sit and watch people; not just the down and outs, but the students, the impatient high flyers, the budget airline passengers working out their route to the airport, the dismissive taxi drivers, the bewildered and confused that every important city attracts, while the sharper locals wait for opportunities. The scene rarely changed, it was either busy or quiet depending on the time of year, but the mix remained the same and like a soap opera addict, it was a regular comfort to him.

  This time though there were no free tables outside the bar. Mark had finished later than normal, enjoying himself more than he even usually did, building up a rapport with his changing audience, appealing to all with his mixture of well-known French and English-language songs. It was a good life and it was also a way of building up custom for his other summer ‘job’. A couple of days a week Mark would hire a mini-bus and take mostly English-speaking tourists, there was always the odd German, Italian or even lost Japanese family, on an irreverent trip to one of any of the satellite towns around Tours, making up his own version of history to entertain the holiday crowds. Not everybody understood it and more than once he had had to explain to some of his more naive charges that it was a ‘comedy’ tour, that he was making it up, that for instance Gérard Dépardieu hadn’t had the Chateau de Chenonceau built purely as his local larder or applied to have it exported brick by brick to his new home in Russia. Mark almost enjoyed those moments the most. Confusion was fun.

  And having no tables free at his preferred spot didn’t faze him either so he went to his favourite table anyway where a pale-faced man, roughly the same age as him, was already sitting. The man was earnestly involved in something apparently frustrating on an ipad and was studiously trying to avoid Mark, who was standing above him, as he did so.

  ‘Excusez-moi, est-ce que c’est libre?’ The American asked easily with at best a quirky accent. He pointed to the chair next to the other man, which had a large rucksack on it.

  The other man blinked and looked stunned for a second, ‘Er…’ he stammered.

  ‘Ha!’ laughed Mark with a warm, friendly smile thinking he had recognised immediately what the issue was, ‘No problem. Is this chair free? Can I sit here?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the other in a very clipped English accent. ‘Sorry, I do speak French, you just startled me, that’s all.’ Mark knew that he hadn’t. ‘I was in another world.’ He nodded towards his tablet, removing his rucksack as he did so, allowing Mark to sit down.

  ‘Too nice a day to waste it working, my friend.’ Mark sat down, took his hat off and ran his hands roughly through his hair. ‘Mark. Nice to meet you.’ He held out his hand which was held awkwardly in response.

  ‘Andrew,’ his companion replied, adding nothing else.

  A waitress arrived and Mark ordered himself a large Hoegaarden Rosée, and asked Andrew if he wanted anything. Andrew declined, pointing at his watch.

  Mark leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and let the warmth of the day wash over his face.

  ‘Monsieur, trois euros quatre-vingt, s’il vous plaît.’ It was a different waitress who put his glass down on
top of a beer mat and Mark opened his eyes giving her a beaming smile.

  ‘Still “vous”, Pauline? Are we not at “tu” yet?’ The waitress gave the merest of smiles in return and turned sharply away with Mark’s five euro note. ‘She loves me really.’ He winked at Andrew who smiled back but who was also obviously more keen to get back to his tablet than strike up a conversation. Mark was having none of it though, and was also used to getting his own way.

  ‘Waiting for a train, Andrew?’ He took a long gulp of his drink and settled back in his seat again.

  ‘Yes. Yes I am.’ Andrew was looking in his bag for something. ‘I think I left my sunglasses on the other train,’ he added absently.

  ‘You don’t have glasses? Here, you can borrow my hat…’ Mark picked up his hat and blew the inside to clean the dust out, ‘It’s yours. I got a million of these things.’

  ‘No thanks.’ Andrew, looking at the hat was unable to hide his disgust. ‘I have to go for my train in a minute anyway.’ He started to pack away his belongings.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ Mark had his eyes closed again, and so couldn’t see just how much this annoyed Andrew who thought twice about answering.

  ‘Saint-Genèse-Sur-Loire.’ There was a hint of arrogance in his voice which didn’t go unnoticed, as if he knew that the American would never have heard of it.

  ‘No kidding?’ Mark sat up quickly. ‘Hey, what day is it? Monday. I’m going there tomorrow! I always go on a Tuesday. Market day.’

  ‘Really?’ Andrew seemed slightly put out and also couldn’t hide his surprise that anyone had heard of Saint-Genèse, let alone an American.

  ‘Yeah! I do these tour things, makes a few bucks in the summer. Saint-Genèse crops up on that, big market there on a Tuesday, people go from miles around. Hey, maybe I’ll see you there?’

  ‘Maybe. I wouldn’t have thought the place had a need for “tour” parties, though! It’s not big enough, surely?’

  ‘Ha no! Tiny little place, thinks it’s big, though.’

  Andrew picked up his rucksack and offered his hand which Mark took lazily.

  ‘Well, you never know. Maybe we’ll bump into each other. There’s only one bar as I remember.’ He started to walk off.

  ‘The world is small my friend, especially around here…’ Mark called after him. ‘Hey, why Saint-Genèse anyway?’

  Andrew turned in the station doorway and stopped. His mood changed and an edge came into his voice. ‘A death in the family,’ he said without emotion, and disappeared inside.

  Chapter 12

  A dull vibrating sound alerted Lombard to the fact that he still had a mobile phone. He never had the ringer on, only vibrate, and when someone rang it was the only time he ever knew where he’d put the damn thing. The magistrature had bought it for his 43rd birthday. Sick of not being able to reach him in an emergency, they had clubbed together and bought what they thought would be the smallest, most unobtrusive phone. It was tiny. Madeleine, a keen smartphone user, often joked that it was smaller than her lighter and much, much less practical. It was certainly much less used.

  ‘Lombard,’ he said, almost wearily. It was his usual telephone greeting, one that he always hoped would let the caller know exactly what he thought of telephones and therefore to keep it short. The phone bleeped and went blank.

  ‘It’s run out of battery.’ Aubret’s bald statement of fact wasn’t meant to be patronising, but it certainly had that effect, and Lombard snapped the flipcase shut, angry with himself. ‘I’d say you could plug it into the charger here, but that thing’s too old.’ Lombard couldn’t help reflect how that was a perfect metaphor for himself, right now. He felt somehow disengaged, not plugged in. And trying to maintain the image of being the exact opposite was wearing him out. It wasn’t an unusual emotion at the start of a case, he liked operating alone but within a team, that’s why he got closer to the investigations if he could. His way of coping had always been to talk it over later with Madeleine. He was dreading later.

  Aubret’s own telephone rang through the car system, which he answered by pressing a button on the steering wheel. The dashboard system stated that the caller was Dr Charlotte Sebourg.

  ‘Aubret.’

  ‘Bonjour Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘’Bonjour Doctor. Did you just try and call Monsieur le juge? He’s run out of battery.’

  ‘I guess it’s a sign of progress that he even has it with him. Welcome back, Monsieur le juge. I trust you’re managing to keep out of trouble so far.’ The deep, rasping voice of Doctor Charlotte Sebourg was a welcome sound to Lombard. So far the death of Singleterry was too vague for him. The poor man had disappeared and then twelve hours later turned up tortured and dead, and so far nothing in his life warranted that level of violence. Nobody seemed to dislike the Englishman, but no one had a ringing endorsement for him either. In fact the poor Mr Singleterry was proving to be as irritating to his friends and neighbours in death as everyone was suggesting he may have been in life. But that’s not grounds for vicious murder, nor is some tenuous Joan of Arc connection. He was hoping Sebourg had something concrete to give them and help to clear the waters a bit.

  ‘Trouble? I have no idea what you’re talking about, Doctor.’

  ‘Early days, I suppose. But keep your nose clean or the Commissaire will cut it off!’ The two stony-faced men could hear her chuckling on the other end. ‘Is this convenient?’

  There was no diplomacy at all to Sebourg, they both knew that. And she didn’t care who she upset because of it. Lombard assumed it was her brain wiring. It must take a special kind of mind to want to be delving around inside cadavers all day and as her patients had no feelings, she treated everyone else the same. She did her job, though, and did it very well. The massed ranks of the police and the judiciary were still largely male dominated, a testosterone-soaked world where battles had to be fought constantly. She won hers by being not only the most competent pathologist around but being quite disinterested in rivalry or niceties.

  ‘What can you tell us, Doctor?’ He heard her draw a deep breath at the other end.

  ‘Poison,’ she said simply.

  ‘Poison. Yes, I thought so.’ He looked at Aubret, who kept his eyes on nothing but the road. ‘Slow-acting?’

  ‘It would certainly be slow-acting where our victim was found!’ she snorted.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Lombard without realising was leaning in closer to the dashboard.

  ‘It was carbon monoxide poisoning. Well, mostly.’ He looked at Aubret who this time met his glance, and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Let me take it in order,’ Sebourg continued. ‘Firstly, tray number 6 as I like to call him,’ – both men winced – ‘was struck at the back of the head.’

  ‘Yes, we know that…’

  ‘No, you don’t. I’m not talking about the final blow to end it all. I’ll come to that. This was an initial blow to the back of the head. And when I say struck, I mean really struck, clubbed almost.’

  ‘You mean to knock him out?’

  ‘What I mean is this. You want to knock a guy out, you want to knock a guy out, but this blow could have killed him on its own. Although he was hit at the back of the head, there was knock-on trauma to the pterion region. Not enough to cause an epidural haematoma but… our killer was lucky. Well, sort of.’

  ‘And what do you read into all that?’ shouted Aubret, as he indicated to turn off the main road out of Saint-Genèse.

  ‘It suggests two things. One that this was opportunistic, which I don’t buy, frankly. I’ll give you details in a minute but the process by which our victim was poisoned is too elaborate, too planned.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘A real temper. A violent temper. And I know that’s what you’d expect from a murderer anyway, but this is uncontrolled.’ She paused, expecting one of them to interrupt and when that didn’t happen, she carried on. ‘What I’m saying is that all the planning, the fine detail that went into everything else and even th
e final spectacle of parading him as a scarecrow, all of that could have been for nothing because of the violence of that initial blow. This is someone who seriously loses control, almost ruining their own show-off murder in the process. Literally senseless. Everything else suggests attention to detail, perfect planning and a complex process. Probably heavily researched, but expertly done all the same. This is red mist stuff.’

  Lombard took that in. Red mist stuff? Possibly. Or the killer may have had the poisons and the scarecrow lined up and was just waiting for an opportunity and a victim. Maybe who it was doesn’t matter, just the message. Singleterry was just unlucky and available and that could explain the violence of the blow. Maybe that part was opportunism.

  ‘Anyway. Bang, knocked out. Then, carbon monoxide poisoning, and the man is not dead. Neither method seems designed to kill him either. Each an ingredient in the recipe. Then…’

  ‘Nicotine.’ Lombard surprised himself, and it certainly surprised Aubret, who for once took his eyes off the road, though quickly darted them back again.

  ‘Yes.’ Sebourg sounded almost disappointed. ‘I thought you’d have guessed that,’ she added, not very convincingly. ‘First I looked at potential cyanide poisoning; that can be a by-product of carbon monoxide poisoning anyway.’ Sebourg began again quickly, trying to regain the initiative. ‘There are cases of, what were thought to be anyway, “charcoal burning suicides” actually turning out to be murder because the cyanide element had been overlooked. Anyway, there wasn’t enough to separate it from the norm. But what I noticed on the cheeks and around the eyes was petechiae, burst blood vessels in other words. He’d done a lot of coughing and vomiting, the vomiting suggesting nicotine. And it’s there, probably just enough to kill a fit man of his age but not necessarily, but one who’d been beaten and asphyxiated by CO as well? Then it would probably have done the trick. Pure nicotine.’